Julian, 46

Editor’s note: I am relocating the below post, already published last Sunday, to this Sunday to make a point.

Gregory of Nazianzus was a ‘saint’ that has been mentioned several times in this site, especially in Karlheinz Deschner’s historical series. But scholarly writing lacks the vitality of a literary recreation of an epoch. That is why historical novels are important as a literary genre.

The next step would be to recreate the epoch in movies and TV series (something that we would have today hadn’t the American and the British betrayed their own race in the Second World War). Gregory’s father ‘was part Jew and part Greek’ wrote Vidal, and he added about this Gregory:

He tapped the painting. A flake of paint zigzagged to the ground. “One day the whole thing will disappear and then who will know what Marathon was like, when this picture’s gone?”

Had the Third Reich been allowed to thrive, you can imagine the power that film scenes describing the Semitic takeover of our civilisation in the 4th century would have been causing in a Jew-wise, Aryan audience.

In his novel Julian, Vidal wrote:

 

 
As I stood there looking up at the tarry shields, a youth approached me. He was bearded; his clothes were dirty; he wore a student’s cloak and he looked a typical New Cynic of the sort I deplore. I have recently written at considerable length about these vagabonds. In the last few years the philosophy of Crates and Zeno has been taken over by idlers who, though they have no interest in philosophy, deliberately imitate the Cynics in such externals as not cutting their hair or beards, carrying sticks and wallets, and begging. But where the original Cynics despised wealth, sought virtue, questioned all things in order to find what was true, these imitators mock all things, including the true, using the mask of philosophy to disguise licence and irresponsibility. Nowadays, any young man who does not choose to study or to work grows a beard, insults the gods, and calls himself Cynic. No wonder philosophy has earned the contempt of so many in this unhappy age.

Without ceremony, the New Cynic pointed at the wall. “That is Aeschylus,” he said. I looked politely at the painting of a bearded soldier, no different from the others except for the famous name written above his head. The playwright is shown engaged in combat with a Persian. But though he is fighting for his life, his sombre face is turned towards us, as though to say: I know that I am immortal!

“The painter was self-conscious,” I said neutrally, fully expecting to be asked for money and ready not to give it.

The Cynic grinned at me. Apparently he chose to regard neutrality as friendship. He tapped the painting. A flake of paint zigzagged to the ground. “One day the whole thing will disappear and then who will know what Marathon was like, when this picture’s gone?” As he spoke, something stirred in my memory. I recognized the voice. Yet the face was completely strange to me. Confident now that we were friends, he turned from the painting to me. Had I just arrived in Athens? Yes. Was I a student? Yes. Was I a Cynic? No. Well, there was no cause to be so emphatic (smiling). He himself dressed as a Cynic only because he was poor. By the time this startling news had been revealed to me, we had climbed the steps to the temple of Hephaestos. Here the view of the agora is wide and elegant. In the clear noon light one could see beyond the city to the dark small windows of those houses which cluster at the foot of Hymettos.

“Beautiful,” said my companion, making even that simple word sound ambiguous. “Though beauty…”

“Is absolute,” I said firmly. Then to forestall Cynic chatter, I turned abruptly into the desolate garden of the temple. The place was overrun with weeds, while the temple itself was shabby and sad. But at least the Galileans have not turned it into a charnel house. Far better that a temple fall in ruins than be so desecrated. Better of course that it be restored.

My companion asked if I was hungry. I said no, which he took as yes (he tended not to listen to answers). He suggested we visit a tavern in the quarter just back of the temple. It was, he assured me, a place much frequented by students of the “better” sort. He was sure that I would enjoy it. Amused by his effrontery (and still intrigued by that voice which haunted me), I accompanied him through the narrow hot streets of the near by quarter of the smiths, whose shops glowed blue as they hammered out metal in a blaring racket: metal struck metal in a swarm of sparks, like comets’ tails.

The tavern was a low building with a sagging roof from which too many tiles had been removed by time and weather. I bent low to enter the main door. I was also forced to stoop inside, for the ceiling was too low for me and the beams were haphazard, even dangerous in the dim light. My companion had no difficulty standing straight. I winced at the heavy odour of rancid oil burning in pots on the stove.

Two trestle tables with benches filled the room. A dozen youths sat together close to the back door, which opened on to a dismal courtyard containing a dead olive tree which looked as though it had been sketched in silver on the whitewashed wall behind it.

My companion knew most of the other students. All were New Cynics, bearded, loud, disdainful, unread. They greeted us with cheerful obscenities. I felt uncomfortable but was determined to go through with my adventure. After all, this was what I had dreamed of. To be just one among many, even among New Cynics. The moment was unique, or so I thought. When asked who I was, they were told “Not a Cynic.” They laughed good-humouredly. But then when they heard I was new to Athens, each made an effort to get me to attend lectures with his teacher. My companion rescued me. “He is already taken. He studies with Prohaeresius.” I was surprised, for I had said nothing to my guide about Prohaeresius, and yet Prohaeresius was indeed the teacher of my choice. How did he know?

“I know all about you,” he said mysteriously. “I read minds, tell fortunes.” He was interrupted by one of the youths, who suggested that I shave my beard since otherwise I might be mistaken for a New Cynic and give them a bad name by my good behaviour. This was considered witty in that room. Others debated whether or not I should be carried off to the baths to be scrubbed, the traditional hazing for new students, and one which I had every intention of avoiding. If necessary, I would invoke lèse majesté!

