by George Lincoln Rockwell
As it became obvious the war was drawing to what I imagined was a 'successful' close, I began to plan my life as an artist, a life I had envisioned ever since high school. I sent enquiries everywhere to find out which school was the best for commercial art. The general consensus seemed to be Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, New York.
After the round of family reunions up and down the East Coast, therefore, I stopped in Brooklyn at the famous old school and received a rude shock. It was not just a matter of deciding which school I would attend, but a matter of which school I could fight my way into. With millions of veterans pouring out of the services and flocking to avail themselves of the free education under the 'G.I. Bill, I was only one of thousands trying to enter Pratt. And when I looked at the work of some of the students at the school which was hanging on the display boards, I was appalled at my own amateurishness. I feared I could never make the grade. Nevertheless, I took the tests, drew the samples and then went up to Maine to await results. My wife and I had rented the lower floor of an old sea-farer's home in East Boothbay.
I had already learned that, even if admitted, I could not make the 1945-1946 term, so I prepared to go to work and study at home as best I could until the next fall. I bought some books on sign-painting, some brushes and equipment, and practiced long hours over an old breadboard which was leaned up against a window box full of smelly geraniums.
When I considered that I was able to paint a readable sign, I hung a poster in the front window of the house reading "Signs painted free by returned serviceman who desires practice." For a long while there were no takers of even this bargain. But I was also offering around town to do any odd photography work for a buck and got a few jobs this way.
One of these photography jobs almost got me run out of town. The local Eastern Star, through some good friends, offered me the exceptional honor of taking pictures of some quite secret ceremony. it seems the affair was a very rare occurrence and they wanted photographs of the important ladies and their ceremonial vestments. I duly appeared and took flash pictures of the solemn proceedings, doing my best to stay in the background, but somehow managing to get in the way of the hefty ladies who paraded around and around in some kind of pattern of the utmost meaning. When the action was completed, the victorious participants lined up with a great deal of difficulty, carefully observing seniority and diplomatic protocol, for a group picture. There was no mistaking the historical urgency of the atmosphere there. Never again would such an illustrious group of magnificent Past Masters, Past Grand Matrons, Present Grand Matrons, Great Grand Past Matrons, Grand High Past Secretaries, etc., be assembled in all their plumage, their glorious badges and ribbons of high office.
I managed to get my lights connected right, my camera set and my flashes organized, and even remembered to pull the dark slide out of the camera. I snapped this never-to-be-recaptured historical moment and felt that I had it in the bag. I was promised a dollar a print from many of those present, and the operation seemed to be a great success.
My darkroom consisted of a closet with an old-fashioned chain-pull toilet in our ancient apartment, and unbelievably crude, home-made and makeshift equipment. I rushed home to this 'laboratory" and prepared to develop the films, as I had done successfully dozens of times before. My wife dutifully tried to play her part of laboratory assistant as I fumbled around in the pitch darkness with the precious cut films, trying to get them into a tray of developer. Somehow I tripped or stumbled over some light cords and in the effort to regain my balance, bashed my hand – which held the films – against the corner of a shelf. The pain caused me to drop the precious negatives and they fell, not to the floor, as I prayed, but into the toilet!
This would not have been too disastrous, as water would not hurt them, but as I reached down to get them out, I bumped into the unscrewed light bulb which lit up brightly and completely ruined the holy negatives! I stalled the officials of the organization as long as I could, too scared to tell them the awful truth, but they wouldn't wait forever. Finally, I had to admit the fact that there were no pictures of the historical event of the decade – and then hide!
The good Down Maine people of East Boothbay, however, were kind and understanding of the would-be young artist, sign-painter and photographer, and they compassionately forgave my incompetence. In fact, one retired sea-captain eventually responded to my offer to paint signs free and asked me to do a little white board with his name for his boat shop, even insisting on paying me. I was overwhelmed and went to work on that little white board as though it were for the President of the United States.
The job would not take me or any sign-painter more than twenty minutes today, but then I didn't know the secret of production for public consumption, as I do now. The eye, heart and mind of the public are unbelievably simple and naive as to technical details. Like savages or children, the public is oblivious to what, to an expert, seems a serious defect, so long as the whole makes them happy or has a pleasant effect. The grossest and most obvious fraud of a Santa Claus, if properly loaded with toys, in the right atmosphere, will be Santa Claus to happy children, although his beard may be half-off, his pillows showing and his hair plainly visible under the silvery spun glass to an adult.
The best friend of the artist is the eye of the beholder – if the artist knows how to suggest what the beholder wants to see. At the same time, the public, the mob, has an unerring instinct that detects fear and timidity, and very properly hates it. A drawing, a poster or a speech done haltingly by even a good technical craftsman, in fear and trembling, no matter how excellent the details, win always repel the crowd. A sign or a poster, I have learned, can be made up of shaky, poorly-drawn letters, rotten sketches and the roughest design elements, but if it is masterfully conceived as a whole, with the effect of the whole being the artist's sole guide, the public will be entranced.
This is why a beginner's figure drawing is almost always so grotesque and ugly in appearance. He concentrates first on an eye, doing it well, perhaps, then a nose, doing it well too; then a mouth, an car, some hair and so on down the figure. But the finely-drawn eye is too big for the nose, which is too small for the mouth; all of which are in the wrong place for the car, which appears where perhaps the chin should be. On the other hand, a more experienced artist has learned that a few dashes and smears for eyes, nose, mouth, ears and hair, etc. will appear to be finely-drawn eyes, nose, lips, etc., provided they are put in the right places with a dash of courage. The eye of the beholder is the artist's best friend. Give the beholder a fair chance to imagine that the whole thing looks good and it will look good to him.
But in 1945 I knew nothing of all this. I was simply determined to make each letter perfect, a totally wrong approach. I did that tiny little sign over and over and over, staying up all night and getting literally desperate. No matter how I tried, there was always a wiggle or a drip some place. Finally I collapsed in bed, discouraged and exhausted! Just before noon, I attacked it once more and managed to get it looking at least readable.
I gave it to the man and refused to take any money, although he seemed pleased and offered me a dollar. I wish now that I had taken it, because the last time I went home to Maine, three or four years ago, I went and looked at that sign. It is still there and it looks fine!
Some time in the late fall, I received word from Pratt that I had managed to win a place in the next year's class. I felt that I had already conquered half of the world.
With such a great 'victory', I was able to convince Judy that we ought to have a baby! Both of us had heard that having a baby sometimes 'warms up' a wife, and I dearly wanted children anyway. Besides, we had begun to have a pretty good time, going on long walks together and playing like two kids. With a place at Pratt secured and our marriage showing signs of life, I felt pretty good.
I began to get a good bit of sign-painting and photography work, and I decided to build myself a little shop in Boothbay Harbor. My father had once run a hotel called the Tinker Tavern there, and after it burned down, owned an empty lot in a good spot near the Yacht Club. I got permission to build my shop there and the minute the hard freeze went out of the ground in early March, I went to work building my shop. I had never built anything before, but had watched carefully and was sure I could do it. I had few tools, but the place was only to be 22 by 12 feet, and I had time.
