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Dec. 21, 2017 - Radio Free Nortwest - H.A. Covington
01:07:01
20171221_rfn
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Greetings from the Northwest homeland, comrades.
It's December the 21st, 2017.
I'm Harold Covington, and this is Radio Free Northwest.
This week, it's our special holiday edition, where, on the Thursday closest to December 25th, I play only Christmas music.
There is one famous song of joyous Yuletide spirit which has become a tradition every year here on Radio Free Northwest.
So I figure that since y'all know I'm going to play it anyway, I might as well get it over with.
Grandma got run over by a reindeer.
Walking home from our house Christmas Eve.
You can say there's no such thing as Santa.
But as for me and Grandpa, we believe.
She'd been drinking too much eggnog.
And we begged her not to go.
But she forgot her medication.
him in there watching football, drinking beer and playing cards with cousin Mel.
It's not Christmas without Grandma.
All the family's dressed in black.
And we just can't help but wonder, should we open up our gifts or send them back?
Grandma got run over by a reindeer, walking home from our house Christmas Eve.
You can say there's no such thing as Santa, but as for me and Grandpa, we believe.
Now the goose is on the table And the pudding made of fig.
And the blue and silver candles.
That would just have matched a hair in Grandma's wig.
I've warned all my friends and neighbors, Better watch out for your songs.
They should never give a license To a man who drives a sleigh and plays with elves.
Grandma got run over by a reindeer Walking home from our house Christmas Eve.
You can say there's no such thing as Santa, But as for me and Grandpa, we believe.
Sing it, Grandpa!
Grandma got run over by a reindeer Walking home from our house Christmas Eve.
You can say there's no such thing as Santa, But as for me and Grandpa, we believe.
Merry Christmas!
Okay.
Okay, since it's Christmas week, and I know that most of you are busy with all kinds of Christmassy stuff, and heading out over the river and through the woods to Grandma's house in a one-horse open sleigh, so forth and so on, I won't get into anything too heavy in this episode.
Instead, I'll give you a good, long Grandpa Simpson ramble.
Like the time I caught the ferry over to Shelbyville?
I needed a new heel for my shoe.
So, I decided to go to Morganville, which is what they call Shelbyville in those days.
So I tied an onion to my belt, which was the style at the time.
Only this doesn't have to do with any trip to Shelbyville.
It's about the time I was peripherally involved in a presidential assassination attempt, and no, I did not have an onion on my belt.
I've made it clear that I am not a big fan of conspiracy theory, and in any case, I don't think it's something the party needs to be spending much time on.
Our problems are real and observable and immediate and have to do with this world regarding one central question.
One hundred years from now, will there be any people remaining on Earth who look like us?
That having been said, I don't deny that many conspiracy theories are highly interesting and many of them probably contain at least a portion of truth.
I don't deny that weird things happen out here in the world.
I know this because on four separate occasions, owing to my choice of lifestyle and career, I've found myself on the outer edges of some kind of bizarre plot or scenario, which obviously has its genesis in the deepest bowels of the deep state.
This is one such instance.
I've made some passing reference in the past to the John Hinckley business, if only as an object lesson as to why white nationalist groups should never ever issue membership cards, especially by mail order.
Because you never know who's going to end up with the damn things or where they're going to turn up, like on dead bodies or in the wallets of people committing bad acts.
Anyway, I got an email from Comrade Bill in Spokane who asked me to discuss that episode.
Oh, what the hell, here goes.
I bear in mind this happened 36 years ago, so there are a few details which are kind of fuzzy in my memory, but all the specifics are correct.
I'll just open by saying that I am going to tell you exactly what happened, no more no less.
I will not speculate as to why it happened, nor will I try to fill in any part of the big picture, because I don't know what the big picture looks like.
Well, let's just say I'll try to keep such speculation to the minimum.
All I know is my own very small part in all of this.
I will tell you what happened, and as far as I'm concerned, you can believe me or not as you choose.
I frankly don't care if you believe me or not.
I was there, I know what happened, and I don't need anybody's validation.
Okay, where to begin, where to begin?
