Sunday, July 31, 2011

Northwest Observer #109

I suppose I should start advertising NO on here again, so the August issue of our magazine Northwest Observer is now out. Contact me at for a sample copy.

Saturday, July 30, 2011

P.S. On Anders Breivik

Apparently I need to clarify some of my remarks on Anders Breivik from the July 28th podcast.

Friday, July 29, 2011

The Murder of Jeff Hughes: The Coverup Continues

[It should be pointed out that this is the "official version" of Jeff's murder. As with anything emanating from the Ottawa government, it is self-serving, mendacious, and utterly lacking in credibility. Bear in mind that it took these people 18 whole months of silence to come up with this story. Anyone who believes it is a fool. - HAC]

Jeff Hughes Inquest, Day 1: Dissident Left to Die by Heavily Armed Officers Afraid to Approach a Mortally Wounded Man

Nanaimo, July 25, 2011. The inquest into the police shooting and killing of White Nationalist Jeffrey Scott Hughes, 48, on October 23, 2998, opened this morning before Coroner Marj Paonessa. The first day’s testimony was marked both by what it contained that might have been inflammatory or irrelevant and what it did not contain.

The seven person coroner’s jury – four men and three women, – is, in the opening instructions of Coroner Paonessa “investigatory, not accusatory. A member of our community is dead. You are a fact finding body. You must decide the identity of the deceased and how where, when and why he died.”

Today’s only witness, led by inquest counsel Rodrick Mackenzie, was Detective Michelle Robertson of the Victoria Police Department. Her department was called in to investigate the 2009 shooting of Mr. Hughes by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. “It’s still police investigating police,” Victoria lawyer Douglas H. Christie, who is representing an interested party, said at the noontime break.

In an opening statement, Mr. Mackenzie summed up his version of the fatal events. “On October 23, the RCMP in Nanaimo received a noise complaint from the business manager of 521 Selby Street,. Officers were dispatched. Loud music was heard coming from apartment 101, Mr. Hughes unit.” According to Mr. Mackenzie, the RCMP knocked on his door and identified themselves. “Hughes,” he said, made threats.

However, Doug Christie wonders, “How could they hear those threats over all the noise?”

Then, said, Mr. Mackenzie, “Mr. Hughes left the apartment with what police thought was a handgun and then went back inside. Somewhat later, he came out with what they thought was a handgun and they shot him.”

Witness Detective Robertson is a member of the Vancouver Island Integrated Major Crime Unit which investigates mostly homicides and in-custody police shootings, Her evidence was a computer presentation, Special software allows her to string together recorded police dispatches and telephone (but not cellphone) communications. She demonstrated the exact time of each communication along with a transcript or summary of what was said.

Her timeline opened with a call at 5:37 a.m., October 23, with a noise complaint from the building manager of Mr. Hughes low rise rental unit. In cross-examination,. Mr. Christie wondered why complaints Mr. Hughes had phoned in earlier that morning about his raucous neighbours in unit 104 had not been entered into evidence, if we are to have a complete picture of the event.

Police were dispatched at 5:42 and arrived at 5:47. Dispatch first told the officers that Mr. Hughes “had no previous history.” Officers also saw blood on the carpet leading to Mr. Hughes door.

Mr. Christie has learned that Mr. Hughes confronted his drug dealing neighbours about the noise and was beaten for his efforts – thus, the blood in the passageway leading to his door.

The police check the Canadian Firearms Registry and learn Mr. Hughes has no registered weapons.

At 6:03, police allege that Mr. Hughes says he’ll shoot them if they try to enter his apartment and says he wants to die.

More officers arrive. At 6:05, the police call the Crisis Response Team, a medical psychiatric unit. A message informs them that the unit does not open until 7:00 and no messages will be returned until 7:00 a.m. Several more increasingly desperate calls will be made over the next hour to the impersonal answering machine, with no better results.

At 6:25, the police reach the psychiatric unit of the local hospital and are told that Jeff Hughes, of a different address, is “violent and a high risk.”

At 6:37, RCMP Const. Ziegler warns: “Know your crossfire that there’s no blue on blue.” It is still rainy and dark that October morning.

Doug Christie asks of Const. Ziegler’s remarks: “Are these simply precautions or are they already thinking of shooting Jeff Hughes.?”

The RCMP ERT team was summoned and were mustering. Despite repeated calls to the cellphone and home phones of two negotiators, they were never reached.

At 6:51 Const. Ziegler shouts: “He’s got a firearm. He’s waving a revolver.”

Det. Robertson’s presentation then shows the picture of a stubby flaregun. The flaregun was reportedly found in Mr. Hughes’ hands after he was shot. In cross-examination. Mr. Christie learned that, while the officers on the scene could not find a weapon initially. It was found by Sgt. Kirby Anderson of the ERT after the shooting. Mr. Christie got Det. Robertson to admit that the flaregun had not been fired during the incident and would certainly have been seen as it was still dark had it been discharged. “There was no evidence a flaregun was discharged at the scene,” she said.

At 6.56. officers Long and Macfarlane report Hughes door is opening and he’s coming out. Immediately. Const. Ziegler shouts: “Got a green, we’ve got a green light, you guys!”

Not long after, the dispatcher says: “We’re going to do a perp takeout.” Doug Christie had Det. Robertson replay the call four times. She insisted that the voice said: “We’re going to do an ERT (pronounced urt] pageout” – or call for the Emergency Response Team (SWAT team). Many in the court felt Doug’s hearing was the more accurate one.

Shortly after 6:56 a.m. numerous shots are fired at Jeff Hughes. Almost immediately, concerned residents start calling 911 and are curtly informed that the police are already there. One man says he heard six shots.

At 6:58, the RCMP media unit is informed. Det. Robertson claimed this is done to alert the public and keep them way from the crime scene. A skeptical Doug Christie pointed out that the officers had already established a secure perimeter in the area.