My biggest error was in making everything too big and too heavy. I used 12 by 12 beams underneath and had a whale of a struggle lifting them into position alone, nailing or rather spiking them, while holding the corners on my back, and then jiggling the whole thing level on the hillside. I made another error in forgetting to add in the thickness of the boards themselves when calculating the building measurements, and so, when I came to put on the roof, I found the building eight inches wider at one end than the other. I had to place, nail and saw the pieces thereafter, to size.
In May or June of 1946 I opened the little shop as the "Maine Photo-Art Service" – offering eight-hour photo-finishing, sign-painting, advertising art and other related services. Judy pitched in loyally, even helping to tar the roof and later running the store part of the building. I worked like a tiger, solving one 'impossible' crisis after another to stay in business and rescue my own blunders as a 'professional' who had no real experience. Nevertheless, we managed to make a living and to do some creditable jobs.
In the fall, we closed up the little shop and headed for New York. I had arranged to stay with my Aunt Helen and her husband, Roscoe Smythe, in Mount Vernon until G.I. housing became available at Pratt.
It was while we were in Mount Vernon that Judy presented me with our first baby – at first named "Judith Mitchell", but then changed just to "Bonnie" at Judy's request.
I got my first lesson in the attitude of 'modern' society and hospitals toward breast-feeding at the Bronxville Hospital where Bonnie was born. The pressure on mothers to bind up their breasts, take pills and do everything else to dry up the miraculous fountain of God-given life itself was terrific! It is little wonder to me that many of our children today are 'insecure' as the Freudians call it, when they have been denied the direct, warm, animal contact with their mothers in their most helpless state. Babies can't testify to their sensations, of course, nor can they remember them, but I am sure that if they could, a bottle-fed baby would feel just like a man whose wife handed him some kind of rubber mannikin to sleep with. Such a device could be manufactured to equal and perhaps exceed the mechanical performance of a human wife, but the mechanical stimulation is not all that is necessary – it is the indefinable warmth and love of the person which is the priceless ingredient, and how much more it must be so with a tiny, helpless thing which has no other satisfaction at all. A baby lives entirely for contact and sustenance from its mother. When she purposely and willfully denies it that warm contact and palms off a glass bottle full of milk meant for a cow-mother's baby – no matter how 'scientifically' it is prepared – she is starving that baby of the basic element of his life: Love. And she is doing so at the very time it should be filled and stuffed and overflowing with warmth and love. If the mother is unable to feed her child, no matter how hard she tries, then, of course, the bottle is the only solution. But it should be the last resort and relatively rare, instead of the present norm in so many cases.
The whole thing is another manifestation of the corrosive and perverted idea of 'moderns' that it is somehow 'degrading' to be a woman, to have babies, to nurse them, and to fulfill the animal functions of a woman. For my children's sakes, I am happy to say, I was able to prevail over her mother's dictum with Judy, and she lovingly nursed all the kids – even when, with Phoebe-Jean, the youngest, it meant excruciating pain and a breast-pump.
Upon entering Pratt, I got my first close look at the human scum which more and more befouls our great cities, especially New York and Brooklyn. The 'melting-pot' has turned out to be more of a garbage pail. One of my classmates was a Chinese Jewish Negro – with red hair! – and freckles! One is reminded of the limerick about the young man from Dundee who got together with an ape in a tree. Atlantic City had surrounded me with Negroes and jews, but there had been some order about it. You could tell who was who or what was what if you looked. But in Brooklyn I saw the streets crawling with creatures which defied identification. My 'equals' by the million scrambled everywhere for the crumbs of a paternalistic government – pushing, shoving, fighting, knifing, screaming – giving every evidence of their kinship with a jungle tribe of pygmies or cannibals. Jews in long robes, beanies and black curls shuffled the streets among the teeming congregations of the Lord's "chosen" who were throwing garbage and offal into the streets until the smell alone was unbearable.
I hate none of these people any more than I hate caterpillars, grasshoppers, worms or Australian bushmen. I hate what they are doing to our cities, our culture, our White children and our national life – under the encouraging aegis of the Communist-Zionist jews and their millions of soft-headed agents, most of whom have never lived anywhere close to this human scum. But in those days, I was still monstrously ignorant of race, jews and Communism. I saw only a mess, which I imagined had just 'made itself' and was unavoidable. I never considered that it might be caused or that it might also be remedied with justice and decency, without hating and torturing any innocent people.
My artistic education was launched in the schizophrenic dichotomy of values characteristic of our exploding civilization. Half of my instructors were genuine artists and craftsmen who taught me valuable lessons. The other half were gross charlatans teaching 'modern art'. As had happened in sociology at Brown, I became aware that the teachers of 'modern art' were all pushing a pattern of ideas and techniques, and as I had discovered with sociology, the basic pattern of these 'wise men of Boeotia' was the enshrinement of mediocrity, chaos, disorder and fraud.
It was impossible to get your mind wrapped firmly around any principle or idea in the classes of the 'modern' disciples. The only aim seemed to be being different at all costs! Out of the window with drawing, color, sensitivity, drama, idea – even art itself. But be shockingly different! That was the stroke of genius! It was the philosophy of the jaded roue, the surfeited pervert. All the 'old' values were reactionary, no good! On to something new, something exciting, something wild, and then wilder still! Never mind if what you do is ugly, so long as it is shockingly different!
For the first time in my career and purely by instinct, without understanding the ideas involved as I have expressed them above, I began to call this kind of art' "Communism". I knew Communism was something foreign and supposed to be bad and ugly. This kind of monstrous 'art' was all these things.
As I have learned to do many times since, I made a laboratory experiment of these theories of mine. We had a class in 'design', which amounted to lessons in graphic madness and chaos. The project for the year was a 'mural' showing 'workers, industrial strife, etc. – sound familiar? We had to make endless sketches, charcoals, color ideas and so forth, but I could see the foolishness of it all and, as I had in Atlantic City High School, in "Problems of American Democracy", I simply rebelled. Only this time, I dared not do it openly, since I was living with my wife and our new baby, Bonnie, on the $90 per month I got for going to school. So George Olsen, another real artist and myself, along with a few others, discovered that we could simply slip out the door onto the fire escape after checking in, and over to my place for bull sessions and coffee. So we did this almost all year.
When the 'master sketch' was due for grading, I sat up one night and demonstrated my utter disdain for this organized insanity. I traced my foot on a piece of illustration board, let the baby scribble on it and then scrambled in different communistic-looking 'workers' where they would fit – any which way. I daubed and smeared color until the foot was somewhat disguised, although you could still see it. It was atrocious, awful! Then I took it in and presented proudly to the poor boob who taught this 'subject'. He was thrilled to death an said it was unquestionably 'different'! He held it up to the class, gave a lecture on the 'significance' of the baby's scribbles, my foot and the smears. Then he gave me a 'B' on it! George Olsen and I had a hard time keeping straight face but we did, until we got across the street to my little apartment where we laughed and howled over the idiocy for hours.
At the end of my first year at Pratt, I got my introduction to the Jew's 'enforcement squad', although at the time, I didn't know such a thing existed.
