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Oct. 26, 2017 - Radio Free Nortwest - H.A. Covington
01:06:01
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Oh, then tell me, Sean O 'Farrell, tell me why you hurry so.
Hush your vocal, hush and listen, and his cheeks were all aglow.
I bear orders from the captain, get you ready quick and soon, for the pikes must be together by the rising of tomorrow.
By the rising of the moon, by the rising of the moon, for the pikes must be together by the rising of the moon.
Oh, then tell me, Sean O 'Farrell, where the gathering is to be, in the old spot by the river, right well known to you and me.
One more roar for signal, token, whistle, out the marching tune, Fire your bike upon your shoulder by the rising of the moon, By the rising of the moon, by the rising of the moon, Switch your bike upon your shoulder by the rising of the moon.
Out from many a mud-walled cabin eyes were watching through the night, Many a man's chest was rubbing for the blessed warming light, One more's passed along the valleys like the man she's lonely crew, And a thousand blades were flashing at the rising of the moon, At the rising of the moon, at the rising of the moon, And a thousand blades were flashing at the rising of the moon.
It's October the 26th, 2017.
I'm Harold Covington, and this is Radio Free Northwest.
The last week's episode was basically just a monologue by me, so this week it's time to return to letting some others have more voice on the show.
Now, I've talked about this before, but the subject has come up again.
One of the things I get repeated requests for from my fans or audience or followers or whatever is that I provide audiobooks of my Northwest novels, mostly on CDs, so people can listen to the Northwest mythos in their cars going to work at whatever shit jobs they're able to get in Obama's America.
Now, I have in fact done some selected reading of excerpts from the novels, but the fact is that absent party professionalization, I simply do not have the time to read and then sound edit these lengthy books, nor realistically will I have the convergence of time, equipment, vocal health, and production assistance to do so any time in the foreseeable future.
Now, we're talking about 18 or 20 hours of audio at the least for the first three per book.
Plus, the brigade would probably be about 50 hours, and I don't even want to guess at how long a reading of Freedom's Sons would be, which is God knows how many CDs, and even if I put it on a thumb drive, that's a lot of the droning sound of my voice.
However, that has not stopped some of you from attempting to fill the gap.
Some of you down through the years have attempted your own partial readings.
This is Lord Goyhammer.
And he's reading the epilogue from Freedom's Sons.
It's a bit long, but I'm going to drop it in here to kick off this week's episode because it might give some of you guys a few ideas for such projects of your own, if you're so inclined.
I doubt that I will ever see a complete set of audiobook Northwest novels in my time, but who knows.
I do have one request.
If you're going to read my work, read it.
Yourselves.
None of this horrible computer software that makes it sound like my books are being read out by Robbie the Robot or something out of Doctor Who, okay?
*Music*
Slava comrades, this is your Lordship.
The date is October 22nd and in the very realistic but for now fictional world of Harold Covington's Northwest Independence novels, today marks the day when white men finally fought back and fired on their enemies and killed them.
The day when the federal government via It Takes a Village came to a man's home by the name of Gustav Singer to take his children away because his wife was reading them inappropriate Norse legends.
Because of this, on October 22nd, in Corps Delane, Idaho, in response to the eventual murder of the Singer family in the end, the Northwest Volunteer Army was formed.
Today I want to read an excerpt from Freedom's Sons, the fifth and last book written about the Northwest War for Independence.
Although, if you were to read these books in chronological order, it technically would be the fourth book in the series.
The epilogues of all Covington's Northwest novels are very powerful and emotional.
For this one, keep in mind the feeling is amplified if you have already read the first three Northwest novels.
Throughout Freedom's Sons, he refers to the first three books multiple times in each.
This would give the reader and listener the full effect of the epilogue.
If you can hear the voices of our ancestors' comrades, in your blood you will understand that Covington's gift is our ancestors' call through Northwest literature and his pen in particular.
One last thing before I start, I want to personally Thank the old man himself for his selfless, priceless inspiration and guidance to do what is right.
When you truly grasp the concept that we are here right now to fight and to die and to continue the flow, just like Bob Matthews said, fear, procrastination, and paralyzation for the 14 words is non-existent.
See you on the front lines and in the first wave, comrades.
Remember, remember the first of November.
Fifty years and ten days after Longview.
And the band plays Waltzing Matilda.
And the old men still answer the call.
But year after year their numbers grow fewer.
Someday no one will march there at all.
Australian song commemorating the Battle of Gallipoli, 1915.
At 7.30 sharp on the morning of November 1st, the whistles blew again, as they had done at the same time on the same day 50 years before.
The NDF's first wave that rose to cross the Interstate 5 bridge in that dawn half a century ago had numbered over 22,000 men, with as many more behind them in the second wave.
On this morning, fortunately without rain, Not quite 3,000 people began to move across the bridge from the Washington side into Portland, Oregon.
The bridge was no longer used for traffic.
