Douglas Mercer
February 4 2025
Continued from The Order: A Drama (Part Nine)
How to decipher what has happened is impossible for me here—who told what to whom, who made what mistake, how the chains of evidence came to be in the hands of the FBI. But there is no accounting for that now, not at this late date; but as this is a message to you my brothers please learn from my mistakes. First off I should never have gone near Tom Martinez after the arrest—killing him would have been best, but short of that a quarantine around him should have been affected. And undoubtedly when they rifled through my car at the Capri they found my plans to blow up Boundary Dam and other plans and names, it was the equivalent of leaving the gun behind in Ukiah. There was simply no excuse for it, all of these documents in the name of professionalism should have been stored and secured and concealed.
The key to any future endeavor (and it is my sincere hope that there will many such) is first to secure living space, pick only the best men, and drill into them that as far as anyone knows they are garden variety lovers of equality and the American dream, no loose talk can be tolerated and no stupidity countenanced. For instance one of my men was arrested for assaulting a male prostitute who had come on to him. Now that kind of queer degeneracy revolts me out of my mind, but that’s a name on a record and it will pop up on their radar and one day the ship will be sunk. Better either to take care of that vermin or to leave it all alone. You have to realize that the enemy's numbers and resources are vast and bottomless and we need to go recordless. That means once you pick up the rifle no racist literature in safe houses and no bulletins from our allies in PO Boxes. Hells Bells put up a picture of Martin Luther Coon in your house, or a goddamned peace sign decal on your car window—if by this time we need a pamphlet to tell us about the Jews and the niggers or show our colors, well, we might as well just pack it in.
Certainly the arsenal in Gary Yarborough’s home was a mistake, one thing goes wrong, and it blows him and his family to Kingdom Come. From what he told me he had 200 sticks of dynamite, the 45 Caliber MAC-10 used to kill Alan Berg, blasting caps, fuses, a 2 pound block of plastic explosive, twenty-five hand grenades, tens of thousands of rounds of ammunition, four crossbows, a 38 caliber MAC-10 with a silencer, an assortment of rifles, gas masks, automatic pistols, knives, tens of thousands of dollars in cash and, worst of all, a list of names. There was simply no excuse for it. One of the reasons for killing Walter West was that he had been blabbing about “Gary’s Army” and of course phone calls from Santa Rosa were made to this compound in Idaho. However the connection was made on October 18 1984 (about forty-three days ago) the FBI approached his house dressed as forest rangers; but when Gary discovered who they were he opened fire on them and a volley and exchange of gunshots occurred. Gary was able to flee into the woods behind the house and not be caught and our entire cache was therefore lost; we have more than enough cash crops by now to replace it dozens of times over but as evidence it was a fatal mistake.
When I think of the Capri Motel now I think most that it did not have go down the way it did. All I had to do was send my best men the word to disperse into the mists of the land, to head to the hills, and go dark and go off the grid—and wait for a time to reconnect and re-emerge. Hells bells I had all the proof I needed that they were bloodhounds on my trail—they were flying helicopters over Zillah’s home, and once they trapped she and I there and I sent her out in male clothing as a decoy to take them on a wild goose chase while I crept out into the night. I think what I thought was that I was ten feet tall and bullet proof, that I could stick my hand in any flame and not get burned, that I could tempt fate. But no mortal man is bullet proof, and physical strength, ability with arms, and courage are of paramount importance, but being able to think clearly with an icy eyed logic, is the most important trait one can have. Before we began to harvest money from our robberies we all put in a day’s work as loggers after which we all knew it would be our last day. One of the men said that he sure hoped we were a lot smarter than our fathers—because that kind of work was not for us.
***
When I fired at the agent I looked up and saw a handsome, strong White man and with a pure instinct I lowered my aim and shot for his leg—which I hit. Had it been a nigger you can be sure it would have been an unthinking shot in the face, the endless hours of target practice at The Bastion has always held me in good stead. What had happened is that I went out in front of my room that morning and began stretching and limbering up, taking a good breath of the morning air; to a stranger it might have seemed that I was about to go jogging, a ridiculous fad that had really taken over in the last decade. But as I looked out across the parking lot of the hotel I sensed something was wrong, if you had asked me I could not have put my finger on it but I had long since learned to trust myself in such situations and I slowly turned around and went back inside.
When I finally came back out a few minutes later I was proven correct hearing the words: Mathews. Halt. Stop. I had of course no intention of stopping and as I began to run there was a shot, from where I could not tell. I saw three red-jacketed FBI men below armed to the teeth, they seemed have sprung from the ground, and were running up the stairs and began pointing their machine guns at my door. Come out they said, Yarbrough. We know you’re in there. They began slamming at the door with their guns and soon I could hear the wailing of sirens and as I looked out into the street I saw the police cars and trailing them an Action News Truck. One way or another we were about to hit the Big Time.
