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Shofar FTP Archive File: people/p//pierce.william/turner-diaries-ch-06

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on June 7, 1997;  the below is simply the output of a "lynx -dump."

   _The Turner Diaries
  Chapter Vl
     October 13, 1991. At 9:15 yesterday morning our bomb went off in the
   FBI's national headquarters building. Our worries about the relatively
   small size of the bomb were unfounded; the damage is immense. We have
   certainly disrupted a major portion of the FBI's headquarters
   operations for at least the next several weeks, and it looks like we
   have also achieved our goal of wrecking their new computer complex.
     My day's work started a little before five o'clock yesterday, when I
   began helping Ed Sanders mix heating oil with the ammonium nitrate
   fertilizer in Unit 8's garage. We stood the s00 pound bags on end one
   by one and poked a small hole in the top with a screwdriver, just big
   enough to insert the end of a funnel. While I held the bag and funnel,
   Ed poured in a gallon of oil.
     Then we slapped a big square of adhesive tape over the hole, and I
   turned the bag end over end to mix the contents while Ed refilled his
   oil can from the feeder line to their oil furnace. It took us nearly
   three hours to do all 44 sacks, and the work really wore me out.
     Meanwhile, George and Henry were out stealing a truck. With only
   two-and-a-half tons of explosives we didn't need a big tractor-trailer
   rig, so we had decided to grab a delivery truck belonging to an
   office-supply firm. They just followed the truck they wanted in our
   car until it stopped to make a delivery. When the driver-a
   Negro-opened the back of the truck and stepped inside, Henry hopped in
   after him and dispatched him swiftly and silently with his knife.
     Then George followed in the car while Henry drove the truck to the
   garage. They backed in just as Ed and I were finishing our work. They
   are certain that no one on the street noticed a thing.
     It took us another half hour to unload about a ton of mimeograph
   paper and miscellaneous office supplies from the truck and then to
   carefully pack our cases of dynamite and bags of sensitized fertilizer
   in place. Finally, I ran the cable and switch from the detonator
   through a chink from the cargo area into the cab of the truck. We left
   the driver's body in the back of the truck.
     George and I headed for the FBI building in the car, with Henry
   following in the truck. We intended to park near the 10th Street
   freight entrances and watch until the freight door to the basement
   level was opened for another truck, while Henry waited with "our"
   truck two blocks away. We would then give him a signal via
     As we drove by the building, however, we saw that the basement
   entrance was open and no one was in sight. We signalled Henry and kept
   going for another seven or eight blocks, until we found a good spot to
   park. Then we began walking back slowly, keeping an eye on our
     We were still two blocks away when the pavement shuddered violently
   under our feet. An instant later the blast wave hit us-a deafening
   "ka-whoomp," followed by an enormous roaring, crashing sound,
   accentuated by the higher-pitched noise of shattering glass all around
     The plate glass windows in the store beside us and dozens of others
   that we could see along the street were blown to splinters. A
   glittering and deadly rain of glass shards continued to fall into the
   street from the upper stories of nearby buildings for a few seconds,
   as a jet-black column of smoke shot straight up into the sky ahead of
     We ran the final two blocks and were dismayed to see what, at first
   glance, appeared to be an entirely intact FBI headquarters- except, of
   course, that most of the windows were missing. We headed for the 10th
   Street freight entrances we had driven past a few minutes earlier.
   Dense, choking smoke was pouring from the ramp leading to the
   basement, and it was out of the question to attempt to enter there.
     Dozens of people were scurrying around the freight entrance to the
   central courtyard, some going in and some coming out. Many were
   bleeding profusely from cuts, and all had expressions of shock or
   dazed disbelief on their faces. George and I took deep breaths and
   hurried through the entrance. No one challenged us or even gave us a
   second glance.
     The scene in the courtyard was one of utter devastation. The whole
   Pennsylvania Avenue wing of the building, as we could then see, had
   collapsed, partly into the courtyard in the center of the building and
   partly into Pennsylvania Avenue. A huge, gaping hole yawned in the
   courtyard pavement just beyond the rubble of collapsed masonry, and it
   was from this hole that most of the column of black smoke was
     Overturned trucks and automobiles, smashed office furniture, and
   building rubble were strewn wildly about-and so were the bodies of a
   shockingly large number of victims. Over everything hung the pall of
   black smoke, burning our eyes and lungs and reducing the bright
   morning to semi-darkness.