But my guardian shoved the students away and sat me down at the opposite table close to the courtyard door, for which I was grateful. I am not particularly sensitive to odours, but on a blazing hot day the odour of unwashed students combined with thick smoke from old burning oil was almost too much for me. The tavern-keeper, making sure I had money (apparently my companion was deep in his debt), brought us cheese, bitter olives, old bread, sour wine. To my surprise, I was hungry. I ate quickly, without tasting. Suddenly I paused, aware that I was being stared at. I looked across the table at my companion. Yes?

“You have forgotten me, haven’t you, Julian?”

Then I identified the familiar voice. I recognized Gregory of Nazianzus. We had been together at Pergamon. I burst out laughing and shook his hand. “How did such a dedicated Christian become a New Cynic?”

“Poverty, plain poverty.” Gregory indicated the torn and dirty cloak, the unkempt beard. “And protection.” He lowered his voice, indicating the students at the other table. “Christians are outnumbered in Athens. It’s a detestable city. There is no faith, only argument and atheism.”

“Then why are you here?”

He sighed. “The best teachers are here, the best instructors in rhetoric. Also, it is good to know the enemy, to be able to fight him with his own weapons.”

I nodded and pretended agreement. I was not very brave in those days. But even though I could never be candid with Gregory, he was an amusing companion. He was as devoted to the Galilian nonsense as I was to the truth. I attributed this to his unfortunate childhood. His family are Cappadocian. They live in a small town some fifty miles south-west of Caesarea, the provincial capital. His mother was a most strong-willed woman named… I cannot recall her name but I did meet her once a few years ago, and a most formidable creature she was. Passionate and proud and perfectly intolerant of everything not Galilean.

Gregory’s father was part Jew and part Greek. As a result of his wife’s relentless admonitions, he succumbed finally to the Galilean religion. According to Gregory, when his father was splashed with water by the bishop of Nazianzus, a great nimbus shone all round the convert. The bishop was so moved that he declared, “Here is my successor!” A most generous-minded man, that bishop! Most of us prefer not to name our successor. In due course, Gregory’s father became bishop of Nazianzus. So his predecessor had the gift of prophecy, if nothing else.

All in a rush Gregory was telling me of himself. “… a terrible trip, by sea. Just before we got to Aegina, the storm struck us. I was sure the ship would sink. I was terrified. I’d never been (I still am not) baptized. So if I died like that at sea… Well, you must know yourself what I went through.” He looked at me sharply. “Are you baptized?”

I said that I had been baptized as a child. I looked as reverent as possible when I said this.

“I prayed and prayed. Finally I fell asleep, exhausted. We all did. I dreamed that something loathsome, some sort of Fury, had come to take me to hell. Meanwhile, one of the cabin boys, a boy from Nazianzus, was dreaming that he saw—now this is really a miracle—Mother walking upon the water.”

“His mother or your mother or the mother of Jesus?” I am afraid that I asked this out of mischief. I couldn’t help myself.

But Gregory took the question straight. “My mother,” he said. “The boy knew her, and there she was walking across that raging sea. Then she took the ship by its prow and drew it after her to a safe harbour. Which is exactly what happened. That very night the storm stopped. A Phoenician ship found us and towed us into the harbour of Rhodes.” He sat back in triumph. “What do you think of that?”

“Your mother is a remarkable woman,” I said accurately. Gregory agreed and talked at enthusiastic length about that stern virago. Then he told me of his adventures in Athens, of his poverty (this was a hint which I took: I gave him a good deal of money during the course of my stay), of our friend Basil who was also in Athens and was, I suspect, the reason for Gregory’s attendance at the University. Wherever Basil went, Gregory followed. At Athens they were nicknamed “the Twins”.

“I am expecting Basil now. We’re both due at Prohaeresius’s house this afternoon. We’ll take you. You know we live together here. We study together. We argue almost as a team against the local Sophists. And we usually win.”

This was true. Both he and Basil were—are—eloquent. I deplore of course the uses to which their eloquence is put. Today they are most active as Galilean apologists, and I often wonder what they think of their old companion who governs the state. Nothing good, I fear. When I became emperor I asked them both to visit me at Constantinople. Gregory agreed to come, but never did. Basil refused. Of the two, I prefer Basil. He is plain, like me. He is misguided in his beliefs but honest. I suspect Gregory of self-seeking.

The Last Jedi

For boomers like me Star Wars was never the epic film that has been for younger generations. For me the master film was 2001: A Space Odyssey, which exerted a tremendous influence on my life, especially because of its philosophical implications.

The Star Wars saga lies not in the serious science-fiction league. Rather, it resembles the space fantasy comics that became fashionable in the 1950s and 60s. There is nothing wrong with the comics genre, if we take into account that in a 2018 interview George Lucas told James Cameron in Story of Science Fiction that he had designed his project for twelve-year-old children.

But that genre that Lucas chose, like the most serious science-fiction, can produce good or bad movies. I agree with Richard Spencer that, from the point of view of the messages, Star Wars: Episode IV: A New Hope, of 1977, is the best as the protagonists are white and coloured heroes are missing. In addition, in the final minutes Princess Leia awards Luke and Han with medals for their heroism: visually, with slightly fashy tones.