In order to make it passable for levitational vehicles, the engineers would have had to tear down the iron superstructure over the asphalt and essentially rebuild the archaic structure from the ground up, and so it was decided To build a new bridge down where the old 205 crossed the Columbia, and preserve this one as a historic monument.
On both sides of the old I-5, large crowds stood in the chill morning air, some sitting on bleachers, which had been set up for spectators.
As the line consistently mostly of elderly men began to move, applause and cheers rang out.
Television cameras from news outlets all over the world focused on the marchers from various vantage points, including cherry pickers and some mounted on the bridge's superstructure.
The old men were mostly dressed warmly in civilian clothes, but a few retired old soldiers and sailors and airmen wore uniforms from a lifetime of military service to the Republic.
Their chests We're decked with medals from the War of Independence, the Seven Weeks War, and numerous Aslan border campaign ribbons.
Iron crosses were as common as summer dandelions.
They moved slowly, almost at a shuffling pace, unlike the steady and relentless march across the same bridge under fire 50 years ago.
Some even carried the same weapon slung on their shoulder that they had borne on the morning of combat.
Not all the marchers were elderly veterans of the NVA and NDF.
Some were wives accompanying husbands, as well as children and grandchildren, walking slowly besides their relatives should they need support, in some cases pushing them in wheelchairs.
In the lead was a small handful of a dozen or so German men.
The last survivors of Conrad Baumgarten's stormtroopers who had broken the American barricade on that morning.
Baumgarten himself had died a year previously, and they were led by retired Sergeant Major Gunther Thiesen, who had served 25 years with the colors and recently retired from running a government guesthouse in Montana.
Jason Stockdale was among the marchers.
The retired chancellor of the University of Montana was now 78, but straight as a ramrod, and the cane he flourished as he strolled along the right-hand traffic lane of the historic bridge was merely for show.
He was jaunty today in a fawn fedora, ascot, and corduroy jacket with patches on the elbows, as befitting an academic type.
His handsome wife, who walked beside him, was wearing tweeds and sensible shoes.
Jenny Stockdale hadn't gotten older, but better.
She was living proof that a woman of 69 could be beautiful.
Carter Winfield's order that NDF women not take part in the opening attack on the battle morning had always rankled a bit with Jenny, and she'd let her husband know in no uncertain terms that this time she was coming across the bridge at his side.
Jason chatted for a while with another elderly couple walking at their left.
He introduced himself and Jenny.
Shane Ryan returned the other man, also wearing the old party fedora and the NBA rondo.
This is my wife, China.
We're from up in Dundee.
I know you.
You're Carter Winfield's daughter, exclaimed Jenny.
Didn't I meet you and your husband once during the war when Red Moorhouse came out to Montana?
You two were his escort and driver.
Only it seemed to me you were a little taller.
That was probably my sister Rooney, said China.
She and Shane did a lot of work for Red.
I was with the South Sound Brigade right up until just before Longyear.
Then my dad more or less abducted me for his staff.
I kind of put a word in for you myself, commented Shane.
I know, dear, replied Mrs. Ryan with a smile.
Stockdale spotted another couple moving up beside him.
A little old man with a bit of a stoop and a tall, thin, white-haired woman with a beaky nose and a bit of a skull, wrapped in a shepherd's coat and a warm toboggan on her head, who was being pushed by him in a wheelchair.
Both wore the old NBA pipe round them.
Hey, another boy-girl team, Stockdale said.
You know, comrade, seems to me I actually remember you from back on the day itself.
Name escapes me, though.
Getting senile.
I'm Cody Brock, said the little old man.
Foxtrot Company, 1st Battalion, 4th Infantry.
I remember you too, I think.
You were the G Company's CO.
Name of Stockton, right?
Jason Stockdale, replied Jason.
This is my wife, Jenny.
Jenny, this is Comrade Brock, Lieutenant Brock, as he was back then.
We walked together for a while, the first time we took this little stroll when there weren't so much by way of sharing crowds.
Nice to meet you, Comrade.
This is my wife, Emily.
Yeah, it's coming back to me.
You said you just got married to some third section of James' mom chick, said Jason.
This the same lady?
That would be me, all right, said Emily.
Cody spoke over to Jenny.
I was an 18-year-old lieutenant at the time and some idiot gave me a company to command.
That idiot was General Frank Barrow, snapped the woman in the wheelchair in front of him.
He seemed to think a lot of you, God knows why.
I wasn't actually on the bridge crossing that morning.
Because of General Wingfield's No Girls Allowed order, explained Jenny modestly.
I was back at the headquarters monitoring computers.
Screw the stupid order, said the thin woman in the wheelchair.
I was here anyway.
I was here before you guys.
Oh, where?
asked Jason skeptically.
Right up over your head, she said, pointing upward at the iron arches.
I was sitting up there spotting for the artillery and listening to indecent proposals from some Okie Lufwa pilot.
Your nightshake, asked Jenny in astonishment.
