Other Worlds: The Turner Diaries Chapter 6, A Puke (TM) Audiobook

Chapter Six.

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 200 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
walkie-talkie.
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 watches.
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 us.
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 us.
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 ascending.
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 indeed.
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 first.
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 soon.