In March of 1981, when the assassination attempt on President Reagan took place, I was fearless leader of the National Socialist Party of America, which was at that time basically the last man standing out of all the plethora of six or seven little NS groups from the mid to late 1970s.
Or, at least, the only one that was still doing anything at all.
Long story and irrelevant to the matter at hand.
We had at that time the best headquarters building I've ever worked in, a two-story brick building on North Street in Raleigh, and I was driving a 1977 Green Bonneville station wagon at the time, and that is relevant, and you'll see why a little bit later.
Now all the member berries are coming out of the woodwork saying, member station wagons?
But before I get into the main events, first I need to give you some backstory.
About three years before that, in March of 1978, when we were still led by the benighted Frank Cullen, I was North Carolina State Unit Leader for the NSPA, and me and some of my guys attended a rally in St. Louis to celebrate the opening of a new storefront party headquarters there called Lindbergh Hall.
Now, one of the guys at that event was none other than John Hinckley.
I very vaguely remember meeting him and chatting with him for a time before the main activity started and again afterwards.
I cannot remember what we talked about.
I had other stuff I was doing, including a press conference where I was one of the party people seated at a table taking questions from idiot reporters.
But the important thing to remember is that a bunch of our own guys had cameras and we were taking pictures and Frank Braswell took a picture of me seated at the table and behind me and to my right, if memory serves, was John Hinckley.
I can't honestly remember if he was wearing one of our homemade so-called uniforms.
It seems to me he was wearing just a white shirt and a tie and a swastika armband.
But the armband was definitely present, and yeah, it was him.
I will get into how I know that in a bit.
Braswell gave me a print of this picture after he got the role developed, and what happened to that picture, well, thereby hangs a tale.
Okay, let's ratchet up to a year later.
In the spring of 1979, I'm now the NSPA's Deputy Leader and Membership Secretary.
My Raleigh Post Office Box 27406 is now the official address for membership applications.
I apologize for this lengthy backstory, but if you guys don't grasp all this, you won't understand the weird situation with Hinckley and the Reagan hit.
I took over this membership process from Frank Collin because his approach to administration was to open letters, take out any money, and throw the letters on the floor of his workroom, which was literally carpeted with opened mail going back a couple of years, including membership applications that were never processed.
I actually lobbied for the job to try and bring some order to all the chaos, and so I'd receive an application in the mail, record it in a special coded system I still use to some degree for the NF, And I would send the application with the first month's dues to national headquarters in Chicago, usually attaching a note to the effect of, Dear Frank, we got three new applications this week.
Here are your floor copies.
I would also, and this is a crucial issue, and sign a membership card for the new comrade and send it to him by mail, usually sight unseen.
For all I knew, I was sending a Nazi Party membership card to the Holy Rabbi Hyman Hebelbaum from Temple Schmuck L. No more membership cards.
No, no, no.
I did it this way because, obviously, a signed application for the American Nazi Party can, under certain circumstances, be a legally incriminating document.
This whole Hinkley mess being a case in point.
And in any case, you don't want the FBI or Joint Terrorism Task Force kicking in your door and hauling away great file boxes full of documents with people's names and addresses on them.
Even though the internet has revolutionized everything these days, I still destroy all paper correspondence out of force of habit.
I mention all this because when John Hinckley applied for NSPA membership sometime in the summer of 1979, a year and some months after the events in St. Louis, which he most certainly did, I followed that procedure with his application and sent it on to Chicago, which is why I was never able to produce the application form.
It vanished into that mountain of crap on the floor of Frank's office, and I never saw it again.
I remember the application because Hinckley attached a letter saying, Dear Mr. Covington, remember me?
We met in St. Louis at Lindbergh Hall, and his name rang a bell.
I honestly cannot remember when the application arrived in Raleigh, or where Hinckley was living at the time, or the last address I had on him.
I want to say Colorado, but I might be wrong.
I received occasional letters from John Hinckley for a while afterward, the details of which I can only vaguely remember, and I presumably wrote him some replies as well, which either he destroyed, or if not, they're lying in some file box gathering dust in the sub-basement of some FBI federal storage warehouse or other.
All of his letters to me were destroyed by me after reading, although it took some doing for me to convince the Secret Service and the media of that fact.