We actually spoke on the radio when you got up on top there and started calling the shots.
I remember you back-talked General Winfield.
Why am I not surprised at this?
said Cody.
It is an honor to meet a national heroine, comrade, said Jason with a serious bow.
I've heard about your exploits during both wars.
No, you watched that stupid movie where Kelly Shipman played me as the blonde bimble, and you've probably seen that.
Telephoto lens shot of Cody and me making out behind the vending machines at the Longview Conference, said Emily in irritation.
Ignore her, said Cody.
She's just crabby because she broke her hip in the bathtub a week ago and me having to push her across.
She wanted to climb up on the girders again.
Up ahead, the SS band struck up the Panzer line.
Serenading the small group of Germans who had just crossed the line on the Oregon side of the bridge, where the American barricades had been set up, and where they had swarmed over the Bremer walls and left bodies of dead comrades lying on the asphalt for a hundred yards until the last of the Portland gangbangers were dead or had turntailed and run.
The marchers walked slowly along after them, mostly in silence now.
As the memories swelled of the men who had begun the long march with them and were gone now.
Not just the march crossed the bridge, but the march that begun five years before that, when America's carrying crows had come for white children in Corded Lane and been shot to pieces by ordinary people who suddenly, through some miracle, remembered that they came from the greatest warrior race in all of history.
Ordinary people who at long last at the 11th hour and the 59th minute and at the last second had finally had enough.
A few minutes later, Jason and Jenny Stockdale, Shane and China Ryan, and Cody and Emily Brock crossed the old barricade line together.
With the roar of the cheering crowd in the bleachers and along the riverbank below, roaring like Niagara Falls in their ears.
Well, we made it, said Jason.
Yeah, we made it, said Shane.
We did, said Cody.
They all understood what they meant.
You are a light of the world.
A city that is set on a hill cannot be hidden.
Matthew 5.14 The state president of the Northwest American Republic sat in his oak-paneled private office in his official residence in Olympia.
He was a fit but elderly man with a white mustache wearing a neat charcoal gray suit that was patterned after one President Calvin Coolidge had worn at his inauguration with the pin decorations over his left pocket and his iron cross and knight's cross around his neck.
He was studying a report in a folder on his desk before him.
He looked up and saw a small golden head looking at him with solemn green eyes over the edge of the desk in front of him.
It was one of his great-grandchildren.
Hello, he said.
Hello, said the little girl.
Which one are you?
There are so many of you that I forgot.
I'm Annie.
I'm going to be four.
Oh, yes.
Your father's my grandson, Michael.
Daddy's on the moon, said the little girl.
Yes.
That's why you and your mother are staying here at Longview House for a while.
What you doing?
asked Annie.
I'm reading a report on steel production in our country, he told her.
Why?
Because I'm the president and I have to do presidential things, which includes reading a lot of long, boring documents.
What's them?
she asked, pointing at his decorations.
Those are medals.
I got them in the war.
Several wars, actually.
I am wearing them all today because in a little while I am flying down to Portland to make a speech.
Where did you get them?
she asked.
The state and the army gave them to me because they thought I was very brave, although in fact I just acted like a damn fool where others could see me.
Why were you brave?
asked the little girl.
Because someone had to be.
Why?
she asked.
So that you could be here today, asking me questions.
How did you get in here anyway, he asked.
There's supposed to be an SS man on duty outside the reception room.
You didn't take him out, did you?
I snucked in.
So I see.
Why are you making a speech, asked Annie.
Because that's one of the presidential things I have to do all the time, so they will let me live in this nice big house, the old man told her.
Sometimes when I make speeches, people want to hear me clatter around with all this junk on my chest.
Normally I don't wear these, except for this one.
He pointed his thumb at the pipe blue, white, and green old NVA roundel on his lapel.
He wore it even though he was also wearing the actual decoration itself, which was technically incorrect, but he didn't care.
Why?
asked Annie.
Because that is the one I am most truly proud of, said the President.
That is the badge of the Northwest Volunteer Army.
There are not many people left who wear it, and I am the last man who will ever sit in this office to do so, which is the natural way of things.
My generation has had our day, and now it's the turn of others, including you.
She pointed to a picture.
Who's that man?
His name is Edward Langenheimer.
He died very young and he is the reason I am sitting here today wearing medals that should have gone to him and would have if that was the way it has played out.
I am here because of what he did and you are here because of what I and many others did.
I don't understand, said the girl.
You will when you get bigger, promised the old man.
Annie.
Came a voice from the door.
A pretty young woman and an SS officer in dress black stood in the doorway.
The girl looked flustered and the SS man looked embarrassed.
Stop bothering the president.
I'm sorry.
I don't know how she got away from me.
That's quite alright, Mary.
Sorry, sir.
She slipped by me, said the guard.
She's just so little I must not have noticed her.
You need to be a bit more on the ball, Lieutenant.
The ONR might be employing hit leprechauns.
