The Order: A Drama (Part Eleven)

[Douglas Mercer]

Douglas Mercer
February 6 2025

Continued from The Order: A Drama (Part Ten)

I’m an ordinary guy
Burning down their house
That’s right


I have been reading racist literature since I was ten years old; first I was reading the literature of the John Birch Society, which barely skirted the race issue, and I joined this group at a young age (much to my parent's consternation). As I grew older I saw that it was necessary to go in for the hard stuff, first and foremost Mein Kampf. Hitler said that The Passing Of The Great Race was his Bible but, Sir, your book is ours. I always find it amusing how writers will say of this book that it is written in deadened language and is poorly constructed, so as to prepare people and steer them away from it. Upon inspection it is nothing of the sort, it is written in clear and lucid prose and it masterfully develops its ideas. And what ideas they are! Order, strength, power. For a young man such as myself they swept the cobwebs out of my mind and brought in eternal sunshine; and I have never looked back. I was hooked from the inception. I can still recall the nod of recognition I gave when he wrote that when one takes the scalpel to the abscesses of society and the pus runs out of its running sores one will always find one and one thing only: the Jews. I can say that nothing I have experienced on this planet subsequent to this has proven this incorrect.

I then read Wagner’s bracing words on the Jews and then the classics: Chamberlain, Grant, Stoddard. Then the more modern books of Klassen and Robertson and the epic novel of our racial struggle: The Camp Of The Saints. These books were prescient and clairvoyant, they were the Nostradamuses of our ordeal. Then my education was finished off by Strom and Pierce, both in their elegant written work and in person where they were even more pointed. I have always had a voracious interest in both current events and history, and spent much of my spare time in this kind of serious reading. I wanted to understand my race’s past, so that I could make some sense out of the chaotic present and gain some hint of what the future might hold. In this endeavor all of these authors have held me forever in good stead.

As my understanding grew, so did my concern — and I soon became aware of a suppressed emotion buried deep within my soul, that of racial pride and consciousness. I viewed with increasing alarm the darkening of America by an unchecked horde of non-White immigrants, the insidious inculcation of non-White values into young Americans by a degenerate educational system and alien-controlled entertainment media, the treasonous subservience of the nation’s political leaders to a bloodthirsty band of gangsters going by the name of Jews.

By the time my son had arrived I realized that White America — indeed my entire race — was headed for oblivion, unless White men rose and turned the tide. The more I came to love my son, the more I realized that, unless things changed radically, by the time he was my age he would be a stranger in his own land, a blond-haired, blue-eyed Aryan in a country populated mainly by Mexicans, mulattoes, Blacks, and Asians. His future was growing darker by the day. This realization that my nation and the future of my son were being destroyed before my eyes tormented me. What distressed me even more, however, was the pusillanimous acceptance by my fellow Americans of the evils overtaking the country. A great sickness has overcome us. Why do our people do nothing? What madness is this? What destruction are we willing to countenance?

I contrasted the selfish and cowardly behavior of most White Americans today with the heroism of an earlier era, and with the heroism of their European forebears. Were the men of the Alamo only a myth? The men of Bunker Hill? The men who drove the wagon trains? The more I agonized over these questions, the more clearly I saw my own responsibility. Finally, my conscience would let me wait no longer. I have no choice. I must stand up like a White man and do battle. And so I have.

***

The Aryan race has always been the vanguard of progress on this planet and that is how it should be. It was only our race which could have brought us to a planetary civilization and poised us for our leap to the stars. And yet the unbridled machine civilization under the auspices of a blind Jewish Capitalism has set itself against the earth. And the control of this machine civilization has slipped from the Aryan grasp, and has become a New World order of technocratic elites working for the behest of Jewish Global Domination. Anyone looking about can see that this civilization is a sophisticated one; but with every advance in this domain comes an equal and opposite risk and danger; for the masses become accustomed to the machine and lose the knowledge of how to live off the earth. And as the machine become more complex they become correspondingly more vulnerable.

It was along these lines that I was thinking but unfortunately my tragic fate has curtailed my vast plans of disruption. I saw a show on television once that was called the Earth Without Man. The premise was what would happen if suddenly human beings disappeared from the planet en masse. The answer was that in every major city within two weeks fires would begin raging into infernos which would quickly turn all the progress into smoldering embers; the fires would rage for months then die down to cinder. Without man maintaining his created infrastructure, a boiler would blow here, a gas station would explode there and soon in a fiery concatenation all would burst into flames.

