by George Lincoln Rockwell


There was a girl named Franny working there as head waitress. She was 24 and five years older than I. She was nothing special, but she was not bad either. And she was a girl. I had earned a little 1936 Ford coupe, mostly by selling hand soap to garages, and with this piece of modern machinery – which I doctored endlessly – and Franny, I made some further experiments in the processes by which Nature intended there should be more of us. Later, with more experience, I would have had no trouble discovering and experimenting with the process itself, but, with my Victorian upbringing and ideas, and my utter ineptness in the matter, I allowed Franny to hold the experiments to preliminary investigations and what you might call 'dress rehearsals'.

Nevertheless, these sessions were so profoundly exciting that the thoughts and images they provoked interfered seriously with my growing interest in music, art, literature and philosophy. I found myself wondering, as I read The Crito, whether Socrates had had similar experiences. Then, remembering Xantippe and her reputation as a termagant, I decided that if they had shared such experiences, Socrates wasn't adept at it or had given up too early.

At the Green Shutters, I also learned about old ladies and discovered some effective methods of dealing with them. Their endless empty chatter disgusted me. Nothing but stories of tea shops, gift shops, difficulties with other old ladies, sly remarks about still other old ladies and their friends. It was depressing to a lively youth who had just discovered the fabulously interesting world of ideas, sex, music, philosophy, etc. How could these corsetted blimps survive each other's empty conversation about nothing for years and years and years? It was a mystery to me and still is.

But there was no mystery about their dispositions. There were a few sweet ones, but these old war-horses of grammar school and high school were mostly arrogant, imperious tyrants with us waiters and waitresses. Nothing, absolutely nothing was quite right for them. Nothing quite satisfied them. I remember all the same kind of teachers I had had and began to cast about in my mind for methods of innocent revenge. They would have me move their mattresses from one cottage to another through the woods when they would complain of nonexistent "lumps" and then dismiss me imperiously – with no tip. They would call me interminably from table to table to complain of small discrepancies in the portions of food or other injustices and indignities to their too-too-dignified persons.

But I discovered there was one thing that drove them crazy: sticky handles on the pancake syrup jars at breakfast. They were a finicky old lot and sticky fingers were unbearable to them. So I carried a sticky rag with me and dosed up their door knobs, their pocketbook handles, their light switches and anything else I could find where they would get into the mess. The effect was thoroughly, delightfully satisfying. I was called out at all hours, of course and the proprietress and her son were scolded no end for the mysterious plague of stickiness, but nobody could figure it out – except us waiters and waitresses and we had no interest in spoiling all that fun.

There was one fat, old killer-whale in particular who drove us mad at the table. She was always discovering that there were air bubbles in her scoops of ice cream and insisting that the terrible deficiency be made up to her. So one evening I decided to be sure her ice cream was rich enough to suit her. I took a square of butter, which was kept in the same freezer as the ice cream and built her a nice ball of ice cream around it. Then I served it up to her with great style. We all watched from behind a little screen, looking out between the cracks and holding our breaths until she came to the butter. I was going to explain that it was an accident, that the butter must have fallen into the ice cream, which it could have, when she squawked. But she didn't squawk. Instead, we saw her look down at the dish, bend over and hack at it with her spoon a few times. Then she took a large bite of he butter and an almost lascivious smile spread across her ocean of face. She loved it!

I was called for immediately and dutifully came to attention beside her. "Young man," she commanded, "this is the finest and richest ice cream I have ever tasted. What kind is it"

"Turner Center," I told her truthfully.

"Well, I want another portion right away and I will have some of this kind every night. See that Mrs. Clayton orders this kind in the future, not that watery stuff we've been getting."

I fetched her another portion and this time packed the butter in almost solid. The staff was suffocating and dying, holding onto the door jams and retreating in agonies of laughter to the kitchen when they couldn't stand it any more.

Perhaps the Freudians will have me carted away to the booby hatch for this too. If they do, it will have been worth it! As I write this, I am suffused with a hugely satisfying glow as I recall that stupid human dirigible waddling away from her table, imagining herself mistress of all she could stuff down her ravenous gullet. I was learning, even then, how people work!

I had been accepted at Brown University during the summer by Bruce Bigelow, the director of admissions who gave me my first clue that I might be different from other people. He frankly told me that, in view of my six years in high school and other vagaries of my student career, I had the worst scholastic record of anybody ever admitted to Brown, but the highest grade on the College Aptitude Test, which shows intelligence, of all the students ever tested. He warned me that I was to be admitted strictly as an experiment to see what would happen, when the immovable object of my disinclination for scholastic achievement was placed against the irresistible force of my native intelligence in the atmosphere of a college.

