The Brigade - Chapter II
[By popular demand]
II. The Trouble Trio
Therein, ye gods, you make the weak most strong;
Therein, ye gods, you tyrants do defeat.
No stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass
Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron
Can be retentive to the strength of spirit,
But life, being weary of these worldly bars,
Never lacks power to dismiss itself.
If I know this, then know all the world besides,
That part of tyranny I do bear
I can shake off at pleasure.
-Julius Caesar - Act I, Scene 3
The three friends met again in the watery gray twilight of a December afternoon, in the old Kiwanis Club beach shelter on the Washington side of the Columbia River, about a half a mile up Highway 401 from the gigantic bridge. The pre-fab building with the concrete floor was cold as a walk-in freezer inside, and the would-be insurgents kept their heavy winter coats and caps on, but it was enclosed and tight against the wind, and it had electricity. The hut contained several picnic tables and some plastic chairs, a ping-pong table leaning against the wall that could be laid across the picnic tables if anyone wanted to play, a sink, a battered old refrigerator, and some cupboards. The nearby beach was really just a small shelf of gravel instead of sand, but it served as a passable casting spot for fishermen and a good picnic place in the summer. As the early darkness descended they could see the Christmas lights starting to come on across the river in Astoria, twinkling green and red and white.
“I’ll get the heat going,” said Charlie Washburn, stoking up a propane stove in one corner and lighting all the burners. He found a large saucepan in one of the cupboards, filled it with water from the sink, and put it on one of the burners. “Instant coffee all around, I’d say. These cups look more or less clean, and I see we’ve still got some sugar and creamer left over from Labor Day. Okay, Zack, care to run tonight’s revelries by us again?”
“We’re going to meet a guy they’ve sent down from Olympia who’s called Mr. Chips,” Hatfield told them. “It goes without saying that he’s wanted by the law, and if we are so much as seen in his company we will all be marked men.”
“Like we’re not marked already?” snorted Washburn. “I think Lear knows damned well who did Liddy King and that plug-ugly dyke Proudfoot. He gave me a funny look when he talked to me about your night of gainful employment at the store. It’s common knowledge we’re Steve’s closest friends, and Zack’s military record isn’t exactly a secret.”
“Yah, same with me. I think he knows, all right. He just can’t prove anything,” said Len Ekstrom.
“I don’t think he wants to prove anything,” said Hatfield. “He’s known Steve as long as we have. Rod Berry told me Ted was damned near crying when he had to come and get Steve and take him to jail on that damned bullshit warrant those two bitches swore out on him. He knew what the score was, and what Liddy and that dyke were doing to Steve and the girls. I don’t think he was too upset over being compelled to release Steve from jail, and I don’t think he’s looking any harder for the killers than the pressure from the PC establishment over there makes him look.” Hatfield gestured toward the lights of Astoria. “What I don’t understand is why no FBI involvement? Why no mention in the media of the letters NVA I scrawled on the bedroom wall in dyke squaw blood? Especially since they were all over Steve and his kids in the original hatespeech case?”
Washburn spoke up. “From what I gather from the news, the Bureau has a whole new set of priorities these days. Damn if you weren’t right about the NVA fighting on, Zack. I heard on the truck radio coming over here they tagged another couple of Mexicans in The Dalles and bombed a Portland Police Bureau patrol car at an intersection, with a nigger cop still in it.”
“Steve is out now, he’s back with his kids, and he has a chance to rebuild his life and theirs. That’s the important thing,” said Ekstrom. “It worked.”
“I guess Mr. Chips can bring us up to speed on what’s going on around the Northwest,” said Hatfield.
“And who exactly is this Mr. Chips?” asked Washburn.
“He’s a representative from the Party, and now I suppose from the NVA,” replied Hatfield. “He doesn’t really have a title. Few of them do. The Party has always avoided handing out Chief Cook and Bottle Washer monikers like some racial groups back in the old days used to do. It’s kind of like the Mafia. Let the Feds keep on guessing as to who does what. Chips is kind of a general factotum. He describes himself as a Johnny Appleseed who wanders the Pacific Northwest planting seeds of hate and hoping they’ll turn into big blooming orchards. I’ve met him before, back when the Party was legal and I went up to some meetings in the Olympia area, and also down in Dundee and Centralia, Washington. He’s one of the most knowledgeable and intelligent men I’ve ever met. When he speaks, we listen. If we want in on the revolution, then he’s the man who can get us in.”
From the gloom outside there came the sound of a vehicle pulling up outside, tires crunching on the gravel beach and a motor running. “That’s them,” said Hatfield, looking out the window. “Right on time. A good sign in a revolutionary. One thing, boys, if we ever do get into a shooting sitch. Four thirty means four thirty on the dot. One man out of position at the wrong time can kill us all. You can take that as my first lesson to you in combat skills.” The visitor they were waiting for had arrived in a battered and nondescript Subaru sports utility vehicle. In the falling darkness, Hatfield couldn’t tell if it was black or dark blue or green. Mr. Chips got out of the back seat. He was accompanied by a young man wearing a denim jacket and a tweed golf cap, and a tall young woman with a plain but strong-featured face and long orange-ish hair tied in a ponytail behind her head. The boy and the girl both appeared to be about 18 years old. Hatfield had met both of them before up in Dundee. Hatfield opened it and let the youth in. “Hey, Shane,” he said.
“Hey, Mr. H. How’s it going?” The young Volunteer stepped in and looked quickly around the hut. The Oregon men could see the butt of a Tec-9 machine pistol poking from a shoulder holster rig under his denim jacket. The woman stood in the door, wearing a tan fur-lined shepherd’s coat, and they could see the nubby barrel of an Uzi submachine gun protruding from the open coat, held respectfully pointed at the floor. “Hi, Rooney,” said Hatfield.
“Hey,” said the girl. The boy went to the door and beckoned, and a bespectacled man in late middle age with a grizzled moustache stepped inside the room. He took off his overcoat. Under it he was wearing a green cardigan sweater and a tie with a light yellow pastel shirt. In the pocket of the shirt was a plastic protector containing several pens. He looked like a teacher or a computer geek.
“How was the traffic on the bridge?” asked Hatfield.
