A passage from White Power
by George Lincoln Rockwell
The guy at the door of Nazi Headquarters was the living embodiment of the national suicide I have set forth in chapter 1. He seemed young. But you couldn’t be sure, because he was wearing a matted red beard. He wasn’t wearing clothes just a raggedy blanket and sandals. “Shades” (sun glasses) covered his eyes. Unkempt hair covered much of the rest of his face. Our duty officer, sharply uniformed in well-pressed khakis, jump boots and side arm just stood there looking, bug-eyed in amazement. The apparition, his head sort of bobbing and rolling to some rhythm while he snapped his fingers, looked the Duty Officer up and down.
“What’s with you Nazi cats?” he said. The Duty Officer stared.
“Say, man, will that thing shoot?” the man-in-the-blanket tried again, pointing a finger with inch-long dirty nails at the Duty Officer’s .45.
“Certainly” replied the Duty Officer, finally getting over his first shock. “What can we do for you?”
“I want to join, man. Like I wanna be a Nazi! Wanna gas me a Jew! I wanna sign up! Where’s this Rockwell cat?”
I was in a back room, printing. (I had to do much of it myself back then.) I heard all this going on. Although I didn’t like to let visitors see me covered with printers ink, I couldn’t resist coming out to see what was at the door.
“He wants to join, sir!” the Duty Officer said to me, still flabbergasted. I couldn’t resist talking to this thing from outer space.
I have often found that I learn most, not from books and literature, but from people and events themselves. And this guy looked like a whole encyclopedia of everything degenerate. I invited him in. We talked. He couldn’t stay still, but kept moving around the room, seeming to float a few inches above the floor. (I later learned that he was on pills and narcotics.) After an hour or so of talking, he began to change a bit. He appeared unsure of himself in the presence of something he’d never experienced before—men who were sure of themselves and had a purpose.
A look of unbelieving wonder came over his blue eyes, even through the “shades” as I talked to him of what we really were and why we had given up everything of fun in life to fight for our nation and White Race. Little by little, I began to get the story out of him. He was only seventeen years old, and had lived an entire lifetime.
He’d done everything, tried all kicks, and was already bored to death with an empty life. He’d made a mistress out of his art teacher, he’d run a den of degeneracy and debauchery called “Mule’s Pad” where the local beats and wild crowds did anything, including enjoy dope. He’d shot a man, gotten off, and lived as fast and hard as he could until finally, he contemplated suicide in utter despair of finding anything worth doing any more all this at seventeen! Before he committed suicide, he told me, he decided to come to see the Nazi “cats,” figuring it might be one last kick.
What he found, unexpectedly, was what every human being needs to survive this life a purpose—something which gives life more meaning than a constant search for more pleasure and kicks. He actually convinced me he wanted to try to be a Storm trooper! As a matter of policy, whenever I hear that (as I do every day), I do all I can to discourage the applicant. We want no dabblers, but dedicated, fanatical fighters who will stick through hell itself. With this crazy character, I went even further. I made fun of him. I told him he’d never make it, that we’d run him off the first day. He rose to the challenge.
“You name it, and I’ll make it!” he said.
Strangely, I could sense a fiercely burning will behind the words. I told him he couldn’t come up to try life as a Nazi Storm-trooper until he was eighteen. He left, vowing to return in a few months. He did return—without the beatnik get-up. He turned out to be a blonde, young Viking, built for combat.
We poured it to him. There was no place left inside for him to sleep. So he was assigned to a wrecked car out back. It was still winter and cold. But the kid moved into the wrecked car with a couple of blankets. We put him to work cleaning the toilets, and yard. He worked. Spring came, and then a broiling summer. He was still in the wrecked car, eaten alive by mosquitoes.
I tried him on the printing press, and never saw such a bear for work. He was all dried out of booze, off the pills and dope, exercising plenty, and showing every sign of “making it.” He accomplished dozens of dangerous missions against the SNCC, NAACP, Communists and peace creeps. He accompanied me to many a fight—and many a jail.
Within eleven months, faster than almost anybody before or since, this kid became an officer in the Storm troop section, and led more successful operations against the enemy than any single Party Officer, with one possible exception.
An example of the work of this kid was the time the Black agitators were trying to unseat the White Mississippi delegation, and our own blackface “delegation” sent the Black agitators packing back to Mississippi as laughing-stocks. My ex-beatnik managed to race onto the floor of Congress on opening day in blackface, with top hat, loin cloth and cigar, shouting. “I’ze de Mississippi delegation, and ah demands mah seat!”
The young man escaped the vicious circle of despair, boredom and degeneracy of millions of “modern youth” only because he happened upon the spiritual life-preserver of Nazi love of Race and Nation before he sank forever into the putrid slime of modern spiritual syphilis.
There will be many who will say that he could have been saved, perhaps even more effectively by religion. Fifty years ago, yes. But I have had five years of experience seeing these lost kids on college campuses all over America. And I can assure the reader that most of these young people are far too cynical and hardened to be able to open their ears and heart even for a moment to accept a religious approach. Start talking about religion to such hard-case cynics and you drive them further and further away, no matter how hard you try.
It takes a new and shocking approach, a dramatic and powerful approach to have any hope of making an impression on such lost, bitter kids. We have it, and it works.
White nationalism failed Dylann Roof. He did what he did because he found no foots-on-the-ground options in the websites he visited.
After Rockwell was assassinated in 25 August 1967, no one carried his torch. Presently there are many kids wearing “raggedy blankets and sandals” so to speak, wandering vagabonds because they want to fight the enemy—but unlike Rockwell’s National Socialist gang, self-styled “white nationalists” are utterly disorganized. Half a century after the kid knocked the door of Rockwell’s Nazi Headquarters, internet “nationalists” have no leaders in the real world.
The economic crisis that is hitting Greece will eventually arrive to the US. Alex Linder has been right about Greece’s Golden Dawn. But unlike the neonazi movement of the Balkan peninsula, white nationalists are not organized and the coming financial accident will take them by surprise.
In the next entry we will see how decades ago Rockwell warned us about the utter silliness of trying to make a difference through mere essayism: the feminine ways of today’s WNsts (most of them de facto conservatives).