by George Lincoln Rockwell


"Remove your feet!" I was commanded, in the imperious tones of a Roman emperor. William Stephenson does not like people to put their feet on chairs, even when the chair was worthless and broken, like the one I had my feet on. It is part of his character. He does not ask people to do things, he commands them. He is exceptionally brilliant, possibly a genius, and he expects this fact to be properly recognized and respected.

He also dislikes abnormally loud sounds, which includes my voice, so I was directed imperiously to lower my voice to a soft, gentle purr. In fact, although Bill liked me, admired my abilities and wanted me to work with him, I was banished to the garage out back as soon as I arrived, where my voice, my feet on chairs and other peculiarities would not disturb his creativity.

He is dramatic beyond all words. The first evening, he pulled a .38 pistol out of a drawer and told me that his life was in deadly danger. He then invited me out for coffee, ostentatiously tucking the weapon under his belt. However, nobody tried to kill him.

When we returned, he sat me down and kept me waiting in silence for minutes as he sat scowling behind his great desk. Suddenly, he leaned over and handed down an official pronunciamento: "I have a temper!" he snapped, in clipped, precise tones, like a Scotland Yard inspector. "I do not like petty annoyances! I want you to understand, no hard feelings, but I lose control. I am wild when I am in a temper!" He leaned closer to me and bored his eyes further into mine, scowling fearsomely. Then he snarled: "I kill!"

I accepted all this and more like it with good grace. Bill was only twenty or so and already making a mark in the world with an excellent publication. At the moment, I had not managed to do half as much politically. At heart, Bill was a first class guy, but didn't know. He was pampered and spoiled to death by his mother and Lacy Jeffries, his well-to-do and very meek, very silent partner. His slightest wish was tenderly and instantly catered to, and he seemed to have grown to expect everyone around to attend his every whim. In many ways he did deserve such homage. For such a mere boy to have matured so greatly and to have accomplished so much in so little time is close to genius. I was silently amused by the 'Roman emperor act', and I liked and respected Bill so much that it did not bother me.

We went ahead with the publication of the "Odd Birds" in high hopes that sales of the portfolio of drawings and commentaries, beautifully done, would bring in the income we so desperately needed. Bill advertised them in The Virginian and sent out a special mailing. Then we waited for results.

The results were miserable, wretched, heartbreaking. People loved them, but not enough to pay the dollar. Often the only thing we had to eat in the trailer was what Lacy or Bill would give us – a can or two, some weenies, etc. Bills piled up, as usual, and the family was almost at the end of its possibilities.

I went down to the Virginia employment office to see about getting any kind of temporary work: digging, construction, anything for pay. But they insisted on trying to get me a job according to my qualifications, and such lofty jobs were simply not available in the area.

I did manage to sell some free-lance art work and some writing, but the money situation was urgent. No payments had been made to my first wife for several months and I was unhappy when I imagined the situation with little Bonnie, Nancy and Phoebe Jean – to say nothing of my other four children. My wife's family wanted her to come to Iceland, but she didn't want to go, and. I certainly didn't want her to go either. We decided to stick it out.

Meanwhile, The Virginian itself was coming upon hard days. Subscriptions and income dwindled. The publication's bills, like mine, piled up. One morning, Lacy Jeffries told me that it was going to be impossible to get out another issue.

They owed too much to the printer. I pointed out that it seemed foolish to pay a printer as much money as they were, when they had an excellent Press, an artist and a printer on the spot. I offered to help, but Lacy told me that it would probably irritate Bill to suggest such a plan. Stephenson was a perfectionist and would not believe that we could turn out a decent magazine on our press.

Shortly after this talk, I was approached by Bill Anderson, who worked for Stephenson as a combination bodyguard and clerk. He was a young boxer, a dedicated National Socialist and the kind of fighting patriot our race so desperately needs. He and his family had moved to Newport News from their home in Chicago on promises of pay, much as I had taken my family down to Memphis on a similar offer. Bill had been told that his pay would have to be reduced severely, although he had been on a pittance in the first place. He was also informed that he might have to be dropped altogether, and he was angry! Knowing his predicament from my own experience, I couldn't blame him.

I told him I believed we could save the situation and that we could put out the magazine by our own hard work, but Anderson said Stephenson would never let me do it. He was too worried that I would supplant him as 'Fuehrer'! This word I have grown to hate, when used in the American context. There was only one Fuehrer, and the use of this word in such situations affects me as it would affect a Christian to hear that some minister insisted on being called "Christ".

I agreed with Bill that Stephenson's high-handed methods were tough to take, and that the deal they were giving him was rotten, but I insisted that the situation was largely the result of Stephenson's fear. I have found something my brother once told me to be extremely valuable to remember in situations like this: People are not usually bad. When they do 'bad' things, it is usually because they are afraid. They lash out wildly and foolishly like terrified cats, scratching and biting everybody in sight.

I assured Anderson that if I could diplomatically and successfully help Stephenson get the business back on its feet, Harold Arrowsmith, Jr. – the financial angel of this venture – would calm down and all could still be well. But Stephenson, as Anderson had predicted, imagined that I was trying to usurp his position and refused to so much as discuss the matter with me.

Shortly thereafter, word arrived that Arrowsmith was coming for a visit. Stephenson called me in and told me that the millionaire was very nervous and touchy, and that it would be better if I stayed out in the garage all the time he was present. If I had to come in at all, I was to use the back door.

