by George Lincoln Rockwell
I had observed that the wives of servicemen were being shipped all over the world and being constantly moved and transferred into wild and strange surroundings with no advance knowledge of conditions. Their problems were totally different from ordinary housewives, especially as America began, unofficially to police the world. There were magazines for ordinary wives and mothers, but none for the millions of service wives. Here appeared to be a market unserviced – the ideal opportunity for a free-enterprising businessman in any field.
But in addition to the business possibilities, I realized that such a magazine could have a powerful political effect. I had carefully observed the technique of sly propaganda – always in the form of entertainment and information – in all the Jew-dominated papers, magazines, books, etc. and I believed that I could reverse the process with my magazine for servicemen's wives. I would have to be very subtle, of course, but I could, as months went by, begin to drive out the filthy ideas of Marxism, mobocracy and racial defilement and replace them with ideas of republican government and racial self-respect. I envisioned, for instance, the publication of pieces on the style of Mark Anthony's funeral oration, in which I would sicken the ladies with disgusting pictures of Negroes and White girls – perhaps their daughters – dancing and hugging one another, along with an overdone text praising such 'brotherhood', 'tolerance' and so on, coupled with pictures of the inevitable Jews who were usually responsible for such vile mixed affairs. There would be such fulsome 'praise' for 'brotherhood' that the Jewish advertisers I must win to survive could not complain, but the result would be quite the reverse of what the Jews wished to see.
I realized that no ordinary job I could find would produce the income I must have, with my ex-wife threatening dire action if I failed to send the gigantic alimony payments and my present family needing all I could possibly earn. Only through the creation of a job and a business for myself which would pay large sums of money could catastrophe be prevented. Desperate effort was required! To this effect I began surveys and studies concerning such a service wives' magazine, deciding on the name U.S. Lady.
I had some certificates printed up as pledges to buy stock and made up a little art-work 'dummy' of the magazine. With these I went around to servicemen's families, including the officers I knew in Iceland. I got $8000 worth of these certificates signed and began to write to U.S. outfits inquiring about printing and distribution. Once again I received a dose of the tune I have heard so often: "It can't be done!" Publishers, printers, everybody told me I would need millions just to get such a magazine launched. Worse, service sources told me that many others had tried the project, some with the millions, and all had failed. Mrs George Catlett Marshall, for instance, with all her influence and money, had failed to get one going.
We arrived back in the U.S.A., as I had at Brown University, in a hurricane and I received my detachment to inactive duty at Brunswick, Maine. Thora, Ricky, "Granpaw" and I took a little cottage on Bailey's Island, at the height of a roaring gale, and I set about methodically preparing to publish a full-color national magazine. We had exactly $300 to our names.
I presented my idea to the armed forces at a meeting in the Pentagon of the admirals and generals heading public relations for each of the services, and I got a hearty vote of confidence from them. Service morale was sinking fast under the lash of integration and the withdrawal of dignity, respect and privilege, all being dumped upon our fighting men by Anna Rosenberg in the name of 'democracy'. The disaffection of thousands of wives was hurting re-enlistment. U.S. Lady would obviously help to keep the service wives satisfied, and the Defense Department assured me of every cooperation.
A retired general's daughter, Jane Brownlow, wrote me and said she had heard of the project and was very interested in helping. I met Mrs Brownlow at the Icelandic Embassy, where we were living with my wife's uncle, the ambassador, and she became even more enthusiastic. She proceeded to gather information and assistance for us as I finished being mustered out of the Navy in Maine.
After final clearance, I drove down from Maine to Washington, D.C., obviously the only place such a magazine as U.S. Lady should be published. After staying again for a while at the Icelandic Embassy, we rented a lovely old Virginia plantation home sixty miles out in the 'hunt' country south of Warrenton. We got the place for a $100 a month, since it was so very far out. It was really luxurious. There were bathrooms with fireplaces, chaise lounges and oil paintings! But commuting 120 miles a day in my little Plymouth station wagon was extremely difficult. I began to sleep some nights in the tiny office I had rented in the Walker Building, a block away from the White House.
This situation was terribly hard on my wife. She hated being removed from all social life and people and also being deprived of her husband. I was working feverishly, day and night, and hardly saw my family, but there was no choice. I was 'under the gun' economically and it was succeed with U.S. 'Lady or starve and be ruined. Another extremely unhappy element came into the picture: My wife just couldn't believe I was as deeply in love with her as I was, or that I could not resist what she imagined was 'temptation'. For whatever reason, she began to be jealous of Mrs Brownlow with whom I spent so much time in the office.
Eventually I found a little apartment on Connecticut Avenue, right in D.C. and we moved there in the middle of the night and a howling blizzard.