At. 6:59, Staff Sgt. Doug Hogg is called and informed that a “male who was suicidal and who had barricaded himself has been shot.”

Const. Heather Cook is just around the corner of the building and can see Jeff Hughes’ body illuminated by her flashlight. At 6:59, she reports: “He’s still breathing,. Did anyone see where than gun went? He’s moving his head and every now and then he puts his hands on his crotch.”

At 7:00 a.m., she radios: “He’s not moving at all. I don’t know where that firearm went”

At 7:01 Cpl. McIntosh says: “He’s still armed and no one is going in until we can confirm that he’s not, okay.”

At 7:12 Const. McIntosh and Ziegler are still worried about being in the open and refuse to approach the mortally wounded Mr. Hughes.

Indeed, apparently out of fear of being shot themselves by a man they’d shot, who was not moving and near whom no weapon could be seen, nearly a dozen RMCP officers left Mr. Hughes to die unattended.

At 7:16, RCMP Staff Sergeant Norm McPhail in Victoria is informed (and not entirely truthfully): ”They had multiple shots fired from the suspect and police. Suspect is down and haven’t been able to confirm where the weapon is. They have the suspect in custody.”

In cross –examining Det. Robertson, Doug Christie asked, considering all the phone calling the officers did; “Was any attempt made to phone M. Hughes.”

“I don’t have any record of that,” she had to admit.

At 7:03 RCMP headquarters gets a phone call from the hospital with a person reading a summary of old reports on Mr. Hughes which alleged Mr. Hughes had “a borderline anti-social personality disorder.” However, there were no records of contact with Mr. Hughes after 2004. Mr. Christie argued that this summary of notes on Mr. Hughes should be excluded from the inquest as the RCMP didn’t learn of it until AFTER Mr. Hughes had been shot. The coroner interrupted to say that she had earlier decided to admit the information.

In a testy exchange, Mr. Christie asked Det. Robertson to re-play a call from RCMP dispatch to the ambulance services. This call, at 7:21, informs the ambulance services that their vehicle is no longer needed. When the driver asks if the man is dead, the female dispatcher laughs heartily.

Mr. Christie said such behaviour was reprehensible and asked for the dispatcher’s name. The coroner demanded: “Why is that relevant, Mr. Christie?”

Inquest counsel Mackenzie objected to providing names: “We’re not here to assign blame,” he said.

The name is relevant “for the jury to consider whether some may have wanted Mr. Hughes dead and did not want the ambulance to arrive too quickly,” Mr. Christie replied. Observers note that Canadian officialdom’s obsession with secrecy often has less to do with protecting people’s rights than it does to covering up embarrassments or wrongdoing,.

One of the most interesting tidbits to emerge occurred when Doug Christie challenged Detective Robertson: “You’ve been seen entering and leaving this court with the coroner,” an unusual relationship between a witness and a presiding judge/adjudicator.

“I’m security for the coroner,” the Victoria detective replied.

“Are there no sheriffs?” Mr. Christie shot back, in a court that was filled with other police.

“I was tasked to do that,” Det. Robertson said.

Paul Fromm, Director of the Canadian Association for Free Expression, gave extensive interviews to the Globe and Mail, CHEK (CBC) television and the Nanaimo Daily News. He raised concerns that Mr. Hughes, well known for his White Nationalist views, and a target of the B.C “hate squad”, may have been victimized for his political views.

Thursday, July 28, 2011

Radio Free Northwest - July 28th, 2011

Radio Free Northwest #79, dated July 28, 2011 is now available for download from the Party website at

In this podcast I comment on the massacre of lefty-libs in Norway by Anders Breivik, Axis Sally incites Lemonade Revolution, Dry Ice Washington talks about the squalid death of Jew songstress Amy Winehouse, and I talk about why I cannot and should not re-invent myself as a conservative.

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Freedom's Sons: Section II, Chapter 15

XV. Blitzkrieg

(July 5th to August 5th)

-Henry the Fifth, Act III, Scene 3

The following leaflet was air-dropped over the American lines at Fairfield, Montana on the evening of July 5th:


It’s like this, guys. You know what happened at Anaconda, you know what happened to your fleet off our coast, you know what happened to the Doughboy, you know what happened to your Cabinet, and you know what’s going to happen to you. By now you all understand that this is only going to end one way. America is done, and so are you.

Or maybe not. Because we Northmen are such nice guys, we’re going to give you a chance to live.

Beginning at 0530 hours tomorrow morning, July 6, white soldiers of the U.S. Combined Military Group Center may leave your positions in safety, on foot only, and return to your side of the border, so long as you are covered by a white flag of truce every 30 or 40 men or so, and so long as you remain on the prescribed route. You get onto our Highway 12, what you call Highway 89 on your old outdated American maps. Then you start walking east, and you don’t stop until you cross the border at Great Falls.

Remember, no vehicles, if you have any functioning ones left. You can go home, but you’re going to walk all the way. You will be escorted at a distance by the men who have defeated you.

You may take your personal weapons, which we suggest you turn on the people who sent you here when you get back, and any rations and water supplies you have left, but you don’t take so much as a single green apple or a single drink of water from a roadside spigot from this land you came to destroy. Leave the highway, try to take anything or molest anyone on the way, then the deal’s off and the SS moves in and shoots you down like dogs.

Oh, and you leave all your nigger and Mexican buddies where they are. They’re not going anywhere. Not ever again. When we figure all of you who are of a mind to live have departed, we’re coming in and killing every living thing in Fairfield wearing a dark skin or an American uniform.

Your choice, guys.

