by George Lincoln Rockwell


Although I sold well in the New York area, my income failed to rise according to my expectations. I was not earning enough to support my two families. The hundred dollar advances which I was earning were supposed, to be only the beginning. The major income was from the percentage received by the salesman from the engineering work sold to the client by the surveyors, which often ran into five or six figures. The $100 was to be deducted from these commissions, but there was a disparity between my selling and the follow-ups. I was selling too hard and it was difficult for the men who came in later to keep the client. The head of the company showed me that I had established sales records in New York, but that I had also set the record for no goes.

Out of twenty sales I had made in the area, the follow-up men or surveyors' had not been able to get a single 'go-ahead' from the client agreeing to the expensive engineering work, which meant that there were not only no commissions for me, but that I was a heavy expense for the company. This discouraging information kindled my desire to go back to commercial art and advertising, but my employer felt so strongly that it was only a question of the law of averages before my salesmanship paid off that he offered me the unheard-of inducement, in the management engineering business, of a $100 a week salary, sales or no! He showed me that they got 'go-aheads' on one out of three sales by even the poorest salesman and, with the jobs I had been able to sell, just one of these would pay both the company and me handsomely.

I mention all this here because of the recurrent smears of the Jews that I and my fellow 'hate-mongers' are 'failures' who turn to 'hate' as a racket when they prove themselves incompetent at everything else. When the smear of 'mental illness' becomes untenable, the Jew 'apostles of truth' switch to the 'failure' angle. My performance in the management engineering business, as well as my experience as a commercial artist and businessman are all a matter of record. The records of the Cleworth Company in the Empire State Building, New York City, will bear me out in all I have said here.

Bill Brown, head of the company, suggested Pennsylvania as the opposite of New York. The 'hay-seeds' there should be easier for the 'surveyors' to get 'go-aheads', he believed.

In the meantime, my wife had had our fourth child, Evelyn Bentina, in the free clinic of the Hackensack Hospital in New Jersey. We were too poor to pay what with the other family to support, so my wife gave birth in a ward full of Negroes. Now, once again, I had to tell her we were moving, this time to Pennsylvania – with a brand new baby!

We hitched the trailer up to the old '49 Cadillac and pulled it over to Lincoln, Pennsylvania, in the Pennsylvania Dutch country between Lancaster and Reading. There we found a pleasant little trailer park and put Ricky, the oldest boy, in school for his first year. Then I hit the road, looking for the backwoods rubes'.

I learned another vital political and economic fact, almost immediately: The owners of the hat factories, plastics plants, paper factories, etc., far out here in the sticks, were the same Jews I had met in New York! There were a few Gentiles, to be sure, but everywhere, I found the same people moving in on our names, the names of hard-working Gentile founders and producers, but they were now in the hands of Jews who were foully exploiting the great names of the founders for all they were worth.

I worked as hard as I could on these 'gentlemen', but it was discouraging to know that, even when you did make the sale, there would most probably be no income from the follow-up. However, there were three or four 'go-aheads' from this area, which was a vast improvement over the twenty sales in New York which produced not one follow-up. I thus began to pick up hope, which was certainly needed, now that our financial situation was so desperate. For the first time, I missed some alimony payments to my first wife, and lived in dread of sheriffs and jail for non-support.

About this time, DeWest Hooker called me from New York and said he had been invited to speak at a meeting in Knoxville, Tennessee. He asked me if I would go in his stead, now that he was definitely going to Italy, having gained Nelson Rockefeller as a 'partner', to set up the bottling business there. West did not want to become involved just yet in a movement which would require millions of dollars, until he had become a millionaire in his own right. I agreed to go, as I was anxious to meet the Southern contingent of 'Nazis', who would be there, as Hooker assured me. However, I am ashamed to admit that I was so worried about the outcome of this meeting that I actually used the name "George Lincoln"!

It was at this meeting, in the summer of 1956, that I met Wallace Allen, Emory Burke and Ed Fields. Burke had launched an almost successful organization called The Columbians in Atlanta right after the war, but had his office infiltrated by agents of the Anti-Nazi League, dynamite planted in his garage, and had been then railroaded into a chain gang! Ed Fields was a young chiropractor and 100%, according to Hooker.