I vaguely remember getting some letters from Hinckley in the fall of 1980 or so to the effect that he was becoming disillusioned by the lack of progress and he felt the NSPA needed to be more proactive.
He wanted action, that kind of thing, which is a very common reaction from guys who join white nationalist groups under the impression that they're joining something serious.
And then they find out that, well, the reality is not really as advertised.
I get the same reaction now on the internet from people who read my books and think that the NVA really exists, and they're going to be handed a rifle and told to go blow something up when they come up here.
1980 was a very busy year for me, and I honestly cannot remember too much more about Hinckley.
In late 79, there was Operation Bobby Brown, and we sent Frank Cullen to prison for seven years on a buggery rap.
I took over the whole NSPA, and I corresponded with a lot of people.
Okay, I've set the scene for you, and now it's March the 30th, 1981.
At about 3.15 in the afternoon, I'm tooling down Hillsborough Street in Raleigh in my green bundle station wagon, and I'm listening to WQDR-FM, which later became a country station, but which at that time was a local Hippie Dippie Rock station.
There is a breaking news bulletin.
President Ronald Reagan has been shot in Washington, D.C. by a man with American Nazi Party connections.
And I say to myself, oh, shit.
Now, let me make something crystal clear.
This was around 45 minutes after the president was shot, and some news announcer or DJ whose name I don't think I ever pinned down was announcing on the radio in Raleigh...
That the shooter had quote-unquote American Nazi Party connections.
WQDR management later denied both to me personally and in writing that anything of the kind happened.
They were lying.
It happened because I heard it.
I was there, and I know what I heard.
So, like I said, I pretty much freaked, and I raced back to the headquarters.
I bear in mind that this was in the days before white nationalism consisted of nothing but adolescents of all ages playing with electronic devices.
We did things in the real world back then, and so the NSPA was at least passably professionalized at the time.
That meant we had things like a building and a staff and set procedures for dealing with emergencies.
And the first thing I did when I got back to the HQ was to tell the duty officer downstairs, whose name I won't reveal because he may still be around back in North Carolina, to batten down the hatches and listen to every news broadcast he could and get the ground floor ready to take a police raid, because I figured we were about to get hit big time by every cop in federal suit in Raleigh, not to mention the media.
I then went upstairs and made a few quick calls to various people warning them that there was a bad moon rising.
And to get their domiciles sanitized and make sure that there was nothing in their possession that should not be, because our friends in the silk suits were coming.
I also tried to figure out if anybody knew anything as to who the shooter might be.
The Franklin Road group was still technically around at the time, although they were pretty much completely dormant, and I was frankly hoping that it was one of Cale's people.
We had just come through Greensboro and Operation Bobby Brown, and the NSPA did not need another media circus.
Contrary to the generally held belief at the time, and to some degree even today, all publicity is not good publicity.
But nobody had any idea who it might be.
And to be honest, I thought it might be Glenn Miller, whom I had just thrown out of the party for assorted acts of drunken misbehavior.
I thought Glenn might have gotten really drunk and gone to Washington and shot the president.
Now, if you knew him at the time, that would not have seemed beyond the realm of possibility.
The next thing I did was I packed up a briefcase with certain documents and items which were in no way illegal, but which were none of anybody's business but ours.
We'll leave it at that.
And I drove out to the home of a female member we had, and I stashed the briefcase at her place for the next week or so.
Praying that the enemy didn't know about her.
I might add, for all the misogynists out there, that this woman understood full well that by assisting me at that crucial time she might be destroying her own life and the lives of her family.
She did so without hesitation and so far as I know has kept her mouth shut about it for 36 years.
I won't say they don't make white girls like that anymore, but they're damned hard to find.
Okay, by the time I got back to the headquarters, it was dark.
The duty officer told me that there had been some media calls to which he responded with no comment and hung up.
I got a couple more and responded the same way after I questioned the reporters and they couldn't or wouldn't provide me with a name.
Then, as I recall about 6.30 that night, approximately four hours after Reagan was shot, I get a phone call from Mark Lane or someone claiming to be Mark Lane.