President McTeer, your limo's on the air pad.
You'll have the usual escort down to Portland, the officer told him.
The president glanced at his watch.
I'm not due on the rostrum for another hour, plenty of time.
Can I go?
asked Andy.
Mmm.
I don't think so, said McTeer.
You'll only be grown-ups.
There are going to be a lot of speeches besides mine which will bore you to tears which will probably in fact bore me to tears and I will be staying up way too late to get you home in time for your bedtime.
I'll tell you what you can do for me though.
I will make you Minister of Heavy Industry and you can sit here and read this report for me and tell me what to do about our energy to output ratios which are not what they should be.
The little girl frowned.
Or you can go down in the kitchen and ask Eleanor to give you some ice cream.
Ice cream, said the little girl immediately.
Good choice.
Now go with mommy.
Instead, she ran out of the door like a streak of lightning.
She's headed for the kitchen, said his granddaughter-in-law.
I need to get moving, but before I go, any word from Mike?
Asked the president, picking up his briefcase and his overcoat.
Annie and I talked to him at Tycho Station by a satellite link last night.
He looks well and he did some moon gravity gymnastics in front of the camera for Annie, held himself up on one finger, talked to her while he was standing on his head, that kind of thing.
Hmm, said McTeer, shaking his head.
You know, when I first joined the party, nobody had walked on the moon for almost 50 years.
The Americans made it there a few times, and then they just gave up.
They decided they'd rather pay niggers and Mexicans to have babies.
Now a century later, we're back again.
Guess it was all worth it after all.
The girl reached out and touched the old NBA badge on his lapel.
Mr. President, yes, it was worth it.
All of it.
There's not much I can say except thank you, sir.
From me, from Annie, from all of us, thank you.
You're welcome, said the old man.
Okay, this week is our annual Halloween podcast on Radio Free Northwest when we play ghostly or horror-themed music, since it's the closest day to Halloween in October.
And no, we are not like the Simpsons in that we do not broadcast our Halloween special on November the 6th or whatever.
Anyway, I'm going to start out with a very, very old ballad called Little Margaret.
Now, ballads were the supermarket tabloids of their time.
And since people were interested in pretty much the same things they're interested in today, i.e.
sex and violence and scandal, some ballads are pretty raunchy in a medieval kind of way.
This one has pretty much everything.
Sex, adultery, suicide, a ghost, and necrophilia.
It was probably top of the pops around the time of the Black Death.
This is Walter Forbes.
This is Walter Forbes.
Little Margaret is sitting in her high hall chair, combing her long yellow hair.
When she saw sweet William and his newlywed bride coming down the road so near, she threw down her ivory comb, threw back her long yellow hair.
Saying I'll just go and bid him farewell Nevermore to go there It was all lately in the night When they were fast asleep Little Margaret appeared all dressed in white Standing at their bed feet Says, how do you like your snow white glow?
How do you like your sheet?
And how do you like the pretty little damsel lying in your arms asleep?
Quite well, I like my snow white glow.
Well, I like my sheet.
Much better I like the pretty little maiden standing at my bed feet.
Music playing.
Then he called for his serving men to go Saddle up his dapperon And he rode straight away to his father's house Knocked on the door alone Is little Margaret in her room?
Or is she in the hall?
Little Margaret's a lion in a cold, dark coffin Her face turned to the wall Unwind and wind those snow-white robes Be they ever so fine I must kiss those cold,
cold lips I know they'll never kiss mine Once he kissed that lily white man.
Twice he kissed that cheek.
Three times he kissed those cold, cold lips.
Then he fell in a rock and asleep.
Three times he kissed those cold, cold lips.
Then he fell in her occlus asleep The
End The End Good evening, comrades.
Tonight I'm going to be discussing You Gentiles by Maurice Samuel.
Now this is a Jewish author who is apparently writing between the two world wars because he makes reference to the Great War.
So I looked up the book and it was written in 1924.
Maurice wants to tackle the question of the essential difference between Jews and Gentiles.
This author wants to look beyond the obvious.
It's not just a matter of a different religion or an ethnic group or even of history per se.
He wants to know what the nature of identity is.
This notion of a sort of basic or core identity is something that we tend to question and ignore these days.
I recall once a few years back, I was watching a show that dealt with real estate.
It was on HGTV.
It was about home buying on the international market.
And there was this segment about an East Asian man.
Who apparently had spent a great deal of his life in Germany.
And it was to the point where he spoke fluent German and he always rooted for the German soccer team.
Now his wife, who is also Asian, frequently commented on how German her husband was.
On the one hand, it's rather like claiming to be a Navajo because you collect Indian rugs and you wear turquoise jewelry.
On the other hand, he certainly seemed well acclimated to his environment.
So you start asking yourself the question, well, essentially, what makes a bird a bird?
You know, I had a children's book once that had that title.
So the preface of Samuel's book is that Gentiles are essentially sporting, whereas...