Several days later, I went into the kitchen – via the back door, of course – and encountered Arrowsmith sitting at the kitchen table with Stephenson, sipping cocoa. I was introduced in the briefest possible fashion and left. A day or so afterwards, as I was in my trailer typing out more of Battle Call, there was a knock at the door. I opened it and found Bill Anderson and Arrowsmith balancing on the stepping stones which stood in the pond surrounding our trailer.

Bill explained bluntly that Arrowsmith was disgusted with the way Stephenson had handled the many thousands of dollars he had put into the operation, and that he was planning to close it up and sell the equipment. Bill said that he had prevailed upon Arrowsmith to come and see me, after convincing him that I had the talents and know-how to do something worthwhile with the enormous investment already in the venture. At least I would be able to put the printing equipment to some good use in order to salvage something out of the mess.

I immediately proposed that we all go over to Stephenson together and have it out – in the open – in the interest of the cause. I have always hated intrigue and believe that the only way to succeed in the long run with any human undertaking is by the most open and honest way possible, even if sneaking might gain some temporary advantage. But Anderson and Arrowsmith rose excitedly when I suggested this and insisted they would have no part of such a deal whatsoever.

Arrowsmith said he had made his decision. He was going to close up Stephenson no matter what, and all he came to see me for was to decide if he might put the equipment at my disposal, instead of selling it for almost nothing.

Anderson was so angry at the two young publishers, Stephenson and Jeffries, for getting him to come all the way from Chicago with his wife and babies that he thought Stephenson should get his just deserts for his imperious, inexperienced foolishness which had wrecked such a wonderful opportunity for the Cause. Bill had grown up in the slums of Chicago. He had been knifed, beaten and shot, and was schooled in the dog-eat-dog tactics of the gutter. Although Anderson was a pure Nordic of unimpeachable natural inclinations, his schooling had taught him to be ruthless. He insisted that the only way anything could be done was to pounce on Stephenson, whisk out the equipment before he could recover, and that would be that.

Arrowsmith, who looked something like the actor, Sidney Greenstreet, and who always gave one the impression of being frightened and cornered, agreed that it had to be done this way, and that I was not to tell Stephenson a word.

Nevertheless, in view of Stephenson's great help and decency to me only a few months before, I went to Lacy and told him that Arrowsmith was very disgusted and that unless they could come up with some definite and salable plan to win him back, it was all over. I did not tell him outright what Arrowsmith and Anderson had said, but I asked him, in the name of the movement, to try to talk some sense into 'His Divine Majesty', William Stephenson.

Lacy Jeffries, always gentle, meek, self-effacing and easy-going, agreed to see what he could do. I thought it best not to irritate 'The Great Khan' by going personally into his chambers, because of the possibility of an emotional blow-up which, upon reflection, he would wish he had not permitted himself.

But it was no use, When Stephenson heard the message, he came raving at me, ordered me "Out! Out!" in those exact words, and made it clear that he thought I had conspired to ruin him and 'swipe' Arrowsmith. I tried my best to explain, without betraying the other two, that I had no part of such a plan and was only trying to keep things together, not destroy what already existed. But words meant nothing to Stephenson. He was hurt and scared and play-acting like a little boy. Had I been his father, I would have grabbed him, given him a convincing 'argument' on both ears and settled down to cleaning up the messy situation. Once again, I learned the weakness and silliness of even the best of my fellow human beings.

Arrowsmith and Anderson reappeared at my trailer and berated me for having 'squealed'. It had all gotten back, somehow, and I caught it now from both sides, but Arrowsmith still wanted me to do what I could to use the printing equipment and confirmed his determination to cut Stephenson off immediately. If I could not come up with a plan to use it, he told me that he would sell it, then and there!

I could see no more use in trying to save Stephenson, especially after he and his wife came over and dumped some of my things at the trailer, including a lovely cashmere sweater my wife had gone to a great deal of trouble to get from England for his wife. There was no use letting the equipment be lost to the cause, so I agreed to think it over and talk to them both the next day.

I let Arrowsmith borrow my Battle Call proofs and he was very enthusiastic, except for the "Socialist" part of "National Socialist". He, as a multi-millionaire super-capitalist whose mother, as Bill had told me, was one of the owners of Dunn & Bradstreet, was understandably much against any doctrine stipulating that everybody in society had to produce something,by invention, management, labor or genuine risk – but not by speculation which is so hedged about by usury as to make it no risk at all. We, of course, as National Socialists, are against the speculative part of capitalism. But Arrowsmith, so far as I have been able to learn, never worked a day in his life, and has come to like this arrangement.

But the rest of the National Socialist program, especially the part about gassing the Jew traitors, he thought was wonderful. Arrowsmith objected to exempting any Jews, saying that none of them were human, but were sub-animals. I asked him if he could personally kill little children because they were Jews and he answered, "Of course!" and I almost, but not quite, believe him. He is too squeamish to eat meat, so it is a little hard to picture him in the bloody role of baby slaughterer.

The next day he came over in his rented car and drove me down to a deserted beach, where we parked and discussed the situation for many hours. He wanted to know what I thought should be done. I told him that the only place in the world where a strong movement could succeed was in Arlington, Virginia, right across from the Nation's Capitol. In every other place the Jews could put so much pressure on the authorities that any strong anti-Jewish effort would be ruthlessly and illegally crushed. But in Washington, the show place of America and the "free world', while they could hurt us badly, the usual Jewish-inspired gross violations of all justice and rights to silence exposure of Jewish treason would be too obvious, and thus impossible. Too many people would see and hear about it, no matter how they tried to cover it up, use the 'silent treatment' and smear us out of existence. Also, Virginia is still in the hands of decent White Men. Senator Byrd is no Adolf Hitler, to be sure, but he is also no Wayne Morse or Jacob Javitz. The courts, largely set up by Byrd, were honest, I believed then, and have since proved that they are. Virginia is one of the last, if not the last state in the Union which is still governed somewhat in the manner intended by the framers of the Constitution. Virginia's officials, while afraid of the Jews at their worst would nevertheless not crawl disgustingly at the feet of the Jews, as do the officials of most other states and of the federal government.