I had had so much business the summer before at my shop that I wanted to get another student to help me the next year, so I put up a sign on the bulletin board at Pratt to that effect. Boothbay Harbor, at least at that time, was a highly restricted community, although nobody mentioned it. So I had added that fact to the sign when I advertised for a sign-painter and artist-helper to come to Maine with me. A Negro, for instance, would have found life simply impossible up there.
A few days later, three husky Jews showed up at my apartment and asked if were the one who put up the sign. When I said "yes", they firmly and none-too-gently told me that that sort of thing would not be tolerated and that they had been down to the school authorities. Then they handed me my little notice, which they had ripped down. They gave me a lecture on 'democracy' and 'brotherhood', then they left, almost in military formation.
But the little notice had done its work anyway, and a fine young man, Jack Myers (German) and Miki, his charming wife, agreed to come up to Boothbay Harbor with Judy and me for the summer and work in the "Photo-Art Shop". Jack and I did a roaring business that summer. We daubed signs all over the one charming little fishing village I had known as a kid. We even smeared some of the huge roofs with aluminum paint, advertising marine services and shore dinners – an atrocity, as I look back on it now!
We developed thousands of vacationers' films, learning all kinds of intimate secrets I had never before realized were seen by a photo-finisher. It was a wonder to me that more photo-finishers do not get tempted into blackmail schemes.
We did silk-screen paintings and sold them successfully. I drew caricatures at fairs, one time almost getting thrashed by a customer with no sense of humor. Both Jack and I painted for fun and we held lengthy beer-and-bull sessions.
In the fall I returned to Pratt and plunged into the hard schedule of study plus all the free-lance art work I could get in order to eke out a living from our $90 per month from the Veterans' Administration.
The cleavage between the real art I was learning in some courses and the Marxist fakery and trash I had to pretend to do in others was beginning to tear me up inside. I quickly tired of playing 'jokes' on the teachers of this madness and humbuggery, once I learned it was so easy. I began to chafe at the dignity and distinction granted these phonies, alongside immortals like Durer, DaVinci, David and the other real masters. I taxed my brain endlessly to discover how they were able to get away with such monstrous fraud. It was grossly obvious! I had not yet learned that the authors of this kind of 'artistic' garbage, the promoters of this trash and, most important, the swindlers of public opinion in the press – the 'critics' who gave credence to this incredible imposture – were, mostly Jews!
I learned that the grand-daddy of this vicious perversion of Western Art and Culture – Pablo Picasso – was not a Spaniard, as I had thought – but a jew! That he was also a Communist, as I have since learned (he did the 'peace dove' for the Kremlin), I still did not know or suspect.
The mental struggle to understand this fraud drove me almost to distraction and I commenced to wonder if it were I who was out of line and unable to perceive the 'beauty' of these graphic catastrophes in which the human anatomy was ripped and torn into depictions which seemed horrible to me. I could see the beauty of modern architecture and advertising, but I could not see any beauty in the insane and purposeful forcing of monstrous ugliness in modern painting. I hated these things. I was pushed more and more by the administration of the school to bow down to what bred only disgust and disdain within me. It was impossible for me to hide my feelings completely and, although I didn't rebel openly, I was the leader of a small clique of dissidents and lovers of good drawing, design, etc., which was a thorn in the side of the school. They pressed harder and harder for conformity with the 'appreciation' for 'modern art' which was demanded.
Eventually, the conflict affected my work and I sought help. I went to the Brooklyn office of the V.A. and asked to take the aptitude tests, to see if perhaps I would make a better butcher or doctor than an artist. The results, they told me, showed that I had the best possible qualifications to be an artist. So I resolved to succeed in spite of my disgust at 'modern' painting, by sheer excellence of effort.
The National Society of Illustrators in New York, which included such greats as Norman Rockwell, At Dorn, Fred Ludekins, Al Parker, et al., had offered a national prize of $1000 for the best commercial illustration of 1948. I entered a full-page scratchboard drawing illustrating an ad for the American Cancer Society in the New York Times. I paid no attention to the wild notions of 'modern' art, but made my work the ultimate of dramatic effect on the basic human emotions.
The entries were anonymous, so the judges did not know they were picking my work when they awarded my scratchboard job the first prize at Pratt. But when they found out the winner was the old-fashioned 'ugly-duckling', they did a lot of 'explaining' as to how I had actually used all the stuff they had been pushing at me – the stuff I consciously and purposely excluded from my mind. Then the art from all over the U.S.A. went to New York, with the young reactionary' – me – representing ultra-modern Pratt!
Once again, plain old-fashioned principle and craftsmanship won out over the wildest and most novel 'modern' geniuses, I took first prize in the nation, and had a ball explaining to the newspapers that I did it, not because of the 'modern' stuff being shoved at Pratt, but in spite of it. Dean James Boudreaux, head of the school, called me in and asked me not to comment – it was getting too hard for him to explain. I received my $1000 check at a big reception attended by the New York greats of illustration and art, and this success enabled me to promote baby number two with my wife.
She agreed to give me another little Rockwell, in addition to my $1000, as prize. Our marriage was still nothing remarkable but it was a marriage, an seemed to be settling down to an institution. The first baby, Bonnie, had helped. We both loved her to pieces and I felt sure another – especially if it were a son would be the kind of cement we needed for a happy family.
My second year at Pratt I also learned about naked women. In the second year, figure classes work from the nude model, and during the first year our tongues fairly hung out for this unimaginable and lascivious experience. Lovely naked models parading in front of us to be looked at! What a prospect! Even though the ancient models are something less than 'lovely', it is still a bit of thrill the first time you sit with a group of clothed people and a lady steps forth on the stage in the altogether. But after two hours of it, the thrill is over – forever!
You learn that it is the human imagination, not reality, that makes nudity seem so unimaginably thrilling, and when you settle down to hard work, painting and thinking out your values, colors and planes, the model becomes no more than the pitchers, apples, drapes and bottles we painted the year before. Our grandfathers, as with so many things, had infinitely more sense about sex than we do today. They clothed women so completely and then piled on so much more, that by the time they got to the nakedness, their imaginations had enjoyed what is denied to us, who have no chance any more to imagine anything with bikini-clad females on view. The chance sight of a woman's ankle was a pleasure to them. For us to experience the same clandestine thrill today, it would be necessary for a woman to get arrested for total exposure.
Naked women, as Schopenhauer says, are dumpy-looking, and so far from the sylph-like creatures we imagine, that only the inexperienced could imagine that the constant sight of naked models would be exciting. At the risk of being accused of fruity tendencies, I must insist that, as a work of straight art, the well-muscled male figure is far superior to that of the blubbery-looking female. Only the sex instinct makes the suggestive curves of a female seem more beautiful – because they certainly are more exciting sexually.
I had begun to have considerable success with my commercial art work on a free-lance basis and learned the largely Jewish advertising techniques of the Madison Avenue jungle which are now serving me so well in smashing the Jewish 'silent treatment' or paper curtain.
From my experience of two years in Maine in the art field, I had discovered that there was need for an advertising agency in Maine. All the big companies – in need of agency services were going down to Boston, and at the same time, young Maine men with talent and ability in the advertising field could find no work in Maine and had to go to Boston. It seemed to me ridiculous that Maine customers wanting services and Maine artists, writers, etc., wanting to supply those services should both have to go down to Boston to get together. When I inquired about the possibility of starting such an advertising agency, I was told it had been tried a dozen times by experienced men and that it was impossible. It could not be done.