“We came down the scenic route, from Ilwaco,” replied the newcomer. “Homeland Security is starting to put closed-circuit TV cameras on bridges and tunnels so they can monitor traffic, so I figured we’d better meet here on the Washington side rather than cross the river. The damned things can’t always be avoided, but there’s no need to leave them a trail of breadcrumbs. Shane and Rooney will stay outside and keep an eye out. A young couple in a parked car will need no explanation to any passers-by. By the by, I hope you men are armed and ready to use your weapons, because I should tell you that if anyone comes at us, we’re shooting our way out.” The boy and the girl turned around and left without another word, and Hatfield closed the door. “These gentlemen are..?”
“This is Charlie Washburn, and this is Lennart Ekstrom,” said Hatfield, indicating them. There were brief handshakes. “They’re good men. I’ve already trusted them with my life.”
"You know our names now, but all we know about you is you’re called Mr. Chips,” said Charlie. “Do we get code names too?”
“Eventually you’ll each have a whole collection of your own, yes,” said the Party’s man with a smile. “Mr. Chips isn’t so much a code name as it is a nickname. I used to be a schoolteacher up in Dundee, and I taught a kind of unofficial history course to certain selected white students after school, strictly extracurricular. The feds know who I am, and there’s no reason you shouldn’t. My name is Henry Morehouse, but back in the days when I had more hair, I ended up being called Red.”
“Zack vouches for you,” said Washburn. “That’s good enough. I suppose we’d best get on with it, then. He’s told you what we want from you?”
“Yes, and some of the background. You would be amazed how common a story yours is, gentlemen.” Morehouse sat down and accepted a steaming hot cup of instant coffee, black, and waved away the proffered packets of creamer and sweetener. “They say that all politics is local. So is oppression, apparently. It requires a man to be personally affected by tyranny at his own front door before he will act. Sometimes not even then. You guys acted, on your own, and that impresses us. Zack has told me about the incident that took place here with the King woman and her beast of pleasure.”
“Uh, we gonna have to take some blood oath or something?” asked Ekstrom.
“No, not at this time,” said Morehouse. “Later the Army may find it expedient to formalize. For now, if you’re good men and true then an oath is unnecessary, and if you’re not, no oath will make you so. If I say you’re in, then you’re in.” Morehouse paused and took a sip of coffee. “The first question that I need to ask is the obvious one. Are all of you up for this? Do you fully understand just what the hell you’re doing? This isn’t a video game or a made-for-TV movie. This is the real thing. You see what’s going on in the Northwest, every time you turn on CNN. People are dying, and not just white people this time. The Beast is in a blind rage. It has been defied and it has been wounded, and it’s lashing out in all directions. You do understand that if you proceed, there is every chance that you men will end up either dead or living out the remainder of your lives in a federal prison, under conditions that don’t bear thinking about?”
“Mister, the way they’re hollering in the news media about racism and domestic terrorism, if we were even caught sitting here with you, we’d go to prison for the rest of our lives,” said Ekstrom. “We know this, and we’re still here.”
“Yeah, official paranoia is rampaging, all right,” replied Morehouse with a chuckle. “They’re starting to wake up to the fact that they didn’t get us all when they stormed into Coeur d’Alene last month, and some of us are still fighting. Fair enough. But before we get down to cases, I’d like each of you to tell me in your own words what has brought you here tonight.”
“I guess I’ll start,” said Hatfield. “I had some idea of what the Party was doing behind the scenes, of course, that preparations were being made. Some of it you told me, Red, and some of it I figured out for myself. I was starting to turn over in my own mind whether or not I wanted to join you when the time came to pick up the gun. I knew that time had to come, if any of us in this country had one spark of manhood left in us. We have tried everything else,” Hatfield went on grimly. “For generations we have dutifully trooped to the polls like sheep and voted in elections where we were given no meaningful choice, and where not one single candidate or party represented the white man’s racial interests. Nothing changed except the politicians grew more and more coarse and corrupt, more cynical and contemptible. For almost a hundred years now we have been betrayed at every turn by the men we voted into office, and we have been ravaged and bled dry by these alien creatures called Jews. We have tried every single peaceful avenue of redress, every non-violent method we could think of to try and change the world, to try and make these sons of bitches wearing the suits stop doing what they are doing. None of it has worked worth a tinker’s damn. We have shouted and screamed NO at the top of our lungs, and we have been ignored and spat on and called haters for our trouble. We tried the internet and spent years tapping to one another on keyboards, because we bought into the idea that ‘education’ was the answer, and if we could just get the truth to people, then things would change. Well, education without action isn’t worth a bucket of warm spit. We got the truth to people, all right, and it turned out to be nothing but a bunch of noise that was simply ignored, because the internet was where it stayed. Nobody ever did anything except tap on keyboards. That was fine with the bosses. Tapping on keyboards was no threat to them, we just let off steam and nothing changed. It is now crystal clear to any white man with two brain cells to rub together that the only thing that will make these dogs in power hear the word no is the sound of gunfire.
“But I didn’t make up my mind finally until that night when I took care of Steve King’s problem for him,” Hatfield continued heavily. “I never realized just how damned good it would feel to strike back! It wasn’t like Iraq at all. I hated those hadjis because they were killing and maiming my friends and trying to do the same to me, but I knew in my heart that we had no business there, that the reason they were trying to kill and maim me was because I was trying to take from them their little patch of the world and the oil that was underneath it. I was a thief who had come into their home to rob them of their land and their goods and their dignity, and they had every right to try and shoot and bomb my ass off. To be honest, those Iraqis were doing what I would have been proud to see Americans do if we were ever invaded and occupied. We never said such things, of course, and most of us didn’t even think them out in our own minds in so many words, because we knew how dangerous those thoughts were, but we all knew that we were the guys in the black hats over there.
“I got back home and I somehow understood as I never had before that we are an occupied people. Occupied by our own government, occupied by the same goddamned Jews and politicians and business executives who sent me over to Iraq to steal what little those poor people have. Then came the business with Steve and Liddy King, when I used the skills ZOG gave me for my friend and for his children, for my own people and not for a monthly paycheck from the Jews. It felt right. I find that I like the feel of that white hat on my head, and I want to keep it there. That’s not very articulate, Red, but that’s the best I can tell you right now.”