Arrowsmith wanted to establish a center where we could print his thousands of revelations of the unbelievable, nightmarish confessions of the Jews themselves as to their treachery and treason. He was entranced by the idea of such a center right near Congress, which he loves to visit, and I had little trouble selling him on the idea of setting up in Arlington. He wanted me to work on an all-out anti-Jewish campaign in the open, publicly, which would lead to the eventual destruction of Jewry, while we also flooded Congress and official Washington with the incriminating anti-Jewish documents he had gathered in such abundance.

I told him that if he wanted me to work out in the open, as he insisted, I would have to have a safe home and living for my wife and babies. He agreed and said he would provide that, if I had the guts to come out openly and strongly with the whole story, to "spill the beans," as he put it.

He agreed that I would have a secure home with a print shop installed, using the equipment now in Stephenson's place, that I would be accorded the privilege of buying the house out of printing profits as I worked the equipment, and that I was to go all out against the Jews, printing documents as he required them.

He wanted to use the name "National Committee to Free America from Jewish Domination", and I agreed to that. I must confess that in spite of my convictions of the rightness of open Nazism, at that time I shared the illusion, still common in the 'movement', that any Swastika-displaying Nazis would be quickly jailed or murdered. The Jews just seemed too powerful, and I planned a gradual slide over to open Nazism from the "National Committee".

In our discussion of the matter of an office, I actually imagined that if I set up such an office, I would need bodyguards at all times just to go in and out of the place! Today, I go alone to our post office box, which is in the name of the American Nazi Party, and I realize how ridiculous such fear of the Jews is. But even three years ago, before I had found out the actual strength of the Jews and the loose nature of their conspiracy, I, like millions of other Americans, imagined that the power of these sneaks was total, that open defiance of them was somehow 'sure death'! Now, the very fact that I have learned the weaknesses of the Jews and can debunk their myth of invincible terror makes me too dangerous for the Jews to permit my continued activity, if there is any way under heaven – or in hell – they can stop me.

Once Arrowsmith was ready to go, he couldn't wait. He was actually fidgety, like a little fat boy waiting for a parade, and he insisted that we start instantly.

Stephenson had announced that he was a terror, of course, and that he would battle to the death to hold the equipment He told Anderson, not realizing that he was involved with Arrowsmith, that he would sabotage the press and other equipment before it went out. But Arrowsmith got a justice of the peace and was told how to get a writ, etc., and when Stephenson heard this, he capitulated. Arrowsmith went to get the stuff with a truck and Bill confined his 'fight to the death' to calling a policeman to have his former benefactor thrown off the premises.

Once again, I realize that there will be howls of agony from many in the right-wing at my revelations of all this foolishness and squabbling. "Why hurt these people now?" is the cry. 'It's all over! What good can it do?"

The answer, again, is that even as I write this with two black eyes, a torn mouth and a broken nose from a Jewish-organized beating, The Canadian Intelligence Service, headed by Ron Gostick, a good patriot in Canada, has just published a whole pamphlet and spread it all over the world, explaining in great detail, and with devilish, but perverted logic that I am a spy working for the Jews!

The petty jealousies, the selfishness, the ignorance, the meanness and stupidity of the right-wing has got to stop, and I mean to stop it, not by begging these people in the name of our dying race – I've tried that without success for five years – but by making it impossible for these fearfully small minds to keep wrecking the movement. Within a short time, it will be out of the question for sneaky, sissy 'Nazis' to set up in business and start the usual round of petty squabbling, spy-stories and sabotage of Our Holy Cause.

There is nothing like light to dispel darkness, and light is what we are going to spread all over the right-wing, where darkness, ignorance and fear lie, like a stifling black blanket over everything and everybody. As the story progresses, the reader will see the full villainy, cowardice and treachery, not only of the Jews, but of our own people. No talk, no logic, no sweet pleas on bended knee, no letters or prayers have been able to stop the tragic, heart-rending squabbling, bickering and sabotage by the peanut-souls of the right-wing. just as we cannot beat the Jews and their subversion by talk, and must build the force and power to depose them, so must we use all legal forms of force to bring order and direction to the right-wing. When chaos prevails, as it does now in the right-wing, it is inevitable that people get hurt when you apply that force to establish order, but the hurt to one or two people who claim to believe in Our Holy Cause will mean nothing later, when we have demonstrated, as we are doing, our ability to help even those we might now 'hurt' to win, beside which even a severe 'hurt' is nothing.

If we cannot win the most desperate battle for survival in the history of humanity, it will not make me proud to have been a 'good guy' and to have failed to bring order and victory to the pitiful right-wing. Even those who may be personally angered at the exposures here will know that they are true, and those with which they are not familiar are equally true. I have already made peace with more than one of the people already mentioned, and will one day make peace gratefully with all of them as soon as they give up their childish squabbling and buckle down to fighting, either on our side or by themselves, but not against the Cause.