Now, I never met Lane, didn't know him, and so couldn't tell if it was him or somebody posing as him.
I know most of you won't know who Mark Lane was.
He was of my movement generation, an attorney who was one of the many strange satellites who orbited around Willis Cardo.
I understand that a lot of you don't know who Willis Cardo was either, never mind any recollection of Spotlight newspaper or the Institute for Historical Review.
Long story short...
Carto was the biggest, richest, and most successful entrepreneur white nationalism and revisionism ever had.
Think Richard Spencer about 20 years from now.
Mark Lane was Carto's attorney at the time, and something of a celebrity in his own right.
He had written several conspiracy theory books on the Kennedy assassination, and he'd been one of the survivors of the Jonestown Massacre in 1978.
When Jones' racially diverse loony bin went berserk and shot that California congressman, Leo Ryan.
Mark Lane allegedly ran away and hid in the jungle overnight with Jim Jones' gunman searching for him, or that was what he said anyway.
As I recall, there was always some question as to just what the hell Mark Lane really was doing on that little Guyana expedition to begin with.
What his role in those events was, and where he was and what he was doing during the mass slaughter session, but we won't get into that.
Suffice it to say that at the time, Lane had a lot of rep, and it was known that he spoke with Carto's voice.
Now, the first thing that occurred to me during this phone conversation was that I did not, in fact, know for sure who I was talking to, and so I was cautious and reticent.
And I still don't know for certain, but let's just...
Call this guy Mark Lane for the sake of clarity.
Anyway, it was from Mark Lane or whoever the hell he was that I first heard the name of John Hinckley.
I remembered Hinckley vaguely, and I asked Lane where he had gotten the name.
He said it was because Hinckley's NSPA membership card, signed by me, had been found in his wallet when he was arrested.
Now, that I remembered, and yet again I went, oh shit, at least in my mind.
I asked Lane, or whoever he was, how he knew the card had been found, since he could only have gotten that information from the police or the Secret Service.
And at that point, as I recall, the conversation kind of degenerated into a tug-of-war between me and Lane.
I wanted to get as much information out of him as I could, and he wanted to know if I had any letters or photographs or other documents relating to Hinckley in my possession.
He even offered me money for them.
Can't recall how much.
I noticed this over the next three days.
Everybody wanted those mythical letters.
I hadn't kept them for the reasons I've stated.
They weren't anything special or unusual as far as our routine party correspondence went.
Probably just the usual bitching and moaning about all the crap white men have to put up with.
And they certainly didn't say anything like, Hey, Harold, I'm going to go shoot the president.
Yup, yup, yup.
I couldn't remember what they said, but I did remember that I shredded them all like I did every unnecessary piece of paper we had in the building.
But everybody wanted those letters.
And when it became obvious I didn't have them, all of a sudden everybody lost interest and it was all about Jodie Foster.
This is already running much longer than I thought it would.
I'm sorry I hadn't fully grasped all the backstory and digressions that would be necessary.
But you guys can't possibly understand the significance of all this unless you can see it in the context in which I experienced it.
Right, next up, the story of my Secret Service interrogation, or lack thereof.
I had fully expected that we were going to be hit with a full-court press raid, but that never happened.
Instead, almost two days later, I get a call from the Secret Service politely asking me to step down to the Federal Building on New Bern Avenue for a little chat.
I figured I'd better go to them rather than let them into the building voluntarily.
I notified everybody where I was going in case I didn't come back and eased my body on down there.
The first unusual thing is that I was interviewed not by two Secret Service agents, but by only one, who, so far as I could tell, was making no video or recorded record of it.
We just sat there in his little cubicle talking.
Now, this is the United States Secret Service.
And they've just lost a president, or at least they had one lying in the hospital with what everybody was saying at the time was a Nazi bullet in him.
And this one guy just asked me in for a little chat in his cubicle and doesn't make any official record of the interview?
What's wrong with this picture?
Again, as best I can recall, always with that proviso...
The main thrust of the conversation was that this agent was fishing and probing to see if I had any letters or documents or photographs connecting John Hinckley and the NSPA.
I told him that I did not.