Since it could not possibly be done, I determined to do it. I could see no more sense in battling 'modern' art bugs at Pratt and had proved, at least to my own satisfaction, that I could learn more by myself in the working world of art than from these beatnik bohemians, so I left Pratt and skipped the last year of the course there. I went back up to Maine and started to work to set up an advertising agency in Portland.
The first step was to survey the existing field and see what material there might be to work with. I called on the Portland offices of the Sullivan Company, a big Boston agency, where I found a charming rake by the name of Al Bonney, a distant relative of the William Bonney who was otherwise known as "Billy the Kid". Al was captivated by the idea of launching our own agency and felt sure he could walk out with a good batch of local accounts. He had a cottage at the beach, where we 'hatched it' and roughed it well into the cold weather as we cooked up the great ideas and plans and worked ourselves into the necessary state of fanatical enthusiasm in order to survive such a wild and 'impossible' assault on the staid and stuffy world of Maine business. It occurred to us that it might be good to have some money as one of the ingredients of the venture, so we schemed to ensnare a young playboy whom Al knew from the local beer joints, and whose father was 'loaded'.
The young gentleman, Norton-Payson, scion of one of THE families of Maine, was invited down to the cottage for beering and talking and persuading sessions. Hours and hours, night after night, we worked to persuade him that an advertising agency was the place for his genius and talents (and money, which we did not mention), but it was slow work, even with gallons of beer. He had a convertible and an easy life; and, with the iron conservatism of his family and Maine in general, he couldn't see much sense in the hair-raising schemes we outlined for getting started on a shoestring – his shoestring. He was a quiet, extremely likeable guy, but stolid as a stone Buddha. It took us weeks to 'catch' him but finally we did it. The only trouble was, as we learned later, he caught us!
The company was formed as "Maine Advertising, Inc." at 53 Exchange Street, Portland, Maine. The capital was supplied by Payson, with equal shares to the three of us – Al and I signing notes to Norton for our shares, which were to be paid back out of profits. Payson's uncle managed the Jock Whitney estate in New York and his father's lawyers very kindly arranged the deal. I was president, Al Bonney was secretary and Norton was treasurer.
Al and I ran around and sold like mad, mostly from the imaginative ads which I sketched up and the customers liked better than those they had. We piled up a good batch of accounts and even sold clients space in Newsweek, an unheard of triumph for a Maine-based agency. But then we ran into serious trouble. The magazines and radio stations would not trust us, although we promised to pay when the clients paid us. Cash on the barrel-head was what they wanted, and cash was what we didn't have. But Norton did.
Within a matter of weeks, Norton's lawyers arranged another deal. Norton became head of the agency, with me the Art Director – on a salary in the back room – and Al out as a salesman! The Jews love to refer to this as one of my 'failures', but it was part of my apprenticeship for the job I now have, and a hard school it was. In so far as I got nothing out of it financially, I was a failure, but I did establish a successful agency in Maine – which "couldn't be done." It is there now, as Simonds Payson Company, the biggest in Maine, with huge clients like Bath Iron Works.
Because of my 'failure', young Maine men who formerly gave their talents and earnings and taxes to Massachusetts now have a wonderful opportunity to help their state grow and to bring up their families in a great state, while the clients themselves are serviced right on the spot by top talent. If this is a 'failure', then I hope the Nazi Party will also be such a 'failure', regardless of whether or not I personally 'get anything out of it.
Payson got into business with another man who was supposed to have a lot of advertising experience: Doug Fosdick of Lewiston. The production department was moved up there, which included me, the Art Director. My wife and Bonnie and I took a little apartment in the French Canadian city of Lewiston and I dug into the day-to-day grind of advertising agency work. Meanwhile, my 'complementary prize' for winning the illustration competition appeared. Little Nancy Rockwell was born in a Lewiston hospital and once again, we went through the routine of fighting off the breast-binders and pill-pushers.
I got my first introduction about this time to 'office politics'. Payson and Fosdick were frequently at loggerheads, and these two titans of finance often had us peasants upset over the insecurity of what was next. Such conditions inevitably produced intrigue and conniving among the growing staff – and how I hated it! I longed to devote myself to the creation and production of advertisements, and was doing pretty well at it, when the blow up came. Fosdick split off. We were all moved back to Portland.
The atmosphere in the office was now very different for me. Payson had become an important executive and businessman. He was unhappy with me too close, to remind him how he got started. I didn't mention this, of course, but it was inevitable that he would feel it himself. Al Bonney was eased out, and I could see that it was only a question of time before I, too, would find it simply too difficult to remain. My request for a raise from $75, as the company got more prosperous, was denied by Norton.
I resolved once more to launch a personal assault on the business world, this time for the benefit of my family and myself. Millions of tourists come annually to Maine, but there was no overall and reliable guide for these people as to what was going on, where, when, etc. I designed The Olde Maine Guide to fill this need and started working to get it out for the summer. In the meantime, to feed the family, I started a little radio guide, What Next?, which divided programs by type, a new idea at that time.
I sold my little ads successfully and got What Next? going very well, with people actually subscribing for money, a reaction I had not expected. Then I got the ads sold for the Guide and managed to get it published all through the summer, even winning the endorsement of the Maine State Junior Chamber of Commerce. But the financial struggle to stay alive was deadly, and my family lived in a little cottage at Falmouth Foreside in the most heartbreaking poverty and misery.
It was in that little cottage that I first heard the voice and the words which eventually led to my present political career. One night I heard a man on the radio saying that there were Communists in the American State Department and all over our government; that there was great danger of subversion from the Communist Conspiracy right here in America! He said we had to learn about it and fight it!
I listened enthralled. I couldn't believe that there was such a man left in our government. In his voice there was courage and calm force. He did not sound like the pansies with the faint British accents (phony), which I had heard from Washington before. He spoke like a man and a leader!
Who was he? I waited impatiently to hear his name. Then they announced it: Senator Joseph R. McCarthy of Wisconsin! I whooped and hollered for Joe McCarthy! It seemed like a voice from another planet – a wonderful, patriotic, American voice – a voice which almost seemed to come from inside myself.
But, much as I liked what I heard, it was no more than a very exciting passing thought at the time. I was deep in the business of surviving. As usual in my career, I was succeeding at something which needed badly to be done and winning the plaudits of the multitude, but not their dollars. My financial position was almost impossible and my wife was struggling under fearful conditions. Often we would have nothing to eat but a can of beans donated by Russ Edwards, a man who worked for me, but who also owned a small summer hotel nearby.
Nevertheless, the Guide was doing so well that I had been asked by businessmen in Boston to see about putting out a Guide down there. I was in Boston, discussing this possibility, when the news came that the Navy had recalled me to active duty because of the Korean War. I was ordered to San Diego, to report within ten days!