From the strictly cinematographic point of view I believe that Star Wars: Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back, that I saw with my family in 1980, is the only masterpiece of the eight episodes that have come out. It has a disadvantage: it introduces Lando Calrissian, a mulatoid character, as the administrator of Cloud City.

It was such an enthusiasm that that masterpiece caused me, that Star Wars: Episode VI: Return of the Jedi, which I saw on the big screen in 1983, caused me a huge disappointment. Darth Vader, so impressive in The Empire Strikes Back, here appears as the busboy of the emperor: an unpardonable blunder in Lucas’ story. I said above that the Star Wars genre was space comics taken to the screen. I still remember the American comics that came out in the 1970s and early 80s on Star Wars: infinitely better plots than the crap that occurred to Lucas when taking away all the aura of mystique from the figure of Vader.

So the series disappointed me since the eighties. When the first prequel was premiered in 1999, Star Wars: Episode I: The Phantom Menace, I was living in Manchester. If Lucas told Cameron that his original idea had been to make films for twelve-year-old children, in his first prequel he made it for children of even younger age: the age in which Anakin Skywalker appears in The Phantom Menace.

I saw on the big screen Star Wars: Episode II: Attack of the Clones, released in 2002. Although it seems more for teenagers, this second trilogy of Lucas can be summarized with these words: ‘Everything for the eye, nothing for the mind’. Unlike 2001: A Space Odyssey that can be described as ‘Everything for the eye and for the mind’, the new genre of space films do not leave food for thought.

When I saw the last of the prequels, Star Wars: Episode III: Revenge of the Sith, released in 2005, I told myself that the contemporary westerner knows nothing about the nature of evil (e.g., how Anakin became bad): a topic that I have pondered in my two books. That Lucas does not grasp evil is also apparent in his most recent interview by Cameron, another completely clueless guy.

Lucas is a white man. But since Jews bought the Disney Company, the messages have invariably become toxic. For that very reason I did not see, on the big screen, the sequels such as Star Wars: Episode VII: The Force Awakens, released in 2015.

At the corner of my house there is a travelling Mexican market of Indians every Monday, which includes stands of pirated DVDs. Only that way I dared to see part of The Force Awakens on my plasma television. Although Leia has behaved like a princess, in The Force Awakens the roles of the male hero are reversed to make room for a new heroine, the scavenger Rey. In this Greg Johnson, under the pseudonym of Trevor Lynch, has failed big time in his favourable reviews of the Star Wars sequels. With his tacit feminism Johnson seems to subscribe the Hollywood agenda of toxic messages.

Although Star Wars: Episode VIII: The Last Jedi was released in 2017, I saw it last week. For the ridiculous amount of $ 10 pesos (in dollars, 53 ¢) I bought a pirated DVD of The Last Jedi in the same travelling market (I would not give the Jews at so-called Disney more than a buck to watch both films).

There is something I would like to say about this latest movie. As I did with The Force Awakens, I did not even spend my time with the latest saga film, insofar as in most of these movies I used the fast-forward of my remote control! That’s how we should treat the films produced by Jewish firms: there is no point in pissing us off with their bad messages at normal speed. And regarding the special effects, we already saw all that in the pre-‘Disney’ Lucas prequels, right? So I still pressed the fast-forward button…

But that is not what I wanted to say. There are times that even in films with bad messages a master scene that contrasts with the garbage is sneaked. That scene happens almost at the end of The Last Jedi.

I refer when Luke appears to help escape the few remaining survivors of the Resistance. A frozen image after he walks straight ahead toward a row of Imperial Walkers, a few seconds after Kylo orders them to stop, is very artistic and deserves to be kept in our memories. (To me, it evokes the isolated white nationalist confronting single-handedly all the power of ZOG…)

Then the madman Kylo orders that all Imperial Walkers’ cannons shoot at Luke. But after an orgy of shots he appears unscathed among the reddish smoke that evaporates, slightly shaking something off his shoulder, in challenge to Kylo. The latter makes a gesture of shocked surprise, and decides to go down his haughty ship, against all advice from his envious second-in-command, to confront him alone.

He then engages Luke in a lightsaber duel never seen before in any of the other Star Wars films: as the swords never collide but Luke, wielding his blue lightsaber, deftly evades all the onslaught from the fire colour of Kylo’s lightsaber. There comes a time when Luke turns off his lightsaber to talk to him, and Kylo runs toward him to cut his body in twain. Upon striking Luke, in the climactic scenes of the movie Kylo realises he has been fighting a Force projection of Luke and shouts, defeated, ‘Nooo!’ as he comprehends Luke’s plan to save the Resistance (including his sister Leia) by buying time with the duel distraction.

In the subsequent scene, Luke, exhausted, becomes one with the Force and dies light-years away from his phantasmagorical encounter with Kylo, peacefully and purposely, on the planet of the first Jedi.

All those scenes I loved, but you have to see them ignoring almost the rest of the film to appreciate them—something very difficult, because in one of the climactic moments there is a cut and the white Rey girl allows a long hug from a Negro that has also been featured in another Star Wars film. (Sometimes I would like to edit my home DVDs and cut off all the offensive segments: about 95 percent, or more, from most films.)

Many fans have complained on YouTube that the personality of the Luke of the first films was betrayed in the latest film. I disagree. My previous entry referred to the life of Karlheinz Deschner, who was a parachutist who fought for the Third Reich as a young man and, much later, became a critical scholar of Christianity. I myself admired St Francis in 1974. But when I read the first Jedi books, so to speak, I transvalued my values and started to admire Himmler’s SS.