Wallace Allen was an amazing human being. He had been crippled in both legs by polio, but had such a superhuman will that he abandoned his crutches one night in Philadelphia, when some unspeakable louse stole them, no less. From then on, Allen walked without them, in the most unbelievable fashion. His mind, I discovered, was so keen that he could perceive what you were getting at almost before you had the words out. This was a refreshing experience for me, as I was used to the terrible struggle of making people see what should be obvious. A meeting with such a man is like being a racehorse which has been forced to work for years in harness with plugs, and then is suddenly freed to run on a track with racehorses. With Allen, I could let my mind and ideas soar freely, without the usual misery of back-tracking every so often to recapture the lost attention of the listener. Wallace Allen has the sharpest mind of any man I ever met and will one day show the Jews what it is like to feel the steel jaws of that spring-trap mind snap shut on them.

Since I had already formed the opinion that it was necessary to be an open Nazi, I tried to get the southern group to go along with this, and succeeded mostly in scaring them to death. There was no question of their sentiments, but they all felt that it was suicide to be open about it. They even tried to keep me from speaking the next day, but I forced the issue into the audience to some extent by speaking on a sissy presentation of part of our present Nazi program, which I then called "The Lincoln Plan" – the plan to transfer the Negroes back to Africa, as advocated by President Lincoln and most of our early presidents and statesmen.

I pointed out clearly to this audience of mostly Southern racists that, by themselves, as a Southern minority, they could accomplish nothing, no matter how blazing and heroic might be their Confederate spirit or how their rebel yells heated the blood. In fact, the more they appeared to the rest of the nation as being a fanatical and utterly different minority which lacked the mores of the majority, the more they would isolate themselves from the nationwide mass support which the White Man must have to throw off the shackles of the Jews and the inevitable race-mixing which is the result of Jew control. The Civil War is lost.

Most of the rest of our nation does not know the Negro as the South knows him – intimately, closely. The North, Northwest and West see the Negro as something of a rarity, often a 'doctor', 'lawyer' or 'teacher' when viewed close up. Their contact with the 'natives' of the 'colored section' of town is virtually nil.

Intellectually, the rest of the Nation pretends to love and cherish the blacks and they can kid themselves into this attitude only because the Blacks have not come close, as they have in the South. Whenever a Negro moves in on these non-Southern Whites, they become racists quickly enough, but until they have had a good dose of 'brotherhood' at real close range, the White Majority will persist in imagining that the only difference between Blacks and Whites is skin color, although they know better, deep down in their subconscious minds, where their instincts tell them the truth.

These millions of Whites and blacks – these voters – will have to be won if we are ever to escape from our present rotten situation of being frustrated and beaten babblers, with no power. To achieve power, we must win over the soft heads and liberals – plus the Negroes themselves – by proposing a constructive solution to the Negro problem. Such a solution, regardless of how it is smeared and laughed at today, is voluntary repatriation for the Blacks. For far less money than we now waste on foreign aid, much of which goes to Communist countries which hate us, we can actually pay our Negroes a generous cash bonus, buy all their holdings in the United States, build them a real industrialized area in the best part of Africa – where the ignorant Africans clamor for their skills and educated abilities – give them first class transportation to the new and far better living conditions over there, compared to their present slums here, and then help them get set up decently in business and agriculture. To those who say that it is impossible thus to move fifteen million people, I reply that we moved far more under much more difficult conditions, and under arms, during World War II alone. It is only impossible to solve the Negro problem this way so long as people insist on not thinking about it and keep dismissing the subject from their minds. Repatriation is the only workable solution. Segregation has never worked in, all of history. As long as there is sex and as long as blacks and Whites are mingled in the same geographical area, no matter how stringent the rules for segregation, lust will have its way, and the society will wind up mongrelized, as did Rome, Egypt, Greece and a dozen other once great civilizations.