“I know what you mean,” said Charlie Washburn with a smile. “For once, just once, the bad people didn’t win. I am just so damned sick and tired of bad people always winning all the time. But not this time. For once, just once, there was true justice and a good man and two good children will now have some kind of a chance together in life. A horrible deed committed by wicked perverts has been undone. The scales were balanced just a tiny bit back in the right direction. I feel it too, and it’s indescribable.
“But it’s more than that with me,” he went on carefully. “You know, Americans see a lot of movies and TV shows where some ordinary Joe like me is called upon to step up to the plate, so to speak, and be a hero in some way, usually fighting against the Arabs or Serbs or French or evil white racists or whoever the Jews’ main enemy of the moment is. Most of those flicks are just hokum, but in the past few months, ever since Coeur d’Alene, I’ve been feeling like that. Like I’ve gotten a call from destiny, as conceited and arrogant as that sounds. I couldn’t do it alone, but Coeur d’Alene changed everything for me. Now I know that there are others, others who see the things I see and read them the same way, who think and feel as I do, who understand that it’s a truly wonderful gift from God to be born white. I saw what happened in Coeur d’Alene on CNN, but I don’t want to watch the rest of this great thing on television. I have to be here tonight, Mr. Morehouse. I have to be part of this. I don’t think I could walk away if I wanted to.”
“Things must change,” said Lennart Ekstrom slowly. “Every white man and woman in America knows it, deep down inside of themselves. This isn’t America anymore, it’s a Rocky Horror Picture Show that just goes on and on. Somewhere, sometime, it has to stop, at least in some part of the country, and here in the Northwest is the best place for that. Once you accept in your own mind that things have to change, you don’t sit and reflect and introspect and brood and agonize over it. You just do what has to be done.”
“And that, Mr. Ekstrom, is what the white race has been waiting to hear from men like you for a hundred years,” said Morehouse with a nod. “You know that we were in a very similar situation, back before the Party was formed? The Old Man himself Came Home in 2002, but for years he simply sat all alone in a series of cracker box apartments or trailers or boarding houses, pounding on a computer that grew older and crankier as time passed. For years he looked for those out-of-state license plates to come over the hill, begging and pleading on his knees with his fellow white people to come to his side and help him, and for year after year, no one came. He asked only for a hundred good men, or women. One hundred people who were willing to place the future of their blood and their civilization over their own personal welfare. And for year after year, no one came.”
“And then what happened?” asked Ekstrom.
"Then they came,” replied Morehouse simply. “We refer to this among ourselves as The Awakening, and we still don’t understand it fully. Don’t get me wrong when I say this, because we’re not a religious movement, rather the reverse in fact. But the best and most comprehensible way that I can put this, is that it had to be some kind of divine intervention. God decided to give His most wonderful and yet wayward children one final break before He threw the white race onto the scrap heap of history. He reached into the hearts of one hundred people and moved them, changed them, so that they let the scales fall from their eyes and they knew they had to put something above their own well being; that they had to live for something besides a job and a paycheck and a shopping spree at the mall. One day it just kind of began, and one hundred people stopped worrying about themselves and went out and began packing the moving van. The Old Man had his first hundred, and they became the nucleus of the Party that was formed when they came to the Homeland and were in place. Without that first hundred people, there could have been no Party, because it was they who set up the infrastructure and the safety net so the rest of the migrants would have something to Come Home to.”
“We’re going to need more than a hundred men now,” said Washburn gloomily.
“They will come,” said Morehouse with quiet confidence. “They came before. Damned late, but they came. Very well. Let’s get on with it.” He knocked back the rest of his coffee, put down the mug, and leaned forward to speak to them. “We are here to make history, gentlemen. We are here to plan and execute the first organized, armed insurrection against the United States of America since 1861. We are going to finish what began in Coeur d’Alene two months ago. The media is now crowing that the so-called racist republic is dead. It is not. The Northwest American Republic exists. It exists because we say it does, and because we are willing to spill the blood of others and to give up our own lives to make good on what we say. That is how nations come to life in the world, gentlemen. I am a representative of that Republic, of its provisional government in the present form of the Army Council until we can establish a state under the draft constitution we’ve been keeping in our drawers for so long. In that capacity, I am asking you to enlist in the armed forces of that Republic and fight a war of liberation against a cruel and wicked tyrant. Will you do so?”
“I’m in,” said Hatfield.
“I’m in,” said Washburn.
“And I,” said Ekstrom.
“Gentlemen, you just swore your blood oath. Make sure you honor it all the days of your lives,” said Red softly.
“I look back at all the crap our people have put up with over the past century and I am still astonished that we never picked up a gun before,” said Washburn plaintively. “Why the hell has the white man never fought?”
“Oh, God,” said Morehouse with a sigh. “Some of us have spent our entire lifetimes studying that one simple question, Charlie, and I have to say we’re no closer to an answer than we were at the beginning. There are a few standard, canned answers, of course. Up until the past couple of decades, most white people simply had it too good. Life was just too damned sweet, and all the bullshit caused by liberal democracy and political correctness didn’t seem to be really life-threatening, just more and more annoying as time wore on. When men are merely annoyed, they write letters to the editor, or phone a radio talk show, or bitch and gripe drunkenly in bars about how the world is going to hell. They don’t pick up a rifle or start making bombs in their basement. And of course, up until about twenty years ago, if things got too bad where you were living, then you could just up stakes and move to the suburbs, or some other state that was a little whiter. We got hundreds of thousands of organic migrants here to the Northwest that way.”
“Oh, yeah, I think we’ve got half the population of California living in Clatsop County,” said Washburn. “Most of those same people pull the straight Democratic ticket lever in the polling booth, and they’d cut off their own goolies rather than admit that they came here looking for a whiter and safer environment.”