And then over a much longer period of time man presence on this planet would sink and subside back into the earth as if it never was. I read once where Hitler said that he was impressed with mankind’s progress but not that impressed; one thing goes wrong and it all falls like a house of cards. For one creating a strategy as to how to topple it all such ruminations gave me much food for thought and a simple rule. Find the weak point and exploit it to the hilt. Locate the soft underbelly and then relentlessly attack it. Metaline Falls was to be my oasis and would have been my base to strike, beautiful unspoiled county full of pristine and uncorrupted nature and the children ever present to spur us on, the promise of the future. It would have been from this Elysium that we would have rained down death and destruction upon a rotting carcass of a society which from every indication was begging to be put out of its misery.

***

Since my fame and my glory and the folk tales and the lore which will surround me will be posthumous I am very concerned how our actions will be viewed, and indeed it this meticulous record which will do much to make the history of our actions accurate. I will indeed become a name to conjure with, like Paul Bunyan and Johnny Appleseed, the legends around me will grow but, trust me, the reality it was epic enough. First off we were as far as far could be from the bumbling theatricals such as the SLO or The Weathermen; these were Jewish groups aiming at communist goals; and second, they had no sweeping vision but only ad hoc plans which for all the impact they had might just as well have been left on the drawing board. They attacked, society yawned, and that was it for them.

But the fascination our story holds, and will always hold, for the minions of the controlled media is due to several features. First, there is the sheer scale and relative professionalism of the thing. Previous instances of direct action by our White brothers amounted to little more than a pop gun carnival. You had things on the order of three or so Klansmen getting all liquored up and then firing some potshots with a shotgun from a pickup truck as they sped through a Black neighborhood, taking out a window at a nigger bar. By way of indelible contrast, in just one armored-car hijacking seventeen men of The Order, operating with honed military precision, riddled a Brink’s truck with automatic-rifle fire and made off with $3.6 million in cash. We recruited two Brink’s branch managers and were preparing to clean out the main Brink’s vaults in San Francisco, where as much as $50 million in cash is kept; by this time we had accumulated a million-dollar arsenal of military weapons, including machine guns, hand grenades, and night-vision sights for our stack of automatic rifles, as well as high-tech communications equipment and a huge store of explosives; and we were about to get lasers.

But even more than the magnitude of our accomplishments was the great vista and scope or our aims. Violent White resistance in the past had nearly always been strictly local in character, and largely unplanned: ad hoc opposition to a forced busing program, to the destruction of a White neighborhood by a Federal race-mixing decree, or to public activity by an anti-White group such as tax resisting or opposition to affirmative action. Our goals on the other hand were more drastic and draconian and thoroughgoing: we set our sights on a full-scale armed revolution, ending with the purification of the U.S. population and the institution of a race-based, authoritarian government. We recruited activists throughout the country, and carried out our strikes in half-a-dozen states. No one can think we were small minded or thought small; we aimed only for the jugular.

But we were unique in more ways than the magnitude of our plans and the spectacular nature of our operations. There was always from the beginning a fabled element of do-or-die heroism, of fanaticism and determination, and of idealistic motivation in the group which caused for those with eyes to see the heart to swell and the blood to pump more strongly — and, of course, which caused cold shivers and panic attacks in others. Even those among those Whites who do not fully share our aims, but who nevertheless feel in the pit of their soul that something has gone horribly wrong, even among those people it would be hard for them to contain some grudging admiration for our deed and exploits.

And it was also the character of the men whom I surrounded myself with that must elicit respect in the fair-minded observer. We hardly fit the controlled media’s stereotyped image of the White activist — that of the deranged hater or the cowardly braggart. We were men who had no time or inclination to hate or brag. We were earnest and passionate men, with strong convictions about what was right and what was wrong. That is we were like those Knights of old, gallant and chivalric, and our loyalty was our honor; it is this that we shall be remembered for, these famous deeds on behalf of our kin folk, the memory of which shall not only never die; but will spur our inheritors on to ever more beautiful and successful action.

***

The fact of the matter however is that, sadly, we got crushed by our learning curve. So effervescent and intoxicating were the actions we were taking we got ahead of ourselves, and I must admit that I was reckless. Had I been able to exert more control, and had we bided or time, and got our act together in totality; had I trained our men in stealth and silence and in vigilant care; that is had we become a large and hardened and steeled organization of cool and icy eyed logicians—we could have become that invisible army of our dreams and no one, no one would have touched us, no sooner than a deed was done we would have melted seamlessly back into the country side from which we came; we would be hitting them where they lived; and they would not have known what hit them.

What would we have done? The answer to that is what wouldn’t we have done? Hit or miss we had the dedicated cadres, and the men with the smarts, to cut a swath of destruction through the land. For what we had come for was to set the world on fire and my only regret is that it is not already burning! For the world that I inherited, every ounce of my soul tells me, is one that is rotting from within, it is an Iron Age; and as the old saying goes the friend on a ledge sometimes needs a hand and sometime a push—or a shove. The conservative will try to save or reform it; the White Racialist who hunkers downs in his redoubt will try to weather it—but evil cannot be saved nor endured—it must be destroyed. Can a hundred or a thousand or ten thousand men bring down a world? Perhaps that is debatable but my credo was always to test all things, to test them empirically. And no matter how imposing the edifice is it always has its Achilles heels; after all what inordinate care does it take to build a house; but a hundred dollars' worth of dynamite and a match is sufficient to bring it down—provided there is a will.