I entered Brown in the fall of 1938, literally in a hurricane. That was the year New England was struck fearfully by winds of over a hundred miles an hour and thousands died in masses of wreckage. My aunt and 80 year old grandmother were at the beach called Barrington, on Narragansett Bay, when the storm hit and I was up in Providence with my Aunt Margie. As soon as we knew how terrible the thing was, I got down to the beach, where we had heard chilling rumors of death and destruction and discovered the rumors to be no exaggeration. Whole cottages had been swept away with their inhabitants and my heart stopped until I could see the wreckage of my Aunt Helen's place where my grandmother was staying. Bodies were floating against the beach as I picked my way over the piles of torn-up lumber, roofs, beds, etc., to the cottage. inside, to my huge relief, I found my folks alive and well – even if uncomfortable.

I was about to meet my first wife.

I had started to work on the wreckage, when a little teenage girl behind me somewhere on the pile yelled with infinite impudence, "Hey, you: Brown Pants! Grab the other end of this!" and poked some debris at me. This little character was as fresh-looking as she talked – wearing pigtails and flirting her talk around like a jay bird, and twice as sassy.

She was something I had never seen before. Her fresh wholesomeness attracted me irresistibly and her bossy manners repelled me almost as much. Here among the wreckage of the hurricane, though, her super-cheerful easiness and "Let's get with it, boys!" helped erase the atmosphere of tragedy and death. I tried to sass her back, but wasn't equal to it. There was no squelching this pert young lady. I couldn't forget her. Some other people there said her name was Judy Aultman who lived nearby and that's all I found out for another year.

There was plenty to keep my mind busy as I entered college. There were endless tests to see what courses we needed and one of the major surprises and shocks of my life was when I discovered that I had passed the fairly difficult tests for Freshman English and Freshman French, a relatively rare occurrence. I couldn't believe it, considering my agonies in high and prep schools, but passing showed me I had discovered a new technique in the struggle to avoid school work, a system I have since called the "total situation" approach. In writing those English and French tests, I had been faced with technically difficult problems, but had solved them, not by relying on my rote memory and rules, but by fathoming the minds of the preparers of the exams, the minds of those who would grade the exams – and coming up with an overall impression of virtuosity which would sell the grader on my ability. In addition, I had used logic and reason to come up with rules when I needed them, the same way that the rules were originally developed by those who parsed the language in the first place. Above all, I prepared my essays in such a manner as to avoid what I was sure were the standard errors the graders were used to and were looking for.

Time after time, since then, I have discovered that I do not have to study the usual rote memory portions of most subjects to succeed or even excel in performance on tests or use of the knowledge. By learning the most fundamental logical development of the subject, I am usually able to develop any other portion of the subject, as I need it – very much the way a Navy ship does not need to carry around spare parts for every piece of the ship, but carries, rather, the plans and raw materials which can be worked up as needed for any desired part in the machine shop.

It is my belief that this technique should be the most fundamental part of the education of our youth, instead of the present stuffing of young minds with millions of unrelated facts and unevaluated ideas or the chaotic development of personal whims and prejudices called "progressive education". Once the principle of a subject is learned, the details can be developed at will in most cases. The beauty of this system of mental discipline is that it leaves the mind free to do creative work, rather than burdening it with billions of confusing separate facts. It is my contention that the failure to teach young minds today the principles of all logical development, accompanied by the positive emphasis of the insane idea that absolutely everything is "relative" and "grey", rather than black and white where principles are concerned, kills the ability to think in our youth. Phenomena which exemplify principles can indeed be on a sliding scale of "greys" and always are, in fact. But the principles themselves, such as force prevailing over weakness, are not relative, but eternal laws of logic which would prevail even in an empty universe.

Once the internally consistent body of principles governing a mental discipline is learned, and then the system of deriving the details – by logical building from there – one can master subjects well enough to use them successfully in a ridiculous fraction, of the time usually frittered away in courses taught at schools and universities. This is the method, for instance, whereby I have been able to hold my own and even win a good many victories in the courts as my own attorney, without a day's training in the law. I have discovered that law is, by and large, a system of common, ordinary horse-sense, based on a few fundamental and simple principles – at least until our Supreme Court got at the matter. But in our ordinary courts, knowledge of the fundamental principles, a will to succeed and the application of brainpower to the principles will make any man his own lawyer and a more successful one than many court-appointed attorneys who don't have your motivation.

