It’s hot. The night atmosphere is heavy and
oppressive. All the windows are open. You can hear a siren a few blocks away, the kids
screaming in the street, and even the drunken voices of the O’Malleys in their usual
argument. But no breath of air comes through the windows. You lean back in your squeaky
wicker chair, tee shirt wet with perspiration. Even the little fan oscillating back and
forth just emphasises the brutal heat and sweatiness of the air when the fan’s
draught momentarily brushes you.
You turn on the TV and take a gulp of
beer out of the cold can. It seems like any other hot August night – only somehow
this one is different. You
can feel it. There’s an air of tension, expectancy, foreboding. The news has been
bad. But then it’s been bad since the riots began way back in June. You’ve
gotten used to the riots every summer, since 1963. Now it’s 1978.
The summers are expected to be periods
of almost open warfare between Blacks and Whites. Even the winters aren’t real truces
anymore as they used to be in the sixties. There are outbreaks of the Black-and-White war
even in the coldest winter months. But always the harried authorities have managed to keep
working and to keep up some pretence of civilised life.
But this year the riots have been
almost constant. The TV in front of you has just shown dramatic pictures of what’s
going on in other American cities; the searchlights stabbing into the city night,
highlighting black faces distorted with hate, fighting the police and the National Guard
troops, the gunfire and the blazing buildings where hurled Molotov cocktails have set up
whole apartment and retail blocks in flames.
However, it’s been quiet in your
city now for almost two weeks. The cops and the soldiers beat down the last uprising by
the Blacks before it got out of the Negro area situated only a few blocks away.
The TV newscaster is telling how
another boatload of black saboteurs, fresh from guerrilla training in Cuba, has been
intercepted after a running gun-battle in the Caribbean. They have been prevented from
landing in Florida.
You are sick of it! Sick to death of
this eternal trouble with these coloured mobs and Communist agitators, raising hell,
raping, killing, rising up and burning, looting and threatening whole cities. You turn off
the TV.
You gaze up at the ceiling in the growing darkness, wondering where in hell it will all end, how it will end? The heavy hot air of August is laden with sounds of automobile horns, kids shouting, neighbours hollering and somebody practicing the piano nearby. More sips of beer, getting warm as you reach the bottom of the can. You want to get your mind off the damn coloureds. For a change you turn on the light to read the Western paperback you bought on the way home. Then you hear it. At first you think it’s some kind of crowd cheering at a ball game. There’s the sound of a tremendous number of people shouting, a long, long way off. But somehow it’s different from any sports crowd and anyway there’s no sports game on that you know of! There’s a vicious, deadly sound to this roaring mob. You get up from the wicker chair and go over to the window. Over the black silhouetted brick apartments to the east, you see the familiar glow. Fires! So, it’s started again.
Why can’t they kill all those black bastards, once
and or all, and put an end to this crazy business?
To hell with it; you won’t watch this time! You
close the window, go back and turn the TV back on. Maybe you can get your mind off this
everlasting nigger trouble by watching some movie or comedy show. With the window shut it
seems for a moment you’ve gotten away from the damnable riotous hell. With the TV on
you can’t hear the mob or the occasional bursts of gunfire.
You get another cold beer and try to relax in the glow
of the TV tube. Just as you get interested in the western the damned thing goes dead on
you. You get up to wiggle the plug. Sometimes you can fix it that way. Then you notice
that the fan is off too.
Must be a fuse so you go into the kitchen and look into
the fuse box with your flashlight. No fuses are blown.
But by then you’re already beginning to notice all
the lights are off, even the street light which usually shines into the kitchen window. It’s
really black! You’re not used to such total darkness, such absence of any glow or
reflected light at all. It gives you an eerie feeling.
You stick your head out the kitchen
window. Outside there is something new, something evil. You don’t know what it is but
it grips your heart with fingers of ice.
It’s silent in your neighbourhood. No more kids
shouting, no more piano practising, and no more quarrelling over at the O’Malleys
–nothing– just silence. A dead, empty, heavy silence. The quiet lends impact to
the distant sounds of the mob in the central part of the city. In the silent dark, in
which you can see nothing, the sounds of the black mob down there are amplified and
emphasised until they seem to be coming at you.