“Mmm hmm,” said Morehouse with a chuckle. “Liberals are always the first to flee from the messes they make. Usually, they’re the only ones who can afford to do so. Anyway, liberalism and political correctness have gone beyond the merely annoying phase for a long time now. Things have been getting colder and crueler for white people ever since the economy went south under Bush Two and never recovered, when Social Security and Medicare went under, and when the neocons finally had to bring back the draft. You can’t conquer the world without a huge army; all their high-tech toys and smart bombs and computerized weapons of mass death simply wouldn’t serve. If we were going to keep that fossil fuel pumping, the Middle East had to be actually occupied, and so now every American family with a male child knows that when their boys turn 18 there is a good chance they’re going to be dragged away to the desert and butchered. Everyone knows at least one young man who came back from Iraq or Saudi wounded or crippled, minus an arm or a leg, or blind, or insane. And of course the drawbacks of our wonderful democracy have become quite apparent to those of us who find ourselves living in the northernmost province of Mexico. They can’t sweep all the problems under the rug anymore. They’re too visible and obvious, and no one has any money left to run to the suburbs.”
“But that still hasn’t produced anything other than an army of white people hollering on talk radio and then trooping in to the polls on election day to vote Republican,” complained Ekstrom. “We vote in some white guy in a blow-dried hair do, with a bright smile and a thousand-dollar suit, then as soon as he hits Washington he betrays us, and all we get is more Mexicans, more crime, more taxes and fewer jobs, and all our savings gone on medical bills because nobody has any insurance anymore, and more dead kids coming back in coffins that no one is allowed to photograph. Surely we’re not that stupid? This isn’t an overnight development. This has been going on for 50 years. What the hell was wrong with us back in the 60s and 70s? Or even earlier? Why didn’t we fight?”
“Perhaps the more pertinent question, Len, would be why are we fighting now?” asked Morehouse. “As for our failure to resist this genocide by force of arms before, it’s of course tempting to put it down to cowardice plain and simple, and there has always been a lot of that in what passed for a white resistance movement, to be sure. Way too much of it. Not to mention the fact that most of our self-appointed leaders were little more than con men who didn’t have the chops to make it as televangelists. But it’s more complicated than that. White American males are still capable of being physically brave, sure they are. They prove it every day on the battlefield. Every week you can see some story on the tube about a white cop who faces down a pack of gang-bangers or a white fireman who pulls kids out of a burning building, and then you get these extreme sports kooks who jump out of airplanes with snowboards and try to surf down Mount Everest, or snorkel butt naked in a school of sharks, that kind of nonsense.”
“God knows I saw enough Aryan heroism every day in Iraq,” said Hatfield. “White men will still be as brave as lions, granted, but only for the Jews or for their money, Red. When it comes to standing up and fighting for ourselves, against the Jews and the government that’s tyrannizing us, all of a sudden we wuss out.”
“Mmmmm, here’s where it gets complex, Zack,” said Red contemplatively, dragging out a filthy old pipe from his pocket and beginning to stuff it with tobacco. “The white man can still show physical courage, yes. Lots of it. That courage gene is definitely still there in our makeup. But what we can’t seem to do is to be brave on our own, for our own interests, without the Jewish seal of approval. We have developed a poisonous symbiosis with the system. It needs us and we need it, psychologically. White males are addicted to social approval nowadays. We need it like an addict needs his crack pipe. We’ve got to have that supportive peer group around us yelling attaboy. We can be brave in a structured environment, so long as it is an officially approved form of courage, and so long as afterwards we can belly up to the bar and talk drunken shit with the boys and get slapped on the back, and then go home to the little woman and the comfortable middle class lifestyle from which we have ventured out, however briefly.
“The white man can face danger, but he can’t face loneliness,” Morehouse went on, lighting his pipe with a match from a paper book. “He can’t handle being away from the comforting herd. He can’t handle being out in front anymore. He’s lost there. The pioneer spirit is all but dead; you would have to have lived through those bleak times in the early 2000s like I did, before those first hundred people Came Home and built the Party, to understand how rare the true pioneer, the trail-blazer, the man or woman who can go first, has become among us. You might say the Jew has succeeded in domesticating the Aryan. We can be brave and good dogs so long as we hear the reassuring sound of our master’s voice and get the occasional doggie treat from his hands, but we can’t be lone wolves anymore. We can venture into the forest and do battle for our masters, but we can’t live in the dark wood and make it our home and kingdom anymore, hunting on our own and keeping our entire kill for ourselves. We must always return to the master’s warm fire and his doggie treats, and of course his collar and his leash. We didn’t fight, Charlie, up until now, because for a century or so we have no longer been wolves, but dogs. The Jew domesticated us. But now we must hear the call of the wild again. We have to find that spirit of the wolf once more within us, and bite the hand that feeds us. And I suppose I’d better abandon that simile before I stretch it into a pretzel. But you get what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, I do,” said Zack with a sigh. “And that poisonous symbiosis between the American white male and the system is still very much with us, an ingrained part of us. How many guys are going to be able to break out of it? Those are going to be pretty rare birds.”
“Well, maybe not so rare,” said Red with a smile and a swirl of smoke. “Once that first hundred stepped forward, it wasn’t so hard for others to do so, because more and more, when they came here they found a crowd to hide in. It was getting that first hundred to go first that was the real bitch. There are more now, a lot more. We’ve got six of them here tonight. Four in here and two very fine young people out in the car.”
“Red, I’m not so stupid as to ask how many men are in the Northwest Volunteer Army…” began Ekstrom.
“I couldn’t tell you even if you asked,” interposed Morehouse. “No one knows how many Volunteers there are, and I doubt anyone ever will know.”
“But how many men do you think it’s going to take to get this job done?” persisted Ekstrom. “To create our own country here and make it good? To drive out the federal authority?”
“Far fewer than you might think,” Morehouse told them. “Our victory, gentlemen, will be the ultimate victory of quality over quantity. The American régime is not invincible, you know. The Muslims have shown us that, in spades. Bear in mind, gentlemen, that we are facing an opponent who passed the top of his game a long, long time ago. We will be the tiny lion against the enormous snake, but the serpent is old and sick and dying, poisoned with its own crapulence. We are facing a putrid mass of corruption, incompetence, bureaucracy and sloth, quavering with senility, an enemy who already is maintaining an army of almost two million men around the globe in an attempt to create and maintain an empire containing all of the world’s petroleum reserves. American soldiers are engaged in trying to keep that rickety empire together from Venezuela to Tehran, and very few if any will be available to pull back here to fight against us.”