     We took a few steps into the courtyard in order to better evaluate
   the damage we had caused. We had to wade through a waist-deep sea of
   paper, which had spilled out of a huge jumble of file cabinets to our
   right, perhaps a thousand of them. It looked like they had slid en
   masse into the courtyard from one of the upper stories of the
   collapsed wing, and now there was a tangled heap of smashed and burst
   cabinets 20 feet high and 80 to 100 feet long interspersed with their
   disgorged contents, which had spread out beyond the heap until most of
   the courtyard was covered with paper.
     As we gaped with a mixture of horror and elation at the devastation,
   Henry's head suddenly appeared a few feet away. He was climbing out of
   a crevice in the mountain of smashed file cabinets. We were both
   startled to see him, as he was supposed to have left the area as soon
   as he parked the truck and then waited for us to pick him up at the
   rendezvous point.
     He quickly explained that everything had gone so smoothly in the
   basement that he had decided to wait in the area for the blast. He had
   flipped the switch to the detonator timer as he drove the truck down
   the ramp into the building, so that there could be no chance of any
   difficulties which might arise causing him to change his mind. But no
   difficulties arose. He received no challenge, only a casual wave from
   a Black guard, as he pulled into the basement. Two other trucks were
   unloading at a freight platform, but Henry drove on past them,
   stopping his truck as nearly under the center of the Pennsylvania
   Avenue wing of the building as he could judge.
     He had a hoked-up set of delivery documents to hand to anyone who
   questioned him, but no one did. He walked past the inattentive Black
   guard, back up the ramp, and out onto the street.
     He waited by a public phone booth a block away until one minute
   before the explosion was due, then placed a call to the newsroom of
   the Washington Post. His brief message was: "Three weeks ago you and
   yours killed Carl Hodges in Chicago. We are now settling the score
   with your pals in the political police. Soon we'll settle the score
   with you and all other traitors. White America shall live!"
     That should rattle their cage enough to provoke a few good headlines
   and editorials!
     Henry had beat us back to the FBI building by less than a minute,
   but he had put that minute to good use. He pointed to a few curls of
   lighter, grayish smoke which were beginning to rise from the tangle of
   smashed file cabinets from which he had just emerged, and then he
   flashed a quick grin as he dropped his cigarette lighter back into his
   pocket. Henry is a one-man army.
     As we turned to leave, I heard a moan and looked down to see a girl,
   about 20 years old, half under a steel door and other debris. Her
   pretty face was smudged and scraped, and she seemed to be only half
   conscious. I lifted the door off her and saw that one leg was crumpled
   under her, badly broken, and blood was spurting from a deep gash in
   her thigh.
     I quickly removed the cloth belt from her dress and used it to make
   a tourniquet. The flow of blood slowed somewhat, but not enough. I
   then tore off a portion of her dress and folded it into a compress,
   which I held against the cut in her leg while George removed his
   shoelaces and used them to tie the compress in place. As gently as we
   could George and I picked her up to carry her out to the sidewalk. She
   moaned loudly as her broken leg straightened.
     The girl seemed to have no serious injuries other than her leg, and
   she will probably pull through all right. Not so for many others,
   though. When I stooped to stop the girl's bleeding I became aware for
   the first time of the moans and screams of dozens of other injured
   persons in the courtyard. Not twenty feet away another woman lay
   motionless, her face covered with blood and a gaping wound in the side
   of her head-a horrible sight which I can still see vividly every time
   I close my eyes.
     According to the latest estimate released, approximately 700 persons
   were killed in the blast or subsequently died in the wreckage. That
   includes an estimated 150 persons who were in the sub-basement at the
   time of the explosion and whose bodies have not been recovered.
     It may be more than two weeks before enough rubble has been cleared
   away to allow full access to that level of the building, according to
   the TV news reporter. That report and others we've heard yesterday and
   today make it virtually certain that the new computer banks in the
   sub-basement have either been totally destroyed or very badly damaged.
     All day yesterday and most of today we watched the TV coverage of
   rescue crews bringing the dead and injured out of the building. It is
   a heavy burden of responsibility for us to bear, since most of the
   victims of our bomb were only pawns who were no more committed to the
   sick philosophy or the racially destructive goals of the System than
   we are.
     But there is no way we can destroy the System without hurting many
   thousands of innocent people-no way. It is a cancer too deeply rooted
   in our flesh. And if we don't destroy the System before it destroys
   us-if we don't cut this cancer out of our living flesh-our whole race
   will die.