This is not to assert that a trained, expert and highly-paid lawyer is not a good investment, nor does it mean that I will not make use of such legal genius when I can afford it. But when it is necessary to have a lawyer and none will take your case, as has happened to me as a Nazi – and you can't pay them besides – then a knowledge of how to master a subject well enough to use it in a few days by the use of principles plus logical building of details is invaluable.

Incidentally, while I am on this matter, I have also learned that even such majestic subjects as the law are as vulnerable as everything else I have found in this world to human motivational study. Lawyers, judges and other officials are human. I have discovered that even the best of them make fearful mistakes, omissions and blunders, even in their robes and/or wigs. By calculating not only the law, but their emotions and their probable thought processes, I have more than once won victories by something beside the unvarnished use of the law and the facts.

My first year at Brown was perhaps the happiest of my life. There was no responsibility, compared to later life; instead, there were flowering abilities in all direction, an absorbing interest in everything and everybody, all sorts of opportunities to drink beer, experiment with women and discuss the entire world as a 'master' with other young 'masters-of-everything' in the fraternity house. Although I was only a freshman, I launched the college humor magazine which had been dead for a long time, together with sophomores Vic Hillary and Bob Grabb, my best pals at Brown. I was art editor and Grabb was the editor. Hillary was editor of the college paper, The Brown Daily Herald. I worked with endless creative pleasure for both publications and more than once got called over to the Dean's office for my exuberance. I developed a horror style of cartoon years before Charles Adams and these were frequently reprinted in other college papers, such as The Annapolis Log. I was also to see stacks of these works of kid-college humor in the District of Columbia Municipal Court on July 26, 1960, where I was on trial as a lunatic. These exuberant works of over twenty years ago were diligently gathered together by the Anti-Defamation League of B'nai B'rith, photostated and presented to the Prosecutor, who testified that he "didn't know where all the photostats came from." These cartoons were used to 'prove' that I was a sadistic monster, although in the twenty-two years since producing them, I had risen from an enlisted man to a commander in the Navy; been selected to command three squadrons; successfully established three businesses and had never eaten a single baby or carved up a wife.

It was at Brown in 1939 that I first ran head-on into Communism, although I didn't know or even suspect it. I don't remember even thinking about it any more than I did Thugeeism in India or Mormonism. I was still blissfully and totally ignorant of Communism, Jews, Negroes and the assault of the masses of the world, led by the master-mongrels – the Jews – against the White Race and its elite. In a way, I am glad of this long-maintained ignorance, because today, when I meet young college men and women who are full of conceit of their 'knowledge', 'liberalism' and 'understanding' of our social problems, I can be patient with them. I can imagine my own reaction if I had been told there was a Jewish or any other kind of world conspiracy. I was sure, at that time, that my 'deep' studies into the profundities of knowledge would have long ago revealed any such monstrous conspiracy and even if not, that my professors and men of learning would surely have known of it. I would have been angry at such effrontery, just as the young college boobs I meet today are at first angry – until I ruthlessly use logic to beat them out of their disgusting and monumental conceit by driving into them, one after the other, the explanations of how come they never ran into such facts.

But then, in 1939, I sat in "Sociology I" class and tried my best to make some sense out of it all. I had been happy at the chance to study sociology, as it appeared to me logical that there must be some fundamental principles of the development of the social relationships of life, as I had discovered simple basic principles of other affairs I had looked into. I was most eager to learn these basic principles of the operation of human society so that I could understand the events around me and perhaps even predict sociological occurrences in accordance with the principles I would be taught. I have since learned that there are such principles, particularly in Adam's The Law of Civilization and Decay and even better, in The Crowd by LeBon.

But it would be many, many years before I would fight my way into the intellectual sunshine of such simple, fundamental and logical presentations of the facts of social life. In Professor Bucklin's classroom on society, all was the most depressing darkness and confusion. It all sounded most enlightening, of course. There were lots of brave new words, ethnic groups, etc., but try as I might, I could not get to the bottom of it all to find any idea or principle I could get hold of. Everything was "by and large" and "in most cases" and "on the other hand" and "So-and-so says, but Dr. So-and-so says absolutely not." Muddiness of mind was not deplored, but glorified. I buried myself in my sociology books, absolutely determined to find out why I was missing the kernel of the thing.