Arrowsmith was almost frantic to start immediately. He wanted me to try to find some place to set up in Arlington by telephoning friends, even before we went up there to find a permanent place. I managed to find a temporary place in a friend's basement. Then we looked for a permanent place, and I got to know my new 'fat cat'.

Arrowsmith, was nocturnal, I learned – just the opposite of myself. I love the morning and like to go to bed seasonably, at night, but he would insist that I sit up into the early hours of the morning talking to him about the "eskimos", as he called the enemy. He also made it impossible for me to do anything else to earn any money, and then welched on his promises to pay me enough to eat while I worked for him. I had a very bad tooth and my face swelled up like a grapefruit, but I could not afford a dentist, and this multi-millionaire made me beg, night after night, sitting in my car outside of his hotel in Alexandria, for the small sum of money he had-promised me to get set up. I was flat broke, the wife and kids had nothing to eat, and he treated my respectful requests for even a small portion of what he had promised as if I were trying to swindle him.

With my head throbbing and swollen with grinding pain, I had to sit for hours listening to this chubby mama's boy telling me of all the delightful projects he had in mind. I Would beg him to get out of the car and go to bed, and let me get some rest and some aspirin, and he would just look hurt and say, "Yes, but the point is ..." and then launch into more lecture. One night, around five A.M., in spite of everything, in spite of my impossible financial situation, in spite of my wife and children, in spite of alimony jail and my other wife and children, in spite of all reason and sanity; in spite of my very instinct for survival – I had had all I could take. I jumped out of the car, ran around to his side, opened the door and told him to get out.

He wouldn't do it. He sat there looking as if he were about to cry, and pouted., He said I was cutting off my nose to spite my face and told me there was no point in being stupid, etc. I cooled off, somehow, and we went back to negotiating."

We found a lovely suburban home which seemed made to order. It was in the Williamsburg section of Arlington and was, amazingly, zoned 'commercial', which permitted us to use the house for the political headquarters and offices. We met with the real estate people and settled arrangements after a long conference. Arrowsmith was to make the down payment of $15,000, plus settlement, and we were to make the mortgage payments with the principal accruing to us. We were also to pay Arrowsmith on the down payment loan from our printing profits.

There was to be a contract drawn up to this effect with the additional stipulations that I would have the use of the printing equipment to gain a livelihood for my family, so our security would include not only a home, but a business. On his behalf, I was to print his materials, including assisting him in the preparation of a book he was working on, and I was to make an all-out attack on Jewish Communism-Zionism with our National Committee to Free America from Jewish Domination. The contract between Arrowsmith and myself would insure that neither of us would find ourselves left 'holding the bag' in such a risky, if not dangerous operation.

Arrowsmith was in a terrible rush to get to New York for something and left a check with a friend for $15,300 that afternoon, then disappeared. I had the contract drawn up by a lawyer who was also one of the officers of my squadron at Anacostia, but I could not find Arrowsmith to get the papers signed. I had arranged, through a friend in the White House, to get Arrowsmith introduced to some key political persons in New York in order to track down some information about Trotsky (Bronstein), who had got into serious trouble here in 1917, but who received all sorts of immigration 'favors' and finally left New York with $20 million in Jewish money to finance the Bolshevik takeover of Russia. But nobody could find the elusive millionaire, so the introduction was not made and the papers remained unsigned.

I could not stop to hunt him up myself, for I was involved in a mad scramble to 'keep all the balls in the air'. I had to sell our trailer, get the press going in the new place, move, find business, print sample propaganda material, get this out to our right-wing 'customers' and generally start things rolling. After a few weeks I was having some success in these tasks.

Arrowsmith suddenly reappeared one afternoon and said it was time for "action". He had set up the operation, he felt, and he wanted to see some results. To this effect he asked me what could be done to shock and wake up the world. To sum up my years of thinking and planning, I told him the only answer was public activity – in the streets – not any more pamphlets and paper-exchanging among people who already knew what the Jews were up to.

At the time, the Jewish line in all our newspapers was, paradoxically, that Egypt's Nasser was both another Hitler and a Communist. As a matter of sober fact, Nasser had outlawed the Communist Party and thrown his reds in jail, while 'our' Supreme Court was letting U.S. reds, even the spies, out. The only Communist party in the Middle East was, and is, in Israel, where these criminals constitute over one fourth of the citizens and members of government. There was a pro-Jewish puppet government in Lebanon. The enraged Lebanese Arabs, who had suffered and had witnessed over a million of their fellow-Arabs driven into starvation and misery in the desert so that the Jews could "take back a homeland" occupied by the Arabs for over 2,000 years threatened to take over their traitorous government and go after the international criminals who had butchered and banished their Arab brothers.

The U.S. Jews used their usual tactics – press distortion and secret pressure – to force 'our' government to send the Marines to 'defend' the Lebanese puppet regime against its own people. The Jewish liars told us our intervention was to stop Nasser's "communism", when the truth was that we were saving Israel.

I appeared to have a home, security for my family and a perfect chance to do what all of us had for so long just talked about: attack and expose the Jewish treachery in public! I suggested that we organize picketing and literature distributions in several cities, as well as in front of the White House, to expose this vicious use of American fighting men on behalf of Jewish international aggression in Lebanon. Arrowsmith was as delighted as a chubby kid who was being taken to a circus. He clapped his pudgy hands and asked how we could do it.

