The Turner Diaries
November 4, 1991. Soup and bread again tonight, and not much of that. Our
money is almost gone, and there still hasn't been anything from WFC. If our pay doesn't
come through in the next couple of days, we'll have to resort to armed robbery again-an
unpleasant prospect.
Unit 2 still has what seems to be an unlimited supply of food, and we'd
already be in a much worse way if they hadn't given us that carload of canned goods a
month ago-especially since we now have seven mouths to feed. But it is just too dangerous
to drive up to Maryland for our food supply. The chances are too great of running into a
police roadblock.
That is the most noticeable-and to the public it must be by far the most
irritating-consequence to date of our terror campaign. Travel by private automobile has
become-at least, in the Washington area-a nightmare, with enormous traffic jams everywhere
caused by the police checks. In the last few days this police activity has increased
significantly, and it looks as if it will remain a regular feature of life for the
foreseeable future.
So far, however, they haven't been stopping pedestrians, bicyclists, or buses.
We can still get around, although less conveniently than before.
Oops, there go the lights again. This is the second time this evening we've
had to break out the candles. Until this year, the worst power shortages have occurred in
the summer, but it's November now and we're still stuck with the "temporary" 15
percent voltage reduction they imposed in July. Even this perpetual "brownout"
isn't saving us from an increasing number of involuntary blackouts.
It's obvious that somebody's profiting from the power shortage, though. When
Katherine was lucky enough to find some candles at one of the grocery stores last week,
she had to pay S1.50 apiece for them. The price of kerosene and gasoline lanterns has gone
out of sight, but the hardware stores never have any of them in stock anyway. When I next
have some free time, I'll see what I can improvise in that direction.
We have been maintaining the pressure against the System during the past week
with a lot of one-man, low-risk activities. There have been approximately 40 grenade
attacks against Federal buildings and media facilities in Washington, for example, and our
unit is responsible for 11 of them.
Since it is now virtually impossible to enter any Federal building except a
post office without a complete body-search, we have had to be ingenious. On one occasion
Henry simply pulled the pin on a fragmentation grenade and then slipped it down between
two cartons on a big pallet of freight waiting outside the freight door of the Washington
Post, wedging it so that the safety lever was held in place by the cartons. He didn't wait
around, but news reports later confirmed that there was an explosion inside the Post
building which killed one employee and seriously wounded three others.
Most often, however, we have used grenade-throwers improvised from shotguns.
They give us a maximum range of more than 150 yards, but the grenade always explodes
sooner than that unless the delay element is modified. All one needs to use them
effectively is a place of concealment within about 100 yards of the target.
We have fired from the back seat of a moving auto, from the restroom window of
an adjacent building, and-at night- from a patch of shrubbery in a small park across the
street from the target building. With luck one can hit a window and get an explosion
inside an office or a corridor. But even when the grenade bounces off an outside wall the
explosion shatters windows, and the shrapnel keeps people jumping.
If we keep it up long enough we can probably force the government to shutter
all the windows in Federal buildings, which will certainly help raise the consciousness of
Federal workers. But it is clear that we can't maintain this kind of activity
indefinitely. We lost one of our best activists yesterday-Roger Greene, from Unit 8-and we
are bound to lose more as time passes. The System must inevitably win any sort of war of
attrition, considering the numerical advantage they have over us.
We have talked this problem over among ourselves many times, and we always
come back to the same stumbling block: a revolutionary attitude is virtually non-existent
in America, outside the Organization, and all our activities to date don't seem to have
changed this fact. The masses of people certainly aren't in love with the System-in fact,
their grumbling has increased steadily over the past six or seven years as living
conditions have deteriorated - but they are still far too comfortable and complacent to
entertain the idea of revolt.
On top of this is the enormous disadvantage we suffer from having the System
controlling the image of us which reaches the public. We receive a continuous feedback
from our "legals" on what the public is thinking, and most people have accepted
without hesitation the System's portrayal of us as "gangsters" and
"murderers."
Without some sort of empathy between us and the general public we can never
find enough new recruits to make up for our losses. And with the System controlling
virtually every channel of communication with the public, it's hard to see how we're going
to develop that empathy. Our leaflets and the occasional seizure of a broadcasting station
for a few minutes just can't make much headway against the non-stop torrent of
brainwashing the System uses for keeping the people in line.
The lights have just come on again-now that I'm ready to hit the sack.
Sometimes I think the System's own weaknesses will bring about its downfall just as
quickly without our help as with it. The incessant power failures are only one crack among
thousands in this crumbling edifice we are trying so desperately to pull down.