Once we have convinced the 'progressive', 'liberal' 'nigger-lovers' that this solution is fair and that it will work, we shall win not only the 'nigger-haters' in the South and elsewhere, but the soft-headed 'liberals' who are ashamed not to like Negroes and try to do it, but who would be far happier if some way were found for the Negroes to 'disappear', leaving them with clear consciences, satisfied that we had done right by the blacks.

For $50 billion, spread over ten years and pumped into our national economy with healthy effects, we can one day find not a single Negro in our major cities and, at the same time, know that we have fairly and squarely made up for the original crime of bringing them over here as slaves and selling them.

This was the gist of my speech and the audience received it with enthusiasm, which fooled me into believing there would be a lot of support for the plan to sell the Blacks on the idea of voluntary repatriation to Africa. I also imagined that I would soon be receiving the contributions they all promised, which would enable me to begin work on the program and thus get back into politics.

Ed Fields, the organizer of this meeting, used the occasion to establish The United White Party, forerunner of his present National States' Rights Party. I was unsuccessful in getting him to see that this could only be a stop-gap, at best, as it was strictly southern in orientation and reeked with compromise and weakness which would sooner or later destroy it, as such organizations have always been destroyed.

I left Knoxville, happy to have met Allen and Burke who were openly impressed with me. I was confident that I had sold my back-to-Africa 'Lincoln Plan', but as the weeks went by, I discovered that I had misjudged the 'hard-core' people at Knoxville, just as I had misjudged the 'patriots' and 'conservatives'. There was no reaction whatsoever, no support, no help. There was not so much as a word from these enthusiastic talkers, although I had been working hard at the printing of material, flyers, letterheads and so on.

The only encouraging thing was a call from Wallace Allen in Atlanta. I had let him and Emory Burke have the first proof sheets of Battle Call and the two Georgians were on fire! They raved and swore by the book, and Allen begged me to come down there, saying that Atlanta was the place to fight the Jews. There was damned little money in Pennsylvania, so I agreed to give Atlanta a try, but I did not want to move my family again, especially with my boy in school, so I went down there alone for a month or so to see how it would work out.

In Atlanta, I put in a few hours a day making phone calls, selling advertising in various booklets for Allen, and was staggered by the results! The first week, working less than I ever had before, I earned over $200! The next week was good, too, although sales fell off a bit as Christmas approached. But it was still just what I was looking for. I was staying in Allen's lovely home and working in my spare time on political plans. After four weeks of this, I flew back to Lincoln for Christmas and happily told my wife how things had gone.

It will not be hard to imagine her feelings at the prospect of moving again, but she was as loving and understanding as ever. I had the old Cadillac's valves ground. We hitched up and once again started off across the country, pulling that gigantic trailer – this time with four little children. We arrived in Atlanta on the coldest January day they ever had! It was bitter, stinging cold and, when we pulled into the trailer park where I had made reservations, we found it wasn't ready. We had to go back outside of town to a 'park' which would have been more aptly called a 'dump'. There was garbage all around and, with the bitter weather, the pipes in the entire camp were frozen, along with the sewers, so we had no water connection, no toilet facilities and no heat that first day! This was quite a situation for a mother with four kids, one a new baby, but Thora pitched in as usual and cheerfully did the best that could be done for all.

We lived on hopes at that time which were apparently well-founded on my pre-Christmas experience, so we suffered out the first freezing, miserable week with every expectation that things would get better. How little did we know that from then on our fortunes would go from bad to worse to impossible, to that awful day in Arlington, Virginia, when Arrowsmith the millionaire suddenly and without warning sent sheriffs and police to our home with a writ of replevin, and my wife and I actually had to defend our home physically as the sheriffs tried to push their way in!

I resumed work on the advertising sales, but suddenly discovered a great difference. We didn't know it, but we had hit the middle of the 'recession'. Allen's business was mostly with the big unions and auto plants around Atlanta and, when the 'recession' hit, the plants closed down or slowed down. Workmen couldn't pay their accounts to the tradesmen and the tradesmen cut out their advertising. I began to have to work very hard all day long to sell enough ads to make a living. Then it got worse. No matter how I plugged on that phone, the old customers just wouldn't buy. Their business was just too low.