Zachariah Hatfield
GOC Second Army
Northwest Defense Force
State President Red Morehouse and his SS escort arrived at the Second Army headquarters just outside Fairfield around six a.m. on the morning of July the sixth to see first hand what the result would be to extend mercy to the besieged Americans. General Hatfield led the president with his staff to an observation bunker overlooking Highway 89 that had been installed by the NDF engineers at the beginning of the siege, and together they scanned the highway over half a mile away through field glasses. The NDF artillery, which had been shelling Fairfield continually for days, had fallen silent almost forty minutes before. “We heard a lot of shouting and shooting and some explosive detonations in their trenches, all through the night, over the sound of our own guns,” said Hatfield. 

“Sounded like grenades going off. We figure some of the niggers and Mexicans didn’t like the idea of being left behind.”

“Still, I wonder how many of the whites actually do love niggers and beaners enough to die for them and with them?” asked Morehouse wonderingly. “How many of our own will we be killing later on today? How many more white lives snuffed out for no other reason than for the mere physical presence of these dark creatures on our continent, where they never should have come?”

“Far more than there should be, I’m sorry to say,” said Hatfield. “Almost a hundred years of brainwashing and social engineering has done incredible damage to the white psyche, Mr. President. Those guys over on that side of the border can’t think straight any more. Hell, they can barely think at all. We were able to break away from that seventeen years ago in the Northwest, find our courage and our manhood and pick up a rifle to start resisting it. This generation of Americans didn’t, and so mentally and morally they’re worse off than we ever were in the skulls full of mush department. I know it’s incredible to think that at this late date anybody could actually still believe in liberalism … ah, there they go.”
“Yes, yes!” whispered Morehouse, watching through the binoculars. “At least some of them won’t die for the Jews! Maybe there’s hope they can learn wisdom yet! You’ve got observer teams scanning the whole route, right, to make sure they don’t try to smuggle any niggers or mestizos out disguised as Whites?”
“Yes, sir, and there will be several checkpoints along the way where our men will be close enough for visual examination,” said Hatfield. “Aerial reconnaissance reports are coming in reporting a lot of dead bodies down their in their trenches. Looks like they had their own race war last night. They may not have left many blacks and beaners alive for us. At least there are some of them who haven’t had their brains washed.
In the steamy dawn Morehouse could see a ragged column of men walking appearing seemingly out of the churned-up earth down the asphalt of the highway, heading eastward toward the Border Highway and the McCurtain. They wore old Iraq War pattern desert camouflage uniforms, and they trudged forward with their heads hung down, their arms reversed, furtively glancing to their right and left at the NDF and SS troops watching them from the ridges. A number of them were two-man stretcher teams carrying wounded. Here and there in the long, snaking column of men and a few women were white towels and bits of cut-up bed sheets on long sticks and lengths of pipe. “How many does it look like took us up on our offer of surrender, do you think, Zack?” asked Morehouse.
“It’s hard to tell from the air, but some of our observers in the copters think it will be as many as forty thousand,” said Hatfield. “Forty thousand disgruntled angry and humiliated veterans from a defeated army; quite a gift for the U.S.A.”
“Much better than forty thousand dead martyrs,” agreed Morehouse.
Eric Sellars was monitoring a hand-held mini computer, and now he stepped forward. “Mr. President, General Jackson reports that after yesterday’s leaflet drop a significant number of white American troops are starting to abandon their positions in Ponderay and fall back toward Canada.”
“Sending ‘em back the way they came?” asked Hatfield. “I wonder if the Canucks will welcome them as much coming back as they did when they were coming through. Good to see you again, Colonel,” Hatfield added, nodding towards Sellars. “How’s Comrade Becky?”
“She’s on duty back to the command vehicle, sir,” said Sellars, smiling at his wife’s old NVA code name. 
“Order the attack here for noon, Zack,” said Morehouse. “That’s long enough for them to make up their minds. Thirty minutes of full aerial and artillery bombardment, then go in and finish it.”
“Yes, sir,” said Hatfield grimly. “I’ll be in the first tank.”
Morehouse understood it was useless to try to dissuade him. “Don’t get yourself killed, Zack,” he admonished. “I’m afraid the Republic is unable to dispense with your services at the moment.”
“I’ll try not to, Mr. President,” replied Hatfield.
“Once we’re through here, we have to get your Second and Drone’s Fourth Army through almost five hundred miles of mountains, brush, and desert and get you positioned for the push north.”
“What’s that?” said Hatfield as he spoke into his field phone. He listened for a few moments. “Okay, roger and out. Some of the Americans have lain down their arms and are approaching our men wanting to surrender and defect, Mr. President, which as you know, we’ve been allowing for the past day or so. These defectors are telling us that the enemy general, Lisle, shot himself last night. Wrapped himself in the Marine Corps flag before he did so, apparently.”
“Not the Stars and Stripes?” asked Morehouse.
“Toilet paper makes a bad shroud, sir,” said Hatfield with a snort. “Even the Americans know it by now.”

* * *

On the morning of July the twelfth, the combined NDF armies of the southern front launched an invasion into Aztlan, including northern California, northern Nevada, and into American Utah. These included the First Army commanded by John Corbett Morgan, spearheaded by the SS Division Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler; the Sixth Army led by General Robert “Bobby Bells” DiBella, with the SS Division Viking attached; and the Seventh Army out of Wyoming commanded by General Conrad Baumgarten with his own German-speaking Panzer Grenadiers regiment on point, who headed for Salt Lake City.

The terrain on the California front, on either side of Interstate Five, was rough and mountainous, hard going, but it was also sparsely populated, and there were few targets of military importance. Most of the inhabitants of these rugged rural areas were white, and they either avoided or actively assisted the NDF. On more than one occasion the advancing Northmen came across mass graves and killing fields full of mestizo corpses, both military and civilian, who had not been slain by the NDF but by parties unknown. 