My years of apprenticeship in the movement had established contacts with other men all over the country. Out of these, there were some who I thought would cooperate. I had not been in Arlington long enough to build up any contacts with young fighting men and therefore had only 'conservative' whisperers and 'silent workers', so I told Arrowsmith that, to picket the White House, we would have to send for my boys – Hooker's boys – in New York. The total cost for signs, literature and transportation would be over $1000. Arrowsmith said to go ahead. He couldn't wait. I told him these arrangements would involve sizable telephone bills which I could just not afford, and he said that he "would take care of it.

I arranged with New York for a chartered busload of the boys, designed and silk-screened huge oil-cloth signs in fluorescent red and black, wrote, designed and printed tens of thousands of two-color leaflets, prepared detailed instructions for the pickets, telephoned all over the country and managed to get Ed Fields in Louisville and Wallace Allen in Atlanta to agree to picket simultaneously with us. In addition to these efforts, I made the thousands of other arrangements necessary to realize such a relatively large-scaled operation. Arrowsmith hovered over all this like a happy little boy, even helping silk-screen the signs in the cellar.

My wife took all the excitement and disruption of her home in excellent spirits, losing her temper only once. Arrowsmith got purple with fury one afternoon as he and I were discussing plans and the kids were laughing and playing in the next room. He had burst out: "Oh, dear! Can't you do something about those damned kids? Gas them or something!" My wife had flared up and scolded him for the remark, and he had turned away, pouting. I had managed to patch it up with both of them.

During these preparations, whenever I asked Arrowsmith about signing the contract, he would get angry and complain that I was trying to hold up the operation – he would sign it after the picketing, when he had the chance to catch his breath and look the contract over. I was thus about to learn my next-to-last lesson about human nature and how far it can be trusted.

The night before the great event, the busload of boys from New York arrived, and it was great to see some of them again. But they had with them a wild and woolly slob by the name of George Legget, whose first remark, as he drove up and observed that we lived next to a suburban bank was, "Oh boy! Let's knock over the bank!" I warned him again and again that our survival and eventual success depended on our being legal,super-legal. We not only had to obey laws they had, but laws they might have or pretend to have, just to get rid of us, but it was no use.

George went out with one crew to distribute our for-that-time bold anti-Jewish literature announcing the picketing, and I soon learned that he was crazy. He pasted stickers on cars, windows – and was about to stick one on an unobservant policeman, when the boys caught him and brought him back to me. I threw him out, but he wouldn't leave. We finally convinced this fat nut that the New York police were wise to his leaving New York.He was on parole, or something, so we got him on a bus back up there.

Meanwhile, I was learning my first lessons in the ways of the Jewish conspiracy. I still imagined, at that time, that the power of the Jews was total, that the police were 100% in cahoots with the conspirators, and that I must therefore sneak out our papers, or expect wholesale arrests.

When our first crew was arrested, their literature seized, and the boys told "to get out of Arlington", I sneaked them back, instead of going openly to the police and demanding our constitutional rights first, as I always do now. But at that time, we ducked and hid and scurried down back streets trying to avoid policemen, who, I have since learned, hate what is going on as much as we do, and merely do their best to be fair, neutral,and to obey orders.

Many in the 'movement' cannot understand how I 'get away' with what we do, unless we are 'spies', as they foolishly and cruelly charge. Until our arrival on the right-wing scene, it was believed that the police, the FBI and all other authorities are 'against' us and that we must 'fight' them.I have proved to my associates, over and over, that this is not true. To be sure, the money-power is in the hands of the Jews, and so is much of our administration. Some of our officials are either Jews or openly work for Jews, but the great bulk of our law enforcement officials are White Men and simply enforce the law, the best they know how. If anything, most of them, being by nature men of force, tend to see things as we do, and not as do the criminal Blacks and Jews. Although policemen and other law enforcement officials do their duty, as they see it, they have almost all been uniformly courteous and fair to me and to our open, brutally-frank anti-Jewish agitation.

I have found that police are as prone to follow the jungle instinct of pursuit as are any creatures: when you run, they chase you. But when you go to them first, explain your plans, your knowledge of your rights, and respectfully make clear your steely determination to exercise those rights,they respect you and often go to bat for you. When they see the outrageous pressure from the Jews to stop you illegally, unfairly, brutally and even criminally, you don't have to give them a lecture about Jewish methods for the police to be on fire with a sense of outraged justice. This is how we have won the hearts of entire police departments.

No matter what the Jews do on the upper levels, the policemen, FBI agents and honest officials who deal with us know we break our backs bending over to be fair and square – and legal – while the Jews resort to such vile and disgustingly obvious tactics to shut us up that the officials can't help but admire our calm and determined courage as we stand up to this kind of tyranny and terror, day after day, week after week, year after year.

I have had high-ranking officials and judges tell me privately that our public demonstration of Jewish tyranny and the pressure they themselves have experienced from the Jews has 'awakened' them to a situation that not all the patriotic literature in a million years could have made them see.Most of the right-wing's complaints of political persecution by Gentile officials is the result of their own mistaken strategy and tactics. I survive and will continue to survive because millions of people are beginning to see with their own eyes, and hear with their own ears what they will never, never read – another reason why the 'paper-patriots' have been failing so many years with their 'wake up America' campaign. But on those hot July days in 1958, I had not yet learned these tremendous truths, and wasted a lot of time and effort in 'hiding' and running.

Despite our self-imposed 'sneakiness', we got out a large number of pamphlets and prepared to picket the following day, Sunday. It is almost impossible for me to imagine it now, but we were all scared to death. My New York boys, tough as tigers, were restless and worried, and their 'leader', Luke Dommer, proved to be a complete coward. He told them they would all be killed by "three or four hundred niggers". After convincing the boys that they should all quit on me, Dommer shoved off for New York on a bus and left me with a mutiny.