What Star Wars fans ignore is that the mind matures over the decades. If any of those who knew me as a teenager saw me now, they would be shocked by the changes, both external and internal.

If we think about the battles that Deschner waged as a young man in the Second World War, all that remains of the Resistance are a few nationalists. What happened in Charlottesville last year should move what’s left of the Jedi knights to consider that, perhaps, it is time for more reading rather than direct legal action. If they read the collection of The Fair Race (which includes a section from William Pierce’s Who We Are), along with Hitler’s Table Talk, Mason’s Siege (or The Turner Diaries); what Deschner and others unearthed from the true story of Christianity, and even Goodrich’s Hellstorm, the internal force that the initiate would develop would be equivalent to that of a hermit Jedi.

A single example will clarify the above. In The Fair Race it is explained that in the historical Republic blond and blue-eyed Romans were the good guys. When Rome became a racial melting-pot for all the peoples of the Empire, including the subversive Semites, they became really bad. Conversely, the later Star Wars trilogy depicts the Empire as whites and the Republic as practitioners of miscegenation: the exact opposite of what history tells us!

Internal Jihad (see Luke above with his books) must precede external Jihad. The time has come to do an internal work in the sacred island where the last Jedi became wise and powerful before confronting ZOG.

Annapolis shooting – novelist wanted

Siege’s most recent entry is important. Let’s take a look at Mason’s words:

At present the worst enemies of a revolution happening in America are: the unbroken sway of the System’s thought-control, i.e. the mass media; and the continued existence of this economy, as agonizing as it is protracted (and miraculous).

Regarding Mason’s second point, Mike Maloney, like millions of normies, may be a perfect western idiot. But it is worth watching his first four videos of why the American dollar is going to suffer a great setback in our lifetime.

Regarding Mason’s first point, there are limits to what one can say online. Perhaps a talented writer could write a series of novels in which the revolutionaries silenced the media by means of dozens of assassinations of anchors after the revolutionary front had warned: ‘An anti-white message in MSM leads to certain death’.

Strategically, those novels would be quite different from the quintet of Harold Covington. I’ve recently seen, on Twitter, that the Covingtonista who appeared on the last WDH podcast believes it’s possible to hostilely take over a piece of territory from the US and that, unlike what Uncle Sam did in Atlanta during the Civil War in the 19th century, and unlike the genocidal bombing of cities in Germany in the 20th century, this time Uncle Sam is going to behave and respect a neo-Nazi state!

The Covingtonistas are dreaming. Mason is down to earth. Again, regarding his second point above, the System itself will do us the favour of collapsing its own economy (those who have not yet seen the first four videos of Maloney’s course should watch them today).

Regarding silencing the media, we need a novelist with the talent of Covington who elaborates, in a fictional saga, the question of settling accounts with the media (as yesterday happened, in real life, in the Annapolis shooting).

Pierce quote

“The race’s last chance to overcome its problems in this relatively painless manner died in January 1943, at Stalingrad.”

William Pierce

Published in: on May 15, 2018 at 12:01 am  Comments (9)  

Sample chapter

by Tom Goodrich

As we’ve come to appreciate with each passing year, World War Two was the most evil manifestation in human history. No other conflict even comes close in matching that war for its vast and unspeakable crimes. Mass murder of surrendering soldiers, mass starvation of helpless civilians, mass rape of women and children, assembly-line style torture in the tens of thousands, uprooting and expulsion of millions to certain death, the deliberate destruction of ancient cultures—these atrocities and many more add annually to World War Two’s menu of beastly war crimes.

Also, with each passing year, it becomes clearer and clearer that virtually all the major crimes of the Second World War were committed by the Allied powers. Additionally, almost all these crimes took place toward the end of the war. Why is this? Why were these terrible atrocities not only committed by the victors but why did almost all occur at the end of the war? Simple. Late in the war the Allies knew they would win and they thus knew that there was little risk of war crimes trials. The victors—with the Americans in the lead—knew that they could unleash their sadism against a hated, helpless enemy with utter impunity, and they did.

The following is a description of just one such major war crime as listed above. The account comes from my recent book, Summer, 1945: Germany, Japan and the Harvest of Hate. To this day, relatively little is actually known of this great atrocity. And this, of course, is because war criminals not only plan their crimes expertly, but they cover them up expertly, as well.
 
_________

Note of the Editor: Tom has graciously allowed me to publish the sample chapter ‘Island of Fire’ on this site. But with footnotes, it is as almost ten thousand words: too long for a regular WDH entry. However, I have emailed him asking if the chapter is already published on his own website so that I may link it here.

Update: Tom has responded. The sample chapter can already be read at Counter-Currents, here.

Published in: on May 11, 2018 at 12:26 pm  Comments (2)  
Tags:

Summer, 1945

Summer, 1945: Germany, Japan
and the Harvest of Hate

A book review by Thor Magnusson

Sometimes a book comes along that changes the way we think. Sometimes a book comes along that changes the way we act. Sometimes a book comes along that changes the way we think and the way we act. Such a book was Hellstorm–The Death of Nazi Germany, 1944-1947.

That masterpiece by Thomas Goodrich changed forever not only how we would view World War Two, but it changed how we would view the world itself. For the first time since it happened, because of one bold and breath-taking book, the scales fell from our eyes and we were finally able to see free and unfettered what the abomination called World War Two was really all about.