In the darkness outside your window, you can hear Jack
Morgan, whose been drinking beer on his front steps, hollering to his wife upstairs.
"Don’t worry, honey. It’s just a power failure. They’ll have it on in
a little while. Keep your shirt on."
A kid begins to cry – then
another. Then there is an excited but hushed buzz outside as the neighbourhood tries to
adjust to the total darkness. Everybody is listening to the sound of that black mob in
town, but reassuring each other that the authorities will soon put down the rebellion as
they always do.
Then you hear Mrs Johnson calling to a neighbour for
some water. "Something’s wrong with mine." Mrs Johnson hollers. "I can’t
get any water to fix the baby’s bottle."
Then from most of the neighbours all
at once you hear that everybody’s water is off.
Realising that something must be
seriously wrong you pick up the phone to call the cops. At least you can report the water
is off in your neighbourhood. The phone’s dead!
Remembering your transistor radio you turn it on:
" . . . the public is asked to remain calm until the National Guard can restore
order. Stay in your homes and do no panic. There is nothing about the present emergency
that is any different . . . . Oh, my God! Oh . . . – aghhh . . . . " Over the
tiny speaker in the radio comes the unmistakable gurgling sound of a man gasping his last
breath. Just before the station goes off the air, you hear: "How do you like that,
you white mother f . . . er?" You lean out of the window: "Did you hear
that?" you holler to the neighbourhood in general. "Hear what?" comes from
a dozen throats. "I just turned on my pocket radio and heard what sounded like an
announcer getting killed, right on the air. Then they went off."
"Try another station."
Somebody hollers.
"I already have." Comes from
somebody else. "They’re all off!"
"I’m getting my guns!"
You holler.
"Better be careful." Shouts a neighbour,
"you know the new laws on guns!"
"To hell with the new laws." You roar.
"If those black bastards come messin’ around here they’re gonna get shot. I
don’t care if they throw me in gaol for it. I’m not going to let those filthy
niggers shoot up and burn this place, and hurt our women."
But before you can grab your hidden
guns and get out front, they are here.
A car comes screeching around the block, is
revolutionary occupants tossing Molotov cocktails and firing automatic weapons. In the
flare of the flaming airborne gasoline bombs you can see the white eyes in the black
faces. But even if you couldn’t see them, you’d know what they are by their
filthy language! As usual they are drunk and roaring typical black curses on all white
people – liberal, rich, poor, right wing, Klan – any whites; they’re all
‘white devils’.
As the carload of black terrorists
disappears, still firing, you can hear the screams of the wounded and the dying, and the
expressions of horror from the people whose loved ones have been shot.
You grab your old Marine Corps M1 and
the .38 and take the flight of steps, even in the dark, three and four at a time.
Outside, in the flickering light of
the fires, surrounded by moans and prayers of your neighbours, you find a little group of
men who have had enough service experience not to panic. They have their guns ready and
are trying to decide what to do.
You suggest that somebody be sent to
the police station over on Grand. They all agree. A kid with two pistols volunteers and he
disappears into the dark. You don’t know the cops are all dead. Neither does he!
Just as you’re discussing where
each guy will be posted another carload of the bastards, high on drink, drugs and
revolutionary hype, comes roaring back toward
the small suburban town, blasting away.
You hit the deck, slam home the bolt
of the old M1 and feel a surge of satisfaction when the old rifles rattles off each round
at the black terrorists. You can hear one of the sons of a bitch scream as he’s hit!
It reminds you of the war. But then you remember this is home! This is the United States
where your wife and kids live. And that brings a new and horrible thought.
The wife and kids are visiting across town. What’s
happening there? Your heart stops for a moment. But then fury surges up within you. If
they’ve touched Janie and those little kids . . . .
You begin to consider your position.
No lights, no water, no phone, no
radio – few guns, fewer who know how to use them and have the guts to use them –
no organization, and very little ammo.
While you’re thinking about all
this, and a matter of only minutes since the first attack, here comes three more cars
filled with whooping brigands taking full advantage of their unequal battlefield in which
their most of their white enemy have already been disarmed!