Meanwhile, I had been driving ahead to one goal after another. I called in all the stock promises and got an amazing half of the money paid in. Then I had to go through the Securities and Exchange Commission and discovered what a hateful, arbitrary and tyrannical bureaucracy we have in D.C. Time after time I would go down with my statement for filing under Regulation 'A', only to be thrown out for some newly-invented 'discrepancy'! I hired a CPA to make up the financial statement and even this was thrown out. It was heartbreaking. The Icelandic Ambassador, Thor Thors, watched all this going on and generously offered to do what he could to help, but there was no way to help with these officious bureaucrats. One simply had to bow down and wait until their childish natures were satisfied with the humiliation and exasperation of people who were trying to produce something.
I got advertisements made up, inserted them in a few newspapers and sent out hundreds of thousands of circulars to military wives' clubs all over the world. The planning took months and endless midnight and early morning hours of heartbreaking work, but at last, the results began to come in. Our ads and advance sheets were so effective that we did the impossible: We managed to get thousands of military families all over the world to send us $3.85 for subscriptions to a magazine which was still only an idea! I knew, of course, that subscriptions would not finance such a tremendous undertaking, so I planned to sell stock in the enterprise, which was the reason for my dealings with the S.E.C.
I also knew we had to write a prospectus to sell stock, but I knew little more than this of official stock exchange requirements. So I sent Mrs Brownlow out to pick up some sample prospectuses from other businesses and she came back breathless with excitement. She told me she had run into a man just next door in the Union Trust Building who had wanted to be a publisher and who was now a big financier and stock broker! Thus I invited this 'great man', Landrum S. Allen, together with Mrs Brownlow, out to my place in Virginia to see what we could work out.
We spent a dreadful afternoon and evening. It was impossible to make head or tail out of this man's conversation. The best I could get was that he wanted to publish a magazine to be called On The Avenue in Polish, Swedish, Sanskrit and other languages. When I tried to ask him what his market was – an absolutely vital fact for a publishing venture, obviously – his reply was "for warm-hearted people" and that is all I could find out. He wanted me to do up covers, sample pages, etc., and then move into his offices, so we could publish together. I declined this 'golden opportunity' and endeavored to get him to help sell the stock of U.S. 'Lady, but he was as skittish as a blind mare.
We launched the stock sale ourselves and began to do quite well. The big job, however, was getting a magazine together and getting it printed. By skillful maneuvering and playing 'hard to get', I managed to give an impression of booming success, which in a way was true, and we got the big printers competing against one another for our business. Their salesmen regularly took me to sumptuous luncheons and I began to bargain for the big job of printing. With the blessing of destiny, I am sure, I 'allowed' Ransdell, Inc., to sign a contract for the printing – which, in effect, meant that I had secured $23,000 worth of credit, with no capital at all!
Throughout all this, my wife Thora showed herself nothing less than a heroine. She was pregnant again, but she pitched in with the typing, the filing and making of address stencils at the same time that she was trying to make a home out of our dingy apartment and a living out of the pennies we had left after sending the money up to my first wife. She even got a job taking, a radio survey, door to door. Pushing a baby carriage containing "Grampaw" and leading naughty little Ricky by the hand, she earned a few pitiful pennies by asking the usual listener questions up and down the street. We had no fun, no pleasure, no pause in the desperate scramble to survive and get the magazine on its feet. But Thora had the faith of a saint. Even when I would get discouraged and felt almost sure my gigantic struggle would come to naught, my brave little wife would put her arms around me, look me in the eyes, tell me how she believed in me and trusted me, and I would fairly burst with new drive and determination. She knew the age-old secret of women: how to inspire and fill a man with power he could never have alone, just by laying a gentle, warm hand on his check and letting him feel her faith flowing outward. How I loved her! I can never repay her loyalty and devotion.
I was not able to pay salaries to Mrs Brownlow or the others, but was nevertheless able to gather a staff of almost thirty people, just by enthusiasm and leadership. I was getting the training which is enabling me now to accomplish the far more difficult task of organizing men into the most persecuted organization in the world: My men have to give up everything of fun and profit in life and then pay to stay with me. I learned how to get people to create miracles just because of something they believe in – a far more powerful force than the mere desire for money. But I was having some fearful problems with my females.
It was inevitable that a women's magazine would have a lot of women on the staff, even if it took a man to get it together and ramrod it. The women necessary for such a task had to be creative, and therefore, more than usually temperamental. Furthermore, since I wasn't able to pay them, I had to keep them working and organized by wheedling, cajoling, promising and threatening, by the sheer power of personality and psychology. But such methods cannot keep a business organization going forever without money, cold cash. And cash I was chronically short of, even when thousands of dollars began to come in every week.
