by George Lincoln Rockwell

Chapter VI.

My wife of one day's vintage finally arrived, after she had graduated from Pembroke in June and I had prepared a little cottage near the base. Our married life was far from the passionate affair one might imagine or rather, what it should be. After a lifetime of Mother's training, Judy just could not relax and enjoy being a female. She had to be on guard every minute to see that she maintained her 'rights', which she did, but meanwhile lost her major birthright as a human being: real love.

There were a good many tears and scenes, but after a while we arrived at a sort of modus vivendi and even a bit of gay camaraderie in our mutual bafflement. I have since then come to the conclusion that it is not only not wrong for a man to find out more about life before he gets married, but his duty. I feel sure now that, if I knew then what I know now, I could have saved my poor, warped little wife and our marriage, for already the crackup had begun which was to culminate ten years later. But at that time, I was a truly innocent boob in the affair and too ignorant and scared to exert the masculine force and power given by nature to males to overcome such situations.

There was nothing wrong with Judy but the common insanity of all our education today. Her whole life had been dedicated to an unrealistic goal, as are the lives of most of our girls. Without anybody coming out and saying it, the mad scramble for 'democracy' has been extended to the sexes and the natural dominance of the male, and the passive submission of the female, which are basic to both natures and absolutely necessary to their happiness, have been scorned as evil carry-overs from our animal natures. A 'modern' girl cannot avoid the impression that it is somehow 'inferior' to be 'just a woman' or 'just a housewife and mother', and the corresponding idea, therefore, that she must try to 'be somebody' or 'do something worthwhile' by having a 'career'. She receives all sorts of 'education', particularly in college, which is not only useless if she becomes a wife and mother, but which irritate and frustrate her natural capacities. It is not hard to understand how a woman trained as an expert lawyer might chafe at the humdrum life of a wife and mother despite the fact that such a feminine life is desperately important to her own happiness as a person and to society. From time to time, my college-trained wife would burst from the kitchen in utter frustration and demand an explanation, as I came home tired from a day of flying and darkroom work, of why she had to wash dishes. "I went to college!" she would exclaim. "Why should I have to wash dishes?"

We do the same thing with millions of men, too. When there is obviously no capacity for brain-work in a child, it is criminal to drive and beat it into schooling aimed at preparing it to be a 'white collar worker'. With a minimum of schooling sufficient to read and write, it would be happy working with its hands. When it is led to imagine that it is a great brain, then is driven to the sewers and ditches with a shovel, it is understandable that the unhappy victim becomes frustrated and a danger to society, when multiplied by the millions.

It is not a question of 'superior' or 'inferior', but a question of possibilities. A girl will grow up to be a woman, a female, no matter what education, ideals, ideas and training she may get. Perhaps it is 'unfair' that she was born a woman, physically weak, less able to reason, coldly burdened with the inexorable cyclic functioning of her reproductive system and blessed with the soft, warm, emotional, understanding and patient nature of the machinery designed by Nature for motherhood, above all things.

The effort of feminists and liberals to 'correct' what Nature has decreed, whether the effort is 'good' or 'bad', can lead only to misery for those who attempt to fly in the face of a cold and merciless Nature, and a social agony for a world which is deprived of warm and submissive females and mothers.

It is a mark of insanity for an individual to ignore reality and act as if he were something which he is not. It is no less insane when women pretend that their female natures do not exist, that they are not only the 'equals' of men, but the same as men, except for a slight physiological difference. No matter how a few of them manage to succeed in the poses of engineers and steel-workers and fighter pilots and business executives, women today, as a group, are fundamentally acting in the manner of the insane: defying and ignoring reality. The results are frightfully visible in our whole civilization. The women are becoming masculinized, while the men are getting feminized. One has only to look at a crowd of our teenagers to see how things are going. They wear the same tight pants, the same jackets and the same hats – even the same duck-tailed hairdos. We are breeding and training up a generation of jazzed-up, negroidal, neutered queers.

Our whole approach to women today, as with most of our social attitudes, is that of the Soviets who have women in the army, working in the streets and even in firing-squads, just like men. God save us from such women!