I mustered the lads around me in the back yard and told them that I was going down there alone, if necessary, and that I never wanted to see any of the men who would desert me, again. I would especially never tolerate them calling themselves 'Nazis' after such cowardice. They listened to me in silence and after I stalked off and went back to work tacking signs onto sticks, I thought I would indeed be alone.

Then a Greek kid came up, started helping me with the signs and said he'd go, and the hell with the others. Another lad came over and silently began to push in tacks. Then another. Finally, they all came over. I thanked them with an overflowing heart.

When it came time to go, I left one lad to watch my family and held my wife, looking into her eyes a long time. I really didn't know if I would ever be back, as silly as it sounds today. Our signs, using words like "kike" and showing vile pictures of their hook-noses, were something never seen in public before, and we had received plenty of threats and warnings of arrests, beatings or killings. I was really very scared, as scared as I ever was during two wars. As usual, Thora was brave and inspiring, and I left determined to succeed or die that day.

We got out of our cars several blocks down the street from the White House and, with pounding hearts, marched toward the scene of action. As we approached the White House, we were approached by a solid phalanx of eight or nine policemen, a bulldog-faced, gold-braided captain marching in front. I was positive this was 'it'. We would all be arrested and I would be martyred before I started my fight.

But the rough-looking old captain was a man I have come to know as one of the finest old-line cops, and great-hearted human beings I ever met. He was Captain Mahanney of the Special Investigations Unit of the D.C. Police, and he growled at me that there were certain rules to be obeyed in picketing the White House. Then he showed me where we were to march.

I would have been relieved under ordinary circumstances, but there were still those "three hundred niggers" we had been warned of, to say nothing of the Jews and Communists! I looked around for them. There weren't many yet, but they were there and they eyed us with relish, like meat.

I stepped off, carrying the most outrageous sign: "SAVE IKE FROM THE KIKES! " This sign displayed a gigantic caricature of an ugly Jew holding a gun at Ike's head, and with this I marched to my fate. The boys stepped along behind me, and we soon had a line moving briskly back and forth between the two trees where thousands of pickets have marched on behalf of every imaginable cause, including Communism.

The ADL photographers were there and the Jews and their hoods began to gather at both ends of our line and across the street. We kept picketing and began to settle down a bit. So far, we were still alive. There were no huge mobs, such as I have since learned to expect and control, and the "300 niggers" had still not appeared to send us to the morgue in the meat-wagons.

As soon as things appeared somewhat stable, I began to distribute orange juice to the thirsty pickets. As I was doing this, a man walked past me and whispered "somebody wants to see you over behind the statue." He jerked his thumb in the direction of a monument in the park across the street. I knew who it was, of course. I could see his cherubic little face peeking out from behind the stones and he beckoned to me as I looked in his direction. I made several trips over there for 'instructions' from the 'general'.

Bill Stephenson also came by, wearing dark glasses. He completed the 'disguise' by pulling his collar way up, over his chin. In his usual dark and dramatic fashion, he muttered "hello," and moved on without giving further signs of recognition.

I was happy! I had dared the 'impossible' and had made it!

When we were finished picketing, the captain observed that there might be some pursuit by the howling crowd which had gathered. I had planned to drive to the police station if the mob had become too large and murderous, but we got a police escort to Haine's Point, where the boys were staying and the chartered bus was parked. We sent out for beer so the boys could celebrate and Arrowsmith appeared with an Arab he claimed was head of Nasser's intelligence.

I had warned Arrowsmith to have nothing to do with Arabs, since we were picketing on the Lebanon situation and I wanted no charges of being a foreign agent. He had nevertheless brought this intelligence officer into the house, where my wife and another lady met him, and he now gave him all our oil-cloth signs. He later told me that they were displayed to Nasser in Cairo.

I went home to my wife, wreathed in what I thought was glory. I had accomplished exactly what I had set out to do and what Arrowsmith wanted me to do. It all seemed too good to be true. And it was too good to be true!

In reality, I was on my way to a desperate battle for survival, as well as a struggle to hold on to my very sanity in the face of crushing poverty, desertion and attack by everybody – circumstances so discouraging as to be beyond description. For years I had been saying to my wife, when things got bad in my political career: "This is not the worst. Ahead lie far more difficult days!" She would never believe me, understandably, but now she was to see the stark truth of my prediction. I thank God that I didn't know what lay ahead. I am not that brave.

In a few days, we got the news that there had been trouble in the other cities where we had picketed. Ed Fields' group had picketed successfully, but had had people arrested for distributing literature. In Atlanta, our silent, orderly pickets were arrested in three minutes. There had been no crowd in Atlanta early on Sunday when they began and no disorder. But a police officer testified that he got a call from the Anti-Defamation League of B'nai B'rith demanding the arrest of the pickets and threatening violence if the police did not arrest them. So, in a pattern we have learned to know all too well, the police did not seize these threateners of violence and kidnaping, but arrested our pickets and charged them with disturbing the peace and disorderly conduct!

The methods used in Atlanta were cruder than anything we have ever experienced in Washington. The pickets were held in close confinement, threatened and pressured to plead guilty. In one place in the transcript of their trial it shows clearly that one of the pickets was told by police that if they did not accept their punishment, or if they appealed, they world "be tied in with any bombing"! Those were the exact words of a police official, a few weeks before the bombing of the Atlanta Synagogue!