The stock was selling quite well and, when I succeeded in coming out with the first issue of U.S. Lady in full color and distributed 150 thousand copies all over the world, we received over 1500 requests to buy shares in the company. Figuring I had it made, I again approached a lot of stockbrokers and tried to get them to take over the stock sales on commission, since I was in the business of publishing a magazine, not selling stock. But none of them would gamble with it, except one: Landrum Allen, the man who had come to dinner out in Virginia. He said he took it only because he was still in love with the idea of being a publisher. He figured he could eventually wangle U.S. Lady away from me, as he later tried hard to do.
So I signed a "best efforts" deal with Allen. He was supposed to sell my stock, while I published the magazine. He was to receive one of every five dollars in shares which we sold – a handsome commission – and I expected that, with all the inquiries we were getting, he would sell out the issue in no time, and that the struggle would be over. But I reckoned without human greed, pettiness and intrigue.
My unpaid and rambunctious women began to buck and kick in the traces, and appeared to resent almost everything I did. Every one of them seemed to feel that she knew better than I how it should have been done, and there were always two or three of them a day weeping and having hysterics in my office. The magazine, however, was coming out regularly, was looking better and better and receiving acclamations from all over the world.
Mr Allen had his plans, and the women had fallen in with them. I discovered that there were regular 'rump' executive meetings of my women and Mr Allen in his financial office, two blocks up the street on Vermont Avenue. Today, I would act like lightning to put a stop to such conspiring, but then I was still too green in business and too distracted by a million other things to take effective action. The atmosphere of 'mutiny' grew like a cancer.
One of the things distracting me was an effort by a gang of reds to gain control of the magazine. I can imagine the scoffing of the 'liberals' at this, but the records of the FBI and Jane Brownlow, who was in on all of it, will bear me out. I was approached by Frank Bryer, from Army Times, who took me to lunch at the George Washington Room, where he told me that "big interests" were considering supporting me and wanted me to put out a companion magazine to U.S. Lady to be called U.S. Officer. He described a magazine like Fortune, a fabulous publication, which he said would cost a dollar. I told him that wouldn't begin to cover the cost of the kind of magazine he described, considering the small readership it would have.
Bryer was drinking martinis one after the other and, as I pressed him to explain how this magazine would be a financial success, he kept saying his "big interests" had plenty of money to cover it. I explained that such a publication would lose millions permanently and asked where in hell they would get money like that. He was obviously flushed with the gin and drew me close. "From the Soviet Union," he said – without kidding me. I pretended to laugh and let the subject drop. I returned to the office and told Mrs Brownlow of my conversation. We figured that he was, perhaps, too drunk to know what he was saying. I But Bryer followed it up. He told me that the "interests" were in Texas and were ready to pay my fare and expenses to go down there and talk over a deal. I wanted nothing to do with it, of course, and told Mrs Brownlow to say nothing to anybody. But she did anyway. Her boyfriend at the time was an Army officer who did some shooting at a range with an FBI friend. She told the officer, who told the FBI friend. So I was visited by FBI agents and told them the story when they asked me to. They suggested I go and see what it was all about and implied that there would be agents around in case it was dangerous, so I agreed to investigate the thing.
There had been a moment at home with my wife, when I saw how she and the kids had to live, that the temptation to take the deal was almost overpowering. I knew by then how the reds operate, and knew that I could assure a happy and successful career for myself the rest of our lives, with luxury and security, just by going along with these people and pretending not to notice what was going on. It is obvious that dozens of other men before me have 'gone along' with this filthy red money-power, but once again, my dear, brave wife agreed with me that we must scorn this nasty deal and fight our way through by ourselves.
I went down to Dallas and met the 'contact'. I 'was taken to a millionaires club and listened to the proposition. They wanted 51 % of the stock – control – in return for fat financing and there was talk of printing the magazine on the presses they owned in Texas. The millionaire was the last person in the world I would expect to have anything to do with Frank Bryer, the man in Washington who broached the deal. He was the soul of conservatism, and seemed to know little of what was going on. We came to no agreement and I flew back to Washington.
Then the FBI double-crossed me – unintentionally, I feel sure now. I had told them that Bryer was with the Army Times, an outfit which could have ruined me in the service publishing business, and I did not want him to know I had given the story to the FBI. But they interrogated him anyway and let him know that they were looking into the "Soviet Union" bit.
Bryer telephoned me in horror when the FBI left him and I had Jane Browntow listen in to witness the incredible call. He said he was 'hot' and would have to clear out of town, and was going to "hide out up in Philly" for a while. I managed to convince him that I couldn't imagine who had 'squealed' and he suggested that I, too, "lie low." Then he blasted the FBI unmercifully, said he gave a speech about FBI tyranny and snooping at his Methodist social action group – and left for Philadelphia.