Jews are much too serious to take on this sporting quality.
So, the Gentiles always love a game.
And it's not just a question of sports teams, although that's certainly the case, but really all kinds of games.
And this essential difference explains all the strife between the two groups.
For Gentiles, Plato's Republic is the ideal.
It's an organized state that essentially trains youth for the art of war, which apparently, according to this author, is something that, as Gentiles, we really love.
We cherish the memories of war, even though we might say that we hate wars.
Gentiles are loyal for loyalty's sake.
They're loyal to a team that they might belong to.
They're loyal to a college, to their neighborhoods.
Whereas Jews don't get too caught up in that kind of thing.
Jews, according to Samuel, are like an elderly person who seeks God alone.
On the other hand, Gentiles are exuberant, and they have a need for adventure and lyricism.
Issues like social justice are fine.
But must always be subservient to the game.
Gentiles, in more modern times, and as I said, this book was written between the two world wars, this is a time when science has begun to become very popular.
And Samuel points out that science can tell us the facts, but this author finds facts rather trivial.
And indeed, we've talked about this on the show.
Andy Donner has often talked about how facts really don't matter, because facts can't really tell us the nature of life.
Jews, Maurice argues, have a desire to remake society for their own purpose.
This purpose is simply contrary to the true longings of Gentiles.
This creates a certain conflict, and so the author is not sure how to resolve this.
The author discusses the possibility of Jewish intermarriage, but the author says that this would take too long and it might not ever be complete.
The author tells us, and I would agree with this, To be very weary of assimilationist Jews.
As far as the Orthodox Jews go, they're really into questions of scholarship and Judaic studies and really, on the whole, are too distracted by the various rituals of Jewish life and traditions of Jewish life to really be much of a problem.
And indeed, frankly, if I were making policy in a state that included Jews, I would certainly try to encourage orthodoxy.
Because the irony is that although the orthodox is more easily seen, they're not really the problem.
The problem is the society building Jews.
This book, one has to...
Admit, of course, was clearly written prior to the state of Israel.
So, it would be interesting to ask whether or not the Israelis, now that they have a certain territory of their own, whether they are taken up by the spirit of the game, or whether they remain on this serious quest to find the essence of God.
Certainly, this author tends to believe that the quest is innate.
So it's almost hard to tell by reading this book if he wants Jews to intermarry or to continue their quest.
The author also suggests that contrary to popular belief, Jews are so ungaming that at the time of writing this book, and you have to remember this was 1924, They really didn't have that much money, but of course that was approximately a hundred years ago.
The author is very upset about these claims of blood libel and really wants those to cease.
He doesn't mind a fight, but he would like to have a fair one.
So this is a classic book that really comes right out of the horse's mouth, obviously.
This author is very clear that if Jews are allowed to dismantle society and then rebuild it, whatever they build will be against the sporting and lighthearted spirit of Gentiles.
So this is a book that...
There's a certain style about it that, in a way, is kind of poetic.
It reminds me of the book, A Prophet.
It has that kind of a tone, perhaps.
And it's a fairly quick read, and it's fairly classic, I would say.
Apparently, this individual, from what I've read elsewhere, was apparently a Zionist who, I would suppose, didn't really believe in intermarriage.
So I don't know why he talks about that so much.
At any rate, I thank you for listening.
Have a good evening, and hail Victory, comrades.
And again, this is Maurice Samuels, you Gentiles.
So thank you very much.
Good night.
Greetings comrades, this is the trucker coming at you from Eastern Montana.
Hello, going back to the homeland.
I missed out on all the activity this past Sunday there in Las Vegas.
I had gone through there earlier in the morning, like before the sun came up.
And so I was parked over at a truck stop in Southern California.
So that's where I found out about it.
I was on my way over to deliver the next morning.
And so I ended up going up to Central California to load and then went back through Vegas.
Bunch of the exits from Russell Road on up towards the strip wall shut down.
The strip also was shut down.
Traffic was flowing through there okay, but on the interstate.
I'm not sure about the surface streets there on the strip side of the...
Anyway, I'm surprised they haven't gone and pulled the racist white card on them yet, seeing as how it's an old fart of a white guy that supposedly did all that.
Shooting and stuff, but I can't see him pulling that off by himself personally.
I think the FBI is throwing a big smoke screen out on that one.
I'm sure Mr. Covington might have something to say about this on this next podcast, but I'll have to wait and see.
Also, I see in, I guess it's Catalonia province or state or whatever over there in Spain.
They're pulling what we should be doing, seceding from the country.
I'm sure it would be a whole lot different over here.
I don't think we would be putting up jackbooted thuggery that's going on over there, because I'm sure we have a lot more weaponry than they do.
So I know that it would probably have a whole lot different outcome.
I don't think they'd be pulling quite that.
Maneuver, or they'd be coming in with a lot more force, and I guess we'd end up doing it gorilla style or whatever.
But, uh, anyway.