Women are indeed the equal of men, as a group, only when they fulfill the task for which Nature equipped and made them – motherhood. Man was designed, even in the creative process itself, to supply the spark, the drive and the aggressive push of life, while woman is designed to supply the basic building material of new life; nourish, treasure, warm and guide it, until it can sustain its own life. There is no escape from this fate, even if it were bad, which it is not.

If a man is to be honored for making cigars or building bridges or making beer, as our great businessmen are, then surely we ought to honor those who make our people! But the trouble is that our insane 'liberal' attitude toward motherhood and homemaking has given women an impossible inferiority complex and frustration about their possible and real achievements in life. We train our girls by the millions to be anything but successful wives and mothers, lead them to believe they are to be an 'equal' part of a 'man's world', when the truth is that it is only Nature's world, and man's share in it is no greater or more glorious than that of a female-oriented woman who produces, brings up and gives to society a family of happy people.

If our girls were brought up from first consciousness to realize the absolute and total inevitability of their mission in life, but above all to be proud of that mission; train for and then fulfill it joyously, there would be no more talk of 'achieving' equality. They would find that Nature has already given them equality in generous measure, if only they will accept it. There can be no sense in discussing the superiority of negative or positive electricity in a battery; they are merely different forms of the same thing, but the difference is vital if there is to be any current. When the male and female potential or voltages are permitted to become 'equal', they must be strongly opposite or the current will stop.

The current is stopping as our broken families and marriages show. In my own case, my first partner was wretchedly twisted from what I am sure were originally good, basic, natural instincts. But even more important, I was 'civilized' and 'liberalized' out of my own savage male instincts of force and domination which, if properly controlled, could have saved both my wife and our marriage.

It is not women who are at fault in the growing madness of our family and our sexual frustration, it is the men who have permitted it. The women are still born passive and submissive and if our fathers and grandfathers had not failed them as a group, as I failed my first wife as an individual, they would still, as a group, be enjoying their birthright and the honor owed them by society for being the most exalted manufacturers and executives in the world, the manufacturers of Our People!

Upon achieving power, one of our first tasks will be an all-out public relations drive to help our entire population – men and women – to see that 'motherhood' is not the silly, sloppy thing which is made of it today, for 'the benefit of florists and greeting card publishers; the 'momism' described by Philip Wylie which has made so many 'mama's boys' and spoiled brats in our society, but a profession every bit as exacting, scientific and honorable as the law, medicine or education. These latter professions merely help the results of the profession of motherhood. It is the part of the women to produce and give to society people who have just the right combination of discipline and love to make people happy and capable citizens.

Where a doctor or a lawyer spends years and years of preparation for his work, and then more years of apprenticeship, most of our mothers today spend their years preparing to be writers, artists, executives or some other kind of 'career girls', which few of them actually become, while their only training for their real profession in life consists perhaps in a high school 'Home Ec' course in how to make a few fancy salads and paperback 'romance'. They plunge into the world's most important, most honorable and most exacting profession, knowing nothing of childhood disease, scientific family budgeting, psychology of children (and husbands) or any of the other vital professional subjects which would make the first years of marriage such a relatively orderly and pleasant experience, instead of a wildly chaotic mess every time 'something' happens to the baby and mother either knows nothing about it at all or knows only old-wives' tales.

If a lawyer or a doctor attempted to practice as soon as he had purchased a few medicine or law books, the way our women plunge into the business of making human beings and happy families, they would be arrested. The law and medicine would be impossible chaos, which is exactly the state of our 'modem' family system as shown by sky-rocketing juvenile delinquency and millions of wrecked families and broken homes. Our civilization is no longer as simple as the pioneering society of our forebears and, if family life is to survive – as it must survive, if our race is to survive – then we must stop the insane business of considering a mother and homemaker 'just a housewife' who needs no special education for her job. We must give our girls the necessary skills and knowledge for their actual and unavoidable profession first and then, if there is time and money and inclination, give them a 'liberal' education or any other kind of education, so long as it does not give them the frustrating idea that they should be engineers, actresses, fighter pilots, etc.

Finally, and most important, we must honor them, as we now honor doctors and lawyers. We must establish professional women's schools and universities dedicated not to 'home economics', but to the exalted profession of Family Science. We must get rid of the disgusting connection of 'homemaking' with the dust mop, dishpan and dirty diapers, and make it clear to our people that these tasks are no more the essence of Family Science than sweeping out the office is the essence of being a lawyer, even though a lawyer has to do this himself.