***

A Dam, in addition to being an essential supplier of power, is a prestige concept, a symbol of control, progress and power; indeed, to say the dam breaks means all hell breaks loose. Boundary Dam is a concrete arch gravity type hydroelectric dam on the Pend Oreille River, and it was completed within my lifetime, in 1967. Any dam that fails would bring in its wake flash flooding, towns washed away, and tens of thousands in terms of loss of life; all in all a catastrophe, but more than the physical destruction it would be a psychological disaster.

All of Seattle would have gone dark, and when they learned that it was set off by what they would term malignant hands the effects in demoralization would be ramified. We were thinking of this on a large scale, which is why we were getting lasers with which to disrupt the power grid of Los Angles during the Olympics, to poison the water supply in major metropolitan areas; as for Los Angeles a people living in a desert and living the so-called beautiful life is wholly unequipped for total disaster. And as we all know in times of utter devastation any population which is unlucky enough to harbor a high percentage of negros will see them, as their surroundings return to the primitive state that they never stopped mentally inhabiting, they will see them begin their inevitable sprees of marauding and cut their own swath of destruction within the larger cataclysm—and so a race war will intensify.

This may seem like far-fetched and outlandish fantasy or (the official view) the sick delirium of dying man. But in their hearts they know that it is no such thing, we were that small band of men who could change the world and topple its already tottering edifice. The way I looked at it we would need to make one or two such strikes—preferably one hard on the heels of the first—to send shock waves of hysteria through the system. The only question—there was no question of will, we had consigned our lives to Valhalla by then—was the question of being able to get in and out. We studied this question for some time and concluded that although it was not risk free--nothing ever is--it was far easier than one might suppose. Indeed the future will be full of a such actions and on an ever-increasing scale—buildings sent to the ground, mad crowed running, hand wringing and fear in high places. For the future belong only to the man who is willing to get his hands dirty......

***

This will be the famous strategy of tension, of rendering off balance, created by elite and secret spearheads of leaderless cadres, who set out—one at a time—to offer seemingly inexplicable—and certainly untraceable—violence and so create a pre-revolutionary situation. For what disheartens society the most is that the lives they lead—which they know in their heart of hearts though their waking selves would be loathe to admit it—are devoid of meaning. And the fact that there are men in the world who are willing to risk life and limb in the pursuit of an idealistic goal must mean their utter spiritual defeat. Of courses we would be connoisseurs of such destruction—it is an elite endeavor, and acquired taste you might say and the silence which surrounds us would be given a fatal sound. For nothing will chill the bone of the average householder like mayhem, horror and disorder.

Naturally we would have had to have abandoned Metaline Falls, we could have no fixed abode or any place to hang our hats, we would appear normal in our everyday mien but would in reality be deadly spearheads. That this grand and sweeping vision was cut short in the planning stages is a great tragedy—one that can only be redeemed in time by redoubled efforts of our successors. But I can say how tantalizingly close we came; we were on the cusp of becoming that anonymous force, using disguises, fake IDS, plastic surgery, dyes, and new names to make us an unseen army. We would have our Bastions and our cash crops, and our local teams; living off the land and on the move with devolved command structures we would have communicated by or sophisticated technology on in preordained meeting places. In this way we could have brought the system to it knees, to inflict on it a punishing schedule of physical horror and psychological terror, for the only thing worse than not knowing what is going to happens next is to know for sure; and it’s safe to say as for the hearts and minds which any battle must obsess over things appear very different when you are hacking through impenetrable forests and burying loved ones. We, at any rate, were counting on it. Which is another way of saying that the sky was the limit. And just because we will not make it to the Promise White Homeland does not mean it is not a real place. I assure you my brothers: I see it now in the eye of my mind.

***

Notes:

The National Alliance has a hardline policy — no violence and no promotion of violence — and it makes sense. The organization has its eyes on eternity, and in terms of enemies the flotsam and jetsam they deal with today are cosmic afterthoughts. So it’s best to keep the head down, treat them as beneath contempt, and keep the powder dry. Bob Mathews took another route, not the hard and long and patient one extolled by William Pierce, but the one of sudden and apocalyptic fury. One sees him as misguided, but on a more human level one can also see that his tale is one of courage and devotion — and his saga is spellbinding.

Continued at The Order: A Drama (Part Twelve)

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