You blast away with the M1. You hit another one. But
the rest of the guys are firing away at nothing, wasting the few rounds of ammo you’ve
got. You yell at them to cease-fire! It’s too late; they’re all out of ammo.
The groans and crying and the prayers of the people who
have been hit have demoralized most of the rest of the people. Surprisingly, a lot of the
women seem tougher than the men, and are doing their best using torn skirts and shirts for
bandages and providing what comfort they can with words. Many of the men, especially the
younger ‘jive’ generation with the long hair and stoop shoulders, are acting
like a bunch of hysterical girls, screaming and screeching, begging somebody to ‘help’
them. Help them? You’d like to help them with a good kick up the ass.
Now it’s no longer dark, the whole neighbourhood
is blazing. The fires set by the flaming gasoline Molotov cocktails are burning viciously.
There’s nothing to stop them. No fire department – not even any water. The night
was already oppressively hot. With many houses now roaring
infernos the heat makes your skin shrivel. Already, many others are moving on to a
vacant lot, trying to get away from the heat, smoke and searing flames.
You can hear a man and his young wife
screaming at each other, a few houses away. She is trying to run back into their home to
get something, before it burns up. He is holding her while she struggles and screams.
Their kids are scattered around some huddle around her, crying.
She never gets to go into the house.
A carload of blacks sees her in her
nightgown as they go by. They shoot down her husband and kids. They grab her and drag her
screaming into the car, laughing insanely and boasting to each other what they are going
to do to her. And you can’t do a damned thing with empty guns.
Within minutes two more carloads of
the black devils roar into the neighbourhood. But these don’t keep going –
shooting – like the others. The get out to loot – and rape!
Most of the men around you have long since scrambled
off to hide in terror. You can do little else yourself.
From under a bush on somebody’s
lawn, shaded from the worst of the blazing heat and light, you watch the gangs of looters
grabbing everything they want – radios, TVs – and women. God! You never thought
you would ever see a sight like this.
You had read about it happening far away in the Congo
and other places, but always thought it was something you would never see here.
Now you are forced to watch helplessly from your hiding
place, while six of Negroes rip the clothes off the little teenage O’Malley girl and
rape her, one after another – after murdering her mother, father, and brothers.
At first she screams and struggles
desperately. But after two or three of the lustful black beasts have beaten her and had
their way, she lies whimpering. Then there’s no more whimpering. She as ceased to
exist as a human being.
All night the horror continues. The houses burn to
black ruins. Carloads of mixed race revolutionaries roam at will through the
neighbourhood, looting, murdering the wounded just for pleasure – and raping.
You are helpless, beaten.
Finally, about 3.00am things slow down a bit. You crawl
out and call to some others still alive. Where the hell is the National Guard?" you
keep repeating to each other, stupidly, dazedly. "Where in hell is the God-damned
Guard?"
You are the only one with enough
experience and leadership to try and do anything at all. You suggest gathering the wounded
and helpless and trying to get them all together, behind a pile of old bricks and stone in
the vacant lot. The wounded are crying, really crying for water. But there is no water.
Nobody thinks of food, yet. That will come later. But for now, everybody is just trying to
survive. And every moment, you can hear the roar of the huge mob in the city centre moving
out, getting nearer.
The others agree to try and get the wounded down behind
the brick pile. But before you can finish the job you hear a new noise – the clanking
familiar motor noises you remember from the war in which you fought to prevent Germany
being exclusively German. Now you are in a war to keep America exclusively for the
Americans, white Americans!
TANKS!
The Guard! At last!
"It’s the National
Guard." You shout to others. "I can hear the tanks." They all listen. A
feeble cheer goes up as they too hear the tanks. Just in time too, because now the black
mob is within blocks. You can imagine just what it would be like if the black swarm of
bloodthirsty Africans get here to finish off the remaining scattered survivors.
Now the tanks are moving in to restore
order at last! You feel for the first time that you will survive. And you resolve never to
be caught like this again, never to be so disorganized and so poorly armed. If the
bastards ever try to do it again, gun laws or no gun laws, you resolve to be ready!