It was a blessing and a curse all at once. It meant the end of the terrible poverty, but it also meant the end of the business for which I had striven so hard and which was on the point of paying me a return. I had been recalled, I believe, mostly because there was a tremendous need in the Korean War for air support of the hard-pressed ground troops. That had been one of my specialties in World War II. The jump from near-starvation to the pay of a flying Lieutenant Commander was a financial relief, if nothing else, so I prepared to report to the Navy for another war.
The horrible living conditions and the poverty of the last few months had almost wrecked what was left of my first marriage. My wife had taken the children to her grandmother's place in Hadlyme, Connecticut, so I went ahead, alone, to San Diego, which I thought was a mistake. So it was that I started off in 1950 with an almost new Nash and drove from Portland, Maine, to San Diego, California. As I did, I left behind forever my place as an ordinary American citizen. I was about to become a convinced Nazi in San Diego and start the career which has led me so far to embattled notoriety all over the earth, and which will one day place me at the head of millions of Americans who now imagine they hate me and all I stand for.
The shock of suddenly becoming an officer and a gentleman again, with cash in my pocket, was considerable. But that was nothing compared to the jolt of finding myself again in a hot little Navy fighter after five years of hardly seeing an airplane. No sooner had I arrived than I was given the hottest thing with a prop – an F8F Bearcat – and told to check out.
Of everything I have ever flown, the F8 is my all-time favorite. It will take off and go straight up like a rocket. It is all engine. In fact, the individual wings are smaller than the engine itself! You sit on the floor of the tiny cockpit, with your legs wrapped around the tiny hydraulic stick and the engine. It has so much power, you have to let it all out once in a while on a flight or the engine fouls up. It is like riding a lightning bolt. When you goose the throttle it goes! The fastest jet in the sky has not the acceleration and drive of that little bumble bee. The jets go a whole lot faster, but they never seem as fast or as hot. The F8 is the 'hot-rod' of the sky, and how I loved it! You can roll it around and around, going almost straight up and tear up the sky like a tiger. It maneuvers so fast and so cute that you can beat anything in the air which tries to stay with you, including jets.
We used these deadly little hornets to train Marine and Navy pilots in the close air support of troops. We had perfected the techniques so well that we could work within fifty or a hundred yards of combat troops. To do it, we instructed our pilots to concentrate on map-reading, terrain identification and efficient communications. Half the time, we taught them in ground school classes at Coronado and the other half over at El Centro, where we rocketed and bombed all day in the desert. My specialty was vision-training and search tactics. The commander of the Pacific Fleet Aircraft wrote me a special commendation for my methods, which helped hundreds of Navy and Marine pilots to chew up the Reds in Korea.
When I had been able to find and furnish a house, my wife, Bonnie and Nancy flew out to join me. Family life was resumed on a relatively happy note. The weather is almost too perfect in San Diego, so that we enjoyed countless picnics, outings and daily barbecues under our own orange tree in the back yard. I also decided to save money by raising our own chickens and purchased a flock of layers and hatched chicks to fry.
But this was also the time that General Douglas MacArthur was being summarily fired by the midget of history, Harry Truman, in the most humiliating manner; while Senator Joe McCarthy was belting away at the coterie of reds, queers and pinkos in Washington who were basically responsible for the general's dismissal. I began to pay attention, in my spare time, to what it was all about. I read McCarthy's speeches and pamphlets and found them factual, not wildly nonsensical as the papers charged. I became aware of a terrific slant in all the papers against Joe McCarthy, although I still couldn't imagine why.
I had known and respected Douglas MacArthur, and we have since corresponded. I thought he would make the greatest president of the United States. When there was a campaign to get him the Republican nomination in 1950, I wanted to do what I could to help. I read a letter in The San Diego Union from a woman who lamented that no one would help her get a MacArthur rally going, so I called the lady, whose name I have forgotten, and offered what help I could give. She was very grateful and invited me to her little cottage where she lived in retirement with her husband. I started to tell her all the things I thought could be done, but she smiled with a patient, sad smile and stopped me.
"No," she said, "you can't get a hall so easily, even if you pay. They won't rent one!"
"What do you mean?" I blurted. "Who won't rent one?"
She looked queerly and quizzically at her husband, clearly asking him with her eyes about something. He just shook his head.
"Who won't rent you a hall?" I repeated, looking from him to her.
She took a deep breath, looking pained, and said, "The Jews."
"The Jews!" I exclaimed. "What have the Jews got to do with it? What do they care whether you get a hall or not?"
"They hate MacArthur!" she said, and started to say something else when I interrupted her.
"Hate him? That's silly! I suppose some of them do, but certainly not all of them, and certainly none of them hate him enough to stop you from hiring a hall for a MacArthur rally!"
She took another deep breath, looking hurt. "It's true," she said. "They all hate him! Look at this, for instance." She handed me a copy of The California Jewish Voice. There it was: "MacArthur Approaches: Hitler Enters the Chancellory!" The paper went on to rave about how General MacArthur was a threat, another potential Hitler! I couldn't believe it.
"That's only one paper!" I countered. "It's probably just an extremist sheet. I'm sure the Jews don't imagine MacArthur is really another Hitler!"
She showed me another Jewish paper. Its tone was more dignified, but same message was there. She showed me still other Jew papers. In most of them were vile pictures of Joe McCarthy, terrible charges against him and MacArthur and unmistakable venom for both these men.
This is the experience which awaits every honest American, but is usually hard to come by, as might be imagined. I had suddenly been exposed to a whole secret world which the average American never even imagines and never sees: the world of the Jews. In the same Jewish Voice I saw the headlines by the editor, Sammy Gach: "Thank God!" – the day the Soviet Union got the A-bomb!
I saw hundreds of similarly treasonable items, but our people are too insulated and easy-going to look into this Jewish press. Sooner or later, no matter how long the average American is kept in the dark or keeps himself in the dark by imagining that discovering treason against his country and people is 'bigotry', he will find the naked evidence of this unified, alien, fanatical Jewish world in the midst of his own people – implacable, hateful, spiteful, bitter and diabolically clever at appearing to be only a persecuted religious group.
The whole thing, however, still didn't register with me. It was too fantastic. I felt sure there was some misrepresentation, somehow. But the lady gave me some books and papers to take home to study and I left.
When I got home, I looked at the first paper. It was called Common Sense and the headline was "Red Dictatorship by 1954!" I figured right away that I had found the source of this monstrous 'Jewish scare' which the lady had told me about. The story was all about a Jewish world plot and I couldn't finish reading it. It seemed too silly and disgusting for an intelligent man to waste his time on. But in the few lines I did read, Common Sense gave what it claimed were startling "facts" about the jewishness of Communism and the 'Russian' Revolution. It listed as the sources of some of these unbelievable facts, The Universal Jewish Encyclopedia and various official U.S. Government documents.
This seemed like an excellent opportunity to spike such a fantastic idea as that of Communism being Jewish and I decided to check out these supposed "facts". I went over to the San Diego Public Library in Balboa Park and dug around in the volumes mentioned in Common Sense. Down there in the dark stacks of the library, I got my awakening from thirty years of stupid political sleep, the same deadly sleep now closing the eyes of our people and making them cooperate with their enemies in their own destruction – all in the name of 'good citizenship', 'brotherhood' and all the rest of the shibboleths of 'nice' people – the same hypnotic sleep which we are breaking up with our calculated and dramatic Nazi tactics!