     We have gone over this before, and we are all completely convinced
   that what we did is justified, but it is still very hard to see our
   own people suffering so intensely because of our acts. It is because
   Americans have for so many years been unwilling to make unpleasant
   decisions that we are forced to make decisions now which are stern
     And is that not a key to the whole problem? The corruption of our
   people by the Jewish-liberal-democratic-equalitarian plague which
   afflicts us is more clearly manifested in our soft-mindedness, our
   unwillingness to recognize the harder realities of life, than in
   anything else.
     Liberalism is an essentially feminine, submissive world view.
   Perhaps a better adjective than feminine is infantile. It is the world
   view of men who do not have the moral toughness, the spiritual
   strength to stand up and do single combat with life, who cannot adjust
   to the reality that the world is not a huge, pink-and-blue, padded
   nursery in which the lions lie down with the lambs and everyone lives
   happily ever after.
     Nor should spiritually healthy men of our race even want the world
   to be like that, if it could be so. That is an alien, essentially
   Oriental approach to life, the world view of slaves rather than of
   free men of the West.
     But it has permeated our whole society. Even those who do not
   consciously accept the liberal doctrines have been corrupted by them.
   Decade after decade the race problem in America has become worse. But
   the majority of those who wanted a solution, who wanted to preserve a
   White America, were never able to screw up the courage to look the
   obvious solutions in the face.
     All the liberals and the Jews had to do was begin screeching about
   "inhumanity" or "injustice" or "genocide," and most of our people who
   had been beating around the edges of a solution took to their heels
   like frightened rabbits. Because there was never a way to solve the
   race problem which would be "fair for everybody or which everyone
   concerned could be politely persuaded into accepting without any fuss
   or unpleasantness, they kept trying to evade it, hoping that it would
   go away by itself. And the same has been true of the Jewish problem
   and the immigration problem and the overpopulation problem and the
   eugenics problem and a thousand related problems.
     Yes, the inability to face reality and make difficult decisions,
   that is the salient symptom of the liberal disease. Always trying to
   avoid a minor unpleasantness now, so that a major unpleasantness
   becomes unavoidable later, always evading any responsibility to the
   future-that is the way the liberal mind works.
     Nevertheless, every time the TV camera focuses on the pitiful,
   mutilated corpse of some poor girl-or even an FBI agent- being pulled
   from the wreckage, my stomach becomes tied in knots and I cannot
   breathe. It is a terrible, terrible task we have before us.
     And it is already clear that the controlled media intend to convince
   the public that what we are doing is terrible. They are deliberately
   emphasizing the suffering we have caused by interspersing gory
   closeups of the victims with tearful interviews with their relatives.
     Interviewers are asking leading questions like, "What kind of
   inhuman beasts do you think could have done something like this to
   your daughter?" They have clearly made the decision to portray the
   bombing of the FBI building as the atrocity of the century.
     And, indeed, it is an act of unprecedented magnitude. All the
   bombings, arsons, and assassinations carried out by the Left in this
   country have been rather small-time in comparison.
     But what a difference in the attitude of the news medial I remember
   a long string of Marxist acts of terror 20 years ago, during the
   Vietnam war. A number of government buildings were burned or
   dynamited, and several innocent bystanders were killed, but the press
   always portrayed such things as idealistic acts of "protest."
     There was a gang of armed, revolutionary Negroes who called
   themselves "Black Panthers." Every time they had a shootout with the
   police, the press and TV people had their tearful interviews with the
   families of the Black gang members who got killed-not with the cops'
   widows. And when a Negress who belonged to the Communist Party helped
   plan a courtroom shootout and even supplied the shotgun with which a
   judge was murdered, the press formed a cheering section at her trial
   and tried to make a folk hero out of her.
     Well, as Henry warned the Washington Post yesterday, we will soon
   begin settling that score. One day we will have a truly American press
   in this country, but a lot of editors' throats will have to be cut
     October 16. I'm back with my old friends in Unit 2. These words are
   being written by lantern light in the place they fixed up in the loft
   of their barn for Katherine and me. A bit chilly and primitive, but at
   least we have complete privacy. This is the first time we've had a
   whole night together by ourselves.