When our whole people have been given this new understanding of the real 'equality' of women and when they are honored by professional degrees in their all-important science of the organization, care and management of a plant for the intelligent production of decent human beings, there will be less of the misery which lies deep in so many of our girls who wind up with a dishpan or diaper pail after a Cinderella dream of 'better things' all their younger days.

My Judith had been told all her life that there was only one thing worse than getting locked up as a housewife, with a useless man, and that was having kids to be 'tied-down' to. The stark realities of adjusting the butterfly life of college and dreams of 'better things' to a washtub and submission to a male were too much for her, as they have been for many another before her. Aside from this difficulty, there was another problem.

I discovered the utter, fantastic illogicalness of women, which can be so delightful when it is laughable and so tragic when it causes a family fight or hurts the children.

The only time I ever laid a hand on her was when we had been in town shopping and I had told her I was starving for a big steak or a piece of meat. She was commendably anxious to save our small pay and said not to buy any more, because there was a piece of ham in the icebox at home. I remembered seeing it and said that it was not enough for both of us. It was too little, even for me. She said she didn't want any at all; I could have the whole thing. I pointed out that this was silly when we were right by the store and could get some more, but she insisted over and over that she wanted none of the ham. She made such a fuss that I agreed to let her eat something else and I would be satisfied with the little piece of ham. So we went home with no meat and I drank a beer while she got supper ready in the kitchen. When she called me to eat, I looked at the plates and there were two tiny shreds of meat, one on each plate. They looked like communion wafers!

When I asked her about the meat on her plate, she flew into a tantrum and insisted I was a pig and was determined to hog everything and let her go without! I will leave the ensuing argument to the imagination. My male readers will agree, I think, that such perfidy in regard to an agreement, even in such a small affair, is hard to take, while I have found the females will consider this sly maneuver a clever way to save money and very commendable. Suffice it to say, I was unable to control my frustration at her total lack of understanding of the principle involved and I grabbed the poor thing by the shoulders and shook her!

After completion of photo school, from which I graduated near the top of the class, we were asked what duty we wanted. Photo pilots were, I understood, much in demand, so you got what you wanted! But I made one of the stupidest mistakes of my life. I forgot that fighter pilots were not assigned to carriers, but were assigned to squadrons, which were then ordered, as units, to carriers. I wanted to fly the hottest things in the fleet on combat missions, so I put down "any combat carrier". What an afternoon it was when I came home with the assignment to the U.S.S. Wasp and we celebrated! I already saw myself swooping over the enemy beaches and disdainfully photographing Tojo himself, shaking his impotent fist at me as I went by, too fast to be seen clearly.

But upon getting to the great ship, I discovered that I was 'ship's company', a sort of glorified janitor, craving for the brave air-heroes, the pilots, who never came aboard except for combat missions and did all the flying while I did all the watching, except for a few flights now and then when I could manage it. I was V-3 Division Officer and thoroughly hated my tasks which were those of a non-flying officer. In addition, I had to watch, green to the gills with envy, while the squadron boys zipped around the sky, shooting and clowning and doing what I longed to do so badly I could taste it.

I did everything I could think of to get out of that situation and back in the air, including making myself obnoxious with requests for transfer, finally to the ultimate desperation of asking for "any ship or station." The exec at last took pity on me and ordered me to the pilot pool in San Diego where they make up the best fighter outfits! Once again, I was overjoyed, but not for long.

This time, while one after the other of the lads in the pool went to Corsair and Hellcat squadrons, I finally got orders to SAC – Support Air Command! I was to run up the beach on invasions and direct air heroes again from a foxhole with my little radio and ground control team! It almost seemed that somebody was purposely doing this to me. How could a guy be so crazy to get into combat in a fighter, and get first on a cruiser, then ship's company on a carrier, and finally this: an entrenching tool and a radio – my weapons – as I cringed in a foxhole! I almost despaired as we trained on the beach at Coronado with LCVP's and with tanks running over our foxholes, while the squadrons flashed by in the blue overhead.

From there we went to Guadalcanal, where I got in on the tail-end of the action or 'mop-up' and flew a few hops I was able to scrounge out of Henderson Field. After that, Pearl Harbor and then Guam.