Swept forever into a dark, dirty corner was the filth and disease of seventy years of Jewish propaganda, seventy years of Jewish lies about the so-called “Good War” and the so-called “Greatest Generation,” seventy years of Jewish mendacity about who was bad and who was good. Suddenly, overnight, replacing those lies was an honest, impartial, unbiased, but driving, relentless, and utterly merciless account of the fate that befell Germany in 1945.

As incredible as Hellstorm was, is, and will always remain, we now know it was only half the story. While the bloody obscenity that was World War Two was being acted out against a largely helpless German population by as evil a cast of creatures as ever haunted any hell anywhere, a similar horror show was taking place on the far side of the globe. And what is revealed in Tom Goodrich’s latest book, Summer, 1945–Germany, Japan and the Harvest of Hate, is a story so savage and sadistic as to numb the senses.

While some of the events described in Summer, 1945 will be familiar to readers of Hellstorm, many will not. Clearly, the author did a vast amount of new research for this new book since much material is previously unknown, especially regarding the contributions of the “Greatest Generation” to its already ghastly list of war crimes against Germany. In fact, what was previously revealed about the Americans in Hellstorm, horrific as it was at the time, was only the faintest foretaste of what was to come in Summer, 1945. For example…

Massive, monstrous, staggering as was the scale of Red Army rape in Germany, it now seems clear that the Americans were not far behind, if behind they were at all. Simply put: No one in control cared. Far from trying to halt the nonstop sexual attacks that their men committed against helpless German females, US officers, like Soviet officers, either ignored them, laughed at them, or actively encouraged them. Upon entering their communities, American officers forced Germans to write the age and sex of all occupants in their homes, then ordered the lists nailed to doors.

“The results are not difficult to imagine,” said one horrified priest from a village where women and children were soon staggering to the local hospital after the predictable sexual assaults commenced. Some US generals even blamed the victims themselves for their own gang rape when they dared leave their homes to beg for food. Lt. General Edwin Clarke went further when he announced that the thousands of rape reports in his area were nothing more than a conspiracy by die-hard Nazis to belittle and embarrass his well-behaved and totally innocent troops.

Clarke apparently believed that the hundreds of thousands of beaten, bruised and bleeding women and children were all liars with self-inflicted sex wounds. Also, to drive home German defeat, it was noted that GIs were being ordered by their “political officers” to make the gang rapes as public as possible. Although such brutal attacks were already common on streets and sidewalks, in schools and shops, an audience of family members was the preferred crowd for gang rape. Forcing German men to watch was also favored by the Americans, just as it was by their communist comrades.

Another hideous American war crime, a despicable act of hate and savagery, was the cold-blooded murder of SS and Wehrmacht soldiers the moment they surrendered their weapons. “You will not accept the surrender of any German SS,” announced one American general, demonstrating his commitment to barbarity and a criminal contempt for the Geneva Convention. By the tens of thousands these German soldiers, some of the best fighters the world had ever seen, were shown no mercy by the cowardly US murderers. In one massacre alone over seven hundred SS men were murdered in a matter of minutes; in another massacre, five hundred died, and so on.

“The Americans forced the Germans to walk in front of them with raised hands,” said an eyewitness regarding one group of fifty. “Then they shot the prisoners in their heads from behind.”

Additionally, the unbelievably sick and sadistic torture camps operated by the US Army and European Jews in Germany and Poland was on a psychopathic scale beyond belief. Well over a hundred thousand German men, women and even children suffered brutal deaths in these nightmarish torture pens. One might have imagined, and one would have certainly hoped, that after Hellstorm nothing more could have possibly been added to this perfectly hellish script of torture—victims buried alive, women forced to lay with and kiss rotting corpses–but one would have imagined wrong.

Those few who survived these demonic camps where dying was a thing to be postponed, not hurried, could no longer be called human. Of virtually all German men and boys who somehow survived to reach home, it was noticed all had their reproductive organs destroyed beyond repair.

But horrific as the so-called “peace” in Germany was, perhaps the greatest revelations for readers of Summer, 1945 come in the war chapters devoted to Japan. From the first page forward we readers, especially we Americans readers raised on the mythology of the “Dirty Jap,” will find our world of make believe turned upside down and inside out. Winners do write the history. And never was this more apt and terribly illustrated than in the case of America’s victory over Japan.

With the possible exception of the so-called Jewish “Holocaust,” one of the greatest lies to emerge from WWII and survive for over seventy years in tact, is the one we have been told over and over ever since December 7, 1941, viz., that the Japanese soldier was a mindless, murderous automaton, that he would never surrender, that he would always fight to the death, that he “lived to die” for the Emperor, that suicide was his second nature, and so on. There is no truth to any of these fairy-tales. Such a revelation as I have just stated here should not have come as any great surprise to anyone when they think about it, but it did come as a great shock to me and it will to everyone else, I am sure. When one has been told a “truth” such as this about the “robotic” Japanese soldier, a truth told for so many years from so many sources, one simply believes it as totally, completely and mindlessly as they believe in the Jewish Holocaust or that night follows day. After reading a few pages of Summer, 1945, however, it will be very clear to everyone that never was there a greater falsehood.