I do recall that the Secret Service man had a thin manila folder on his desk, and he showed me a photocopy of John Hinckley's NSPA membership card and asked if that was my signature, which I had to admit it was.
The whole interview lasted 20 minutes or so, and that was the last I heard from the United States Secret Service regarding an assassination attempt against the President, where there was a documentable connection between the gunman and my organization.
I ask again, what's wrong with this picture?
But wait, you say, there was another documentary connection.
What about that photograph of Ewan Hinkley in St. Louis that Frank Braswell took?
Now, did I not tell you earlier that thereby hangs a tale?
Unfortunately, this is going to require still more tedious backstory so you will understand.
When I was in Chapel Hill High School journalism class in the early 1970s, one of my classmates was a guy named Robin Clark, who I knew passably well.
Robin stuck with journalism, and in 1977, when I started the party up in Raleigh and started to get my 15 minutes, Robin was a reporter for the afternoon paper, the Raleigh Times.
In those days, every major American city had two newspapers a morning and an evening paper.
When I started doing my thing in Raleigh, Robin Clark kind of treaded on our brief acquaintance at Chapel Hill High School to get in-depth info and interviews with me, and I used him to try and get more publicity, all quite amicable, since we both understood what the other was doing.
His coverage in the times of the old party's activities was always the fairest and the most balanced that we got pretty much anywhere, and because Robin remembered me from the days before I became the Antichrist, he would still treat me like a human being, and we could actually have a civil conversation on topics other than immediate events, which is something I've never had with any reporter.
Mainstream journalists are always either schmoozing you shamelessly to get something they want, i.e.
raw material to help them tell lies, and when they're not doing that, they're treating you like something they want to scrape off their shoe.
Robin wasn't like that.
He'd always given us a pretty fair shake before, as far as we could expect from any mainstream media, so I thought he'd give us a fair shake now.
I was wrong.
Long story short, I let Robin Talk me into giving him the photograph of myself and Hinkley in St. Louis.
To be fair, I had done this once before.
In the spring of 1980, I gave a Greensboro Daily News reporter named Martha Woodall a photograph of some of our guys, including the ATF agent Bernard Butkovich, who was infiltrating us at the time.
That was to prove that he existed.
That led to the exposure of Butkovich's role in the Greensboro shootings and probably led to the acquittals, and Martha Woodall kept her word and returned the photo to me.
I think I may even still have it around someplace.
So, if a stranger like Martha Woodall kept her word, why shouldn't my good old high school buddy Robin Clark do so as well?
Well, he didn't.
I never saw the picture again, and I never saw Robin again.
When I called up the paper a few days later for a progress report, I was informed that Robin Clark no longer worked there.
He had left to take up a job at the Los Angeles Times.
He never got in touch or responded to any of my attempts to contact him, and the picture simply vanished from history.
In the early 1990s, what was it, 92, 93, whenever it was, the O.J. Simpson trial, Robin was covering that trial, and he was killed in a traffic accident on the Los Angeles freeway.
The day that Robin got that photo into his hand was the day that the Jodie Foster scenario replaced the Nazi scenario as the operative official version of the Reagan shooting, and that's what the official version states to this day.
And from that moment to this very day, John Hinckley has not been allowed to utter one single word in public, except for the word guilty at his arraignment.
Whereupon he was whisked away to a series of club-fed-style psych wards and minimum security facilities.
He's been out about 18 months now, I think, and he hasn't uttered a peep.
Nor have any media been so rude as to bother him in his newfound freedom.
This has run way long, so I'll wind it up now.
That, my friends and comrades, is what happened in the year of 81. You may believe it or not as you choose.
Either way, I don't give a rat's ass.
This is Greg Lake They said there'll be snow at Christmas They said there'll be peace
on earth But instead it just kept on raining A veil of tears for the virgin blood I remember one Christmas morning A winter's light and a distant choir The key of hell and that Christmas tree smell Eyes full of tinsel and fire.