The noise of the tanks gets closer
– closer. Now you can see them. Thank God!
The iron monsters are clanking along
the streets, with infantry troops moving in behind them in full battle gear.
My God! What a beautiful, delicious,
gorgeous sight!
Nothing ever looked so beautiful.
Slowly, in a daze, those able to walk begin to move out from behind the brick pile.
The tanks and troops uncover a swarm
of scores of mixed race insurgents hiding in a construction project. The infantry troops
prepare to move in to round them up as the tanks stop.
But what’s this? What the hell!
What are the tanks doing now?
They’re turning! They’re not
waiting for the infantry to round up and finish off the black terrorists in the
construction project – they’re turning back! My God! Don’t they know there
are hundreds of white people out here helpless?
But they’re not just turning
back!
The tanks have swivelled around their
guns and are mowing down their own infantry troops! What the hell? Wile you’re still
stunned the tanks rake the infantrymen, mowing them down, hundreds of them.
Then the top of the lead tanks swings
open – and you know why. A big black head comes out, grinning!
Now there is silence among the little
band of men, women and children behind the bricks. They are too stunned even to curse.
Nobody needs to explain. They realise now what has happened.
The great majority of the blacks in
the armed forces and the National Guard have joined the black uprising.
Now the mighty technical weapons of
the United States are in the hands of black savages, only a few generations removed from
animal life in the jungle. Rockets, tanks, nuclear bombs – all that white genius has
created to protect itself, stupidly and treasonably turned over to the enemy, fired up
with anti-white propganda, in the name of ‘brotherhood’ and ‘equality’.
You use the last reserves of your will
and energy to herd the tiny band of your surviving neighbours down into an abandoned
cellar under the bricks and wreckage. Now you are alone, against a world gone mad.
No water, no food, no ammunition, no
communication, no medicines! Nothing! But you aren’t going to give up yet!
Maybe it’s only local. Maybe the
Army or the Marine Corps, or somebody will be able to get control of this revolution. If
only you can hold out, maybe help will come.
Swarms of insurgents from every race
under the sun, stream out of the city, drunk with whisky and blood. They are following the
tanks now. Every white soldier and National Guardsman in the area is dead, many mutilated
– taken by complete surprise by their own black ‘comrades’. Day dawns hot,
more horrible than the night, filled with smoke and flames. Dozens of moaning wounded lie
all around you, crowded down here under the rocks and bricks.
The cries for water, particularly from
the kids, are endless – and heart breaking. But there is no water; you can do
nothing.
About eight o’clock things have
become fairly quiet in your neighbourhood. Only the crackling and snapping of the fires
all around can be heard. Then you hear a wailing sobbing cry from the street.
You peek out – and see one of the
Negroes you shot last night, now conscious, crawling, moaning, and crying out for help.
You dare not move.
But suddenly one of the womenfolk, a
woman who had been comforting and bandaging and helping the wounded and the dying all
night long, dashes out from under the shelter. She runs towards the black man lying in the
street and you watch with horror as she plunges a big kitchen knife, again and again and
again, into the quivering black body.
You recognise her. It’s Mrs Moody
– the liberal. She’s contributed hundreds of dollars to the ethnic minorities.
She has helped them endlessly, marched in their picket lines, attended sit-ins with them
and even went to Mississippi with them to help register them as voters. Now you watch her
out there, finally asserting the animal wisdom God gave to her to protect her own! Last
night her husband and kids were murdered. Mrs Moody is no more a liberal. Now she’s a
member of the great white race – a fighter! But it’s too late.
At ten o’clock, you see more
anti-white mobs roaming around the neighbourhood, picking over the ruins, kicking the
dead, ripping the clothing off females and laughing insanely at their unspeakable
atrocities.
For the whole day you manage to
survive and keep the little group together. But several die, and thirst becomes unbearable
for all of you. About seven o’clock, when the summer night is still hot from the day’s
sunshine, you have to watch a little girl die in her mother’s arms. She keeps crying
for her ‘Mommy,’ and her mother keeps crooning ‘Mommy’s right here,
darling, right here! I’m right here!’ and sobbing softly, rocking the
curly-haired kid back and forth, back and forth, until the little girl’s head falls
sideways in death.