While reading what the opposing sides thought, in their own words, it is quickly clear that emotionally there was no appreciable difference between what a Japanese eighteen-year-old wanted and what an American eighteen-year-old wanted. First and foremost, both wanted to live. Both wanted to survive the war so that each might return home and marry that girl they loved so much, to have kids, to get a good job, to buy a car, to raise a small garden, to play in the backyard with pets. The problem for the Japanese was that Americans were taking no prisoners. From the very first battle on Guadalcanal when frightened young Japanese began walking forward with their hands held high to surrender muttering the only English word they knew, “Mercy, mercy,” US Marines began mowing them down… all of them, not just an isolated few here and there… all of them. In countless testimonies, it is readily apparent that Japanese soldiers in hopeless situations would have gladly surrendered, by the thousands, if only they could. The hatred was so great, however, and the propaganda so virulent following President Franklin Roosevelt’s orchestrated attack at Pearl Harbor that American soldiers, sailors and airmen were simply taking no prisoners, nor did the folks back home or their commanders want them to.

“You will take no prisoners, you will kill every yellow son-of-a-bitch, and that’s it,” yelled a marine colonel as he and his men were about to land on one island.

Thus, the manufactured belief after Pearl Harbor that the Japanese always fought to the death and never surrendered worked perfectly into the deep desire of Americans to kill the “sneaky Japs,” kill them all. And so, with no option now but to fight fanatically to the death, the Japanese did. And thus, it was a case where propaganda became a self-fulfilling truth.

Added to the merciless murder of helpless enemy soldiers was the torture and mutilation the Americans inflicted on those who were merely wounded. Ears, noses, fingers, toes, and other body parts were cut off the dead and dying for souvenirs; heads were hacked off and their “cured” skulls then sold to sailors or sent home to friends and family members; even Roosevelt received a letter opener carved from a Japanese arm bone.

“This is the sort of gift I like to get,” beamed the US president proudly.

The few Japanese who were in fact saved for interrogation were kept alive only as long as their information was useful, then they too were shot, bayoneted or pushed from flying aircraft.

Another falsehood that has existed as fact for the past seventy years is that the US military conducted itself properly during the occupation of Japan and helped the defeated nation gently back to its feet during peace. Again, nothing could be further from the truth. From the day they arrived, the Americans took ruthless control of what little remained of the destroyed nation. Women, children and the elderly were thrown into the streets and forced to shift among the ruins as best they could. At every available opportunity, Japanese men suffered humiliation and degradation and many were slapped, kicked and beaten in public “for fun.” All Japanese were treated like third-class citizens for years. Starvation stalked the land even before the conquerors arrived but though the Americans had a surplus to draw from food was denied to the people, just as it was in Germany. As a result, it is likely that millions perished during the first years of occupation. It was noticed that starving children were smaller in 1946 than they were in 1936.

Additionally, just as in Germany, rape reared its filthy head in “peace.” From the moment American troops came ashore on Saipan and Okinawa—two Japanese islands with large civilian populations–rape of females, and sometimes rape of males, began. And just as in Germany following its surrender, the violent sexual assaults in Japan continued unabated for years. No one in power, from General Douglas MacArthur down, was concerned in the least about the despicable, plague-like crime. Indeed, MacArthur was much more concerned with censoring the news of rape from the outside world than stopping rape in Japan itself. It is estimated that over a million Japanese women and children were raped after the war.

There are many other shocking revelations that might be lifted from this blistering book but then, after all, this is only a review of the book and not the book itself. Readers will have to discover the rest of this startling, riveting read for themselves. Truly, Summer, 1945 is aptly subtitled, “the harvest of hate.”

In closing, a few final thoughts on the author himself. Anyone who has read anything by Tom Goodrich knows that he is a passionate man who writes with great power, strength and scope. It is a trademark that sets him apart from others. But his books also reveal the inner-writer; a writer within who displays a large heart and soul. One senses early in a book that Goodrich actually cares about his subjects. There is, of course, the larger focus of each book, the “big picture,” but Goodrich never loses touch with the small, the fragile, the seeming insignificant, the all-but-forgotten.

A touching example is offered in Summer, 1945 when a Japanese adolescent, whose face has been melted beyond recognition by the atomic blast at Hiroshima, makes plans to kill herself rather than be chained for the remainder of her life to the face of a monster. Just as the child is about to commit the final act, she overhears in the next room her anguished father quietly discussing his daughter with her mother. Sadly agreeing that the child’s face is indeed hideous beyond belief, the man then states with both pain and love in each word that he loves his girl so much that her life, not her looks, is all that matters to him. Stunned, never imagining that anyone could ever love her again with such a terrifying face, the words of love were startling to the child, so startling that she suddenly realized that although death would indeed release her from a life of pain and shame, such a selfish act would only add to the heartbreak of her father. The girl matures to womanhood when she decides then and there to accept her fate, deal with her problems herself, and simply be thankful for the love that still blesses her life when so many others are now bereft of all.

Generally, to reach an honest and accurate understanding of an event such as World War Two, one must be so dedicated to the truth that they are prepared to plow through days, weeks, months, and years of dry, sterile material filled with tedious facts, figures and stats. Few of us have the time, patience or stamina for such research. Thankfully, there are those like Tom Goodrich who do have what it takes for the long haul. Ultimately, it is the “long haul” that delivers the details of history from which comes what we know as truth. Without our history, without our truth, we are nothing as a people.