At first, Allen couldn't believe that I was really trying to sell ads. Then he tried it himself and found that it was true. The 'gold-rush' was over. There was even a scrap with one of the union heads and relations all around became severely strained. Allen and I quarreled. I was desperate again, with a hungry family, far away from my usual haunts and business, and Allen couldn't help feeling somewhat responsible. He had a beautiful home, two cars, including a Cadillac and money in the bank, all of which he had beaten out of a very cruel world by his own guts and brains.

But at the same time, Allen felt that I was trying to pressure him out of some hard-earned wealth. However, he did what he could to give me a good deal on sales, letting me keep almost all the income of what I sold, so I drove to make sales with everything I had, but it was still no use. Even when I beat a man into agreeing to buy an ad on the phone, the collector would often find that he had changed his mind and would not take out the ad or pay.

While all this was going on, I had been corresponding with a man named William Stephenson in Newport News, Virginia. He was the publisher and editor of a handsome, well-gotten up little racist magazine called The Virginian, much on the style of Time magazine. I had written him a letter and found that he had heard of me. We compared mental notes and ideas and he seemed impressed. I sent him a suggestion for a series of cartoons called "Odd Birds" which made fun of 'liberals' and, in a sneaky way, Jews, by comparing them to birds. He liked the idea and we agreed to produce them.

When Stephenson heard of our predicament in Atlanta, he called and gave us some very wonderful cheering up. His call yanked me out of a very deep despondency which came from seeing the truly frightful living conditions suffered by my dear wife and babies. Stephenson invited us to come to Newport News, where he had a press and photo-offset equipment. I agreed to work with him, not on a salary, but on a sharing basis as we published the "Odd Birds" and other material. I was also to help him promote the magazine and so on.

We hocked my typewriter and camera equipment to put a few dollars into our purse and hitched up for the long, long haul back up north. You are not allowed to drive a trailer at night and we could not drive this huge vehicle on the roads at all without special permission, so we had to find some sort of legal stopping place, hopefully a good one, before dark every evening.

Late one afternoon, as we were nearing Cheraw, North Carolina, I felt the trailer give a disconcerting heave and then yank me over to one side. We wiggled and braked to a stop, and I went back to see what the trouble could be. One side was drooping way down with a blow-out! I had to jack up the multi-ton trailer with a small car jack, working in spurts and lifts, and finally set the axle on some chunks of wood which I found. Meanwhile, it was getting dark. The kids were hungry, tired and irritable and they were crying and fussing. My wife did what she could in these trying circumstances.

I realized that I would have to unhitch in order to drive into town and get the tire fixed some place, but I didn't know what to do about the trailer which was now illegally out on the road. At first, I thought of leaving my wife and kids with the trailer, but decided against that, far out in the lonely countryside, so I took them into town with me.

In Cheraw, we suffered another blow. There were no secondhand tires available in the little town and the only thing we could get was a truck tire which cost $50, more than we had altogether for the trip! I tried to hock various items with the service station attendant, including a ruby ring of my wife's, and even that would not work. Meanwhile, the state police were threatening to arrest me for leaving the trailer on the highway and I had to assure them that I was getting a tire and would be right back to move it.

In utter desperation, my wife called her cousin in Washington, the wife of the first secretary of the Icelandic Embassy, and asked her to wire $50, which she did. But the humiliation, the upset and the whole mess were too much for Thora. She cried almost steadily as we struggled through the rest of that nightmare – an almost unbelievable series of heartbreaks and misfortunes. We bought the expensive tire with the telegraphed money and started back to the trailer in the darkness, but with the weight of the trailer off the rear end of the car, the 'helper' springs which were inserted between the suspension springs and the axle of the car popped out as we drove past a swamp! Without the helper springs, we couldn't pull the trailer at all.

I had to stop and try to find them in the dark swamp. First, I had to crawl under the car to make sure they were both gone and then I started an inch by inch search in the filthy muck for those little coils! For hours, I hunted up and down, with my boy helping as much as he could, while my unhappy wife sat in the car, crying with the kids.