Those who imagine this is 'propaganda' or lies may reflect that the names are all printed here and any of these individuals can sue, if these statements are not true. If they are true, which they are, 'liberals' might reflect further as to the pinko content of so many of our national magazines and other publications. Perhaps some men prefer millions to patriotism.
Landrum Allen, the stock underwriter, suddenly stopped selling stock one day and announced that he could not, in good conscience, continue selling until I changed my management methods, and so forth. He was backed up in this high-handed maneuver by four of my women who came to be called "the big four" by the rest of the staff, most of whom were fanatically loyal to me.
I was to give up a lot of authority and do this and that, demanded by the ladies. Ordinarily, I would have sent Mr Allen scurrying from the office, but in this case, he had the exclusive contract to sell the stock and he refused to do so. Without stock money coming in, there was no way to catch up on the expenses incurred from launching the business, and he knew we would collapse. This was exactly what Mr Allen counted on. He and the women began to interfere with my promotional plans for the magazine. Knowing nothing of promotion, at which I was a professional, they forced me to abandon the highly controversial 'advisory board', which I had set up, comprised of the wives of the Secretaries of the Army, Navy, Air Force and Defense Departments, plus the wives of top admirals and generals. More important than this, they wanted me to drop my Federation of Service Wives – a red hot issue, which, had I been able to push it as hard as I had started to do in the first issue, would have made U.S. Lady the center of a political storm and sold it like hotdogs at a football game. But the timid ladies were sure the Defense Department would "close us up" if we went against their policies, so they got Mr Allen again, and I had to back down.
Without cash money, I learned, a man is nearly helpless in the business world, no matter how clever, how dedicated, how right, how hard-working he is or how worthwhile his contribution. Without cash, you are 'forbidden' to contribute to our society, except as a muzzled and chained 'hired hand'. This is one of the things we shall change. Things must be arranged so that free enterprise and investment are respected, of course, but also so that genius and talent are not crushed and enslaved by the brutal, ugly power of money.
As there are government facilities for the encouragement of health and welfare of even the slobs of the world, so must there be some kind of government facilities for the protection, growth and development of human genius. Nothing is more valuable to the world than the contributions of its geniuses, yet our Stephen Fosters, our Robert Fultons and other great creators must fight the whole brutal and ugly world of money in order to force their gifts on a blind and greedy world, And often, even after they have been successful in contributing more value to the world than any millionaire since the beginning of time, they are allowed to die in misery and poverty! Why must a man be first an expert at the Jewish money game before he is allowed to survive and paint or write or think or build or organize or reform? Even if only one out of a thousand brilliant minds produced anything great for society, it would be well worth the little it would cost society to establish creative institutes where the finest minds in the population, regardless of other considerations, can be fed and clothed and housed, with nothing asked of them in return except the results of their creative effort. Who knows how many symphonies have died in the poorhouse, how many great philosophers or statesmen have perished in our gutters, how many immortal paintings lie buried in our potter's fields?
Allen and the conspiring ladies were able to overwhelm every move I could make, for I simply could not pay my bills every time he stopped selling the stock. Finally, he stopped so long, negotiating and arguing, that the bills got past the point where they could be handled. There were creditors' meetings and talk of bankruptcy, but nobody wanted to see such a good property wrecked. Even Allen didn't want to go that far. He hoped, I am sure, to gain control in the struggle and thus become, at last, a publisher.
But somehow the news got around and, from as far away as New York City I received calls offering to buy the magazine. This is something I don't think Allen counted on, as his attitude showed when I sold out, lock, stock and barrel one afternoon to John B. Adams of Washington, D.C. Allen sulked at Adams and tried to give him a hard time – forcing him to go to court several times – but Adams had the hard cash to kick Mr Allen's nose right out of the business, and that is just what he did.
Adams is now publishing U.S. Lady very successfully in Washington, and Readers' Digest published two pieces from it last year. Once again, I had created what I had set out to create, but lost the fruits of my labors because I lacked capital.
During the last desperate weeks at U.S. Lady, our third child, Jeannie Margaret, was born in the George Washington University Hospital in the District of Columbia, but I had hardly seen the little angel. I spent almost all my time in the office or in a state of collapse at home – exhausted. So, with $4000 in the bank and the nightmarish pressure of the magazine, the women, Allen and the creditors suddenly gone, I relaxed at home with my family for a week or ten days to catch my breath before making another scramble for a living – two livings!
Since I had been unable to keep the vehicle I intended to use for political reform, I decided to go directly into politics, provided I could somehow find a way to earn two livings at the same time.