“It’s the same thing that happened during World War Two on the Eastern Front,” Morehouse told his generals in an encrypted conference call via a Lazarus Bird satellite. “The Wehrmacht and SS found barns and ditches full of dead Jews and Communists, shot or simply hacked to pieces or beaten to death by the local people in Poland and Lithuania and the Ukraine, people who had lived under the left-liberal dictatorship and who had simply had enough. That’s what’s happening here, and I suppose we had best prepare ourselves for future historians blaming the NDF for some of these killings and calling them horrible Nazi atrocities.”

The Ejército Nacional de Aztlan, the regular Aztec army, had largely fallen apart. It consisted mostly of Aztlan’s actual Hispanic population, hapless Mayan conscripts, many of whom originally came from remote villages in Yucatan and Guatemala so far out in the jungle that they did not even speak Spanish, but weird ancient Indian dialects no one else could understand, including their commanding officers. The regulars were poorly armed, poorly trained, incompetently led by drunken and drug-addicted officers, were low on ammunition and supplies, and many of their soldiers did not even have boots. They had been driven north during the invasion like a herd of cattle by their officers, in some cases literally driven with bullwhips, and they were not difficult to stampede back south again.

The Asaltos, the Assault Guards, were a different kettle of fish. They were the actual muscle of El Presidente, the political enforcers. They were armed and equipped with top of the line Chinese weapons and gear, trained by instructors from the People’s Liberation Army and from North Korea, and they were actually paid, sometimes even on time. They had armor and heavy weapons, including tanks and field guns and Katyusha rocket launchers, or at least Chinese Katyusha knock-offs. The Asaltos were also much more politically and racially motivated. Where most of the EdA was comprised of non-English speaking mestizos from Mexico itself or points south, the Asaltos were largely Americanized Hispanics whose native language was English, and who were thoroughly indoctrinated with the principles of La Raza and left-liberalism of the classic Sixties and Seventies variety. Many of them had been police officers under the old American régime, and that included a lot of former FATPOs. 

There was also a stiff leavening of former gang members from Los Angeles and drug cartel hoodlums from Mexico itself. The Asaltos were mediocre soldiers at best, but they were tougher and more dangerous than the regular army and more adapted to modern warfare than the Yucatan banana pickers or Chiapas peasants of the EdA.

They stood and fought in a few of the small towns of northern California such as Crescent City, Yreka, Weed and Redding. All of these towns fell to the NDF one after the other, in the face of combined air and artillery assault and invincible infantry. The NDF was demonstrating that complete control of the air worked for whoever had it, propeller or jet. Eureka and Arcata on the coast were captured by SS units in an amphibious landing. The overwhelming majority of the brown-skinned civil population fled southward to the teeming barrios of Los Angeles, Sacramento, and the Valley. The simple fact was that mestizos might make vicious thugs and gang-bangers, but they were not very brave and they simply did not make good soldiers. Even Simon Bolivar himself had always been compelled to make sure that his armies of liberation were officered by Europeans.

Then on July the 20th, the NDF advance stopped at Redding, and the invading troops began to consolidate their gains in the hundreds of thousands of square miles of northern California they had conquered. The military expelled or liquidated mestizos, Chinese, and other people who had no business on the North American continent, while they and special political cadres from the Party began to contact, assess, organize, and prepare the remaining White population of the area for assimilation into the Northwest American Republic.

* * *

On the northern front the Fourth Army (A.J. Drones), the Second Army (Zack Hatfield), the Third Army (William Jackson) and the Florian Geyer SS Division invaded British Columbia and Alberta. Jackson’s Third Army marched on Calgary, while the other two generals began a westward drive towards the Pacific coast where the bulk of the province’s population was concentrated. Drones and the Fourth Army swung wide and north to capture Kelowna and Kamloops, while Hatfield’s forces hugged the border and approached Vancouver after rolling over Chilliwack, entering the city through Surrey. Yet another NDF military formation, the British Columbia Expeditionary Force (BCEF), launched an amphibious attack and captured the town of Victoria, as well as several paratroop drops on strategic points surrounding the largely non-white city of Vancouver. The Northwest Republic had five million men and women under arms, and they seemed determined to give every one of them a chance at some action.

It was in Victoria, B.C. after the sea landings, that the media first reported a phenomenon which would become very common during this later phase of the war. CNN and Fox News showed NDF tanks and armored vehicles rolling across the Johnson Street Bridge and into the city, and they were met not with gunfire, or the flight of refugees, or by sullen silence and withdrawal. Instead the invading Northmen were greeted ecstatically by crowds of cheering white Canadians. Teenaged white girls ran forward and hugged and kissed SS troopers, and people threw the marching men food and bottles of Labatt’s.

Generations of rule by the politically correct, breathtakingly corrupt tyrants in Ottawa who groveled before the Jews were coming to an end, and western Canadians were overjoyed. Years of hate laws, legalized discrimination, uncontrolled Third World immigration, Human Rights Tribunals, prison and murder and oppression were over now. The RCMP, the bureaucrats, and the mud people were fleeing in panic, and the soldiers of the Northwest American Republic were being welcomed in Canada as liberators. 

Fighting was harder in the Vancouver area, where Canadian troops and large numbers of Chinese and warlike Sikhs were concentrated, with their own ethnic militias. Some of the Canadian soldiers fought for their masters in Ottawa, and even fought and died bravely. Some threw down their weapons and fled. Some Canadian units dragged their feet; they arranged for crucial communications to go astray and responded slowly and reluctantly to any order to engage the enemy, Individual Canadian soldiers crept out of their positions in the Vancouver suburbs at night by the dozens and then by the hundreds, surrendering to the NDF, defecting and even asking to join the Northmen in liberating their land. 

The government of the Republic responded, doing everything they could to keep white civilian casualties low throughout Canada. In Vancouver and Calgary, no NAR gas or biological attacks were directed against the cities. Civilian authorities in the towns and countryside who promised to remain neutral and to cooperate with the NDF when asked, for the benefit of their communities, were allowed to remain in place. Encamped NDF troops were kept in camp and not allowed to mingle with the civilian population just yet, to reduce the possibility of antagonistic incidents. 