“The movement has always had to deal with this defeatist and paranoid belief that if we ever really tried anything, the might of the Army and the Marines would simply crush us,” said Hatfield. “Well, I can tell you, having seen the military from the inside, that the Army and Marines ain’t anywhere as mighty as they once were. And do you seriously think the Americans will abandon Iraq and Israel and Saudi Arabia and Venezuela and cut themselves off from their own oil supply to drop a million men on a handful of partisans in the Pacific Northwest, and maintain that level of occupation in a part of the world that is just as much a foreign country to those East Coast and L.A.-centric Jews and intelligentsia as Iraq ever was? The ruling élite all consider the Northwest to be a minor backwater.”
“You would think that maintaining the territorial integrity of the United States would be the régime’s first priority, but it won’t be,” agreed Morehouse. “With the growing world fuel shortage, oil is frankly more important than land, and will become more so. After all, the Northwest has no oil, other than Alaska, which is a separate problem. The Army Council’s strategic assessment is that initially, at least, there will be only a small actual military commitment against us, if any. They won’t take us seriously. Wishful thinking on their part: they desperately won’t want to take us seriously. The idea that white boys would actually revolt against them boggles their minds too much. They’re not going to be sending B-52s to bomb Seattle or landing the Third Marine Division in Astoria. What would that accomplish against small bands of guerrillas who will simply melt away in the face of overwhelming force, and then strike where the underbelly is soft? I think they’ve learned at least that much in Iraq and Iran. It won’t be that type of war.
“No, they’ll try to treat us as a crime problem at first,” Morehouse went on, the three of them leaning forward intently to listen. “Our enemies on the ground will consist of a hodge-podge of local police, National Guard reservists, FBI and BATFE, Homeland Security and other enemy paramilitaries, and eventually probably some SWAT-type special units and loyalist vigilante groups. And of course the black and Mexican gangs in the cities who may be sworn in as special U.S. Marshals or something of the kind when the shit really hits the fan. And the media, of course. Our enemy will be fragmented, disorganized, poorly coordinated in his many arms and agencies, and like all federals, each group will be jealous of its own turf and resources. They won’t work well together, they’ll trip over one another’s shoelaces, and they will fight us just as incompetently as they fought against the Iraqis and Iranians.”
“I’ve had to work with the federal government in the Forestry Department for years,” said Washburn. “I can tell you, the people in charge of us are fucking idiots. They break down just trying to establish a coherent forest firefighting plan, and don’t even get me started on FEMA. Get somebody actually shooting at these bureaucrats, and they’ll fall to pieces.”
“Exactly,” agreed Morehouse. “The reality is that for the first few months and years, we won’t be coming up against anybody that we can’t outshoot in a clutch, if our gunners can stay cool and calm and sober, keep the initiative in our hands, hunt them instead of letting them hunt us, and put some guts behind our guns. Of course, ideally speaking, it should never come to a full-blown shootout. We live light, we move light, we hit hard, and then we vanish before they can bring their superior force to bear. Classic guerrilla tactics. Remember those long wars in Iraq and Afghanistan and the Middle East? Many of our Volunteers will be military veterans who have been under fire on the other end of the stick, and man for man they’ll be every bit the personal equal or better than some pot-bellied highway patrolman or affirmative action FBI bitch in a feminist business suit.”
“So how many men do you think we will need in the NVA to get the job done?” asked Ekstrom again.
Morehouse puffed his pipe meditatively. “All right. I’m going to give you guys the theory here, all nice and neat. In reality, of course, nothing about this war is going to be nice and neat, but I am going to create a scenario for you that will at least approximate how we will win the Northwest American Republic, so you can get a glimpse of the possibilities. Assume we have intelligent and determined leadership. Assume we can get Volunteers with strong character and courage. Assume we can formulate a coherent battle plan and tactics, and add a generous dollop of good old-fashioned luck from the God of Battles. Those things acquired, and remembering how essentially weak and hollow the enemy really is, we should be able effectively to terminate federal control over three Northwestern states and maybe more territory as well, if we can maintain a force in the field of approximately one thousand men. And women, lest we forget.”
“Overthrow the United States government with a thousand men?” demanded Washburn in skeptical amazement. “Bullshit!”
“I didn’t say overthrow the United States government,” Morehouse corrected him. “I said effectively terminate federal control and authority in three large Northwestern states, which is not the same thing.”
“How?” asked Ekstrom.
“By hitting the enemy hard and often, in teams or crews of two to five or six people max. Let’s assume an average of five Volunteers per squad or crew. Our thousand effectives will make up two hundred such crews. Assume half of them are involved in support duties, supply, intelligence, medical services, propaganda, whatnot. That’s one hundred combat teams of five guys each remaining, who are actually pulling triggers and making things go boom. Imagine each of those crews striking the enemy on an average of once per day, all across the Northwest. Remember, one of the main reasons we migrated and we’re restricting our campaign to this corner of the country is to reduce the problem to manageable proportions. Let’s assume an average of a single dead enemy of one kind or another per attack. That’s 100 people per day being killed in one three-state area, with concomitant damage to enemy property, infrastructure, and damage to his morale, his public image, and thereby his capacity to govern. Their armies are designed to fight Star Wars, but we won’t be fighting Star Wars. We’ll be fighting Godfather style in the cities and Jesse James style in the countryside. We will be fighting high tech with low tech, and low tech is the one thing the United States has never known how to beat.” Morehouse knocked out his pipe onto the concrete floor, and then went on.
“In Vietnam, in Iraq, in Iran and Afghanistan, ZOG had every gadget and deadly toy human ingenuity could devise, computerized and covered with bright shiny lights. But they never found a way to beat the little barefoot brown man, dressed in rags and armed with an AK-47 and a couple of magazines of ammo, and a heart that would never surrender. The human heart and the human spirit can beat their machines, gentlemen. The human heart and the human spirit can beat their money. The human heart can beat their lying media. Our heart and our spirit can defeat their cruelty and their treachery and their lies, but only if we are fortified with strength and pride and faith in the justice of our cause. Our Volunteers must be like the soldiers of Oliver Cromwell, who said he wanted simple men of labor and the land, who know why they fight, and love what they know. ZOG could never beat the barefoot brown man with his AK-47. Neither will they be able to beat the white man of the Northwest in his pickup truck, his blue jeans and his baseball cap, with a pistol stuck in his belt and a backpack full of Semtex, on the rainy streets of Seattle or out in the backwoods of Idaho.”