So, have to go and wait and see how that all pans out.
But, well, for now, status on the roads.
There's no roadblocks.
They're not setting up their travel checkpoints like they used to have over in Russia.
Yet, who knows?
I'm still waiting to find out what Antifa or Antifa or however the hell you want to pronounce it, what them little scumbags are going to do.
I'm not putting up with any of their crap.
I have ways and methods to defend myself and my wife and the truck if they happen to go and encounter that, but I try to stay on top of what's going on around the country and avoid the areas like that officer was acquitted there in St. Louis.
I know my route's around there so I don't have to go and route through the St. Louis area or anywhere close to there.
I'll go and do it up in the farm country or something like that.
There's plenty of roads so you guys need to go and keep up on current events and try to stay out of the trouble zones if possible unless you're going to be part of it and make sure you come out on top and not in prisoner dead.
Hey, that's just my personal opinion.
Say, if I try to stay clear of it if I can, but if I happen to accidentally get caught up in something, well, they're going to wish they hadn't really bothered with me.
Same goes for the primates and whoever else.
But anyway, that's just my personal opinion.
So, alright, well, I thought I'd throw something out there.
This week, the roads are still clear if you're...
Doing your scouting trip or migration.
I haven't seen any snow flying yet personally.
I know Montana and Wyoming have caught little dustings but nothing big.
So I haven't seen any major blizzards come through yet.
So just if you are trucking out there in the interland remember it is harvest season so watch out for farm equipment and Pretty soon the hunters are going to be cutting loose in the woods, so Bambi's going to be scurrying across the road a lot more, so watch out for them deer and elk.
And if you happen to be in that neck of the woods, them big-ass Clydesdales with horns, as one chief when I was in the Navy put it, them big old moose.
Anyway, all right, well, this is Drucker signing off from Montana, so have a safe one, comrades.
And hope to see you out on the road making your scouting trip and migration to the homeland soon.
Alright, this is the trucker signing off from outside Glenda.
Greetings comrades, this is the trucker coming at you from Roundup, Montana.
You want to know where that is?
Well, it's just above Billings on US-12 in the center of Montana.
I'm on a run with a load of seafood going from Anacortes, Washington.
Nice little quaint town.
There, right off the Puget Sound area there on the Seattle side.
After I got loaded, I had a nice view of the Cascades with the sunrise coming up behind it.
Gorgeous sight.
Love the hell out of it.
But anyway, I started off my day today, Tuesday the 17th of October, just west of Spokane, and ran across northern Idaho and Montana.
And for those of you that are planning to migrate to that part of the homeland, I got two perspective properties for you.
One in Haugen, Montana, which is right there, about 16 miles into Montana, out of Idaho on I-90.
For the budget-minded of you, it's listing for $59,000.
It's a three-bedroom, two-bath.
Manufactured, I guess it's a trailer, double-wide or whatever.
It's got a three-bed, two-bath with an expansion detached garage with a second and third stories.
A snow roof and a two-car carport.
And a storage shop in the add-on, which adds its own wood stove.
Covered deck with a wire fence.
Not that I'm a real estate broker, but I was just poking around, killing time while I'm doing my 10-hour break because I'm running by myself.
And those of you that have the big bucks, I've got one just for you.
It's in Superior, Montana, which is about 38 miles into Montana on I-90.
It's a tiny little place.
It only has 11 bedrooms, 10 baths, 9,516 square feet for the budget price of $6 million.
It's an extraordinary property conveniently located 50 minutes west of Missoula in a quintessential Montana ranch living with all one could desire.
It's got a fishing pond and creeks and access to Lolo Forest, National Forest, exquisitely built.
Main residence, western salon, dining building with an office, guest house, bunkhouse, manager's home, and shops.
Special setup for horses, canine including barn, arena, tack room, and a beautifully enclosed kennel.
So, oh, plus it has a finished sauna cabin.
It sits beside a creek.
So there you go.
For those of you that are pinching pennies, and those of you that aren't.
There's two residences for you.
And plus, I got that off of Zillow.com.
And there's a whole bunch of other in-between price ranges.
A few hundred thousand.
A couple of million, and that one topped my list of the few that I clicked on.
So, there you go.
Hope that helps you if you're interested in that area.
I did see a few ranches for sale along US-12, just west of I-90, or excuse me, just east of I-90 on US-12 headed over towards Helena.
And no, I did not see any roadblocks.
I managed to get through the disputed area without a problem today, but if you guys wait long enough, that won't be the case.
You may end up like that family bugging out of Illinois in Freedom Suns and have to do it on foot under fire.
Okay, well this is the Trucker signing off from Roundup, Montana with my smart-ass little tidbits from the road.
Hope you enjoyed it.
Hope to see you making your scouting trips and your migration to the homeland soon.
Alright, catch you later.
Bye now.
This is The Trucker signing off.
This is The Trucker signing off.
There's a good Halloween-y number from the Nashville String Band.