They showed me a dream of Christmas
They sold me a sire of night They told me a fairy story Till I believed in the Israelites And I believed in Father Christmas And I looked to the sky with excited eyes Then I woke with a yawn in the first light of dawn And I saw him through his disguise We're
All anguish, pain and sadness Be your heart and let your world be clear They said that he's not Christmas They said that he's not Christmas I knew you'd know that I would be a heaven or hell At Christmas we get the desert I knew
you'd know that I would be a heaven or
hell At Christmas we get the desert Thank you.
Andy here to talk more about party professionalization.
In response to my request for input while working on TheoryCraft Part 2, one comrade observed that there's very little post-migration orientation or education.
Well, that's most certainly true, and at some point it certainly has to change.
I'm not sure we're quite there, but in any case, the party is running into a new problem.
There's an awful lot of material to process, and despite the Ida Bros' best efforts, a must-listen list won't cut it for much longer because there's always more material.
That, and we're increasingly running into a different, yet tangentially related, issue we're going to have to solve soon.
Harold, both on RFN and over email, has said quite a bit lately about the party's Dutch uncles.
I've gone over and over this in various segments, so you'll all know the issue with criticizing the party is one of perspective.
Homecoming grants someone a perspective that can't be garnered any other way.
I've gone over and over that several times this year, so I'll spare you all except to say taking the first step in your own involvement in the Butler Plan makes all this real in a way it could not be otherwise.
But what if someone can't come home because they're already here?
And even if they do, what if they've managed to miss something important?
More and more, these situations are going to be commonplace, and this will increase the need for formalized instruction and orientation, as this comrade I've mentioned said.
And while it's one thing to have this sort of need, particularly when we always knew we would have to do something about it, the situation will get worse as time goes on.
It's not just that there's always more material, which means revisiting the orientation process every once in a while.
The real reason this is such a problem is that the perspective of an NF associate isn't helpful here.
Because there is so much material to process, those of us who have been involved for a long time take our understanding of party matters for granted and have a hard time relating to newcomers and helping them get started.
Even so, it's not one-sided and there's a certain amount of individual responsibility involved.
I'll touch on what that responsibility is later.
Right now, though, I want to give a couple of real-life examples from recent happenings that illustrate what I'm talking about.
I need to be clear about what I mean, because I'm going to ask for another round of feedback from you all, and I want to make it clear why.
You'll all remember Comrade Bill's question from a couple episodes back.
If that was the Bill I think, and I'm almost certain it was, then he's a solid guy and we've actually heard from him on RFN.
I was actually surprised to hear his question, though it was never explicitly stated he didn't know the answer.
For all I know, he was asking purely to get Harold to rehash the subject of how the franchise would be parceled out in the NAR.
And either way, I'm not trying to pick on Bill since, as I started out by saying, the party is going to have to shore up how we handle onboarding.
For reference, there were all of 30 episodes of RFN when I started listening in late summer 2010, and the white book was significantly smaller, too.
I've brought up this example only to point out that someone of Bill's caliber could still have missed such an important detail.
There's a reason we do spaced repetition around here, and this particular question doesn't come up very often.
Not knowing the answer off the top of your head is totally understandable, too, since it's not even brought up more than once or twice in the party's written material, either.
But what about things we do bring up quite a bit?
In fact, what if there's some confusion around a subject we discuss several times a year?
Like I said, it's true the party needs to do better regardless, but this issue bears some examination.
My last RFN appearance partly dealt with an incident from earlier this year where, if some mysterious figure had their way, there would have been some protest action with the NF's blessing.
Someone out in that neck of the woods got a hold of me and let me know someone was running around claiming they had the NF's blessing to organize said protest.
In a way, this is actually preferable to initial appearances because it means no one interested in the NF decided they could just up and do whatever they wanted in our name.
And yet, that means there's a whole other problem that needs addressing.
To put it bluntly, it should not have been believable that the NF would approve of something we bend over backwards to discourage.
The issue of street activism is certainly another of those spaced repetition subjects, but it comes up a few times a year, every single year, since the beginning of RFN.
Anyone paying any attention at all to the content we produce should know precisely what the party thinks of the whole subject.
I've used these analogies already while discussing this over email with someone, but I can't come up with better ones, so I'll have to recycle.
Sorry.
This situation is similar to someone walking into a vegan restaurant and claiming the manager gave them permission to serve pork dishes.