“That’s if we can find the kind of political soldiers necessary for that kind of warfare,” Hatfield reminded them. “The guys with the cool head and the iron nerve and the ice water in their veins, who can pull a trigger or thumb a radio detonator and not worry about it afterwards. The guys who can go the distance and do this for year after long bloody year. The guys with a bottomless reserve of sheer guts.”
“You got it,” agreed Morehouse with a nod. “I can outline for you a structure for a revolutionary armed force that will work a treat against the enemy we will be facing. I can give you a strategy that will win us our own nation, and I can describe to you the tactics that will keep us alive and free and fighting while putting the enemy and his minions six feet under every time. But what I cannot do is to make you brave. I cannot turn mere white males into white men once again, men that our ancestors would have recognized. That we must somehow do for ourselves, by finding within ourselves that last dying spark of pride and honor and courage that has always distinguished us for thousands of years. It’s still there, comrades, and every man and woman of us who wants to change the world must search for it in their hearts and their souls. They must find it and feed it, blow on it, nurture it until it bursts into flame again.”
“You think these bastards will give in no matter how many people we kill?” asked Washburn. “Iraq and Afghanistan are very far away, something people read about over their morning coffee or watch on CNN. We will be striking at the very core of their power, right here on what they consider their home turf. Can they psychologically bring themselves to admit defeat even if we beat them?”
“This is another reason why we are not being so foolish as to try this in all 50 states. What we’re going to be doing, Charlie, is we’re going to be fighting a classical colonial war,” Morehouse told him. “There are rules for fighting a successful colonial war, and they have come into play dozens of times over the last century, from Ireland to Africa. We’re not trying to take their whole loaf from ZOG. Of course, they’d resist that to the death. Such a guerrilla war across all of America would last for generations, and anything we could salvage after such a conflict probably wouldn’t be worth living in anyway. Nor could we win it. For one thing, we’d have to slaughter over one hundred million non-whites, or drive them back south of the Rio Grande in the most massive refugee wave ever seen, and that simply isn’t feasible with what we have or what we are likely to get. If the only alternative to ongoing insurgency is the complete destruction of their own empire, ZOG will simply absorb whatever we dish out and hang on to the wreckage like drowning rats. A country as huge as the whole United States of America could absorb such a bloodletting as I have described, as traumatic as it would be, if it was scattered all over from Florida to Maine to San Francisco and everywhere in between. After all, more people than that are killed every day in traffic accidents. The ruling élite would never agree to hand over power to us on a nationwide basis and thus commit personal and political suicide. That’s just not going to happen. The patient isn’t going to disembowel himself to cure a bellyache, or even to remove a tumor. But, if what we do is to gangrene only one leg below the knee, so to speak, and if the patient knows he can amputate that part of the diseased limb and still walk on crutches and function—well, once it gets to hurting enough, he might be persuaded to amputate.
“With our thousand or so people—and by the way, there will almost certainly be more than that as our insurgency grows—anyway, what we can do is to make these three states of Washington, Oregon, and Idaho and maybe parts of Montana and northern California completely ungovernable. We can stop the United States from reaping any profit or income from this territory, and we can turn it into one gigantic black hole sucking in men, resources, time, effort, and above all money. Gentlemen, there is a truth to fighting and winning a colonial war that I want all of you to burn into your brains, because it is the key to our victory. In a colonial war, the generals never surrender! The accountants surrender! What we have to do is to confront the United States with a situation where as bad and as humiliating as it will be to let the Northwest go and let white people have their own country, the continuation of the guerrilla war is no longer an option for them. We can win this, comrades,” concluded Morehouse decisively. “We can beat the God Almighty United States of America, kick their stinking rotten asses right out of here, and take this land for ourselves and our children. But only if we have the stomach for it.”
There was a long moment of silence. “Let’s get started, then,” said Hatfield.
“Right,” said Morehouse, filling his pipe again. “You’ve already got the basics here. You’ve got three men. I always say men out of force of habit, but bear in mind that the right woman can do any of these jobs I’m going to describe to you just as well. In this room you’ve already got your first Trouble Trio.”
“Say what?” asked Charlie.
“The basic building block of the NVA company,” said Morehouse. “A three-man team. When we were planning all this out, studying and analyzing how previous successful revolutionary movements worked in Western political and social environments similar to ours, we came up with a kind of hybrid anatomy combining the IRA and the Cosa Nostra, two highly successful subversive outfits who to this day have never been completely repressed by their governments, despite over a century of trying. It’s simple, flexible, and workable. Even if the cell never grows beyond the first three guys, you’ve still got a small team who can do damage out of all proportion to their numbers, presuming they’ve got some stiffening in their spines. You’d be amazed how much hell three men can raise in a society this complex, this racially volatile and unstable. For a while some of us called this three-man building block a troika, but that sounds a bit foreign, so we ended up christening this formation unit a Trouble Trio. I’ll go ahead and give you the theory now, but I should mention that already some mutations in actual practice are starting to appear as we are forced to work out the kinks under fire, quite literally in some cases.”
“Go ahead,” Hatfield urged him.
Morehouse lit his pipe again. “You start with three people as I said, all of whom must have the requisite qualities of courage, resourcefulness, loyalty, and fanatic dedication. That’s the hard part, finding the right men and women for this. Each of these threes will be the nucleus of a company. I know it sounds ridiculous to call three people a company, but there will be more of you, and what we want is a structure that we can maintain right up until the end, when we will make the transformation from a guerrilla insurgency to become a proper national army. During our initial underground phase, the NVA is not an ordinary army where units are supposed to have some kind of set strength or function. We are as fluid as a lava lamp, always changing shape and bobbing around. Each company needs to be free floating, capable of conducting operations indefinitely on its own, even if it is totally cut off from the rest of the movement, and eventually regenerating itself and growing, adding more cells, like an amoeba.