Well, Eli Renfro killed his wife With a long, sharp booing knife He packed her up and he put her in the ground Death by hanging must have been his fate Had old Eli filled with hate He put a curse on the entire town
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh Can't you hear, can't you hear, when the moon is bright and clear from time to time?
It's only lie dragging chants and moaning people's names I just hope and pray he never thinks of mine We're
you can hear for a half a mile.
That awful sound came through the trees, chilled my blood and shook my knees.
That kind of thing could make a man run wild.
Can't you hear, can't you hear, when the moon is bright and clear from time to time.
It's only like a dragon chance and morning.
look back, I'll be coming through.
I'll pack your things and I'm moving far away.
It said you can't run away from a curse.
Maybe this time I'll be the first.
Ain't nobody here gonna make mistakes.
Can't you hear, can't you hear, when the moon is bright and clear from time to time?
It's only lie dragging chains and morning people's names.
I just hope and pray he never thinks of mine.
I just hope and pray.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Okay, as I said at the beginning of the podcast, this show is mostly other people, to make up for all the talking I've been doing lately.
I'm going to wind up with a little inside baseball commentary on a subject which came up recently.
Me and telephones.
I'm going to tell you how I handle the phone situation, not just to explain myself to you guys, but because I frankly recommend that this is how you handle it yourselves, at least in your white nationalist work.
Now, you need to keep verbal phone conversation to a necessary minimum and exercise phone discipline so you don't slip into idle chatter and forget that everybody in this dog is probably listening.
Almost every week, I get some kind of request, or in some cases an out-and-out demand, that I call a complete stranger at some number or other, often someone whose very name I don't know because he's off the internet and he's using a pseudonym and a Japanese anime avatar, and I have not the slightest idea who the hell he is.
For all I know, he could be the Holy Rabbi Hyman Hebelbaum from Temple Schmuck L. I'm not sure why any reasonable person would imagine that I would do that.
Initiate a call to a complete stranger on the phone to talk about probably the most serious thing in modern life without having any idea of who the hell I'm talking to, who's on the other end of the phone with them, and where my words may end up.
But some people do think that.
I don't take offense.
I know that Americans are like that.
They just don't know any better, and so I usually respond to these phone demands by email with a boilerplate communique on the Northwest Front contact process.
If they give me any lip or clearly don't want to go through the required protocols, I just cut them loose.
Whatever they're into, I'm not.
The times are now too serious to admit of games playing.
But beyond that...
There are several reasons why I try to keep my phone time to a minimum.
In first place, absent professionalization, I simply don't have the time for extensive telephone conversations.
I'll give you guys one brief example of this.
Back in the early 1990s, the last time I ran for office, i.e.
the North Carolina State House of Representatives, Purely in the spirit of being helpful, Dr. Edward Fields published my home phone number in the Truth at Last newspaper.
Bear in mind, this was before the internet.
The result was that I was eventually forced to withdraw from the state house race for several reasons, such as the deliberate sabotage of my campaign by the local Republican Party in various ways, but also because I had no time to campaign or do anything.
Because I was, without exaggeration, spending 8 to 10 hours every day on the telephone with people whom I dared not be rude to and alienate because they were potential donors.
And like anyone who was involved in any way with American politics, I am utterly dependent on the donors.
Just like today, back then I was doing it all myself, and when I'm talking on the phone with people, I'm not doing the other things that need to be done, and they don't get done.
Now, this isn't to say that I won't call somebody if it's necessary.
I do so every day.
But my experience is that most phone calls can and should be completed in roughly five minutes when one's business is done.
After that, we start to chat and all of a sudden half an hour or an hour is gone.
Multiply that by seven or eight times a day if I let my number be known and you get the picture.
I'm sorry guys, I have to be able to function.
The same thing used to happen when I was on Skype.
I used to try and mask myself, but people kept calling and calling, and if I didn't answer, they figured out I was ducking them, and it got all sulky and pissy, and so that's why I eventually uninstalled Skype off my personal computer.
That and the 111 viruses that got in through the damn thing.
If my unicorn ever shows up, maybe I'll have a little more time to natter on the phone, like some Jew Hollywood producer, but right now, I just can't, guys.
For a white nationalist, talking too much on the telephone is not a good idea.
One thing I've observed down through the years is that the secret police and the ridiculously misnamed Justice Department are usually very reluctant to prosecute people for the written word, and that tends to include email as well, although there are, of course, exceptions like Johnny Logan Spencer and Bill White.
Why this is the case is due, I think, to a variety of nuances as to how the machinery of repression operates in this country, which could and probably should be the subject for an entire another podcast.
But long and short of it is that the dictatorship wins their political cases by conjuring up a show for a jury full of niggers and American dumbasses.
And as part of the American dumbass psychology, these jurors want and need to hear your voice, The government doesn't trust juries with the written word because it's too hard for someone to convince even the dumbest American juror that a word or a sentence means something that it clearly doesn't.