Your eyes fill with tears and your
heart fills with rage, at the idiots and political rats that brought the greatest nation
on earth to this – and all in the name of ‘brotherhood’ and ‘progress’.
Progress?
At about eight you can hear a sound
truck in the distance. For a long time it cruises around but you can’t figure out
what the message is. Then it begins to move into your neighbourhood, and you can now hear
the message rasping from the loudspeakers:
"This is the new Socialist
Democratic People’s Government of the United States. We have overthrown the racist
‘hate’ government of the United States. United Nations Ambassador Alfred
Goldberg has already recognised the new People’s Democracy. The Armed Forces and the
National Guard are now in our hands. United Nations Chinese and Cuban troops are now
landing at all airports to assist the freedom-loving People’s liberation army in
restoring order.
Resistance is useless. Nothing can
move without our permission in the entire nation. You are ordered to come out of hiding
and report to the nearest registration point for movement to prepared refugee area where
you will be fed and put to work. After nine o’clock tonight all those who have not
checked in to registration centres will; be shot . . . This is the new Socialist
Democratic People’s Government of the United States. The Armed Forces and the
National Guard of the United . . . and the truck went out of the neighbourhood, playing
its message of doom for the American nation, over and over again.
Your eyes blurred with tears, you
watch most of the people stumble up out of the hiding place and begin to wander around
looking for the ‘registration points’. You have found one round to put in your
.38. You point it at your head . . . . then you notice a pretty young girl looking up at
you; a silent prayer in her eyes. You hand her the pistol and stumble out of the hole
before you hear the explosion. George Lincoln Rockwell
Note: The preceding is not the
hysterical pipe dream of an alarmist. Those who despise the White race, Christianity,
white order, and envy its privileges, plan precisely these tactics and in a myriad of
ways; sometimes in isolation, these events are already taking place. To say that ‘it
can’t happen here’ or that ‘it can’t happen to me’ does not
change the historical fact that it has happened to hundreds of peoples and nations in the
past.
In defeated Germany the victorious
French Armies sent in black Senegalese troops specifically to demoralise, terrorise, rape
and murder among the defeated population. US General Dwight Eisenhower did likewise,
herding thousands of German females, even children, into subways, before ordering Negro
troops down among them to do their worst. The victorious Red Army was responsible (with
Winston Churchill’s assistance and blessing) for the ethnic cleansing of four million
German civilians in northern Germany alone.
Relatively stable former eastern bloc
countries, East Germany, Poland, Czechoslovakia, Yugoslavia, Rumania etc, fell to similar
revolution in just a few days. The accounts given here are now a fact of every day life in
South Africa, Sierra Leone and of course Zimbabwe. These events are now recognisable in
many of Europe’s inner city areas and of course, the United States.
The rate of alien immigration (and the
crime wave accompanying it) in northern Europe has reached such a pitch that the alarmed
indigenous population has already declared open war on the intruders.
Throughout these landmasses, treacherous politicians
who have organised ‘Trojan Horse’ immigration, aided and abetted by civil
servants and palace lickspittles who organised integration, and protected by the police,
have reacted brutally against dissenters.
Modern day racial revolutionary
anti-white activity as described here in the United States has already been put into
bloody action in other countries wherever the black population has risen against what they
see as White privilege’ Portuguese Angola, Haiti, The Congo, Kenya, all serve as
examples. (Since then Rhodesia, South Africa, Mozambique, Tanganyika, Israel/Palestine and
many others – ed).
‘Nightmare’ was written in the middle
sixties, and many of its predictions are now coming true. The steady inter-racial and
‘revolutionising’ of the armed forces is certainly a reality today. Over half
the American armed forces are now coloured and well over half are of non-European stock.
In an increasing number of states the white population is now officially a ethnic
minority, ripe for ‘ethnic cleansing’ by a disenfranchised embittered alien
majority who have been nurtured on the belief that the White race is their enemy and owes
a debt in blood.
This
Article is dedicated to the Sons and Daughters of Europe
Wherever
They Reside:
"In
the end all will be forgiven except treachery to the race."