“Each company will be part of a larger unit called a brigade,” Mr. Chips continued. “The next unit up from a company in most armies is actually the battalion, but we’re not going to create any of those until necessary and until we’ve got the bodies. The brigade will be the main operational combat unit of the Northwest Volunteer Army, responsible for taking on ZOG within a roughly defined operational area, and it will be made up of as many companies as needed. We diddled with the idea of creating separate commands for each state, Washington and Oregon, Idaho and Montana, but we decided to keep it simple. We need an army of fighting political soldiers, not layers of paramilitary bureaucrats. Each brigade will report to and be directed by the Army Council in the person of one or more political officers.”
“So the political officer actually commands the brigade?” asked Charlie.
“No. He’s strictly a liaison who acts as a communications conduit between the brigade commander and the central organization, although there may be situations where he has to use his interpretation of Army Council policy and strategy and pull a kind of rank on a brigade commander. That situation hasn’t arisen yet, and I hope it seldom does. That’s still kind of a gray area. The brigade is actually commanded by a brigade commandant, but don’t worry about that now. What concerns you is the company, the basic fighting unit. The company itself will eventually be subdivided into flexible squads, or teams, or crews of three to six men each, as needed. An NVA combat team with their weapons should always be able to fit into one vehicle at a pinch, although we’re finding that it’s a damned good idea to always take two cars on an operation. Getting back to the Trouble Trio, one of them will become the company commander. He’s responsible for everything that goes on in the company, and he leads his men in battle. He handles target selection, he initiates combat operations, and he keeps the company functioning and fighting. The company commander needs to be the most experienced and basically the most badass dude in the outfit, but he also needs to have demonstrated leadership capacity. In your case, I would suggest Zack Hatfield for this position.”
“So would I,” said Ekstrom.
“Absolutely,” said Charlie.
“Congratulations, Lieutenant Hatfield,” said Morehouse.
“Boy, that was quick,” said Zack. “It took me three years in the American army just to make E-5.”
“Yeah, well, we don’t have affirmative action in the NVA,” said Morehouse with a grin. “White boys are encouraged to apply. By the by, sorry to tell you two guys that at the moment only a company commander holds an actual NVA rank. We don’t have any sergeants or warrant officers or field marshals as yet. Later on when there are more Indians, maybe we can have a few more chiefs, but for the time being there’s only one big fish in each of our tiny little ponds. That’s all you need right now. This is a real war we’re fighting, not an Italian opera.”
“Mmm, more democratic like that anyway,” said Charlie. “Good psychology. That way you don’t have guys getting jealous cause I’m a sergeant major and they’re only lance corporals, or whatever.”
“That, too,” agreed Morehouse. “The first NVA companies will only be a small handful of men anyway, maybe a dozen at most, and you only really need one recognized honcho. But Zack, you need to set up a chain of command and appoint one of these guys to deputize for you in your absence, and to take over if you buy the farm. Let us know which one. You’ll also need to select men as team leaders, as your company expands.”
“We’ll worry about that later,” said Hatfield.
“Fine,” said Morehouse amicably. “Anyway, a second member of each Trouble Trio must become company quartermaster. This is a vital job. The quartermaster is responsible for the acquisition, maintenance, and security of all physical plant, including weapons and ammunition, explosives if any, every kind of supplies from food to medical, as great a number of motor vehicles of all kinds as you can get access to, safe premises for housing and training, and generally everything material. He also holds the company’s bankroll of cash, since money is just as much a war material as ammunition.”
“Len, you already run a hardware store,” said Zack. “You’re used to keeping track of inventory and dealing with a cash flow, and you know guns better than any man in the county. I’d like you to take quartermaster.”
“Fine,” said Ekstrom with a nod.
“That leaves me,” said Charlie Washburn.
“Looks like you’re executive officer, by default,” Morehouse told him. “The XO has two primary duties, intelligence and planning. Intelligence is vital. Good intelligence keeps you alive and makes the enemy dead. Bad intelligence does the opposite. Planning means scouting out ambush sites, figuring out what manpower and equipment and vehicles you’ll need, anticipating contingencies, setting up operations from beginning to end. Zack can teach you a lot of what you need to know based on his military experience.”
“Got it,” said Charlie. “I’m a state forestry employee and I have an official truck and uniform and ID, so I can be seen pretty much anywhere and have a good reason for being there that won’t cause comment.”
“That’s ideal,” said Morehouse with a nod. “Now, one of the first things you will need to do is recruit more Volunteers. Each one of you should be working prospects, assessing their character and their ability, trying to figure out first off if they can do what must be done, and secondly if they will do it. This will be the most potentially dangerous of all the things you do. Make a mistake and try to bring in the wrong man, and you’ve compromised the whole company. Make a bigger mistake and actually bring the wrong man in, and you will either die or spend the rest of your lives being sodomized by niggers in the prison shower. There is no worse error a revolutionary organization can make than to bring the wrong individual or the wrong kind of individual on board. This is a whole separate topic we will have to get into later in some detail, and we are starting to establish the necessary procedures to screen people, so you won’t be flying totally blind, but I can’t overemphasize the seriousness of recruiting. We have to have more Volunteers, but they must have the right stuff right from the start. It’s going to be a bitch. By the way,” he added casually, “Do any of you drink? Never mind. From now on, you don’t. We have something called General Order Number Ten that forbids any Northwest Volunteer from consuming alcoholic beverages or using drugs of any kind. Period. End of story. Do I need to explain to you why this must be?”
“I think it’s obvious that you can’t stage a revolution with drunks,” said Ekstrom.
“Hell, I’m too damned overweight anyway,” said Charlie. “Yeah, I suppose like a lot of white men, I’ve crawled into a beer can sometimes to try and kill the pain. Can’t you tell by looking at me? But now I know there’s hope, I’d have to be a real creep to choose my six-pack over the future of my race. I guess I just won’t stop off at the mini-mart on the way home tonight. Or any other night, until this is over. It’s a small price to pay for being a part of history.”
“I saw too many things go bad in Iraq because of drunks and dopers, of all ranks and races,” said Hatfield. “I don’t want to be out on some rainy street at night, and the man I’m depending on for my life and the success of the mission shows up staggering drunk or he’s not where he’s supposed to be because he snuck off to some damned bar. Not to mention the fact that booze loosens lips and sinks ships.”
“Good,” said Morehouse with an approving nod.
“Okay, so once we get a few more guys in, assuming one of them doesn’t rat us out and we don’t all end up in prison before we fire a shot, what then?” asked Hatfield.