November 8. The last few days have seen a major change in our domestic
affairs. The population in our shop increased to eight last Thursday, and now it's down to
four again: myself, Katherine, and Bill and Carol Hanrahan, formerly of Unit 6.
Henry and George have teamed up with Edna Carlson, who also came to us after Unit 6's
disaster, and with Dick Wheeler, the only survivor of a police raid on Unit I l 's hideout
Thursday. The four of them have moved to a new location, in the District.
The new arrangement has us better divided along functional lines than
before-as well as solving the personal problem which had been worrying Katherine and me.
We here in the shop are now essentially a technical-services unit, while the four who left
are a sabotage-and-assassination unit.
Bill Hanrahan is a machinist, a mechanic, and a printer. Until two months ago
he and Carol operated a printing shop in Alexandria. His wife doesn't share his mechanical
genius, but she is a reasonably competent printer. As soon as we get another press set up
here, her job will be to produce many of the leaflets and other propaganda materials which
the Organization clandestinely distributes in this area.
I will continue to be responsible for the Organization's communications
equipment and for specialized ordnance. Bill will assist me with the latter and will also
be our gunsmith and armory-keeper.
Katherine will have a chance to exercise her editorial skills again, to a
limited extent, in that she will have the responsibility for transforming the typewritten
propaganda we receive from WFC into camera-ready headlines and text for Carol. She will be
able to use her own discretion in making condensations, deletions, and other changes
necessary for copyfitting.
Bill and I finished our first special-ordnance job together yesterday. We
modified a 4.2 inch mortar to handle 81 mm projectiles. The modification was necessary
because we have so far been unable to pick up an 81 mm mortar for the projectiles which we
grabbed in the raid on Aberdeen Proving Ground last month. One of our gun-buff members,
however, had a serviceable 4.2 inch mortar which he had kept hidden away since the late
1940's.
The Organization is planning a very important mission in the next day or two,
in which the mortar will be used, and Bill and I were under pressure to finish the job on
time. Our main difficulty was in finding a piece of steel tube of the right I.D. to weld
inside the 4.2 inch tube, since we have no lathe or other machine tools at this time. Once
we found a supplier for the tube the rest was fairly easy, and we are proud of the
result-although it weighs more than three times as much as an 81 mm mortar should.
Today we did a job which was simple enough in theory but which gave us more
trouble in practice than we had anticipated: melting the explosive filler out of a 500-lb
bomb casing. With a great deal of straining and swearing-and with several good burns from
the boiling water we managed to splash all over ourselves-we got most of the tritonal
explosive from the bomb into a variety of empty grapefruitjuice cans, peanutbutter jars,
and other containers. The work took all day and exhausted everyone's patience, but now we
have the makings for enough medium-sized bombs to last us for months.
I think that I will find Bill Hanrahan a congenial comrade-in-arms for
carrying out our unit's new duties for the Organization. (We are now designated Unit 6,
and I am in charge.) Certainly the new living arrangement here is more congenial for
Katherine and me, now that we are sharing OUR building with another married couple instead
of with two bachelors.
I just wrote "another married couple," but, of course, that was a
slip of the pen, since Katherine and I are not formally married. In the last two
months-and particularly in the last two or three weeks-however, we have experienced so
much together and become so dependent on one another for companionship that a bond at
least as strong as that of marriage has developed between us.
In the past, whenever one of us had an Organizational assignment to carry out,
we usually contrived to work together on it. Now such collaboration will not require any
contrivance.
It is interesting that the Organization, which has imposed on all of us a life
which is unnatural in many respects, has led to a more natural relationship between the
sexes inside the Organization than exists outside. Although unmarried female members are
theoretically "equal" to male members, in that they are subject to the same
discipline, our women are actually cherished and protected to a much larger degree than
women in the general society are.
Consider rape, for example, which has become such an omnipresent pestilence
these days. It had already been increasing at a rate of 20 to 25 per cent per year since
the early 1970's until last year, when the Supreme Court ruled that all laws making rape a
crime are unconstitutional, because they presume a legal difference between the sexes.
Rape, the judges ruled, can only be prosecuted under the statutes covering nonsexual
assaults.
In other words, rape has been reduced to the status of a punch in the nose. In
cases where no physical injury can be proved, it is now virtually impossible to obtain a
prosecution or even an arrest. The result of this judicial mischief has been that the
incidence of rape has zoomed to the point that the legal statisticians have recently
estimated that one out of every two American women can expect to be raped at least once in
her lifetime. In many of our big cities, of course, the statistics are much worse.