By this time, I had had plenty of opportunity to look over the activity of the 'right-wing' – the conservatives – and had come to the conclusion, in my total ignorance of the real nature of the case, that all they needed to succeed was an organizational drive to get them 'together', with a businesslike plan. I had found that there were dozens and maybe hundreds of very rich men, like H.L. Hunt of Texas and Robert Welch of Boston, who felt much as I did and who, together, could pool enough money and resources to swamp the Marxist-Zionist Jews and left-wingers. There seemed to be plenty of talent and ability, and an actual majority of our people over on my side of politics, so that common sense seemed to force the conclusion that it was only a lack of determined effort to put this together which permitted the left-wing minority, sparked by the sub-minority of Jews, to keep winning victory after victory and thereby send America down the path to Marxist socialism and racial disintegration.
The 'conservatives', as I saw the problem, lacked any real national and popular medium of expression. With the demise of The Washington Times Herald, there was no longer any nationally read 'conservative' newspaper, and I decided that there was a hungry market for such a journal. I carefully planned a national paper to be called The Conservative Times and still think it would be successful, if the people on the right who are still 'nice', unlike me, would finance it.
I learned from surveys that, in Washington alone, the market for such a paper – where the only voices heard are stridently 'liberal' – was large enough to support it. Many people in the area would pay then and would still pay now a premium price for a real right-wing newspaper, even if advertisers were hard to get. And with a newspaper, it would be easy to organize and even discipline the splintered and squabbling right-wing into a cohesive, effective organization. I realized, even then, that talking and educating are silly and useless unless they are directed at the only worthwhile political goal: POWER! The newspaper must first give our side a voice, then help it organize by effective communication, then discipline it by withholding or granting recognition and praise, as is necessary to produce a sense of responsibility and direction in the movement, as the Jews now do with our entire machinery of communication and entertainment. When any public figure goes the way the Jews wish him to go, he is lavishly praised and built up in the press, and when he displeases them, he is greeted by dead silence, no matter how newsworthy his statement or action, or he is smeared and blasted until he slinks away with his tail between his legs. With a newspaper, we could gradually begin to do the same thing on our side and I set about the task of applying my ability and experience toward the development of such a newspaper, and eventually a strong conservative organization aimed at POLITICAL POWER. The John Birch Society has appeared, since this was written, to do what I planned then.
But I reckoned without any knowledge of the human content of the 'right-wing'. From the millionaires to the scared little people who attend the endless, pitiful 'conservative', '100% American', 'old-fashioned', 'constitutional', 'states' rights' meetings, I learned by bitter experience that the human material of the right-wing consists 90% of cowards, dopes, nuts, one-track minds, blabbermouths, boobs, incurable tightwads and – worst of all – hobbyists, people who have come to enjoy a perverted, masochistic pleasure in telling each other forever how we are all being raped by the "shhh – you know whos," but who, under no condition, would risk their two cars, landscaped homes, or juicy jobs to DO something about it. Knowing nothing of this , however, and being full of my usual enthusiasm and drive, I paid for a series of radio spots before and after Fulton Lewis.' show, announcing a Washington meeting to organize the right-wing.
The response seemed to be gratifying. Hundreds of people called and I arranged with one of them, Sam Jones, the correspondent of Bill Buckley's National Review, to use his lovely old Virginia mansion in McLean for our first meeting.
Of the hundreds who called, only about fifty showed up at the meeting, including John Kasper and an Arab friend. I addressed the meeting in the best 'conservative' style, lecturing 'nicely' on the need 'to get together' more than anything else, during which I received little flurries of polite applause. Ugh! How I shudder now to think of all that feeble, useless, stupid 'niceness' – while Our Race and our whole world are being brutally destroyed!
From time to time somebody in the audience would ask "What about the Jews! " and there would be snickers and shifting around of feet, like grammar school kids when somebody mentions the word "sex". Then I would scold this 'bold' character for such a 'disgusting display of prejudice', making my righteous love of the 'wonderful' Jews very clear, and even sharing knowing winks with some close friends in mutual appreciation of my 'clever' deception.
The Jews would not have disturbed such a meeting for anything in the world. We, like a million other 'conservatives', were indulging ourselves in the illusion of 'fighting' treason, subversion, communism and race-mixing – in other words, the Jews – without DOING anything and without hurting the enemy himself. If we did NOT have such silly little secret meetings, we would eventually build up such a pressure of frustrated patriotism that we just might have done something forceful, and therefore effective.
My wife took up a little collection, we passed out membership cards and then stood around babbling, as is the inevitable custom after such 'battles' with the enemy. Everybody congratulated everybody else at this new and terrible assault on the "Eskimos", as John Kasper called them then, and we went home all aglow with the great 'success'.