“The Holy Grail you seek, gentlemen, is what’s called OR. Operational readiness,” said Morehouse. “That means you’ve gotten all your ducks in a row, acquired enough guns and recruited men willing to pull triggers, gotten a small fleet of vehicles and safe houses and supplies and some money together, and you’re ready to start shooting. But then you don’t just go out on the street and start blasting at every passing black or Mexican face you see.”
“Darn!” said Washburn.
“You have to condition yourselves always to keep your eyes on the prize,” Morehouse urged them. “Remember that you are part of an army that is fighting a colonial war for independence. You are trying to achieve a political objective, not just rack up a black and beaner body count. Any damned thug can shoot people. We are trying to free people, ours. Eventually the Army Council will appoint political officers to the smaller NVA active service units whose function will be to make sure that every action a unit takes in some way serves the larger purpose and fits into the big picture.”
“I assume there will be other NVA companies around,” said Hatfield.
“Yes,” replied Morehouse with a nod. “Once you guys are OR, by the way, you will officially come on strength as D Company of the First Portland Brigade, Northwest Volunteer Army. We’re shaping up two brigades in every major urban area, Seattle and Portland and Spokane and Boise. Two completely separate structures acting independently, suspenders and belt, so if the Feds break one and roll it up, then the other one can keep on fighting. Eventually there may be more than two. We’ll have to see how all this plays out. Your brigade commandant is Tommy Coyle. I can go ahead and mention his name since he’s already on the Ten Most Wanted List after Coeur d’Alene. I’ll be in touch with you in a few days, Zack, and we’ll set up a meeting. I think you two will be simpatico. Tommy did a couple of tours in Iraq like you, with the Rangers. Each of you will need to appoint one man from your group to act as liaison with the other, so that if either you or Tommy go down, we won’t lose contact. If that ever should happen, by the by, you also know Shane and Rooney, and if either of them can find you, you can take anything they say as coming from me. Communications is a whole ‘nother bag we’ll have to sort out, since we’ll be using everything from the internet to cell phones to coded personal ads in supermarket tabloids. Make no mistake—this is going to be a complex gig and you’re going to have to be able to keep all sorts of names and numbers and information in your head without writing anything down.”
“Okay, so we’re part of the Portland Brigade. How will that work? What, exactly, do you want us to do?” asked Charlie Washburn.
“D Company will be responsible for a very large turf, and you’ll probably end up being the biggest company in the brigade,” Morehouse told them. “Eventually you may even become a separate brigade, but for now we need you working with the boys in Portland. Urban units will necessarily have to be smaller and more compartmentalized, since most of the action will be in the cities due to the fact that there will always be more targets for us there. In theory, you guys’ operational area will be everything from the Portland city limits down Highway 30 along the south bank of the Columbia River, and then on down the coast along Highway 101 to about Tillamook or so. In actual practice, we could send you anywhere in the Homeland, or for that matter anywhere in North America, if there’s something that needs doing and we think you’re the best guys for the job. Your first duty will of course be to clear this North Shore area of all enemy forces and non-whites, but a very important secondary duty will be to provide backup and support for the Portland units, hideouts for them when they’re hot, supplies, training areas and logistics, safe caches for arms, lab facilities for EOD units, whatever they need.”
“EOD?” asked Washburn.
“Explosive ordnance delivery units. Bombers,” said Morehouse.
“Define enemy forces,” requested Hatfield.
“Anyone who is part of the federal apparatus of control and enforcement, or who assists in maintaining the Zionist occupation, or who gives aid and comfort to the régime,” Morehouse explained. “Military personnel, of course. FBI and Homeland Security agents, obviously. Certain local police but not all; that’s a special problem I’ll go over with you later. Some of the cops will be on our side, or at least willing to stand aside and let us get on with it. State and federal judges and anyone to do with the court system, and all lawyers. There are a few good lawyers and they go on a special don’t-shoot list, but they’re going to have to find another way to make a living. The enemy court system comes to a screeching halt, period. Anyone to do with the prison system—we want to make them move all those nigger and Mexican criminals the hell out of the Homeland, because in a pinch they might release thousands of gang-bangers and drug-addicted scum to attack the white population and create confusion and diversion. There are a number of white prisoners we want released to join us, but they’re a special problem and will be dealt with at a higher level than yours, unless your company should be specifically brought in on any such operation. Federal bureaucrats of any kind, but especially anyone to do with the IRS or revenue collection. One of the keystones of our strategy is that from now on, not one more dime we can prevent goes to Washington, D.C. from the Pacific Northwest. Elements in the media and the civilian population who actively support the régime or propagandize for it. And of course, anyone with skin the color of shit is henceforth persona non grata in the Northwest. Believe me, Zack, you won’t lack for targets. Basically, your job is to make sure that from Beaverton on down the river to the sea, ZOG’s writ doesn’t run anymore.”
“That’s a mighty big stretch of territory,” commented Ekstrom with a frown.
“Yes, but the potential is immense,” replied Morehouse with a smile. “I don’t know if it’s hit you guys yet, but you’re sitting right in the middle of perfect guerrilla country here. Huge expanses of heavy forest, mountains and ravines where you could hide an army, and where maybe we will someday. Small towns scattered far apart, connected only by long, twisting highways where an ambush can lurk around any corner. Endless back roads and isolated houses and trailers and old mines and logging camps where you can meet and train, and where you can disappear when the heat comes down. Weak, scattered, and disconnected enemy forces in small outposts that can be isolated and taken out or forced to evacuate, and the whole area a backwater that the feds won’t want to expend much on in the way of effort or manpower, because their main fight will be in the cities—and yet your small band of Volunteers can quite possibly force the government into committing tens of thousands of men and tens of millions of dollars to try and keep you contained, because you’ve got a main enemy artery of supply right out your front door,” he went on, gesturing through the window toward the river. “Huge container ports at Portland and Longview where billions of dollars of goods are trans-shipped coming and going every year. Do you realize the economic chokehold we could apply on the United States if we succeed in shutting down the Columbia shipping pipeline to the Asian rim, as well as Seattle and Tacoma? I say to you again, comrades—in our kind of war, it’s never the generals who cry halt. It’s the accountants!”