My experiences in all this would make a book, but others who have had far more thrilling and readable experiences have already set forth this sort of thing for all to read. My task is to pick out the experiences which had special significance in shaping my own character and political career. The only such experiences were the time I watched two marines beating to death with their bare hands a Jap who had been tossing hand grenades into the camp, night after night – and enjoyed the sight immensely – a thing which horrifies me now. Such is the hatred born of a bitter war.

There was the business of the Japs yelling filthy things about Roosevelt, at night. I wondered greatly at the oddity of trying to kill these guys who despised the same charlatan whom I couldn't stand myself. Luckily, I didn't know then how this Roosevelt, on behalf of world Marxism and its Jewish masters, plotted and planned to drive Japan into the war; sacrificed thousands of our lads at Pearl Harbor, all just to get our people mad enough to reverse their isolationist stand and go to war to crush Germany and Hitler – whom the enemies of America hate as rats hate bright light. But then, the only thought which crossed my mind was the humorousness of it and the oddness of such a war.

Back at the Pacific Headquarters of the Fleet in Pearl Harbor, I once again broke my neck to pull a deal of some kind in order to get back into the air I loved. I found an officer that I knew at AirPac Assignment and told him I would do anything on earth short of treason or murder to get a flying billet. He said he would see what he could do, and he did. He ordered me to the U.S.S, Mobile, another cruiser!

But that wasn't the worst of it. The Navy brass, at that time, were in love with catapult planes on cruisers and battleships, because they were what they had known and loved so many years themselves. But, with three and four hundred mile-an-hour fighters mastering the air over any task force, and with no ship daring to leave such an umbrella of fighter protection, our 100-knot cruiser seaplanes were worse than a pain in the neck for the fleet. Their 3,000 gallons of high-octane gasoline stowed aboard ship was a fearful and useless danger to the safety of all hands in battle. We almost never flew and it was the ultimate torture for me to stand by the catapults (my battle station), helpless, useless and actually in the way, with our planes lashed down, while the boys from the carriers tangled all over the sky with the Jap Kamikaze or suicide planes which plummeted at our ships with unbelievable ferocity!

My first chance in Pearl, as Senior Aviator of the cruiser, I asked and got an audience with Admiral Sherman of ComAirPac to see if we could keep the planes on an advance atoll somewhere near the ship's operations and thus keep in flying training and combat fighting trim. As it was, the rare times we did fly, I lost two aircraft and one pilot just because they couldn't land under rough conditions and we never had a chance to fly enough to keep sharp. The C.O. of the Mobile went along with this idea, as he hated the planes and the aviation gas which were of no help to him and which constituted a deadly fire menace in fighting his ship. But I was brusquely rebuffed by the brass. I was told the planes had always been helpful on "wagons and carriers" and always would be. The old boys just could not see that the day of seaplanes in the fleet was over, especially with a fast carrier task force in combat conditions. Then I suggested helicopters, which have since proved to be excellent aids to such ships. The admiral looked at me incredulously when I mentioned it. He simply didn't believe in any such foolishness and told me so! He said they would never amount to anything, like the autogyro, for instance.

In despair, I went to my friend at the assignment desk and finally, at long, long last, made it into the air. It wasn't the combat I wanted, but it was next best. Because of my excellent record and experience, I was given command of a large squadron of scout and observer aircraft and pilots for replacement and training for the fleet. I had the best fighters, torpedo bombers and scouts and the latest seaplane, the SC – and plenty of authority, men and equipment. I flew like a mad man, amassing my first real time since the Omaha and was deliciously happy every time I got into the air. I found a squadron of P-47's from the Army at Wheeler and gave them a wild time in the air every time I caught one up. We had F6F's and they were more maneuverable than the heavier 47's. With our Navy training, our lads had little difficulty in riding those Army jockeys all over the sky, and we loved it!