The best I could come up with was that human beings are all helpless tools of the environment; that we are all born as rigidly equal lumps and that the disparity of our achievements and stations was entirely the result of the forces of environment – that everybody, therefore, could theoretically be masters, geniuses and kings if only we could sufficiently improve everybody's environment. I was bold enough to ask Professor Bucklin if this were the idea and he turned red with anger. I was told it was "impossible" to make any generalizations, although all I was asking was for the fundamental idea, if any, of sociology.

I began to see that sociology was different from any other course I had ever taken. Certain ideas produced apoplexy in the teacher, particularly the suggestion that perhaps some people were no good biological slobs from the day they were born. Certain other ideas, although they were never formulated nor stated frankly, were fostered and encouraged – these were always ideas revolving around the total power of the environment. Slowly, I got the idea. At first, I just used it to get better grades. When I wrote my essay answers in examinations, I poured it on heavily that all hands in the civilization in question were potential Leonardo da Vincis, no matter how black they were, nor how they ate their best friends for thousands of years; and that with a quick change in environment, these cannibals too would be writing arias, building Parthenons and painting masterpieces.

But then I began to wonder "how come"? Certainly, environment was important. Anybody could see that. But it was obviously negative. You can make a helpless boob out of a born genius by bringing him up in a dark closet, but you can't make a genius out of a drooling idiot, even by sending him to Brown. Was it just old man Bucklin who was insane with environment? Or was it the whole subject? I went to the library and read more sociology books. They were universally pushing the same idea.

I began to make fun of sociology in the college paper in my column and got into more trouble. Some of the columns were 'killed' before seeing the light. I was still too ignorant to know that I was fighting Lysenko and Marx and the whole Soviet theory of environmentalism – which has captured and hypnotized or terrorized all our intellectuals – and I imagined I was battling just one foolish college course!

During my second year at Brown, my picture of the world darkened as I discovered more and more intellectual dishonesty in this university which had first seemed almost heaven itself to me. I still knew little or nothing about Communism or its pimping little sister, 'liberalism', but I could not avoid the steady pressure, everywhere in the university, to accept the idea of massive human equality and the supremacy of environment. In every course, I was repelled by the intellectual cowardice of the faculty in failing to stand up for any doctrine whatsoever.

I majored in philosophy and, while I admired the intellectual brilliance of my professors, particularly Professor Ducasse, I was hugely disappointed in the headlong retreat of all the faculty whenever they were asked their own opinions as to the objective truth in any matter. I was told that "eternal seeking" is the way to knowledge and there is no denying that, but lively discussion is also vital to any advance of knowledge and you cannot have any lively discussion where the opposition either doesn't exist or melts away like a wraith when you seek to take hold of it.

I was running into the disease of our modern life: cowardice and pathological fear of a strong personality or strong ideas. Dale Carnegie has codified and commercialized this creeping disease as "how to win friends and influence people", which boils down to the essential principle of having no personality or strong feelings or ideas and becoming passive and empty so that "the other fellow" can display his ideas and personality. But he, too, is trying to become popular by being passive and dispassionate, so that the result is like connecting two dead batteries: no current. Such human robots are suited to enslavement by a 1984-type society, but not to life in a bold, free society of men. This is the way women should be, perhaps, but not our men and especially not our leaders.

I found the same feeble feminine approach in every subject except in the sciences, and for these last, I was very grateful. In geology and psychology I could find a few principles and laws which stayed there when I reached out to grasp them, and so I reveled in these subjects and rebelled to the limit of my capacity in the others. In sociology I went so far as to write an insolent examination paper which almost got me thrown out of Brown. We were asked to write an essay answer on the factors leading to criminality and delinquency.

I wrote nothing but a fable about a crew of scientific geniuses who set out for Africa to see what made ants act like ants. They searched around until they found a lot of anthills, observed them for many years and finally came up with the discovery that when ant eggs were hatched in tunnels in a certain kind of hill in Africa and grew up among six-legged creatures called "ants", they themselves were so affected by this strong environment that they became, themselves, ants and waved their antennae like ants, scurried around aimlessly like ants, looked like ants and were ants!

Once again, I was hauled up before the administration for this impudence and almost thrown out. However, I was given another opportunity to write the exam and for the sake of my dear good grandmother and my patient, loving Aunt Margie, I sat down and wrote what I knew they wanted – a piece showing how unfortunate and most excellent babies were invariably driven to stealing from their parents, relatives and friends, robbing strangers at gunpoint and finally axing somebody in sheer desperation at their nasty environment. This was passed with a C plus.