I became friendly with this unknown John Kasper and he often stayed at our home in Vienna, Virginia. He ran a tiny right-wing bookstore in Georgetown which was frequented by a Bohemian set of odd-balls, dope-addicts, poets and patriots. We confessed to one another our dedication to Adolf Hitler, whom he called "The Saint" – but he had an even greater love: Ezra Pound, the famous poet and broadcaster for Mussolini who was locked up as a nut in Saint Elizabeth's. John Kasper led a circle of worshipful admirers who sat at the master's feet there in the ward full of raving madmen. I attended one of these sessions with my wife one Sunday, and it was an unbelievable afternoon. There was a barefoot lunatic pacing up and down beside the group seated around Pound, loudly giving hell to an invisible companion. There was another man crouched in eternal terror in a windowsill, and still others giving the most threatening looks. Meanwhile, the group was at the feet of Ezra, who wore shorts, sandals, a loud shirt and a beard. The worshipers included a lady dope-fiend, an artist, a beatnik who said he was a poet, John Kasper's hefty, blonde girlfriend, Nora Devereaux, John Kasper, Pound's almost silent wife, my wife and myself.
John Kasper worked almost entirely at the direction of Pound when I first knew him and, although I don't know it for a fact yet, I feel sure that John's activity in Clinton and elsewhere was largely inspired, if not directed, by Pound. When I once went down to Alabama to see if I could help Admiral Crommelin in a campaign for election as senator, it was John who asked me to come, and it was Pound who was sending almost daily letters of instruction. The letters themselves I thought were nutty, but John treasured them and seemed to obey them to the letter. Fortunately, the Admiral was much too strong-willed and self-willed to be influenced much by either Pound's or John's more ethereal ideas.
I poured out my time and money in an all-out effort to organize the right-wing 'nicely', under the aegis of the American Federation of Conservative Organizations, and published a national conservative paper. We held meetings in the best meeting rooms in the Statler and Mayflower hotels. I had beautiful stationery engraved in gold. I used all my skill in art, writing, organizing, promoting and leading – the same skills which are now serving the American Nazi Party so well – but my best efforts were useless. The basic premise of conservatism was wrong.
Although it is made to appear so, the battle between the 'conservatives' and 'liberals' is not a battle of ideas or even of political organizations. It's is a battle of force, terror and power. The Jews and their accomplices and dupes are not running our country and its people because of the excellence of their ideas or the merit of their work or because they have the genuine backing of the majority. The Zionists are in power in spite of the lack of these things, and only because they have driven their way into power by daring minority tactics. They can stay in power only because people are afraid to oppose them, afraid they will be socially ostracized, afraid they will be smeared in the press, afraid they will lose their jobs, afraid they will not be able to run their businesses, afraid they will lose their political offices. It is fear and fear alone which keeps these filthy left-wing sneaks in power. It is NOT ignorance on the part of the American people, as the 'conservatives' keep assuring each other – "ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free" – when the truth is that any slave knows the truth – that he is a slave – but he is not free in spite of knowing this truth, unless he can somehow obtain the power to force his way to freedom. It is not the truth which will make us free in America, because millions already know the truth and hate bitterly what is going on, but they are afraid even to admit they know the truth. Ten million signed the petition for Joe McCarthy and they are not all dead, although they might as well be, as long as the right-wing spends all its time and money trying to 'win' another ten million instead of getting the ten million we already have to stand up! We have plenty of people, money and facilities to take America back from the traitors tomorrow morning if all the people who already know what is going on were not afraid anymore and would stand up!
As long as the right-wing confines its fighting to being 'nice', the great masses of the public will bow down like the sheep they are to the left-wing which is NOT nice – which uses smear, economic persecution, legal harassment and finally, physical terror to maintain its domination of our national life and culture by force. The force is disguised, of course, in checkbooks, judges' robes, rigged party conventions, etc., but it is still force or the threat of it which has America down and afraid. No amount of papers and pamphlets, were they all masterpieces of propaganda, and no amount of talk and meetings can stop this growing left-wing force and power, and the fear it inspires – much less drive it back and destroy it.
But in 1955, I still imagined we could 'sneak up' on the Jews, like the my sissy friends. We would build a great 'grass-roots' membership by not mentioning the Jews at all, or even praising them. Then, while they suspected nothing, we could become stronger and stronger and finally, one fine day, we would wipe the smiles off our faces, spin around on the surprised Hebrews and let them see just what we had in mind!
I found this coward's dream being promoted everywhere I went. Every 'conservative' I met would draw me aside and groan about the latest outrages and treason of the "you-know-whos" and describe to me the latest plans to sneak up on the tormentors. I was as much beguiled by this childish illusion as anybody else. l spent hundreds of hours discussing the methods for this super-sneaky revolution and the only thing I gained from it all was the final discovery that it was and always has been impossible to unseat the terrorists by talk. One must dislodge such evil usurpers by the same weapon which got them in: POWER! Theirs was and is secret and disguised. Ours, by nature, must be open, legal and honest, but it must still be power, not talk or pamphlets or sneaky dreams. Thus it involves risk.