Unless, of course, you really are so bird-brained stupid that you will write down your intention of breaking the law or confess to having done so in a letter or an email, or more likely these days, a social media post like these stupid niggers that commit crimes at McDonald's and beat each other up and do this and that and then upload it to YouTube.
I'm sorry, that still just tickles the hell out of me.
And then there's the guy here in my neck of the woods, a white idiot, who posted a description of how he strangled his girlfriend, along with pictures of her body, to Facebook while he was rolling down the interstate trying to get away.
No, I'm not making that up.
It really happened.
But anyway, for a purely political case like Ed Steele, or the Asheville Six, or countless other cases where the regime basically wanted to intern somebody, They relied on voice recordings of telephone calls or conversations.
In the Steele case, the FBI proved that they are entirely comfortable with fabricating technical evidence.
But they also had many hours of Edgar Steele's conversational voice, as recorded by the informer Larry Fairfax, for the FBI Sound Lab audio techs to work with.
Audio footage they should never have possessed, and which gave them the raw material to alter key parts of the tapes.
Yeah, I know it's digital, but I still say tapes.
Forcible habit.
And yes, I know when the time came for them to frame Bill White for producing that magazine cover, the Joint Terrorism Task Force actually opened a whole...
bogus Facebook page in his name and had threatening emails sent to various people by a drug-addicted informant who was provided with narcotics by federal law.
enforcement agents, and who sent the said threatening emails, including some to FBI agents, while in their presence, as Bill White has demonstrated in repeated court filings which have simply been ignored.
You don't have to get caught speaking into the microphone or the telephone for them to fabricate a legal case against you, but it certainly gives our friends in the silk suits a hand if you do.
I use mostly email.
Probably I use it too much, because email can be intercepted and tampered with as well, but in the normal course of things, it leaves, well, not a hard copy unless you print it out, but at least a written copy of exactly who said what and when.
And given the character issues and our wee little movement, that can be a very good thing as well, since movement memories of verbal conversations have a tendency to be, how can I put this, divergent from what you remember.
Anyway, my advice is only use the phone when necessary, never take 20 minutes to conduct business that can be done in five, and always assume that somebody is listening.
Because according to Edward Snowden, they are.
But our time is up for this week's edition of Radio Free Northwest.
This program is brought to you by the Northwest Front, Post Office Box 2188, Bremerton, Washington, 98310.
Or you can go to the party's website at www.northwestfront.org.
This is Harold Covington, and I'll see you next week.
Until then, Sasha Underban.
Freedom.
We're going to close this week with something I played last year.
It was quite well received.
This is the few opening minutes to a movie that was made in 1963 called The Haunting.
It's based on Shirley Jackson's The Haunting of Hill House, which is a genuinely creepy little novel, but the movie, The Haunting, is generally considered by film critics to be the scariest pure ghost story ever put on film by Hollywood, and I agree with that assessment.
Even today, over 50 years later, and even though the movie is in black and white, it will still creep you out, and you never actually see anything.
There's no monsters, none of this business of guts and blood and gore flying everywhere.
This is a genuinely frightening movie, and if you're looking for something to view for Halloween night after you finish your trick-or-treating or whatever, and you really want to sit down on your sofa and get creeped out and get the hell scared out of you, try this one.
An evil old house, the kind some people call haunted.
It's like an undiscovered country waiting to be explored.
Hill House had stood for 90 years and might stand for 90 more.
Silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House.
And whatever walked there, walked alone.
Oh, my God.
It was an evil house from the beginning.
A house that was born bad.
Hugh Crane's young wife died seconds before she was to set eyes on the house.
She was killed when, for no apparent reason, the horses bolted, crashing her carriage against a big tree.
Mrs. Crane was carried, ah, lifeless is the word, I think, into the home her husband had built for her.
Hugh Crane was left an embittered man.
with a small daughter Abigail to bring up.
Fortunately, for me that is, Hugh Crane did not leave Hill House.
He married again.
The second Mrs. Crane's death was even more interesting than her predecessors.
The End I've been unable to find out how or why she fell, although I have my suspicions.
Hugh Crane left Abigail with a nurse and went to England, where he died in a drowning accident.
Marvelous.
I mean, the way the history of Hill House follows a classic pattern.
For some reason, Abigail always kept that same nursery room in Hill House where she grew up.
and glowed.
For 30 years, she became a bedridden invalid.
She took a girl from the village to live with her as a paid companion.
It's with this young companion the evil reputation of Hill House really begins.
The story goes that the old lady died calling for help in the nursery upstairs, while a companion fooled around with a farmhand on the veranda.
The companion inherited Hill House and occupied it for many years.
The local people believe that, one way or another, she had murdered her benefactor.
She lived a life of complete solitude in the empty house, though some say that the house was not empty and never has been since the night old Miss Abby died.
They say that whatever there was, and still is, in the house eventually drove the companion mad.
You know, she hanged herself.
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