Meanwhile, I was learning mightily from my endless 'bull sessions' with Vic Hillary and Bob Grabb, my constant companions. Both of them were soused to the ears with the prevailing 'liberalism', although I still did not know what it was. I simply discovered that almost all my ideas clashed violently with theirs. My ideas that socially-significant novels were dangerous because they allowed ideas to sneak into the mind while it was hypnotized was especially aggravating to both of them as we all aspired to creative careers, they as novelists and great writers. My attack on the very social novels they were aiming to write was painful and their reactions, particularly Hillary's, were most passionate. Far into the night we would battle over this matter, with the usual results: no progress. But in the process, I learned the art of controversy.

At first, I was too sincere and ingenuous to do anything but try to make my opponent see the truth of my position with the utmost force and sincerity. But then, I found that I would fall victim of the dirtiest kind of tricks. My position would be enormously and ridiculously exaggerated and then it would be flung, into my face in triumph, to the great laughter of the audience of listeners or participants. I could not understand when even my revered friends did this to me. I was more than once too hurt by such tactics to defend myself.

But, as with everything else in my life, when I discovered the inevitability of such illogical skullduggery, I schooled myself in it and one day turned the tables on my 'liberal' friends. Since I was usually alone in my 'conservative' position, surrounded by voluble and hostile 'liberals', I had more than the usual share of difficulties in gaining one of the phony 'victories' which are the only ones possible in such a battle, wherein truth means nothing. Under such circumstances, where the listeners as well as one's opponents are all hostile, one must capture them emotionally, in spite of themselves, with a lightning, unexpected stroke, usually of overwhelming humor or sarcasm, so that they laugh at your opponent and even themselves, in spite of themselves. Then you must decamp with a flourish, but with haste, before they can recover, and lay loud claim to victory. Such practice has served me handsomely, many times since then, in political battles, particularly in courtrooms when prosecutors get oratorical and too big for their britches. One has only to find the man's weak point in such circumstances to turn his unfair attack against himself with judge, jury and spectators.

More and more at Brown, I came into basic conflict with the prevailing 'liberalism', still without realizing what it was all about. My companions, my courses, my professors, the latest 'erudite' books: everything seemed to me to be touched with madness. I fought it fiercely and, for my ignorance, powerfully, but mostly by instinct. I simply had never heard of Communism as anything but a fiendish and insane doctrine held by a few fanatics someplace overseas. That the campus, dorms, fraternity houses and classrooms of Brown University were crawling with the filthy thing, I would never have believed and would have laughed to scorn anybody who had tried to tell me such a 'fantastic' thing – then.

It was during my second year at Brown, at the first fall dance at Faunce House that I recognized one of the freshman girls – my future wife – from Pembroke, the girls' section of Brown. I saw the same sassy little jaybird I had met in Barrington after the hurricane. Only this time, she was in a party dress. She still looked fresher and more wholesome than any girl I had ever seen, but she looked more than just wholesome in the pretty dress, as she swept across the floor with a succession of partners who cut in on each other. I was busy chasing a few women myself, but I noticed when she disappeared outside into the darkness with somebody. I strolled out onto the campus and over by University Hall, which was behind a fence as it was being remodeled. I saw her come out the door of the fence with her escort and was immediately irritated, but I kept control, strolled nonchalantly over and said "hello" to her. She recognized me and I couldn't resist asking her what she had been doing in the deserted hall.

"Ringing the bell," she said, which I insisted on taking with a double entendre, but which did not embarrass her in the least. I was a sophomore, far above such silly little freshman girls, but she apparently refused to recognize this great difference in our social stations. I resolved to ask her for a date and did so the next opportunity.

From then on, my life was a hell of glorious hope and miserable despair. She would seem to be as desperately in love with me as I was with her, only to cut me to pieces with some unheard of cruelty. She was the most popular girl in the freshman class and played the field with calculated cunning and cold manipulation. Such were the agonies of pursuing the girl who was to be my first wife.

She would take my fraternity pin, full of love and even traces of passion, only to thrust it back at me a few days later, for no special reason. I later got to know her mother and suspect her dainty hand in this sort of affair. But she had roused in me that fatal acceptance of challenge which is my most fundamental quality. Since she seemed impossible to tame or to attain, I had to have her and I doubled and redoubled my efforts to that end. I still don't know who got whom and I don't think she does either. Always, I was being bounced from heaven to hell by this sassy young thing I sought to corral.