That’s why our enemy is so determined to hide or distort our history; it is also why people like Tom Goodrich are so determined to retrieve our history. Discovering the truth of our history, even after decades of propaganda and lies, is what will ultimately set us free. These two books—Summer, 1945 and Hellstorm–have gone a very long way toward setting us free. And this is what makes Thomas Goodrich’s writing style so special. Almost in spite of ourselves, we sense the truth in his words. We, the readers, are drawn into a Goodrich book before we hardly know it. Truth is like that, like a strong magnet. A day or two later, when one emerges from the book—one “emerges” from a Tom Goodrich book, they never “finish” something that stays with them forever—they feel like they are different people; they have been to places that they never knew existed; they have gone to worlds that they were not supposed to go; they have gained knowledge and understanding that they were never meant to gain. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is an uncanny writing ability. We call it genius.

Summer, 1945—Germany, Japan and the Harvest of Hate has already taken its place with Hellstorm as one of the all-time most memorable and important books ever written, not just on World War Two, but on history in general. If that sounds biased, that’s because it is. We White Nationalists are extremely fortunate to have one of the world’s finest and most dedicated historians fighting on our side. People like Thomas Goodrich are why we are winning and why our victory is just a matter of time.

 

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Summer, 1945 and Hellstorm can each be purchased at Amazon.com, Barnesandnoble.com, Booksamillion.com, and through the author’s website at thomasgoodrich.com. For faster delivery, order each book separately via the author’s Paypal at mtgoodrich@aol.com ($20 US / $25 Abroad ) or order both books together as one ($40 US / $50 Abroad).

Faith of the Future, 5

by Matt Koehl

 

V. The Tragedy of 1945

The fall of Berlin to the Eastern hordes in 1945 represents a decisive turning point in the history of the world. Very few have yet grasped its real import, although many have argued the hypothetical possibilities of a different denouement to that fateful conflict. Unfortunately, the scenario was predetermined and involved elements which even superhuman agency could not contain or overcome.

The events of 1945 were in fact, but the concluding scene of a great tragic drama which began on April 20, 1889, when a very remarkable figure made his appearance in this world to herald the start of the second half of human history. But although the birth of this extraordinary personality signals the beginning of a new age, his earthly work was constrained by exigencies under an Old Order.

And it is here that the element of tragedy is introduced. For he came into the world during a historical cusp—during the period when one order is dying and another has yet to be born—which foredoomed all of his finest efforts and precluded the possibility of a fulfillment of his Idea during his mortal lifetime.

It is perhaps the greatest of historical ironies that it was Adolf Hitler, the father of a new age, who offered the West its last opportunity for resuscitation and renewal. By infusing new spirit into the old civilization and by defending its major institutional forms—as the Führer proposed—it is conceivable that the Old Order might have been able to protract its historical life, perhaps even for another millennium.

It was not to be, however. The decay was too advanced. In its diseased and delirious condition, the West rejected the one hand which could have rescued it from impending death.

Beyond that, however, the contradiction between the values of the Old and the New was simply too great. In the final analysis, these values were mutually exclusive. And so the Second World War was, in fact, a “war against the West,” as critics of National Socialism have charged. It represented a titanic struggle between the Old and the New. Unfortunately, the entrenched forces of the Old—even in their decadent and moribund state—proved momentarily too formidable for the incipient New.

It must be noted here—and this is not without significance—that the Third Reich, the provisional state of the New, was itself heavily and fatally infected by ideas and elements carried over from the Old. The New had not completely prevailed against the Old. For that it had hardly had time; in fact, it had barely begun. The very nature of its introduction, which was dictated by the political and social realities of contemporary Germany, involved a gradual, evolutionary transition from the Old to the New, rather than violent upheaval—something which would have been neither feasible nor justifiable under existing historical circumstances.

In consequence, however, we find that by the outbreak of war in 1939, old thinking, old attitudes, old habits and old interests continued to persist in many quarters of German society. The new ways were still far too tenuous. Not even the space of a single generation had been granted for the introduction of necessary radical change, with the result that the new thinking and new attitudes which could have produced the extra margin of revolutionary morale to effect a different sequel never had an opportunity to develop properly.

Thus, the outcome of this tragic drama could not have been other than what it was. Fate had chosen the time and the place and had set the stage, and events proceeded in their appointed manner. Yet even this cataclysmic tragedy—with the immolation of its godlike protagonist and his martyr people—was historically necessary for two reasons:

  • First, it resulted in a decisive blow to the Old Order, a mortal blow from which it can never recover and which assures its disappearance from the stage of world history; and
  • Secondly, by clearing the field, it has served to release the new Movement from any lingering constraints, inhibitions or commitments with respect to the Old—thus enabling it to acquire the necessary freedom for the fulfillment of its revolutionary mission. This is particularly important to consider, for not only was 1945 a watershed in the larger history of the world; it was a great divide in the development of the Movement as well. A phase which had been essentially political and military now became spiritual—yes, even religious.

Militarily and politically, National Socialism stood defeated in 1943—completely. Had it represented merely a political or military structure, it could not have survived the collapse. The Idea of Adolf Hitler, however, was more than just political or military. It was above all spiritual—and spiritual ideas cannot be broken by brute force or military means alone. And yet, military might and physical compulsion were the only resources at the disposal of the Old Order, morally and spiritually it was bankrupt. And so its apparent defeat of National Socialism in reality proved to be something quite different.