It's also similar to someone interrupting a church service with the claim that the pastor gave them permission to lead the congregation in chanting Hare Krishna.
The only way the people in that restaurant or in that church wouldn't object to these events is if they had absolutely no idea what their dietary or religious commitments were.
In fact, it's hard to believe at least one person in either setting wouldn't immediately object and tell the interloper to get lost.
I've admitted that the party has a large portion of the responsibility in making sure information is disseminated, but by no means does it have all the responsibility.
I hate to go full-on asshole mode, but right now it's called for.
I'm glad to hear there's a bunch of people very interested in the NF out east.
At the same time, I'm worried that a claim so obviously wrong as the NF endorsing something we regularly tell you all not to do was believed.
I would greatly appreciate it if all those interested in the NF, regardless of their current location, make sure they're following the instructions I'm about to lay down.
The reason Harold, the party, and I continually ask you to emulate our behavior is because we know it gets the correct results.
In my own case, I deliberately did all the legwork the party asked and more, so I know it's possible to get caught up prior to coming home.
Ultimately, the responsibility rests on the person in question, since the party doesn't have the ability to force you to study up.
To get this right, make sure your attitude is in check.
You need to be willing to follow instructions and cooperate with party procedures.
I know that's not always fun for everyone, but it's a guaranteed red flag when someone insists they be given special treatment the instant they get a hold of us.
Next, read the contents of the party website to get the gist of what we're about.
If you're interested, do start that contact process.
Now, you might expect me to say, start in on the Northwest Independence novels next, but actually you need to start working on your own personal Northwest migration, since that's the real priority.
Then get a hold of the Northwest Independence novels and crack in on those.
PDFs are available for free.
Okay, I know I've asked a lot, but after that, I do want you to start consuming back episodes of RFN.
And don't listen to them for entertainment purposes, either.
If that means you listen once for pleasure, and then again for content and detail, so be it.
Now that I've said all that, I have a special request.
For reasons that will be obvious after the fact, I'd like you to focus on The Brigade, A Mighty Fortress, and A Distant Thunder first.
Once you've read at least two of those, as well as the white book, get a hold of me personally through whatever means and let me know if there's something that hasn't been made clear at that point.
You don't need to wait until you've processed the entire backlog of RFN episodes to do this, since that would be downright unreasonable.
Even so, you do need to follow my directions in the order I've given prior to getting in touch with me.
When you do get in touch with me, I need to know certain things such as how long you've known about the Northwest Imperative, which of the novels you've read, and where you're at in your migration process, if any.
That might sound odd, but like I keep saying, perspective matters, and I've found that the same question can mean different things when asked by different people.
Then, say whatever you've got to say.
I'm leaving this open-ended, and I do not require constructive criticism.
It would be manifestly unfair of me to expect relative newcomers to know enough about the situation as a whole such that they could suggest fixes to a process they've not yet completed.
If part of this process isn't working for you or isn't getting you the information you need, I want to know what you have to say about it.
And I want to make it clear that this is open to those already resident in the proposed homeland, too.
For years, I've avoided dealing with the issue of the massively different experiences of settlers and those who don't require their own migrations.
I can't just ignore those people and this is as good a time as any to start handling that.
I'm not outright convinced there's a problem, but it would be good to find out one way or the other.
One last note.
I can't be sure what will come out of this, but I do need to make some sort of attempt at getting ahead of this problem.
Further, I can't tell you when I'll have a result, and in any event, it most certainly won't be soon.
Thank you all in advance for your help.
Hail Victory!
Hail Victory!
Good evening, comrades.
Tonight I'm going to be talking about T. Riley Drower's Big Fellow, Long Fellow.
Now this contrasts the personalities and attitudes of two key figures in the Troubles.
And when I talk about the Troubles in Ireland, I'm talking about from 1916, throughout the treaty and the Civil War.
So from 1916 through to 1923.
Now, Dee Valera was born in New York, but he was sent to Limerick, Ireland at an early age.
He has an Irish mother, but potentially a Spanish father, or perhaps not a Spanish father, maybe an Irish father.