Our pickets refused to bow to such pressure and did appeal. After I called him, Russell Maguire, to his credit, sent $500 to Arrowsmith to help in the Atlanta fight.

Wallace Allen flew up for a meeting with Arrowsmith and me in his room in the Congressional Hotel in Washington, and he told us some unbelievable stories of what was going on in Atlanta. That city has become a stronghold of Jewry; worse than New York, in some ways, because people do not realize the Jewish domination as they do in New York,so Atlanta Jewry is able to get away with more raw methods.

Allen told us they had discovered a spy in their little group down there, a sneaky character named L.E. Rogers. He described to Arrowsmith and me how this Rogers had seized the confidential picketing instructions which I had packed with the signs, when they arrived in Atlanta, and had scooted off to his home with them. Allen and the boys had to go get them back. Later, when John Kasper was released from the Atlanta Penitentiary, and they wanted somebody to greet him, but didn't want the smears and publicity attendant thereon, they had cagily sent Rogers to do the public greeting, and he had not been able to get out of it. Allen thought this was pretty funny at the time.

He also told us that Rogers was forever suggesting dynamiting at the meetings they held in Atlanta. I have learned from this: Whenever anybody in our meetings even vaguely suggests bombings or anything the least bit illegal, we call the police or the FBI immediately. But the boys in Atlanta, while wanting no part of such illegal activity, hesitated to judge, convict and turn in a supposed 'fellow patriot' on such slim evidence. Everybody hates to be a 'squealer', so Rogers got away with his provocation, which I have since learned is one of the most easily recognized marks of the Jewish-paid provocateur. But I thought little of the story of Rogers at the time, except to laugh at Wallace's cleverness in sending him to welcome Kasper! The Jews were about to teach us a healthy lesson.

A few weeks later, on October 12, 1958, headlines all over the world the bombing of the Atlanta Synagogue! It made little impression on me, at first. My wife and I were lying in bed one morning, watching the early morning news on TV, when suddenly we saw Wallace Allen being arrested in the home we knew so well, with his wife and kids saying goodbye to him as he was dragged off to jail! They had tied our pickets in with a bombing, exactly as threatened. All of them were accused of bombing the Atlanta Synagogue! That early morning explosion had blown my whole life apart, forever.

Now, under Jewish pressure, the Atlanta police really displayed an illegal ferocity which was unbelievable! Our pickets were arrested without warrants, charged with vagrancy, held incommunicado, unmercifully driven and hounded to confess to a crime, about which they knew nothing. Spies and liars were placed in their cell, in hopes they would reveal something incriminating. They were charged under a special law which could, result in the electric chair if they were convicted! The whole right-wing was 'investigated by FBI agents seeking national tie-ins with the 'bombers'.

Meanwhile, sure that I had no connection with all this, except to help Allen and the, boys all I could, I had to push .hard to keep my head above water in Arlington. No matter how I begged and pleaded, I could not get Arrowsmith to pay the huge phone bill he said he would,'take care of' and this, plus all the other bills, including money, for food, were urgent. Then Arrowsmith disappeared again! I heard. rumors that he was in New York and had contacted my boys up there, but I paid little attention. My mind was riveted on Atlanta and the deadly drama going on down there, as the Jews literally attempted to murder our people in the electric chair as a lesson not to oppose them.

But then the rumors from New York became more disturbing. Some of the boys called and told me loyally that Arrowsmith was up there, trying to buy the leadership of the best and fightingest bunch of men in America with his money. In addition to his offers of money, he also threw in the press and equipment he had pledged to me and my family for launching this desperate battle. He wanted to snatch the equipment from me, as he had from Stephenson, and ship it to New York. But I felt that I had him sufficiently committed before witnesses so that, even without the contract which he would never sign, he could not do such an unjust and immoral thing to my family and me. But I reckoned without the nature of the spoiled little rich boy, Harold Arrowsmith, Jr. He was used to getting anything he wanted, when he wanted it – with his money. You can always hire lawyers and buy people – almost all people.

I was down in the cellar, printing for a lawyer in Annapolis, when my wife came running down the stairs, wiping her hands on her apron. She said to me in Icelandic: "There's a man here with a truck and some papers to pick up the press and the other stuff!"

I shut off the press and went up to see about this. Sure enough, there was a truck out front from Baltimore, and a man with a 'Bill of Sale' at the door. He insisted he had "bought" the equipment and was going to remove it on the spot.

I called the police and they said I had the right to forbid the man to come onto my premises, and this is what I did, but not before I called Arrowsmith and tried to find out what it was all about. He pretended not to be in and had his mother say that he was out of Baltimore, but I had heard him and called back in a few minutes, using the name of the man with the truck from Baltimore. This time the sneak answered. For an hour and a half, on my long distance bill, he whined at me that it was my duty to turn over the equipment and move out of the house.

I told him that I would not move out in less than a year, since that was the minimum time specified, even in our verbal contract, and that I would not release the equipment he had pledged to me and the family. I did my best to make him see what a horrible injustice it would be to throw my wife and kids quite literally out into the streets, without a livelihood, even if I had done something wrong. When I asked the reason for his dissatisfaction with me, he couldn't come up with anything I had done which was wrong or unfair to him. The best he could work up was that I was a poor printer! I finally had to hang up on him to stop the phone bill. He kept saying over and over that I was to turn over the equipment and move out.