I also grew to know the people my wife and I came to call the "die-hards", for some obscure reason I can't recall. These were the perennial 'patriots', the eternal attendees of meetings, the inexhaustible babblers, the super-clever know-it-alls who are going to 'throw the election into the house this time' and the disgusting hobbyists who discharged their pent-up 'patriotism' once a week or so in the masochistic orgasm, they seemed to obtain by flagellating themselves with the latest outrages of the Jews. These people seemed to have been 'fighting' the Jews all their lives, decade after decade. Their standard reaction to anything they didn't think up themselves in the way of new schemes for sneaking up on the Jews was, "I was fighting this thing before you were born, son." This was supposed to send the upstart packing, as if people who had spent forty or fifty years fighting so unsuccessfully had any business opening their mouths at all. These "die-hards" would insist on bending one's ear endlessly and at all hours of day or night. Any attempt to escape from them was taken as a personal insult. My wife and I grew to dread the sessions with the "die-hards", who were not interested in doing anything except talk and were World Champions at the pastime.
Our meetings were better and better attended, but there was no result at all. Nothing was accomplished. As the months wore on and we began to see our small savings diminish with no signs of any real progress, I began to come down with a case of 'desperationitis' so common to the right-wing. I had begun to meet a large, unorganized, but regular circle of 'patriots' which exists everywhere, with whom, I discussed all kinds of tricks for 'spilling the beans' about the Jews, all at once. There were endless plans for dropping 'the whole story' out of airplanes on top of the public, while the helpless Jews watched in impotent rage as the millions of leaflets fluttered down, out of the sky. There was talk of a plan to raid a TV station of one of the major networks and hold the personnel at gunpoint, while one of us – nobody cared to discuss who, exactly – would present to the breathless millions the documents and facts on the jewishness of Communism, which we have in such abundance, but which mean so little as long as we reach only one another. There was even a scheme for sending aloft huge signs on balloons, tied to inaccessible places, which would 'squeal' on the Jews from the sky, while they scrambled madly to get them down. These wild ideas are actually being discussed, right now, as you read this, by otherwise intelligent people somewhere, people who are simply too overwhelmed by their own timidity and ignorance to understand that even if they played these nasty tricks on the Jews, there would be no result at all.
Just two weeks ago, as I write this, the Jews used two or three minutes of one of my speeches to introduce a long program on behalf of race-mixing on a national TV network show. Mine was the only voice for the White man in that dreary hour of Jewish race-mixing propaganda. The Hebrew media-masters even used the section of one speech in which I explained that the Jew Communists were organizing the colored races of the world in a mass assault on the White Man. The Jews imagine, in their own ignorance, that my speech, delivered to a howling mob in Washington in all its naked passion and ferocity, will repel people – which is just as wrong as the "die-hards" with their silly idea that 'spilling the beans' will somehow 'wake up the people' and attract their support. Neither is the case. People are more inert than it is possible to believe, even after you discover their inherent inertia. it takes an incredible quantity of propaganda, repeated over and over and over to move them even a little bit. This is one of the reasons Joe McCarthy told me that he wouldn't even attempt to tell the whole truth. "They'd simply put me away as a lunatic," he said, "and the public would forget what it was all about." And he was probably right.
The idea that there is anything easy that can be done which will send the Jew traitors scurrying for Israel like rats, while we walk triumphantly into the White House, is one of the worst self-delusions which has been keeping the right-wing babbling and conspiring while the Jews have been laughing at us and trampling all over our Constitution, our rights, our traditions, our dignity and our White Race.
Anybody, when he first discovers what is going on, might be forgiven a certain period of nourishing this delusion and hope, but when he sees the Jews starving the families of his fellow hopers who lose their jobs, who get railroaded into jail, shipped to 'mental health centers' and are smeared and blasted for just the slightest attempt to stand up to Jewish power, he ought to get the idea in no more than a few years. Any man who spends thirty or forty years pretending to imagine there is such an easy way, while our country and our White Race go down and down is not a dreamer, nor is he ignorant. He is a coward!
'Conservatives' are the world's champion ostriches, muttering to one another down under the sand in 'secret', while their plumed bottoms wave in the breezes for the Jews to kick at their leisure. They are fooling nobody but themselves.
One of the conservative leaders I contacted was William F. Buckley, Jr, the publisher of National Review. My friend in Washington, D.C., Sam Jones, was his correspondent and we got together at a meeting in New York. It was an, intellectual thrill, just talking with Buckley and his staff. There is more pulsating brain-power and genius surrounding Buckley than in any place else on earth, where I have ever been. Bill, himself, is personable in the extreme and brighter than all the rest, but his staff includes three or four Jews, one of them particularly Jewish-looking, and the atmosphere there is different than with other 'conservative' groups.