But such emotional badminton didn't stop my development politically. Roosevelt was campaigning for re-election for his third term and I was not only outraged at this conceited flaunting of tradition, but Roosevelt's masterful but obvious demagoguery repelled me beyond endurance. I remember getting a harsh lesson from this Machiavellian "man of the people" when I heard a Republican program wherein different speeches of his were played in sequence, so that the impudent lies of the man were horrifyingly obvious. In one excerpt you would hear this political snake declare his undying devotion to one principle, only to hear him denouncing the very same thing the next moment, with passionate and self-righteous venom. I rejoiced at this genius of the Republicans and was sure no political leader could survive this devastating exposure of total lack of principle and utter depravity of character. Roosevelt was dead; I was positive! His subsequent landslide election victory taught me once for all that the ability of the people to know, to weigh and to judge facts per se is almost zero.

When FDR would take to the airwaves with his undulating, calculatingly charming voice, the women would be overcome with his "masterful" leadership and the males would be scrambling over one another to do homage to this great "liberal". My college mates absolutely staggered me with their apparent blindness to this foul liar and cheat. Grabb and Hillary formed committees to get Roosevelt re-elected and the campus was alive with a passion for Roosevelt. When I tried to point out the wild lies and inconsistencies of the man's words and acts, his demagoguery which should have been obvious to any ass and his grossly insincere and studied mass-manipulation techniques, I was greeted by a reaction which I have since learned is typical of these phony 'intellectuals' who pride themselves on their 'liberalism': invective! I was called a "reactionary", a "tory", even a "fascist" – a word I knew nothing of at that time. There was no attempt to show that my arguments or charges were wrong or ill-founded – only sneers, jeers, curses and name-calling.

It is typical of my political naivete in that time that when the hate propaganda about Hitler began to be pushed upon us in larger and larger doses, I swallowed it all and was unable to suspect that somebody might have had an interest in all this and that it might not be the interest of the United States or our people.

Charlie Chaplin was one of my favorites (and still is) and when I saw his "Great Dictator", I was not only brought to tears by the funny parts, but I was brought to bursting indignation by the impassioned speech he makes at the end against dictatorship (except for Stalin's brutal dictatorship which was depicted as benevolent love for his people, including the massacres of "enemies of the people"). The only dictators attacked by Mr. Chaplin were Hitler, Mussolini and Tojo, which I have since found easy to understand when we learn that Charlie is so red even our pinko State Department has banned him from the U.S.A. – and the even more significant fact for a capitalist who has made millions here in our hospitable land, that Chaplin's real name is Israel Thonstein.

But in 1940, all of this was hidden from me, as it is still hidden from our people for yet a little while longer. And so I grew to hate this "vicious monster", Adolf Hitler, as much as anybody in the country. It became obvious that we would have to get into a war to stop this "horrible ogre" who "planned to conquer America", so we were told and so I believed.

I was having the time of my life in college, but my idealism would not permit me to enjoy it as long as I sincerely believed, as I did, that my beloved country was in immediate and deadly danger of being enslaved or murdered and destroyed. I made preliminary inquiries about enlisting in the Navy.

The president of Brown, Henry Merrit Wriston, called me into his sacred chambers to remonstrate with me. "How can you expect to become an important man if you don't finish college?" he asked.

Sitting on the edge of my chair in awe of this grand person, I replied that there was no use trying to become an important man if America was to be destroyed. I said that I felt it my duty to do what I could immediately to stop any conquering of my country and I wondered how anybody could do differently. This fetched him up short, as he took it as a personal slur on his courage and patriotism. Waving a big stack of papers at me, he fairly shouted, "See all these papers? I have just signed them! I sign my name over a hundred times a day! This is what it means to be important! Nobody will want you to sign your name if you do not finish college!"

This seemed to me then and seems, to me now, a pretty sorry argument for finishing college or for being a success, especially for a man who has been asked to reorganize our Foreign Service and is looked up to as a mastermind. Facing him as a young squirt, I found him to be something less than a Socrates or even a good Scout Leader and I realize that such pompous and relatively empty-headed 'leaders' are, and will be our lot until we can conquer the Jewish money-power, which can only survive as long as our leaders are either consciously in on the filthy red scheme or as I think in the present case, are too slow-witted to see what stooges they are.

So another student and I went ahead and enlisted at the First Naval District headquarters in Boston. How my life changed then!