The women's-lib groups have greeted this development with dismay. It isn't
exactly what they had in mind when they began agitating for "equality" two
decades ago. At least, there's dismay among the rank and file of such groups; I have a
suspicion that their leaders, most of whom are Jewesses, had this outcome in mind from the
beginning.
Black civil rights spokesmen, on the other hand, have had only praise for the
Supreme Court's decision. Rape laws, they said, are "racist," because a
disproportionately large number of Blacks have been charged under them.
Nowadays gangs of Black thugs hang around parking lots and school playgrounds
and roam the corridors of office buildings and apartment complexes, looking for any
attractive, unescorted White girl and knowing that punishment, either from the disarmed
citizenry or the handcuffed police, is extremely unlikely. Gang rapes in school classrooms
have become an especially popular new sport.
Some particularly liberal women may find that this situation provides a
certain amount of satisfaction for their masochism, a way of atoning for their feelings of
racial "guilt." But for normal White women it is a daily nightmare.
One of the sickest aspects of the whole thing is that many young Whites,
instead of opposing this new threat to their race, have apparently decided to join it.
White rapists have become more common, and there have even been instances of integrated
rape-gangs recently.
Nor have the girls remained entirely passive. Sexual debauchery of every sort
on the part of young White men and women-and even children in their pre-teens-has reached
a level which would have been unimaginable only two or three years ago. The queers, the
fetishists, the mixed-race couples, the sadists, and the exhibitionists-urged on by the
mass media- are parading their perversions in public, and the public is joining them.
Just last week, when Katherine and I went into the District to pick up the
salaries for our unit-which finally came through, when we were down nearly to our last can
of soup-there was a nasty little incident. While we were waiting at a bus stop for a
homeward-bound bus I decided to run into a drugstore a few feet away to buy a newspaper. I
was gone for no more than 20 seconds, but when I came back a greasy-looking youth -
approximately White, but with the "Afro" hair style popular among young
degenerates - was taunting Katherine with obscenities while dancing and weaving around her
like a boxer.
(Note to the reader: "Afro" refers to the Negro or African race, which, until
its sudden disappearance during the Great Revolution, exerted an increasingly degenerative
influence on the culture and life styles of the inhabitants of North America.)
I grabbed him by the shoulder, spun him around, and hit him in the face as
hard as I could. As he went down I had the deep, primitive satisfaction of seeing four or
five of his teeth come washing out of his shattered mouth on a copious flow of dark-red
blood.
I reached into my pocket for my pistol, fully intending to kill him on the
spot, but Katherine seized my arm, and caution returned. Instead of shooting him, I
straddled him and directed three kicks at his groin with all my strength. He jerked
convulsively and emitted a short, choking scream with the first kick, and then he lay
still.
Passersby averted their eyes and hurried on. Across the street two Blacks
gawked and hooted. Katherine and I hurried around the corner. We walked about six blocks,
then doubled back and caught the bus at another stop.
Katherine told me later that the youth had run up to her as soon as I had
entered the drugstore. He had put his arm around her, propositioned her, and started
pawing her breasts. She is fairly strong and agile, and she was able to jerk away from
him, but he blocked her from following me into the drugstore.
As a rule Katherine carries a pistol, but the day was unseasonably warm,
unsuited for a coat, and she wore clothes which left no room for concealing a firearm.
Since she was with me she hadn't even bothered to carry one of the tear-gas cannisters
which have become essential articles of dress for women these days.
In that regard it is interesting to note that the same people who agitated so
hysterically for gun confiscation before the Cohen Act are now calling for tear gas to be
outlawed too. There have even been cases recently where women who used their tear gas to
fend off would-be rapists have been charged with armed assault! The world has become so
crazy that nothing really comes as a surprise any more.
In contrast to the situation outside, rape inside the Organization is almost
unthinkable. But there is no doubt at all in my mind that if a genuine case of forcible
rape did occur, the perpetrator would be rewarded with eight grams of lead within a matter
of hours.
When we got back to the shop, Henry and another man were waiting for us. Henry
wanted me to give him a final rundown on the sight settings for the mortar we had
modified. When they left, they took the mortar with them. I still don't know what they
will use it for.
Katherine and I are both very fond of Henry, and we will miss his presence in
our new unit. He is the kind of person on whom the success of the Organization will
ultimately depend.
Katherine had already taught Henry most of her tricks of makeup and disguise,
and when he left with the mortar she gave him the greater part of her supply of wigs,
beards, plastic gizmoes, and cosmetics.