On the other hand, the Northmen showed no mercy to the mud-colored immigrants who had swarmed over Western Canada for generations. After the Bluelight projectors took care of the Canadian Air Force in the same manner they’d done with the Americans, the Songbirds and Starfighters swarmed over the border and the Straits of Juan de Fuca in their thousands from their airfields in Bellingham, Sedro Woolley and Anacortes. Like droning swarms of bees or locusts, the small, inexpensive prop jobs sometimes blotted out the sun, and the low rumble of their methane and alcohol engines mixed with the wailing of the air raid sirens became Vancouver’s signature theme song. The Luftwaffe pounded the non-white sections of Vancouver without mercy for days, sending waves of mostly Chinese refugees fleeing from the city in a motley of vehicles with their most prized possessions tied on top in standard Third World fashion. 

There they ran into the westward-moving NDF Second and Third Armies. Few Chinese or Hindus made it across the plains to Saskatchewan, but as with California and Utah in the South, the NDF was not responsible for the majority of the dark-skinned corpses that lay rotting in the forests and on the wide plains. The white people of Canada had suffered long, and a heavy reckoning was due.

After almost a week of bombing and also shelling from the 88s and 75s that surrounded the city in Surrey, Burnaby, Richmond, and Gibson, then came the rumbling and squealing treads and echoing thunderclaps of the cannon of the Rhinos, the NDF’s workhorse tank. A souped-up model of the old German Tiger with plasti-steel armor twice as strong and half the weight, capable of climbing over a Bremer wall or other such obstacle in a matter of seconds, with a special beak or ram called the “horn” mounted on the front for plowing through walls or buildings or any obstruction, the Rhinos immediately seized control of the Vancouver street fighting and rendered the whole exercise simply a mopping-up operation. Vancouver was a large city; moving carefully and methodically, block to block and street to street, it took three days for the NDF to occupy the city and snuff out the last of Ottawa’s forces. 

Oddly enough, historians and psychologists later decided that it was one thing that broke the morale of Vancouver’s pro-Ottawa defenders more than anything else, and led them to drag their feet and then lay down their arms. This was the news, which was never mentioned at all in the state-controlled Canadian media, that virtually the entire Jewish population of Vancouver had already been evacuated from the city. There had been rumors to that effect before the NAR attack, of course, since people could hardly help noticing when their Jewish friends, acquaintances, and co-workers mysteriously disappeared. But now everyone knew why. The rats had deserted the sinking ship and they had left the goyim to fight and die for them, Everyone knew it, and in the back of every Canadian soldier, policeman, or citizen’s mind who wanted to resist, the nagging sense of betrayal and what-the-fuck? simply would not be laid to rest. 

The invaders were immeasurably assisted in their task with intelligence and support provided by NVA Commandant George Magas and his small unit of about sixty men and women, the last active unit of the Northwest Volunteer Army in existence. After the Longview Treaty twelve years before, most of the Canadian NVA had gathered one day in November at the White Rock border post. They shouldered arms, and to the sound of their own bagpipers they had marched south into the new Northwest Republic, and gone on with their lives. 

Magas and his holdouts had elected to stay in their homeland and fight on. There had been almost two hundred of them at that time. They were never officially de-commissioned or ordered to disband, which was always a sore point during the rare diplomatic exchanges between Canada and the NAR, but they went underground. Down through the past twelve years, the Ottawa regime had never had things all their own way in B.C., thanks to the Vancouver Brigade. Bombs had gone off, politicians and officials had been assassinated, acts of sabotage had occurred, Chinese and Indian property had burned in the night. The brigade’s cells had been ruthlessly hunted by the RCMP and assorted left-wing death squads, and many had died or had to be spirited south into the Republic when the heat became too great, but the Vancouver Brigade had never given up.

It was the Vancouver Brigade who lynched the city’s Bengali woman mayor, Indira Vishnamurti. She was betrayed by one of her own white staffers as she fled down the shell-blasted ruins of Twelfth Avenue, seeking to escape from the advancing Northwest tanks. She was dragged screaming back to the Vancouver City Hall by a squad of NVA guerillas, where she was stripped naked in retaliation for her similar treatment of a white woman suspected (incorrectly) of racism some years before. Then she was hanged from one of the windows over the portico. Her dangling body swung over the classic art deco entrance to greet the first NDF troops at the city hall.
She was still swinging there as Minister of Security Frank Barrow pulled up in an armored personnel carrier to assume official control of the building and whatever remained of its contents. With Barrow was his blonde and Canadian-born wife, former NVA Captain Jane Chenault, who was now the senior Permanent Secretary for Education, essentially the senior civil servant working under the Cabinet Minister for that department. For the duration of the war Jane had reverted to her reserve military rank of colonel, and she had promised her husband that if she were not allowed some role in the conquest of Canada, their future married life would be something to make him shudder. Like all wise husbands who know when their wives really mean it, Frank gave in immediately. Jane was proud and pleased to discover that her statuesque figure could still fit into her old Kevlar vest from her NVA days.

Greeting them on the steps of the city hall were Commandant George Magas, a small and nondescript man who looked like a schoolteacher or possibly a shoe salesman. Sometimes he had talked his way out of tight corners simply based on his appearance alone; surely someone so mild and inoffensive-looking could never be the terrorist mastermind who had almost single-handedly kept a war going on his own for twelve years? With Magas were about forty of his people, men and women dressed in civilian clothes and carrying weapons slung over their shoulders. Magas stepped forward and saluted Barrow, who returned the salute.

“Vancouver Brigade reporting that this building has been secured, sir,” he said. He looked at Jane. “You guys sure took your time, eh?”

“Yes, we’re twelve years late,” said Jane, tears welling in her eyes. “I’m so sorry, George. We had to do what we did. There wasn’t any other choice.”