I found that Communism was not only Jewish, but the Jews boasted about its Jewishness in their own books and papers! Rabbi Stephen Wise, for instance, the acknowledged leader of American Jewry for many years, openly and arrogantly laid claim to the Jewish nature of the Communist doctrines with his oft-repeated statement in regard to the Jewish religion: "Some call it Communism; I call it Judaism!"
I found, in unimpeachable documents and intelligence studies by our own U.S. Government that the Russian Revolution was not 'Russian' at all, but almost wholly led by Jews! In the Overman Report to President Wilson, for instance, it said: "...out of 388 members of the first Soviet Government, sitting in the Old Smolny Institute in Petrograd, 371 were Jews and 267 of these Jews were from the Lower East Side of New York City"! Not even Russian Jews, but New York Jews!
I learned, from the article called "Khazars" in The Universal Jewish Encyclopedia, published by Jews, that most Jews are not even Semites or descendants of the Hebrew people of Palestine, and thus of Christ's people, but mostly the descendants of a semi-oriental tribe in central Russia called "Khazars" or "Chazars", whose king, Bulaban, in the sixth century after Christ, ordered his people en masse to become "Jews". I discovered that these 'Jews', called 'Ashkenazim' in the 'trade', as distinguished from the real, Semitic Jews, called 'Sephardim', constitute the bulk and the leadership of the people we call "Jews". It is swarms of these 'Khazars', with their oriental heritage, who are pushing us around, forcing integration on us, degrading our culture with their filthy 'art' of chaos and pornography and, worst of all, spreading the disease of Communism – all the while hiding in the robes of the Jewish 'religion'.
I went on to find, in old copies of The New York journal American, that Jacob Schiff, then head of the gigantic financial empire called "Kuhn, Loeb & Company" and grandfather of the woman who now owns the super-left-wing New York Post, "...sank over twenty million dollars in the Russian Revolution", financing another Jew, Bronstein, alias Trotsky, in the murder of the masses of Christian and anti-Communist White Russians!
Most surprising and revealing of all was the often invisible connection between a seemingly pure Gentile Communist and the inevitable Jew, lurking just behind. Lenin, not a Jew, was married to Krupskaya, a Jewess. Stalin, also not a Jew, was married to the sister of Lazar Kaganovitch – Rose, a Jewess. Stalin's son married another Jewess and it turns out that Khruschev was the protege of this same Jew, and married another Jewess in the Kaganovitch family!
The pattern was the same in the United States: Alger Hiss, a non-Jew, was the protege of Felix Frankfurter, a Jew, of course. Elizabeth Bentley was the mistress of Jacob Golos, supposed to be a 'Russian', but actually another Jew. Fredrick Vanderbilt Field, the Gentile millionaire Communist, again, was married to a Jewess. Whittaker Chambers, another Gentile Communist (who recanted), married to still another Jewess!
In the satellite countries, it was the same. More Jews! Even that sacred 'friend of America', Tito, is the protege of Moise Pijade, another Khazar Jew, who does the 'suggesting' for the strutting Mr. Tito.
In the U.S.A., the F.B.I. was catching hordes of Jew spies: Rosenberg, Greenglas, Soble, Coplin, Moskowitz, Weinbaum, Fuchs, Golos – the names – alone were unmistakable, although some were changed, as in the case of John Gates, editor of The Daily Worker, whose real name turned out to be Israel Regenstreif! But the pictures of these camel-like faces were more than enough to identify these Jew spies!
Out of forty-one workers with Communist records at our secret radar laboratories in Fort Monmouth, thirty-nine turned out to be Jews! Out of fifteen Americans convicted of espionage for the Soviet Union since 1946, thirteen were Jews. Out of twenty-one convicted of Communist conspiracy to destroy the U.S. Government by illegal force and violence, eighteen were Jews. When the F.B.I. nabbed the "Second-string Politburo" of seventeen, fourteen of the traitors were identified as Jews! Out of the "Hollywood Ten" who took the Fifth Amendment when asked if they were Communists, nine were Jews!
I looked into The Daily Worker and found the atmosphere to be strictly 'kosher'. There were touching "In Memory of" ads to "Our dear Mother" from Bernie, Abie, Izzy and Nathan Ginzberg; notices of picnics at "Weinbaum's lovely Grove", etc.
In Russia, where I had understood anti-Semitism was running rampant, I found the Jews boasting that the head of Soviet propaganda was a Jew: Ilya Ehrenburg! With all the Jews being caught red-handed as Red spies, is it surprising that the Jew, Ehrenburg, head of Soviet propaganda, wishes to spread the idea that the Communists are "anti-Jewish"?
Even in Japan and China, I found the early planters of the Communist seeds were Jewish. In Japan there was an Anna Rosenberg, and guess who turned up in China as advisor to Sun Yat Sen? Good old George Sokolsky, our 'conservative' columnist!
To an intelligent man, the facts were undeniable. They might be explainable, but they were simply undeniable. Communism was Jewish! And the Jews in the United States were almost unanimous in their venomous hatred and suppression of anybody who so much as asked about this fact. Even noticing the number of Jewish Communists and race-mixers brought the unfortunate victim an hysterical campaign against him as a "hate-monger"! The same people who screamed the loudest for 'academic freedom' to preach Communism were the ones who were most merciless in their campaign of suppression against anyone wishing to discuss the Jews in anything but the most fulsome and disgusting praise. The Jews were unanimous in hating McCarthy and MacArthur, with one or two negligible exceptions – which I later found were planned so there would be exceptions, such as Joe McCarthy's "Rabbi" Shultz.
I found this exciting, interesting and frightening, but also very depressing. Far down in my soul I could feet the cold dread of our fate, if what seemed to be going on was going, on I, too, had been brought up never to say the word "Jew" right out, but always "Jewish person" or "person of the Jewish faith", because of what the Bible calls "fear of the Jews." I could imagine the result of my own temperament and my reaction to a challenge if I were to find out that there really was a Jewish plot against my country and my people!
I went back to the papers and books the lady had given me and read them carefully. The tone of the articles, in most cases, repelled me. They were loose in their charges, poorly gotten up, and full of rabid sensationalism, but they kept revealing new pearls of fact, which I found checked out. And when I put all the facts together as best I could, there was no question about it: There was a Jewish plot of some kind or another and it definitely involved Communism and moral subversion.
I went back to the lady and we talked some more, with me doing the listening this time. She was mixed up and confused in many ways, but she knew there were dark forces at work to destroy her country and our White people, and she had the fundamental ideas right. She asked me if I wanted to go hear a man named Gerald L.K. Smith. I remembered the name vaguely, as some kind of horrible radical or other. But she said he was a great American patriot and a great speaker, and gave me a ticket to a speech he was making in Los Angeles.
I was afraid to go, since I was in the Navy, and the whole thing seemed so wild and radical and dangerous. I went to the F.B.I. office and asked to see an agent. I was ushered into a private little chamber and seated opposite a handsome, Nordic-looking man. I told him about Smith and asked if it would be all right to go to his lecture.
"Yes, if you don't participate," he said.