Aware of the ambush I made my break for it leaping over the balcony railing and falling to the courtyard below. A bullet from an unseen source came whizzing by me but missed and ended up slicing through a window and sending glass shards shattering to the ground. Two agents were now chasing me as I ran and third soon emerged from a van ahead of me. I knew there was no way to reach my car so I circled back behind the Capri and began to sprint. At the end of the street was an apartment complex and I entered its courtyard and hid behind a wall drawing my gun. It was then the agent came into my view—the one I lowered my sight for—and struck him. As I shot I heard a second burst of gunfire and my hand was struck, causing my gun to fly from my grasp. By the time it hit the ground I was running again and was soon out of their sight. Breaking into a house I took a towel to wrap around my bleeding hand and hailed a car, telling the driver I had been in an accident. The driver let me in and soon, as more sirens began to wail, we stopped at light, I leapt out, and was gone. For all of their awesome firepower I was the will o the wisp again and I was dancing away—and in a very real sense the hunted had become the hunter.
***
We were parked in a little driveway off the road and I can tell you if that Volvo has showed up and drove down our way Yarborough would have shot him in the back of the head. Paranoia is one thing but an unerring sense of things is another and at the airport in Portland picking Tom up things had just seemed off, but we had to go through with it, this was my last chance to get him to believe and go with me. I can say that Gary did not share my sentimental attachment to the idea, as we drove on through the rainy night he sat in the back silently playing with his machine gun and hand grenades with an air of bemused detachment. Tom had booked himself into the Holiday Inn but the Volvo, which I was almost sure was following us though it departed just as fast, was the last straw—I told him, no you can’t be too careful, we don’t want to do anything too prearranged, we want to make it up as we go along and I drove into the Capri. As he sat next to me with his hip against the hard metal of my machine gun he seemed to be trying to hold down his nervousness, and the chill in the cabin seemed to bring with it an air of unspecified menace. When we got there I told Gary to go up to our room—number 42—while I stayed with Tom in number 14.
I knew it was time to lay it all on the line, it was now or never, I told him that it was time to become a fugitive, that I wanted him to meet David Lane in a few weeks either in Philadelphia, or Allentown, but that it was time for big things, real big things, that the System soon would not know what hit them, we would begin hitting them where they live; and that it would be like we were crawling out of the woodwork, or out of the blue, or out of their nightmares---and we would strike without fear or compunction. I told him that I wanted him in on the Dees thing—we were going to settle that matter—what we’d do is we would send him and Lane down to Greensboro, where we had already cased his life just like we had Berg’s.
And what we would do, we would kidnap him and torture him and get as much information out of him as we could; and then we’d kill him and pour lye over him. He was noncommittal saying fine, that’s fine Bob; and then I noticed that he had loafers of all things on. I pointed to the warrior shoes that Gary and I had, and I told him how the two of us had been in a sporting goods store and a nigger was at the register and we simply leveled our guns at him and had walked out of there with them. When he blanched I had my answer. He said my God Bob, you have millions of dollars why rob a pair of shoes? I told him he should have seen that nigger tremble. But as it is he was never one who could have understood. Somewhere along the line I had lost him forever. It's a sad matter of fact that some people will live their whole life and never figure it out.
***
Just before I leapt over the balcony I had ran past room 14 and had yelled out an imprecation and curse: thus ever to traitors! In the melee it is doubtful that he heard this but one day, maybe years from now, he will get the message spelled out clearly. When I had abandoned the car at the stop light I walked over to a gas station where I spotted a car with skis attached to the top of their car. I thought that they might be on their way to the ski resort of Mt. Hood. Sticking my wounded and bloody hand in my pocket---in case either of them could recognize a bullet wound—I asked if I could go with them, explaining that I had been in an automobile accident and wanted to get home to my family.
This last was the truth, for even at that time a prearranged pilgrimage was underway toward Whidbey Island, where I had rented homes; the island was really a finger of land and it was from there where I would declare forthrightly and for all time that eternal war on the United States Of America. It would be ironic that I would no longer be on the mainland of the North American continent and at nearly the furthest point from Europe that one could get. But then that grand experiment when the English conquered this beautiful land was at an end now and receding year by year, the dream having gone up in dust.
The only hope now were separatist and strong enclaves of the White race from which we would attack the former territory and inherit what remained after the destruction. The couple drove me to Mt. Hood and then we parted; I knew that in my car at the Capri I had left a list of the safe houses in Mt. Hood so I went directly to Whidbey Island, a place chosen for its utter isolation—it’s one drawback, which I knew might prove fatal, was that it was an island it’s only exit a bridge which stretched to the mainland. It was on this Island I would take up residence at a wooden structure at the island’s farthest tip, overlooking the aptly named Smuggler’s Cove.
It was there I had stashed what I needed: a gas mask, machine guns, large caches of ammunition, and explosives. And of course I had there too a typewriter and reams of papers; for it was there (or here!) that I would write this, and give it to one of the members who I knew would leave the island for safety; and it was this that you are reading which is the fruit and memory of my life along with my actions. For the fame of a dead hero never dies; and make no mistake about it: I went to Whidbey Island with every intention of creating my very own funeral pyre and extolling it to the skies. By now you know how well I succeeded.
***
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 Eleven)