“Well, you’re here now, Janie,” said Magas. “I just wish Marc was around to see it.” Marc Chenault had been Jane’s first husband, an NVA man who one winter’s night was murdered on a cold and rainy street in Vancouver by the notorious CSIS secret police agency.

“He’s here with us in spirit, comrade,” she replied.
On July 28th the NDF crossed over the northern border of British Columbia into Alaska. Ketchikan fell the same day, and on July 31st the state capitol of Juneau was captured by a combined assault force of SS paratroops and NDF line units who crossed the Gastineau Channel on pontoon bridges thrown up by the engineers, as well as on hundreds of small boats piloted by local white people, in kind of a reverse Dunkirk. Resistance was minimal, and Juneau went down almost without a shot. The governor and some of the state legislature had already fled to Anchorage; other legislators remained in Juneau and received the invaders on the state house steps. Twelve of them then and there renounced their allegiance to the United States and the rump session formally applied for Alaska’s admission to the Northwest American Republic. The United States concentrated what troops they had at Fort Wainwright around Anchorage, while the governor spent hours every night on live television, babbling long quasi-Churchillian rants about fighting them on the beaches and in the fields and the mountains, so forth and so on. He was rather obviously drunk most of the time. 
Then the northward offensive halted as well, and the NDF dug in and began to establish the foundations and infrastructure to bring what Canadian and Alaskan territory had been overrun into the Republic.

The decision to halt the advance during the Seven Weeks’ War was one of the most passionately debated issues ever to confront the NAR’s government and its citizens. To this very day, there are angry and stubborn people in the Republic who remain convinced that it was a mistake, and that the NDF should have marched onward until white rule had been completely restored over all 49 of the old United States of America, with a naval assault on Hawaii planned for later. In a speech to Parliament on the fourth day of August, just before the armistice, President Morehouse explained the rationale behind what had been done.

In his memorable speech, Morehouse said in part: “For many years, back in the days when our Movement was nothing but a few isolated individuals playing with their personal computers, we debated among ourselves the pros and cons of the whole idea of territorial separatism for our race in North America. Long after the whole idea was clearly impractical and impossible of attainment, there were those among us who insisted that somehow we could achieve the old dream of an all-white United States of America, from sea to shining sea, an America permanently frozen in the idyllically perceived past of the Nineteen Fifties, or Sixties, or Seventies, where Beaver Cleaver with his plaid shirt and his cowlick plays with Marcia Brady the cheerleader in her bobby sox, in an endless suburb of tract houses with two cars in every garage, backyard barbecues, church on Sunday and nary a single gibbering black or brown face to be seen or a single gabbled word in pidgin Spanish to be heard. 

“That was a beautiful dream,” Morehouse went on. “Please understand that I do not mean to mock it, or the small group of elderly people among us who may remember the tag end of it, before the Obama Depression hit in two thousand and eight. It is a good thing to retain some fleeting childhood memories of a better way of life. But that dream is gone now, and lest we forget, even when it partly did exist in reality, it was based upon the American destruction of Germany, on our slaughter of millions of our racial brothers and sisters in Europe, and on our handing over untold millions of people of all races to the brutal and bloody sway of world Communism, which was Judaism in disguise.

“Today, we are again faced with this issue, this dream of somehow taking back the whole of the United States for our race,” Morehouse continued, looking out over the rows of Parliamentary deputies. “Again it was, and is, a noble dream, but we still must accept that it is only a dream. That is so much harder now, because now we contemplate the future not as a small band of eccentrics with computers, but in a time of glorious victory and power, when it seems that we are invincible and the world is ours to command. And this is the most dangerous time of all for us, for make no mistake, my comrades, my fellow citizens, my Folk, we could still lose this war. Let me tell you how.

“The first reason I will give you as to why we must cease our advance and be content with what we now have, will sound the weakest of all. It will sound crass and petty, and in a sense it is, but it is nevertheless insurmountable. 

“It is true that we have millions of men and women under arms. They have been victorious on all fronts, and they have added vast expanses of territory to our Homeland in a period of a few short weeks. But never forget the salient fact that compared to the rest of the world’s community of nations, the Northwest Republic is poor, dirt poor! Our taxes are the lowest of any developed nation, and we use our resources to provide for our own population rather than export and sell them abroad. One of the reasons we have been forced to develop our very people themselves as human weapons for our defense is that we simply cannot afford to engage in a high-tech arms race with the rest of the world. 
“The five million or so people we now have in uniform are almost all reservists, who sooner or later must return to their jobs and their lives here in the Republic, or else the country will begin to suffer damage and deterioration from their absence. They cannot be used as an army of conquest and occupation for an expanse of territory the size of North America. Such a lengthy occupation is unsustainable and would eventually destroy us if we attempted it, just as the United States with all its power could never successfully occupy Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, or even tiny Gaza. If nothing else, such an undertaking would simply bankrupt us, and it would destroy the inner human and moral fiber of the nation we have begun to build here in the Northwest over the past twelve years.”

Morehouse paused in his speech, then went on. “The second reason we cannot and must not attempt to win back the entire North American continent, even from a position of crushing victory such as we now enjoy, is the same one we faced back in our computer game days, only this time in reality. There are now approximately one hundred and fifty million non-whites of various kinds in North America. What are we going to do with them? No, I mean really, what are we going to do with them? Kill them all? Chase them out? Load millions of niggers into cargo holds on ships, take them over to West Africa and dump them all on the beach? Chase every Spanish-speaking mud person back south of the Rio Grande with guns and clubs? What? Before, all this was simply theoretical, but now that the white man does in fact have some military force at his command, we have to examine seriously the logistics involved in all these options that we casually tossed around back in our computer game days.