So I went to the speech, and what a thing that was! Few Americans today have ever heard an orator. They have heard talks, speeches, even ravings, perhaps, but it is doubtful they have ever heard an old-fashioned, roof-lifting, earth-shaking, soul-shattering oration. Gerald Smith is the master to end all masters of the human voice. Whatever else he may be, he can seize you by the lapels of your soul, jerk you out of your seat and hold you helpless and spellbound as long as he wants. He does not just roar and bellow. He whispers, he sighs, he wheezes, he coos; then he blasts with the power of a locomotive roaring through a tunnel. He laughs, he cries, he howls, he cajoles, he mimics, he screams, he begs, he goes back to whispering, sneers, leers, yells, bursts into hysterical laughter, then whimpers some heart-rending bit which leaves you limp.
I sat in the balcony, literally on the edge of my seat. If Smith had said suddenly, "Jump!" – I think I would have done it.
I have not heard him for almost ten years, now and he is perhaps losing his steam. He will have nothing to do with me any more and hides under an assumed name in the Congressional Hotel when he comes to Washington, D.C. But he is still the grandest master of the spoken word alive today, and I would walk twenty miles to hear him again.
But it was not just the way he spoke which captivated me – it was what he said. When you peeled away all the emotional overtones of his speech, and got down to the raw meat, you found the basic elements of recognizable truth, beautifully put together to show, at last, the clear pattern of what it is the Jews are trying to do with their conspiracy.
He had books for sale, among them The Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion. These I studied carefully. The Jews howl bitterly that they are a forgery, but this is as irrelevant as claiming that a man did not commit a murder with one particular knife, but another knife altogether. It matters not which knife was used. The fact is that somebody did a murder. The Protocols, first put in the British Museum at the turn of the century, long before World War I or II, set forth with horrible clarity exactly what some group would bring about in the way of world wars, inflations, depressions and moral subversions; how they would do it and to whom they would do it.
Sixty years later, not one word has failed of fulfillment exactly as set forth in The Protocols. if they are "forged", then it was done by a genius who knew exactly what the Jews of the world would do for sixty years, with not partial, but perfect accuracy. The Protocols alone, of all knowledge on this earth, give one the power to predict successfully historical events, as I have been able to do since studying them. A theory which enables scientific, calculated prediction is not the mark of a fraud, but always the mark of a realistic theory.
Henry Ford Sr. said of The Protocols, thirty years ago, that they were being ruthlessly fulfilled, which was enough proof for him of their genuineness. Adolf Hitler ten years later said the same thing. Any man who takes the trouble to read these astounding documents will find the same thing. If they were not written by a Jew, they were written with devilish accuracy about the Jews. They enabled humanity, for the first time, to understand what before seemed impossible chaos. All the chaos, the mad 'art', the Communism, the moral filth, the control of the press and entertainment, the development of world wars, the insane setting of labor against capital and vice versa – all these things become calculated elements of a steadily-progressing plan by a nation or race, masquerading throughout the world as a 'religion' in order to accomplish this awful work of destruction under the cover of 'religious tolerance'.
When history is examined, we find this nation steadily and surely progressing toward its goal as "God's Chosen People", who are destined to quietly conquer and subdue the world under the bloody, old-testament despotism of the "King of Zion".
As I researched into the subject of Zionism, I found the Jews not even bothering to cover up this aim of world domination. With the most monumental disdain for the boobs they call goyim (non-Jews), they openly declare that they spurned offers of much better national "homes" for the Jews than Palestine; places where it would not have been necessary to exile and make homeless a million helpless Arabs, but the Jews arrogantly demand Palestine "because it is the center of the world"! Not because it is a biblical promise, but because it is the cross-roads of all the earth between three continents, and their chosen seat of eventual world power.
I am aware as I write this of the outrage upon reason of such statements. I myself suffered this outrage when I first considered or heard of the ideas. But I can assure the reader that I would not lightly set these things forth in such a permanent thing as a book, which will be around a long time to haunt me if I am frivolous or in error. For ten years, now, since I read The Protocols, I have observed the world not going of its own accord, but being steadily and inexorably pushed down the exact paths set forth in these supposed "forgeries" written more than half a century ago. With the election of Kennedy now almost sure, as I write this, The Protocols are rapidly approaching total and final fulfillment.
Wide awake now, after reading and studying all I could, I began to think realistically for the first time in my life, instead of according to the slogans to which I had been trained since babyhood; slogans I had never even thought to question, such as "you mustn't judge people by groups, but only as individuals."
When you come to think of it, the latter is madness! We sank German, Jap and Italian subs during the war without asking which ones of the crew were Nazis, Militarists or Fascists. We sank them all. I hated Roosevelt, but the Japs and Germans were not too careful about shooting at me, along with the New Dealers who were so anxious to get into the war.
When you see a nun, you do not inquire as to the health of her kids, nor do you invite 86-year-old men on a parachute jumping party, even though a few of such age, like Bernard MacFadden, may sometimes do such things. You might fairly expect a Chinaman in a small town to be in the laundry or restaurant business, and a Sicilian member of the Mafia to be mixed up in some kind of crime. Nor is it sensible to insist that skirts are not an indication of females, just because Scotsmen are found in skirts, too, although they are called "kilts". Nobody would be considered mad for presuming a member of the Ku Klux Klan to be a racist, nor a member of the Americans for Democratic Action to hate the Klan. By the same token, simply because we base our views on the weight of previous evidence, we are not crazy or 'hate-mongers' when we presume that any given, unknown Jew is a Zionist or a Communist. The probability that he is one of the two and at least sympathetic to Communism is overwhelming.
About the only way we can and do judge people, until we get to know them extremely well, is by the group to which they belong. If that group has proved over a long period of time, by its actions, that it is hostile to us, it is not 'hate' or 'bigotry' to consider unknown members of that group also hostile, unless and until we learn differently about the particular member who is an exception to the rule.
The Jews have calculatingly deprecated this utterly necessary rule of daily living and cultivated the opposite, insane idea that we must presume every individual to be a 'blank', no matter what the evidence of his being a cannibal or a Sicilian or an Irishman or a Swede, all in order to keep people from noticing that a devilish lot of Jews are Communists and therefore traitors!
Once one has realized that the Jews are not 'just a religious group' and a pitiful, persecuted one at that – but a racial and nationalistic group in our midst – then one can see the obvious fact that most of the individual members of this group can be expected to be certain things, namely, Communists, Zionists and race-mixers. This does not mean, of course, that all of the group must be a certain thing, any more than all Germans are Nazis and all Italians are Catholics.
The Jew-Communist-Zionist-traitor situation is much like that of the Mafia. Everybody knows that the Mafia is mostly Italians and mostly gangsters, but that does not mean that all Italians are gangsters or all gangsters are Italian. On the other hand, the principle the Jews want to suppress is that a member of the Mafia is probably an Italian and probably a gangster. Only madmen would put a member of the group called "Mafia" in charge of their police department. Yet, this is exactly what the United States has 'strangely' done with its deadly atomic and hydrogen bomb. From Lillienthal to Strauss, we have put almost nobody else but Jews in charge of atomic weapons and programs, although Jews have constituted over 80% of our atomic spies and Communists! Lillienthal, Oppenheimer, Teller, Strauss, Rickover, LeMay, Isadore Rabi, etc. – always more of the same deadly pattern. We are not to judge Jews as a group, although their group is somehow always in control of the key spots!
