The Order: A Drama (Part Seven)

[Douglas Mercer]

Douglas Mercer
February 1 2025

Continued from The Order: A Drama (Part Six)

Treachery and betrayal are the most heinous sins a man can commit; in our Revolution Benedict Arnold became a very byword for treason when he plotted to switch sides; in England William Joyce saw through the tissue of lies peddled by that Country and broadcast messages of the truth to his fellow Aryans from Germany; for his stalwart action in the defense of his race he was made to twist in the wind; Poet Ezra Pound made the same choice as Joyce and broadcast the truth from Italy; after the war he was put in a cage in the searing sun and was declared insane and committed to a psychiatric clinic; this is how counties deal with those they deem to have committed treason.

Why should we be any different? We need no authorization, no license, no permission to create our own homeland for our own people; we need no higher say so to enforce it; legitimacy, such as it is, is always in the eye of the beholder. And in a small-scale band of brothers such as ourselves honor and loyalty are even more important. We live face to face and fight hand to hand; we literally hold the key to each other’s lives; we eat together, we plan together, we are a family, a real family in the most exalted sense. The SS was also just such a band of brothers and their motto was simple and plain: my loyalty is my honor. And when we stood in that circle and pledged our lives and our fortune to one another it was a blood oath, the kind in ancient days the chieftains of Germany used to make. It is something we have to be able to rely on unthinkingly. But when the chain is broken a man’s head must be cut off and brought back to the leader.

Walter West was such a traitor. And as I sit her clacking out this manifesto (for my brothers in the future, for our racial posterity) I take the blame. Not for killing him, that was fully justified and a dire necessity, but for making some leadership decisions which I regret. For just as I dropped the fatal gun in Ukiah I failed to strike the balance between our need to recruit men in great numbers and ensuring that each one was a dyed in the wool and faithful man. One does not need to be clairvoyant to imagine that in the future some insidious director will lead off his film with this fatal scene. Dark at night they will show three men drive to an isolated spot in the forest and one man will attack another from behind leaving his head bloody as he reels to the ground. Before the shots ring out they will accuse him of compromising our security, putting our lives at risk. The man on the ground will be uncomprehending but the shots will be final as they scoop up his brains and drag the body to an unceremonious hole they have previously dug.

It will all be suitably dramatic! The gland like audience will pick up all the cues they are meant to. Horror will ripple through the audience. But Walter West was an undisciplined man who liked to talk big in bars, he gave away hallowed secrets; he forgot our first name, that among our many names (and we have as many names as the progeny of our future!) was the Silent Brotherhood, Bruders Schweigen. He was putting our future on the line while drinking his belly full. What that audience will not recall, what they will not be told, is how William Joyce was left swinging from a rope on January 3 1946 in England, or how the scar on his face was split wide open because of the pressure applied to his head upon the fatal drop from the gallows. Or how his last words were:

In death as in life, I defy the Jews who caused this last war, and I defy the power of darkness which they represent. I warn the British people against the crushing imperialism of the Soviet Union. May Britain be great once again and in the hour of the greatest danger in the West may the standard be raised from the dust, crowned with the words – "You have conquered nevertheless". I am proud to die for my ideals and I am sorry for the sons of Britain who have died without knowing why

But unlike the rabble of the millions we of our cadres of heroes remember, revere, and extol our martyrs. We are no Yahwehists but we too subscribe to an eye for an eye. And when it comes to justice we answer only bomb for bomb.

***

I look around me now at my Island Fortress. I have been abandoned by my men who think that this place is indefensible. Of course it is. Mistakes were made, made by me. I was too hell bent on swift action and should have been patient and bided my time. And as I clack this out I can see how it will end. I have an arsenal and can defend the perimeters to the extent that they cannot get in. Seeing that they cannot extricate me from my sacred stronghold of an Eyrie they will use all that they have: the preponderance of force and numbers and the wood of this retreat will conspire against me. They will simply rain down incendiaries on me from above or light torches from below. And like the sacred cities of Germany I will be burst into eternal flame.

Flame! Flame! Nothing could be a more suitable end for what I have achieved; nothing could be fit and more proper. Like those Vikings who set the departed ship aflame or the end of the Ring it is only fire which purges, it is only flame which will save us. And I too in death as in life defy the Jews and all of their minions who carry out their evil. I have read that when a man dies in fire he does not die from burning. Rather the fire sucks the oxygen from the air and before the flame can burn the body I will suffocate. Which is why these last words must come out from my mouth so that there will be an accurate record of what has transpired—so that our inheritors can know and remember and build upon it. But the one message I most want to impart is a simple one: never forget the flame or our Race.

***

The thing about Tom Martinez is that everyone liked him, that turned out to be the tragedy. In his three years at the National Alliance William Pierce liked him. At meetings of the Alliance amid the aging fans of Wallace Tom seemed to be a breath of fresh air. He had been a tremendous fund raiser for the Alliance, distributing its literature door to door with great success and bringing home lot of money; he had been successful as recruiter in Philadelphia. But more than that he was just the kind of person that our movement needed. Unlike myself and many others who came from the solid middle-class Tom was a corner boy from Whitetown, blue collar and close to the people, the very people who had been stunned by the Jewish power into a stunted ignorance at the true cause of their plight. But living check by jowl with the blacks they were in no wise ignorant of the savagery of the negro: they saw it in their lives every day.