I got my only black mark on my Navy record while I commanded SOSU-1 at Pearl. Everybody was scrounging all over the Pacific to get movie theaters set up and I had some of the best scrounging chiefs and warrants in the U.S. Navy. Somehow, they produced the ultimate luxury: two big, 35 mm. regular projectors, which enabled us to get the best movies in the area, instead of the little sixteen millimeter outfits and their old films. But what I didn't know was that the 35 millimeter film was dangerously flammable, while the 16 mm. was not, and there were voluminous regulations to guard against fire. it was my duty to know about or look into it, but it didn't occur to me. One day I came back from a night hop to see a plume of flame and smoke over Pearl Harbor and felt my heart flop as I realized it was my main building. The film had caught fire and the whole top floor burned off. I was very properly given a letter of private admonition from the admiral for failure to take precautions against such a catastrophe.

In August of that year, 1945, I was on the roof one evening watching for the return of an overdue plane, when I saw star shells bursting over the cans tied up at the destroyer base. Then whistles began to blow, then yells and shouts. The war was over!

I started downstairs and when I was spied by my junior officers and then, they began to clap me on the back and act like insane idiots. Nor was it long before I caught the spirit of it all. I too, acted like an idiot. As the mob spirit of wild joy spread and mounted to a roaring storm of bursting public passion, people danced and cartwheeled through the streets of Ford Island in the middle of Pearl Harbor. Sailors burst into the WAVE barracks, kissing and hugging as they went, and when the old maid lieutenant in charge protested, she got kissed, too. Most of my uniform was torn off and I wound up on the shoulders of some of my men, almost naked! Toilet paper rolls by the thousands tangled the mob and it was hard to see. Whisky appeared and the riotous crowd began to exceed all bounds. It sickened me after a while and I escaped back to the relative quiet of my own little cottage in the Officers' Quarters section.

Then I had an emotional experience which exceeded in intensity anything I remembered about VJ Day. Amid the howling and screaming and bursting rockets and star shells, only a few hundred yards from the insane mob of celebrators, I heard the most peaceful, but moving sound in the world. With the noise of the mob in the background, a group of our mess boys, our colored servants, were standing out behind a building under the stars, singing spirituals and hymns. One huge Negro stood with his head thrown back so the light of the Lord could shine on his face, and I could see the tears rolling and streaming down his black face in the moonlight as he boomed out his gratitude to God for the end of the war! I cried too.

Let no one say that religion is the "opium of the people". I had none of my own, but I could feel the good strong warmth of theirs deep in my heart. And let no one say that I desire to hurt or oppress such people. How my heart went out to them and still does! They are a biologically immature race, and I will fight to the death to save our people from mixing with them in any way. So are my children my inferiors and I would not let them sit in on a business conference with me, but I certainly love my kids and, similarly, I love the Negro people, so long as they don't try to push or hurt me, or those I love.

I went and got those boys a bottle of wine and gave it to them and wished I could show them how deeply I was moved by their simple devotion and childlike reaction to overwhelming events, but there was little I could do, with decorum.

I had more than enough 'points' to 'get out', which was the big rush right away, and I started to make plans for sky-castles back in the States, just like a million other war-weary Americans. I dreamed of buying a surplus Piper Cub airplane on the West Coast, where my wife was working in San Diego, and flying back together, all over the U.S.A. What a wonderful, marvelous adventure that would have been! But my hopes were dashed miserably when I got a letter from my intended 'co-pilot' that she would have none of flying in any 'orange crate' with me!

I returned to San Diego on a destroyer-escort and got another dose of cold water from my still-new wife, with whom I had lived only a few months out of the two years of marriage, the rest of the time having been in the South Pacific. Judy knew I hated and still hate earrings, heavy lipstick and most of all, nail-polish. I realize this is a personal idiosyncrasy, but it goes back to a hate of ostentation and savage decoration, as such things seem to me. In any case, my wife usually went along with this wish, the few months I had been at home, but now, when I arrived at the dock, after almost two years overseas, I found her consciously bedecked and painted in these things. When I tried to kiss and hug her in the backseat of the car in which her landlady had picked us up, she pushed me away and explained that this was improper and embarrassing to the landlady. To hell with the landlady, I thought, as any returning sailor will understand! But Judy was adamant. We had to chat about empty nothings with the landlady, which put me in no happy mood. It was the beginning of the long, downward dive of the marriage which would see its last days six years and 6,000 miles later in that same San Diego – with three innocent little children added to the unhappy mess.

We took the train back to the East Coast and to happy reunions with both our families. Then we headed for Maine and civilian life!