“I won’t speak to you of moral considerations, since in view of the terrible damage and destruction these creatures have wrought, there can be no question but that we have the absolute and unshakeable moral right to remove them from North America, however we can. But this is not a moral problem, it is a technical and logistic one, and realistically, it is almost as insurmountable as it was back in the computer days. True, five million soldiers sounds like a lot, but in addition to occupying and administering huge cities and immense territories, how exactly do we use them to exterminate or drive out one hundred and fifty million people? And how many white people will be killed during such an open race war as we would ignite? There are so few of us left that any further depletion of our gene pool through senseless violence urgently needs to be avoided. We are experiencing logistic and administrative problems enough in assimilating northern California, and that alone is a project which is clearly going to take many years. I won’t belabor the point. We could kill some of the muds and frighten others out, true, but what we would end up doing is simply making one hell of a mess that would do more harm to the continent’s remaining white population than even the continuation of the present situation.

“Finally,” Morehouse went on, “We seem to forget that we still have powerful enemies and there is in fact a rest of the world whose opinions and interests we cannot simply ignore. For example, we have received immense help from the commonwealth of Russia during this past crisis, support which has sealed the bond between our two countries begun at our nation’s founding stronger than ever before. But would that bond be so strong when we are no longer defending our own lives and land but are stalking across the continent leaving piles of black and brown corpses as we go? 

“The enemy media are going to spend the next century accusing us of committing atrocities during this war, and some of the things we have done, such as the use of gas and biological weapons probably fall into that category, yes. But it is crystal clear to anyone, and it will remain crystal clear to anyone no matter how the lefty-libs obscure things in the future, that we were attacked first and that we were defending our very existence as a nation. But will that distinction be as clear-cut if we invade the United States itself and attempt to conquer them and cleanse the land of racial contaminants?” Morehouse asked.
“We also need to remember that even though they have been defeated in the field, there in fact remains a United States government and a United States ruling class, a ruling class which is still extremely wealthy and which still commands the shattered remains of a United States military, including the nuclear missiles in those silos in Kansas and Minnesota and North Dakota. A brave young woman sacrificed her life in order to stop those missiles from being fired at us by a deranged man, but if we persist in threatening the power and the wealth of the soulless men in suits who still rule the United States, if we make it clear that we’re going for their throat and that they have no chance for personal or financial or political survival, that we mean to take everything away from them, not just their condos in Seattle but their summer homes on Long Island and their winter mansions in Palm Beach as well, their money and their power and all that makes them who they are, then the doors to those missile silos will open again. 
“The current American administration, as corrupt and full of hatred for us as it is, is sufficiently practical not to want to carry the can for contaminating the entire northern hemisphere with radioactive fallout and being responsible for the death of millions of people, mostly their own,” President Morehouse told them. “We must now show the same kind of pragmatism. It is said that war is only politics by other means, and that’s true, but politics is the art of the possible. This is a strange kind of MAD, Mutually Assured Destruction. The United States of America and the Northwest Republic can destroy one another right now, they through their nuclear missiles and we through our troops and our ability to instigate total race war of the kind that will make the U.S.A. ungovernable and cause their society, already stumbling and battered, to collapse completely. Now is the time for both sides to back off and settle up. 
“I will be speaking tomorrow with the American president, Hugh Jenner. Don’t worry, comrades. The Northwest Republic is due a healthy slice of the spoils of victory, and we shall have it.”
* * * *

On the morning of August the fifth, the two sides finally met, if that is the word for staring at one another on huge wall-sized plasma screens. The two presidents and the two War Cabinets, one set in Washington, D.C. and the other in Washington state, were connected courtesy of a Russian communications satellite. Hugh Jenner still had his arm and foot in a cast. The men and women who around him in the Pentagon Situation Room (the one in the White House had been demolished) were people whom he had dragooned in to fill the places of the slain secretaries and staff members and administrators. They were second-raters and time-servers, politicians and hacks and bureaucrats, because those were all he could get to take the jobs. They huddled like Armani-clad sheep, quailing beneath the cold and homicidal stare of the Northwest Republic’s assembled government, mostly bearded men but a few women as well, every one of them including their State President wearing the uniform that bore over the right jacket pocket the eagle and Swastika emblem that once more struck terror into the world.

“My God, it’s like looking at a Roman legion,” muttered Carl Nelson, the new Vice President of the United States.

Jenner cleared his throat. “Mr. Morehouse, I would like to … “

“Shut up, Hugh,” said his old enemy, Ray Ridgeway. (Is that Annette standing behind him? Jenner wondered.) “Our boss is going to talk, and you’re going to listen. He’s going to tell you how things are going to be, and you’re going to agree, because you don’t have any choice.”
Red Morehouse spoke without formal salutation or courtesy. “If this goes on your government, your military, and your whole society are going to bleed out. We both know it. This isn’t just military defeat. It’s not just that we destroyed your ships and your aircraft and your first line soldiers, it’s that you can’t replace them. We didn’t just defeat your armies, we defeated you, all of you. Both of us know this, Jenner, so let’s have a moratorium for once on arrogant American swaggering and boasting. To quote those African-Americans you people claim to love so much, right now you niggaz ain’t shit.

“Don’t bother to threaten us with nukes unless you’re genuinely suicidal,” Morehouse continued. “Yes, I know, you do still have that final ace up your sleeve, just like we have our phosgene and our anthrax. If that’s the way you want it to play out, we can go that route and everybody dies. Whoopee. Yeah, you can open your football and finish giving those codes Hunter Wallace started reading out a month ago, and I can give an order and have everybody on Pennsylvania Avenue choking to death in their own lung fluid in ten minutes. Let’s take all that as read.