My first words to him in 1981 were an infectious “Hi, I am Bob Matthews. Tom, I’ve heard a lot of great things about you and your recruiting in Philadelphia” It was true, they were legendary. And this was just the kind of energy that I needed, even then thinking that I needed myself to be a leader not a follower and thinking of splintering off to form my own cadre under my exclusive control. When I got to know him I found out his story and I liked him even more. The way he grew up I could not imagine from reality, but it was exactly the reason for my actions. He told me he was from K and A, Kensington and Allegheny, a neighborhood in Philadelphia.

It was White to the core and they called it Whitetown, not like the outer White suburbs where the deracinated and snotty and Jew besotted upper class Whites had their cocktail parties and looked down their noses at the White masses but true and good White Town: real and gritty and heartbreaking for anyone who loves our race. In the days before the American Revolution Kensington was a place of green forests and quaint and beautiful little Dairy Farms where hardy farmers would lead their cows along cobbled streets, the wives in long homespun dresses and peaked caps holding flower painted pitchers containing the day’s supply of milk. It is these images I think of when I see the beautiful White children of Metaline Falls, the images of our birthright, of sun and milk and great nature unspoiled, it is why I am a convinced White separatists, wanting to create an autonomous nation for our people where we can live according the dictates of our own hearts and develop along out own racial lines.

When Tom told me of his time as a youth in Whtietown my heart broke, thinking of all who had and have to endure it, and his words redoubled my convictions. Indeed his story is a parable of our race in the 1960s and 1970s. The drug dealers invaded K and A and our people, without any leaders, turned sullen and, pocketed welfare checks and sniffed glue. When they were young they would have block parties with baked goods and beer, and one would think it would have gone on forever. Tom said that until he began junior High School his life was paradise, and he had hardly ever met a black person. But with the rising tide of Civil Rights and official nigger love that was all about to change. In Kensington then the name for the black was the apt nigger, said with unremitting scorn and disgust. But 1967 was a fatal year, the year the Jewish social engineers who ruled our land began bussing black kids to White schools in Philadelphia and White kids to black schools. That such a thing would even be contemplated in White America beggars belief. But as I told one of our new recruits when I offered him 1000 a month and he told me that was good money, money hard to come by these days for an honest White man: but then this is not our country anymore. Smiling an all too knowing smile he responded: you got that fucking right.

Tom’s school was one that was picked for this monstrous experiment in race mixing. Hatred soon became the only subject taught in those schools, as the Catholics (another example of cutting and running) enrolled their children with the nuns. That meant that the little savage spooks filled all the empty White seats, and soon a state of planned war existed, and anyone who thinks it was not a Jewish plan is naïve. Tom told me they had their triumphant moment each day as the black kids would have to go under police protection to pile into the bus taking them back to their rat infested ghetto. But the battle could not be won that way—the enemy was too powerful. So instead of learning, the school became one long pitched battle, the Whites and the blacks like miniature soldiers in a long standing war. By the time he got to Thomas Edison High School the student body was almost entirely nigger---the school was full of dark and dank corridors, tattered books, falling plaster. This was no place for an Aryan child to learn and I think of these images every time we go out on a mission. Black gangs of feral savages—black gangs with names like Zulu Nation—roamed the school halls at will like they owned the place, surely the apathetic and listless faculty, who had imbibed the race mixing credo or were just plain fearful themselves, were not going to do anything about it.

The niggers soon murdered a White child, a child from Kensington known to Tom, he was stabbed by a black gang member. He is an unnamed person on the rolls our innumerable dead. As a result a racial fight broke out, with bullets flying, rocks and bottles thrown; Tom was in the middle of this fight and it seared and scarred his memory. Then during one of his classes one of the little black monsters singled out Tom and told him he and his fellow negros were going to put a homicide on him. After this direct threat ten of the gang members got up and left the classroom as if to punctuate it and send an unmistakable message that they meant business. The teacher just laughed at this murderous promise. A few moments later Tom asked to be excused to go to the bathroom and left the school forever. This was not cutting and running—the cutting and running had been done by those who presides over the school and rubbed their hands in delight at the carnage. Tom never went back to that school. He had been displaced. But he wanted to fight; in the end he just did not want to fight enough.

To escape this travesty Tom joined the Army and by so doing he joined the very institution meant to lord it over Whites and serve Jewish interests. When he was expelled from the Army he was good and hopping mad, as well he might be; and it was this that led him on the path the defense of the White race. I so badly wanted this man to go underground with me and share in the struggle. I even stooped to trying to buy him off. But here’s the thing: for all of his sound instincts Tom was never a true believer. He balked at our more extreme measures; he would never even read past the first few chapters of Turner so bloodthirsty did he take it as. I knew all this as plain as day but the fact is that Tom Martinez was my weak point, my weak point which leads me to believe that I, like Earl Turner, must expiate my sins in a raging fire. For despite myself I had fallen in love with Tom Martinez, his story, what he represented, his promise; and turned a blind eye to his signal failings. The Greeks say that every tragic hero has his fatal flaw and here his mine: I confused love with truth. But now having paid the price I know the latter is always cold blooded and gets its own in the end. One day Tom’s head will be delivered on a pike, and all accounts settled. But as for now I will continue for a while to scribble furiously.

Continued at The Order: A Drama (Part Eight)

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