As Winston Churchill pointed out, the driving power and leadership of the Marxist forces is Jewish, and most Jews are at least sympathetic to Communism in one form or another, and they cover-up for Communists by screaming "hate-monger" at real anti-Communists. But by no means are all Jews Communists, nor are all Communists Jews. The scientific truth is simply that, on the basis of undeniable statistics, an unknown Jew is probably, but not certainly, pro-Marxist, whether he be a Communist, Trotskyite or just a race-mixing liberal.
As I studied and thought my way further into the chaos of our national madness, I began to wonder why we had gone to war on the side of the Bolsheviks who had openly bragged for a hundred years of their plans to destroy us by force and violence, lies and subversion; while we completely wrecked Christian Germany, which never had a single highly-placed spy in our country and no practical chance of conquering the world, as I had believed they were trying to do. I wondered about Adolf Hitler and the Nazis. I had learned he was right about the Jews. It might be worth reading his book to see if he had anything else right, too.
I hunted around the San Diego book shops and finally found a copy of Mein Kampf, hidden away in the rear. I bought it, took it home and sat down to read. And that was the end of Lincoln Rockwell as the 'nice guy', the dumb 'Goy' and the beginning of an entirely different person.
Mein Kampf was like finding part of me. Chaos and disorder and mental 'grayness' are immensely frustrating to me and I had suffered for years trying to fathom the bottomless philosophical, social and political mess in the world and the even messier explanations offered by religions and sociology. Over and over I had said to myself, "There must be some sense, some logical causal relationship between social and political facts as to how they got that way!" But no person, no book, nor my own mind had been able to discover head or tail to these things. I simply suffered from the vague, unhappy feeling that things were 'wrong', without knowing exactly how and that there must be a way of diagnosing the 'disease' and its causes, and making intelligent, organized efforts to correct that 'something wrong'.
In Mein Kampf I found abundant 'mental sunshine' which bathed all the gray world suddenly in the clear light of reason and understanding. Word after word, sentence after sentence stabbed into the darkness like lightning bolts of revelation, tearing and ripping away the cobwebs of more than thirty years of darkness; brilliantly illuminating the heretofore obscure reasons for the world's madness.
I was transfixed, hypnotized. I could not lay the book down without agonies of impatience to get back to it. I read it walking to the squadron, I took it into the air and read it, propped up on the chartboard, while I automatically gave the instructions to the other planes circling over the desert. I read it on the Coronado Ferry. I read it into the night and resumed the next morning. When I had finished, I started again and reread every word, underlining and marking especially magnificent passages. I studied it, thought about it and wondered at the utter, indescribable genius of it.
How could the world not only ignore such a book, but damn it and curse it and hate it, and pretend that it was a plan for 'conquering' the world, when it was the most obvious and rational plan for saving the world which has ever been written? Had nobody read it, I wondered, that people went around saying it was the work of a mad "rug-chewer"? How could sensible people get away with such monstrous intellectual fraud? Why was it so hated and cursed? I could see why the Jews would hate and curse it, but why my own people?
I reread and studied it some more. Slowly, bit by bit, I began to understand. I realized that National Socialism, the iconoclastic world-view of Adolf Hitler, was the doctrine of scientific, racial idealism, actually, a new 'religion' for our times. I saw that I was living in the age of a new world-view. Two thousand years ago there had been a similar rise of a new approach or world-view, called a 'religion'; a world-view which shook and changed the world forever.
I realized that this new and wonderful doctrine of scientific truth applied ruthlessly to man himself, as well as to Nature and inanimate matter, and that it was the only thing which could save man from his own degradation in luxury, self-seeking short-sightedness and racial degeneration. The doctrine of Adolf Hitler was the new 'Christianity' of our times, and Adolf Hitler himself was the new 'savior', sent by inscrutable Providence recurrently to rescue a collapsing humanity.
Hitler's and Germany's 'crucifixion' was all according to the inevitable workings of this unknowable Scenarist. Even the eleven hanged disciples in Nurnburg were not without significance! The most hated and dreaded idea two thousand years ago was Christianity, and the most hated and cursed man on earth was Jesus Christ. His followers were bitterly persecuted and murdered by the 'good', 'sensible' people who could see that anybody in his right mind recognized Rome and the Empire as the solid, substantial reality. I realized that today's Marxist-Democratic world is another sprawling 'Roman Empire', and today's Nazis the early 'Christians'. What is going on is far more than a battle for political supremacy in the present social and political situation. it is the utter smashing and destruction of a society which has become so rotten that it will tolerate and even love its own Marxist destroyers, just as it hates, despises and fears the slowly-growing Nazi society which will replace it. Such mighty, awesome thoughts come to a man but once in a lifetime, if ever, and when they do, that man changes for all time.
At once, a great weight lifted off my soul. I knew that I had found my way to the sun at last and the days of mental darkness, searching and endless frustration were over. But at the same time, an immensely heavy burden replaced it, but in a different, even satisfying way. I knew that I had to, I must do what I could, to spread the new and wonderful idea and secure its victory in the collapsing world – no matter what it cost me, or even if I were to become a 'failure' to be 'fed to the lions' in the 'Colosseum'.
I was as sure then as I am now that it will be done. Nothing can stop the victory of what is now a historical necessity, determined by events beyond our control. The Marxists have pretended that they too are historically determined, but they are out of time-phasing. They were fated to rise to the top, and they have. They have had their victory. Now it is all over, no matter how mighty and terrifying their power and their 'Roman Empire' may appear to be.
Today, they are in the Kremlin and the White House, wearing different masks to be sure, but nevertheless grinding the whole world under the brutal heel of the Marxist doctrines of "mass" and "equality" and racial defilement. Their 'Roman Legions', of which I was so long a part, march and destroy everything which dares oppose them. They 'crucify' the whole German Nation and the daring apostles of the Great Man when they speak one word about his genius. But the Marxists themselves have spoken their funeral oration when they said that each thing contains within itself the seeds of its own destruction. They, too, are victims of this perfectly valid law and their destruction is now ready to burst from within themselves in a furious catastrophe. Even their 'legions' are disintegrating under their own Marxist race-mixing doctrines.
WE are the new 'barbarians', forged to iron-hardness in the fires of their hate and persecution. All over the world, we wait to pounce on the arrogant, strutting 'emperors' of Marxism when they have over-extended themselves just a little bit more. They can shore up their confidence with the belief that National Socialism is 'dead', that they are on the march to final 'world revolution' and Jewish mastery of the world under their King of Zion – whether they call him "Commissar", "Secretary General of the U.N." or "Premier of Israel". I know today that there are millions of us, everywhere. Nothing can stop us!
But in 1951, I felt alone with my Book and my inspiration. I did not – even know any 'conservatives', let alone Nazis. And I dared not mention the subject openly to anyone. Even to my wife I did not betray the truth: That I had become an all-out NAZI, worshipful of the greatest mind of two thousand years – ADOLF HITLER!