     Actually we didn't come here for a romp in the hay but to pick up a
   load of munitions. The fellows from Unit 8 who were sent up here last
   week to find explosives for the FBI job were at least partly
   successful: they didn't get much in the way of bulk explosives, and
   they were too late with what they did get, and they nearly got
   themselves killed-but they did acquire quite a grab bag of
   miscellaneous ordnance for the Organization.
     They didn't tell me all the details, but they were able to get a 2
   1/2-ton truck into the Aberdeen Proving Ground, about 25 miles from
   here, load it with munitions, and get it out again- with the help of
   one of our people on the inside. Unfortunately, they were surprised in
   the act of raiding a storage bunker and had to shoot their way out. In
   the process one of them was very seriously wounded.
     They managed to elude their pursuers and get as far as Unit 2's farm
   outside Baltimore, and they have been in hiding here ever since. The
   man who was shot nearly died from shock and loss of blood, but no
   major organs were damaged and it now looks as if he'll pull through,
   although he's still too weak to be moved.
     The other two have been keeping themselves busy working on their
   truck, which is parked right beneath us. They've repainted it and made
   a couple of other changes, so it won't be recognizable when they
   eventually head back toward Washington in it.
     They won't be taking the bulk of their munitions back with them,
   however. Most of it will be stored here and used to supply units
   throughout the area. Washington Field Command is letting our unit have
   first pick of this material.
     There's quite an assortment. Probably most valuable are 30 cases of
   fragmentation grenades-that's 750 hand grenades! We'll take two cases
   back with us.
     Then there are about 100 land mines of various types and sizes
   -handy for making boobytraps. We'll pick out two or three of those .
     And there are fuses and boosters galore. Cases of fuses for bombs,
   mines, grenades, et cetera. And eight spools of detonating cord. And a
   case of thermite grenades. And lots of other odds and ends.
     And there's even a 500-lb., general-purpose bomb. They made such a
   racket trying to get that onto the truck that a guard heard them. But
   we'll take it back with us. It's filled with about 250 pounds of
   tritonal, a mixture of TNT and aluminum powder, and we can melt it out
   of the bomb casing and use it for smaller bombs.
     Katherine and I are both very happy we could make this trip
   together, but the circumstances are troubling. George first asked
   Henry and me to go, but Katherine objected. She complained that she
   had not yet been given a chance to participate in the activities of
   our unit and, in fact, had hardly been outside our two hideouts during
   the last month. She had no intention, she said, of being nothing but a
   cook and housekeeper for the rest of us.
     We were all under a bit of tension following the big bombing, and
   Katherine came across a bit shrill-almost like a women's fibber. (Note
   to the reader: "Women's lib" was a form of mass psychosis which broke
   out during the last three decades of the Old Era. Women affected by it
   denied their femininity and insisted that they were "people," not
   "women." This aberration was promoted and encouraged by the System as
   a means of dividing our race against itself.) George hotly protested
   that she was not being discriminated against, that her
   makeup-and-disguise abilities had been particularly valuable to our
   unit, and that he assigned tasks solely on the basis of how he thought
   we could function most effectively.
     I tried to smooth things over by suggesting that perhaps it would be
   better for a man and a woman to be driving a carload of contraband
   than two men. The police have been stopping lots of cars at random in
   the Washington area for searches in the last few days.
     Henry agreed with my suggestion, and George reluctantly went along
   with it. I am afraid, however, that he suspects that at least part of
   the reason for Katherine's outburst is that she preferred to be with
   me rather than to be left alone for a whole day with him.
     We have not flaunted our relationship, hut it is not likely that
   either Henry or George has failed to guess by now that Katherine and I
   are lovers. That creates a rather awkward situation for all of us.
   Completely aside from the fact that George and Henry are both healthy
   males and Katherine is the only female among us is the problem of
   Organizational discipline.
     The Organization has made allowances for married couples where both
   man and wife are members of a unit, in that husbands have veto power
   over any orders given to their wives. But, with that exception, women
   are subject to the same discipline as men, and, despite the
   informality which prevails in nearly all units, any infraction of
   Organizational discipline is an extremely serious matter.
     Katherine and I have talked about this, and, just as we are
   unwilling to regard our growing relationship as purely sexual, bearing
   no obligations, neither are we inclined to formalize it yet. For one
   thing, we still have a lot to learn about each other. For another, we
   each have an overriding commitment to the Organization and to our
   unit, and we must not lightly do anything which might infringe upon
   that commitment.
     Nevertheless, we'll have to resolve things one way or another pretty
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