For in the contest, the new Idea had lost none of its integrity—its inner substance—but remained spiritually undefeated, awaiting only the proper moment to make its reappearance. Indeed, it was precisely in this vital area that it proved itself stronger than ever.

Unimpeded by expedient—i.e., political—considerations of any kind, it was now completely free and unfettered to pursue its high destiny. Out of the crucible of the most horrible suffering and hardship, a Movement had emerged—inwardly purged, perfected in its faith, fortified, steeled and infinitely more conscious of its holy mission on this earth.

As we now move further into the future, we begin to perceive the faint outline of an awesome design: Adolf Hitler and his people had to sacrifice themselves so that the wonderful, new Idea could one day be reborn in exalted form as a glorious beacon and symbol for embattled Aryan mankind everywhere.

That was the purpose and essence of their heroic, Olympian struggle. And it is now upon this sacred foundation—one forged and hallowed in the flames of monumental tragedy—that a regenerate Movement must build, and in so doing give eternal meaning to the precious blood sacrifice of those martyred millions, representing a higher humanity, who fell with the faith of a new age in their hearts.

The Holocaust of German people

On what used to be the Addenda of this blog, in 2014 I posted this:

The best-kept secret in modern history! Listen to Kyle Hunt’s interview of Tom Goodrich about an unheard of Holocaust concealed from the public view by those who wrote recent history.

But YouTube nuked that account since then (click on the bold-typed word above). Fortunately, there’s still the video ‘Red Ice Radio – Hellstorm: The Documentary’ about what I consider the most important subject of all: the debunking of the System’s narrative on the Second World War, as it was the Allies who committed the real Holocaust.

William Dudley Pelley

Is there a history of American white nationalism for sale, one not written by Jews?

I say this because, had it not been for this recent interview, I would not have known about the existence of William Dudley Pelley (1890-1965): whom the country of the First Amendment imprisoned for supporting Germany during the war.

Hitler’s war, 1


 

Introduction

‘To historians is granted a talent that even the gods are denied—to alter what has already happened!’

I bore this scornful saying in mind when I embarked on this study of Adolf Hitler’s twelve years of absolute power. I saw myself as a stone cleaner—less concerned with architectural appraisal than with scrubbing years of grime and discoloration from the facade of a silent and forbidding monument. I set out to describe events from behind the Führer’s desk, seeing each episode through his eyes.

The technique necessarily narrows the field of view, but it does help to explain decisions that are otherwise inexplicable. Nobody that I knew of had attempted this before, but it seemed worth the effort: after all, Hitler’s war left forty million dead and caused all of Europe and half of Asia to be wasted by fire and explosives; it destroyed Hitler’s ‘Third Reich,’ bankrupted Britain and lost her the Empire, and it brought lasting disorder to the world’s affairs; it saw the entrenchment of communism in one continent, and its emergence in another.

In earlier books I had relied on the primary records of the period rather than published literature, which contained too many pitfalls for the historian. I naïvely supposed that the same primary sources technique could within five years be applied to a study of Hitler.

In fact it would be thirteen years before the first volume, Hitler’s War, was published in 1977 and twenty years later I was still indexing and adding to my documentary files. I remember, in 1965, driving down to Tilbury Docks to collect a crate of microfilms ordered from the U.S. government for this study; the liner that brought the crate has long been scrapped, the dockyard itself levelled to the ground. I suppose I took it all at a far too leisurely pace.

I hope however that this biography, now updated and revised, will outlive its rivals, and that more and more future writers find themselves compelled to consult it for materials that are contained in none of the others. Travelling around the world I have found that it has split the community of academic historians from top to bottom, particularly in the controversy around ‘the Holocaust.’

In Australia alone, students from the universities of New South Wales and Western Australia have told me that there they are penalised for citing Hitler’s War; at the universities of Wollongong and Canberra students are disciplined if they don’t. The biography was required reading for officers at military academies from Sandhurst to West Point, New York, and Carlisle, Pennsylvania, until special-interest groups applied pressure to the commanding officers of those seats of learning; in its time it attracted critical praise from the experts behind the Iron Curtain and from the denizens of the Far Right.

Not everybody was content. As the author of this work I have had my home smashed into by thugs, my family terrorised, my name smeared, my printers firebombed, and myself arrested and deported by tiny, democratic Austria—an illegal act, their courts decided, for which the ministerial culprits were punished; at the behest of disaffected academics and influential citizens, in subsequent years, I was deported from Canada (in 1992), and refused entry to Australia, New Zealand, Italy, South Africa, and other civilised countries around the world (in 1993).

In my absence, internationally affiliated groups circulated letters to librarians, pleading for this book to be taken off their shelves. From time to time copies of these letters were shown to me. A journalist for Time magazine dining with me in New York in 1998 remarked, ‘Before coming over I read the clippings files on you. Until Hitler’s War you couldn’t put a foot wrong, you were the darling of the media; but after it . . .’

I offer no apology for having revised the existing picture of the man. I have tried to accord to him the kind of hearing that he would have got in an English court of law—where the normal rules of evidence apply, but also where a measure of insight is appropriate.

There have been sceptics who questioned whether the heavy reliance on—inevitably angled—private sources is any better as a method of investigation than the more traditional quarries of information. My reply is that we certainly cannot deny the value of private sources altogether. As the Washington Post noted in its review of the first edition in 1977, ‘British historians have always been more objective toward Hitler than either German or American writers.’