“Now, here’s the deal,” he said. “Tell your Mexican buddy in Los Angeles when he sobers up that we’re taking all of California north of Redding. The Aztecs can have Redding itself, because my people down there tell me it’s a shithole and not worth having. We’ll be nice guys and we’ll also give the Aztecs back what we took of Nevada; it’s useless desert full of nothing but armadillos and scorpions, and it’s not worth maintaining a garrison there. But you’re giving us all of Utah north of Provo, including Salt Lake City and all those lovely white Mormon girls. We’ll set up a border commission and run the border along rivers and highways like we did last time. You’re also giving us Juneau, Alaska and the surrounding Pacific coastal islands. The rest of it you can keep, if the people there will let you. We’re in touch with the Free Alaska Movement, and we have guaranteed their right to opt either for full admission into the Republic or independence, whichever they choose. I believe they’re planning a plebiscite on their state’s future, sometime in the next couple of months. They will have it, and it will be free and fair. Who knows? The voters may decide to stay with the United States. You guys can campaign and use your wonderful democracy, you can bribe and horse trade and do all your little electoral monkeyshines, but if there is any attempt to use force to interfere with the election, or to rig the results, then the NDF goes up there and works you American assholes over. Remember, we don’t need the oil. We don’t use that much of it.” 

Morehouse went on: “Now, speaking of our northern exposure, I will be informing Prime Minister Simoneau that we get all of British Columbia and Alberta below a line running more or less between Edmonton and Prince George. If the Canucks want to say fuck it and just throw it the northernmost sections of those provinces, fine. I don’t know what use we can make of tundra and caribou, but what the hey?”

“And what does the Canadian Prime Minister have to say about that?” Jenner managed to interject.

“If he didn’t want to lose part of his country he shouldn’t have helped you dogs attack us,” said Morehouse. “The Canadians have been needling us and trying to undermine the Republic for years, dancing to the Jews’ tune. He and his government need to learn that what goes around comes around. We will negotiate a separate peace with Canada, but I don’t anticipate any problems. They know full well we can pop the top on our little toys in Toronto and Montreal and Ottawa just as easily as anywhere else. We have enough Canadians on our side who have faced the Human Rights Tribunals who would volunteer to do it in a heartbeat. You will be receiving by e-mail a complete copy of the draft peace treaty terms. I will appoint one of our permanent undersecretaries from the Foreign Ministry to deal with any quibbles you have, but I wouldn’t bother if I were you. He’s just going to say no. You have one week, otherwise we assume it’s still on and we send battalion-sized Flying Columns deep and wide into the United States to see what kind of racial turmoil we can stir up. You don’t seem to have sufficient military forces left to stop us. We can pretty much stroll in anywhere right now and do whatever we want."

Monday, July 25, 2011

In The Year 2011

I'm sorry, I just can't wait for an Obamanable article to use this one one. It speaks so to the world we live in...

Northwest Novels Free Download Site

I hope I don't get in trouble for this post, because I know that Harold Covington can really use the money, but a white brother has posted 4 of Covington's novels for free out on the net.

You can get Hill of Ravens, The Brigade, A Distant Thunder and A Mighty Fortress at

If you have not read these yet, you are missing a good read. They are some of Harold's best work.

-Larry L.

Saturday, July 23, 2011

Norway Shooter

Anders Breivik in his Freemason regalia

FTR, the Norway shooter, Anders Breivik, is not "one of us." He's a Zionist Christian fundamentalist and a Freemason, and apparently went after Muslims to save poor little Israel, although needless to say this fact is being downplayed like hell in the media who refer to him as a generic "right-winger."

Breivik's Jew-loving propensities probably mean this one is going to disappear off the radar pretty quick. Be interesting to see how long before someone makes the call the Matt Drudge and tells him to cool it.

Friday, July 22, 2011

Another Reason To Come Home

One excellent reason to migrate, at least to the coastal region of the Pacific Northwest. As I look out my window right now, it's a cool 67 degrees.

Thursday, July 21, 2011

Radio Free Northwest - July 21st, 2011

Radio Free Northwest #78, dated July 21, 2011, is now available for download from the Party website at

In this podcast Axis Sally reads David Lane's letters to Tim McVeigh, Dry Ice Washington discusses current negotiations in Washington D.C., to raise the federal debt ceiling, and I talk about founding a new White man's religion--well, sort of.

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Covington In Rhodesia

This is one of those "for the record" things, for those of you who are fascinated by such details:

I attested as a regular soldier in the Rhodesian Army on September 23, 1974, at Brady Barracks, Bulawayo. I was assigned serial number #726818 and I eventually achieved the rank of corporal.

Contrary to gibber, I was not a cook, although I certainly would not have been ashamed of it if I had been. As any genuine veteran can tell you, the cook is one of the most important guys in any unit.

I was attached until January 1976 at 1 OS Company at Llewellin Barracks in Matabeleland, which was the home base of the Rhodesian African Rifles, the army's main black unit. During that time period I went several supply convoy trips to the Northwest "sharp end" around Wankie and I also did a stint at 1 Air Supply Company out of New Sarum Air Force base in Salisbury, flying supplies to UNITA forces of so-called "anti-Communist" (read ordinary bush bandit as opposed to Soviet-backed bush bandit) Jonas Savimbi during the Angolan civil war.

My service record is adequate and no more. No medals, no Rambo crap. Nor have I ever claimed any different. My combat experience consists almost entirely of getting shot at.

On July 31st, 1975 my infant son George Lincoln Rockwell Covington died at the age of four months in the married quarters at Llewellin Barracks from a viral infection which came from our water supply in the Umgusa River. Our water purification equipment at the barracks was about 40 years old and in very poor shape due to the sanctions that made it almost impossible to get spare parts. Yes, Virginia, UN sanctions kill. Mostly children. Ask the people of Iraq and Iran. My American-born wife at the time suffered a mental and emotional breakdown from the death of our child from which she never recovered and left Rhodesia shortly afterward.

In January of 1976 I was served with a Prohibited Immigrant (PI) order from the Ian Smith government because of my activity with the Rhodesia White People's Party (RWPP).

These are the facts.

The above photo is of myself and White author and philospher Eric Thomson in the bush, taken sometime in 1975, if memory serves.