The Frank Collin Affair
Dear Harold -
Would you mind just briefly summarizing what the deal with Frank Collin was? I'm curious.
Sorry, I keep forgetting how old I am. I keep forgetting that to a lot of you, all this is ancient history.
Okay, very long and very complex story made as short and simple as possible:
In 1979 a man named Frank Collin was head of the National Socialist Party of America based in Chicago. The NSPA was one of two splits from Koehl's NSWPP that survived, the second being Allen Vincent's National Socialist White Worker's Party.
Frank had a lot of personal and leadership problems--I was his Deputy Leader for several years and more or less ran the Party, to be quite honest,which included among other things signing John Hinckley's membership card, which is another story--but basically, the fact was that other than the loathsome Matt Koehl, Collin was the only other NS game in town.
Bear in mind this was when we were all wearing the costume and pretending it was the 1930s in Europe, myself included. We had a sense of history and destiny which, as misplaced as it was, I would give a lot to recover. Those of you old enough to remember the genuinely significant Operation Skokie--well, that was Frank's outfit, including myself at the time.
In the autumn of 1979 an NSPA member named Mike Whalen discovered actual, incontrovertible, physical proof that Collin was buggering little boys in the Nazi headquarters building in Marquette Park and elsewhere. As in photographs. I will not get into the details because they make me physically ill even today. I yammer a lot about buggery and queer conspiracies, but I have a great deal of difficulty actually describing the filthy things they do. Put it this way--it was bad. We eventually accumulated a mass of evidence including more photos and cassette tapes (Collin recorded his activities, if you can believe that) which we kept in something we called "the dirt box."
An informal group formed to consider what to do, rather similar to the medieval Fehmegericht. We had the means to physically eject Frank from the Party and the building, which I provided, and there was never any question that he was going out and he was going to bounce when he did. But the question was: was this enough? I will not re-hash the long hours of debate between myself, Gerhard Lauck, and the members of the Chicago unit. That was one of the worst times of my life and I would rather forget it all happened, but I can't.
This was in 1979, remember, before the internet, and the people involved were of my generation or older, so there was actually some remaining vestige of moralprinciple in the Movement in those days. We were actually capable of doing something purely because it was the right thing to do. You just don't let someone betray National Socialism like that and do nothing.
Our choices boiled down to two: kill the son of a bitch or turn him in to the police. I had more than enough volunteers to kill him, men I knew to be sincere, but I vetoed it not just on the grounds of our probable incompetence to pull off a successful murder, but also because I didn't want anyone, myself or any of those fine Chicago boys, destroying ourselves over that yellow dog. He wasn't worth it. So we turned Collin in to the police and he ended up doing seven years in Joliet and Menard for homosexual child molestation, to which he pleaded guilty.
Collin did his time, got out, went to live with his parents in Olympia Fields, formed some sort of weird nut cult revolving around Atlantis which I presume involves rituals with little boys, and I am told he used to spend a lot of time making heckling phone calls to an short-wave evangelist in South Carolina calling himself Brother Stair.
Nowadays, of course, a guilty plea would mean nothing. As in the case of David Duke, it would by now have been simply air-brushed out of the picture. Hell, nowadays Collin would be on salary with the National Alliance, leaving his excrement on people's doorsteps and posting pictures of himself in his underwear on web sites.
I daily expect to hear of some attempt on his part to return to the "Movement." Hell, if Glenn Miller can do it, why not Frank Collin?
And that's the name of that tune.