Buckley is extremely cagey on the Jewish Question and even when you get him alone, it is difficult to elicit information as to his awareness. The best you can get are guarded implications from which you are at liberty to infer what you want. I have since learned the reason for this: Buckley's millionaire father had a major interest with the Jews in Israeli oil, and the result, even today, is that Buckley's anti-liberalism and anti-Communism stop at the borders of Israel and the doors of Zionist meeting halls.
At the time I, too, was playing this silly 'I've-got-my-eyes-closed' game, so I felt that much could be accomplished by helping Buckley. I agreed to promote the National Review for him and he deposited a thousand dollars in a Washington bank to my account. So I started on a project designed to get mass circulation for National Review in colleges and universities.
At the time, however, I was heavily involved in my own effort to launch the A.F.C.O. and the newspaper, and I am ashamed to have to admit that I did a rotten job for Bill. I made some efforts, but they were without the drive and full enthusiasm necessary in such a promotion and nothing happened. I returned the money to Bill, less expenses, with a guilty conscience. Outside of being too cagey on the Jewish Question, which is, of course, his privilege, Bill Buckley was 100% square as a man and unlike the situation with other right-wingers with whom I have worked or tried to work, my failure to accomplish anything with Buckley was entirely my fault.
During this time, my wonderful wife and I were enjoying our marriage as I am sure few couples do the institution of matrimony. She pitched in loyally on everything, helped me with meetings, collected donations, even gave little talks. I forgot to get Christmas presents for her, forgot birthdays, gave her political lectures, hardly ever took her out in the gay society she loved, cut her off from 'nice' people who would have nothing to do with us now that I was a professional 'McCarthyite', and I generally gave her damned little in return for the steady devotion and warm love she showered upon me. Often, even as far back as this period of my political career, I would tell her that I knew some day that I would have to go to jail, in all probability, not for doing wrong, but for standing against Jewish treason. She never flinched and I never doubted for a moment that she would wait faithfully for any number of years. The only time she would cringe and be silent for a moment was when she would ask if she and the kids were the most important thing in my life. I would tell her they were loved the most, but I felt I had a more important duty to do what I could to save my country and my Race. I told her many times that this duty would have to come first, as I had told her before we were married. Women may judge the quality of wifely devotion which could stand steadfast in the face of such a declaration from a husband.
On the other hand, let no one imagine that it was easy to say this to a person I adored as much as my wife. It was tempting to lie or cover up the burning drive within me which I knew could not be deterred by any other desire or need or loyalty I might have. It took all the courage I could muster to hold such a dear, warm person in my arms, look into her deep, loving eyes and answer that silent devotion by telling her I might some day have to do what I felt called on by duty to do, even at the risk of hurting her.
I continued to widen the circle of my right-wing acquaintances all over the country. I was serving my unavoidable apprenticeship for what I am now doing, although I didn't know it then, of course. I 'still cherished the hope that we could save ourselves by some easy means, even though I am sure I knew deep in my subconsciousness that I would someday lead the fight to do it the only way it can be done, as, I am doing now.
As I reached the bottom of the bank account, with no prospect of any real success, I made one last, desperate attempt. I planned a new "Declaration of Independence" for the Fourth of July and invited congressmen, generals, admirals, important and influential friends and rich-men to a big meeting in the Mayflower to set it up. Congressman Ralph Gwinn of New York was helpful, and I also had the help of Dom, of South Carolina, Wint Smith of Kansas and several others. Fred Maloof, a Lebanese millionaire, came and almost ruined the entire meeting. With all the congressmen, generals and other important people squirming in their seats,he 'came right out with it' and gave a violently anti-Jewish tirade! But I managed to quiet him and get out my presentation and my carefully worked out plans. Then I sat back and hoped these great personages would see the sense of 'getting together' and help to do the job with a will.
The result was absolutely nil – nothing. There were a good many compliments and pleasant remarks, but no real progress or offers to help build such an organization. Sam Jones, a faithful and understanding friend, took my depressed wife and me up to the lounge in the hotel lobby above and we discussed the defeat over drinks.
I really felt low. I knew my plans were excellent and everybody agreed they were. I knew I had the drive and ability to make them work and everybody agreed I did, I knew the situation for Our Nation was desperate,and everybody agreed that it was. But nobody would do anything. No matter how hard I tried, I ran into a solid, blank, silent wall.
Sam cheered us up and even got us dancing a bit. Then we went home and I lay awake a long time, trying to figure things out while my blessed wife stroked my head and mothered me like a spanked boy. I had failed with the American Federation of Conservative Organizations, The Conservative Times, and it seemed also with my political career.