I was almost in despair myself. Then I felt my back pocket to make sure my wallet was still there. It wasn't. It was gone! Now we had no springs and no wallet. There was no money for gas, no way to move another inch! I discovered that the wallet had fallen out of a huge hole in my dungarees, probably when I was under the car, feeling around for the springs. I started to back-track along the edge of the swamp with the car, using the headlights to probe the darkness for both the wallet and the springs. It began to seem utterly useless, and I was tempted to sit beside my wife and cry along with her.

But then came one of those inexplicable events which convince me, even though I do not believe in a personal god, that there is some inscrutable destiny at work. A man and a boy in a farm truck drove up beside us and asked me what my name was. The blunt question annoyed me because I was certainly in no mood to play games. I asked the man who wanted to know, and he repeated the question. In addition to my exasperation, I now began to feel a little worried. Here I was, flat broke and far out in the country, desperately looking for my wallet and springs in a darkened swamp, with a car full of crying family, and this guy insisted on making me identify myself!

Finally, I burst out: "I'm Lincoln Rockwell. Now, what do you want?"

"Is this your wallet?" he asked, holding up this most welcome object!

I thanked him through tears of gratitude. He said he had seen the wallet in his headlights up the road, picked it up, and then started looking for the man who lost it!

This bit of good fortune revived my spirits and I dove into the swamp with renewed determination. Soon, I found the springs at the bottom of a slimy ditch and we returned to the trailer. I got the springs back on, the wheel on and headed for a parking area before we finally got arrested for driving after dark. At last, I pulled into a little park. After making the necessary payment to the landlady who had to get out of bed to wait on me. Sleepily, she directed me to the parking area, and I started over in that direction, only to bog down suddenly in a large patch of gooey mud. The wheels of both car and trailer sank in up to the hubs. Stuck where we were, there was no way to connect the utilities to take care of the kids for the night or anything else. I just had to get out of that mud.

For over an hour I struggled, moving the car forward, backward and every which way, rocking the wheels, pushing and heaving. My poor wife was out in the muck, pushing with all her heart, and I guess she was about ready to drown herself and the children, who were now – thank God – asleep.

Once again, the impossible happened. From a nearby cabin, a man appeared with a big chain. It was two or three o'clock in the morning, and nobody could be expected to get out of bed to help people who were stuck in the mud, but this man did! He hitched his chain to the trailer and then to his heavy car, which was on dry ground. I pushed the trailer with my car, he pulled with his and my wife pushed with her bare hands. The whole parade broke loose of the goo, and we moved onto dry ground. I hooked up the lights and water with the utmost gratitude to the man who had helped us and threw myself into bed, feeling like an empty, hollow shell. After depositing the limp, sleeping kids in their beds, my blessed wife collapsed beside me. For a long time, we were actually too tired to sleep and lay there, discussing our fortune. My political career had led us into these bitter times, but we finally fell asleep, trying to believe that things would improve when we got to Newport News.

Two days later, we crossed the bridge leading into this peninsular city and were met at the end of the span by Bill Stephenson, Lacy Jeffries and Mrs. Stephenson. They were wonderful to us. Mrs. Stephenson comforted my tired, nervous wife. Bill cheered me up immensely and Lacy gave us $20. We were flat broke, without a dime left. They helped us find a trailer park, Bill and Lacy paying the first week's rent for us. They also gave us a package of weenies.

I couldn't believe such goodness and finally asked Bill, "Why do you do all this?"

His answer I have never forgotten. It is a phrase which will soon be ringing all over this earth as the gospel spreads: "Because we are National Socialists," he said, quietly, a special, holy look in his eyes.

As long as there is a spirit like that in even a few men, our people will not perish. As long as the unholy, but burning faith of the Communists and Jews is opposed by an equally burning, holy and true faith in the hearts of National Socialists, the White Man will again dominate the earth and maintain Western civilization.

We settled down in a rather poor location in the park – it was flooded – and we had to walk on stepping stones to get to the trailer, but we were so grateful to be stopped and safe among good people that we hardly noticed this inconvenience. I resolved to dig in and help these good people, and to make the cause grow and flourish, right here. It seemed, at the moment, that this was it.