A few days later, the press and then the FBI called on me, within hours of each other. I was told of a letter I had written to Wallace Allen which I had signed off with a "Sieg Heil!" and was asked if it were mine. I truthfully answered that it was. They had discovered it when they seized Allen and searched his house. They asked me all about my operation and Arrowsmith's part in it, and I again told them the truth. We were all under suspicion of complicity in the Atlanta bombing and lying would only get us into serious trouble – conceivably to share the electric chair with the unfortunate pickets of Atlanta. Of course, there was no point in trying to conceal Arrowsmith's ownership of the house. It was on file in the county offices.

Within hours the country's newspapers emblazoned across entire front pages the headlines that there was a national underground bombing ring under investigation by the FBI, and that Arrowsmith and I were the Moneybags and mastermind, respectively! Arrowsmith scurried to the FBI offices, demanding protection.

My home became the target for unbelievable abuse! Cherry bombs were thrown from speeding cars, my kids were stoned, our phone rang constantly, and some of the callers had my wife in tears with the viciousness of their threats and abuse. A car swerved into a parking lot driveway in the dark, when I was walking home with a bag of groceries from the supermarket across the street, and nearly hit me. I escaped only by leaping out of the way so quickly that I sprawled, face down, upon the pavement.

My boy in school was the constant target of insults and hatred. A cherry bomb came into an open window and exploded in the bed of my sleeping little four-year-old angel, Jeannie. I doubt that she will ever forget the terror of that experience as she came, screaming into our arms. I will never forget it, or forgive the bigots, the stupid half-wits and the bullies who did that! One morning, we found a homemade bomb on the lawn, a huge piece of pipe, capped at both ends and loaded with explosives! If that had gone off, we would have all been killed.

And now, Arrowsmith really went into action! While we were trying to cope with this wild life, earn a living and keep the family going, my wife again came down to the cellar and informed me that there were two sheriffs and policemen at the door with a writ of replevin. Arrowsmith meant business!

I was determined not to give up without a fight, and checked with a lawyer friend in my squadron who had told me that they could not force their way in without a search warrant. But the sheriff told me they didn't need a warrant, and tried to force his way in a couple of times. I held him out. Then he sent for more men, more police, and the top-ranking Sheriff of Arlington County. I tried to call my lawyer or any lawyer, but they were all off on a legal picnic! While I was on the phone, my wife was trying to hold these pushing minions of the law at the door, and I heard her squeal in pain, "You're hurting me!" I went wild. I ran for my .38, ready to defend my beloved wife now, not just the house, but she knew what I was doing and screamed so piteously for me not to do it that I stopped. How I thank God for the presence of mind and heroism of that brave woman!

I later learned that the sheriff did have every right to knock us aside and force his way in. If I had used that gun, my career and probably my life would have been all over. I also owe a great debt to the sheriff who exercised most commendable forbearance when he recognized our desperation, my ignorance of the law – and the cowardly, miserable actions of Arrowsmith. The latter 'heroically' hid all this time over the top of a hill as he sent the paid officers to do his dirty work in the name of the law!

Our battle paid off, and when I finally let the sheriff in, he determined that it was too late to pick up the equipment, and that I had until the morning to get a bond posted and file counterclaims against Arrowsmith's blitzkrieg.

But it was a hollow victory. It was obvious now that I not only had little prospect of earning any money in any job, but that it was quite likely that we would have no place to live and no equipment with which to earn a living. in addition, the constant attacks, the threats, the painful notoriety for a sensitive, gentle lady, and the impossible life for the innocent little kids made it clear that I could no longer subject my dear family to any more of such conditions.

My wife's family in Iceland are very well-to-do. Mr. Hallgrimmson, her father, is the chief owner and director of Shell Oil, one of the biggest corporations in the country. They were eager for her to come up there, where she would be comfortable, economically secure and physically safe.

Few men have loved their family more than I worshiped my wonderful wife and our beautiful children, but because of that very love, it was clearly my duty to forego trying to be with my family, when they could enjoy a decent life in Iceland, while I fought my way out of the wreckage after the Atlanta bombing and Arrowsmith's treachery. My loyal wife did not want to go. Her folks came over from Iceland to help her and to see what could be done. My own heart was breaking at the thought of being alone in all that danger and mess, without the sweetest and dearest human being I had ever known, and my precious kids. But I realized she simply had to go, and I had to stay and fight.

I knew what could happen in a year's separation, even to people as much in love as we were, and warned my wife that she might get too comfortable and safe up them, and might not want to come back. But she seemed to have the faith of an angel, and I had to fight with her to get her to agree to go. Over and over she scolded me for mentioning the possibility that she would grow away from me up there, and that nothing on earth could ever spoil our marriage no matter how long I had to fight. Even when I told her I felt sure I would go to prison, she would not lose her faith. So I made arrangements for my family to go up to Iceland.

Her folks generously paid for packing and shipping her belongings as well as the tickets for Thora and the children, and they promised to send her back again, after no more than a year, by which time I should have been able to fight my way out of the present mess.

I drove the family up to ldlewild International Airport in New York. It was a terrible moment in our lives as I held that dear person close, looked into her tear-filled eyes and sent her out of my life for the worst year each of us was ever to face. I hugged all my little ones; Ricky, too excited by the airplanes to notice the tragedy much, fat little "Grampaw" who was fighting with his pixy-like little sister Jeannie; and tiny baby Evelyn. Then I drove away into the lonely, empty battle.

I had no money, no job, no possibility of getting employment; my house was to be seized by court order and I faced the most gigantic and vindictive power on earth. I expected to spend most of the year in jail, after the Atlanta bombing. It is almost needless to say that most of my 'friends' – the 'die-hards' – had deserted me. I truly felt alone.