But at any rate, because of this question of paternity and the whole situation, He was evidently an unwanted child, and that's why he keeps being sent back and forth to various relatives.
Now, de Valera finds escape in books and was introduced to Irish politics at a fairly early age by Father Sheeney.
De Valera had something of an academic streak in his early adulthood, and he actually was able to become a professor of mathematics.
But by the time he married, his interests had shifted, and at this point he had a passion for what we would now call Irish identity politics.
Michael Collins was, in contrast, he was one of eight children.
He was very much wanted and even somewhat spoiled, and he had a very strong and very definite Irish genealogy.
Which would actually be the envy of even most Irish activists.
Because Colin's father was much older than his mother, he lost his father at an early age.
And when he went off to school, he was inspired by Dennis Lyons, who was an Irish nationalist.
Dreyer describes The Rising, and he seems to highlight it as a darkly tragic comedy of eras.
The expected arms shipment that was supposedly coming from Germany did not arrive, and he talks about how one soldier by the name of Plunkett Was delivered from a nursing home directly into the fray.
Now, during the Rising, de Valera tried to take charge, and that would have been fine, except that he kept changing his mind about the various tactics.
So he spent a lot of time running around and expanding a lot of energy, but unfortunately not accomplishing as much as he might have.
Now, in contrast to de Valera's interest in tactical details, Collins was more interested in the overall position of Ireland should the rebellion be successful.
After the Rising, Collins set out to rebuild the Irish Republican Brotherhood.
Collins was something like General Washington in respect that he paid a lot of attention to surveillance and intelligence work.
He really worked behind the scenes, and he used methods that must have put him in great need for absolution.
De Valera, perhaps because of his childhood, was more in need of direct praise, so he had a more public path.
He organized Sinn Féin, and he also journeyed to America, where he would challenge Wilson's claim to care for the rights of small nations.
So in 1919, when de Valera was in America, his goal was to secure recognition for Ireland and to collect money.
But there's a historical dispute here.
Did this recognition mean recognition specifically of the Irish Republic as declared or merely a recognition of Ireland's right to self-determination?
Also, there's a question of de Valera's exact title.
It would seem that Prime Minister would be the most accurate translation.
However, in America, he normally called himself the president of the Irish governmental cabinet.
Now, de Valera had a deep desire to influence the U.S. to join the League of Nations, but this made him unpopular.
He seems to have possibly miscalculated because he tends to see Irish Americans as more Irish than American, and he always assumes that they're going to put Irish needs first, and this doesn't seem to always have been the case.
Now, with de Valera so preoccupied with America, Collins becomes what we can essentially call the acting president of the Irish cabinet.
Eventually, the English, and even one supposes the fiery-tempered Irish, were tired of the various guerrilla actions and mafia-style hits that were going on, and Collins and Lloyd George, despite Lord George's professed dislike of Collins, would come to the table, and they wanted to discuss something called Dominion Home Rule.
So they met in Dublin on the 5th of May 1921, and they actually signed a truth in July.
They had some very important questions to discuss.
There was always the question of British defense.
Would Britain be able to have bases in a free Ireland?
They had questions about mutual aid.
And the question of the Loyalists of Ulster, could these Loyalists vote out?
Due to the organic quality of the Protestant-Catholic-North-South boundary, how would this boundary actually be drawn up?
Also, how would Irish citizens actually relate to the crown?
And would reparations be paid by England?
Now, all of this, of course, was very complex just simply due to the geography itself.
So it was much more complex for Ireland to, in some respects, break away from the crown than it would be for someplace like Canada, for example.
Now, eventually, a treaty was offered, and Collins really believed that it was better to have some of the things that the Irish wanted rather than having nothing.
Also, Collins reasoned that the treaty would be a basis for further growth.
One of the goals was that Ireland would be granted an external association with Britain.
Collins becomes very excited about this notion, and he starts calling this external association a new League of Nations, which perhaps even the U.S. would want to join.
So Collins becomes very pro-treaty.
He sees a lot of opportunities for Ireland, but de Valera is much more leery of the treaty.
De Valera feared that if he had to swear to these new laws, that these laws were, in a sense, endorsed by the crown, in a way made by the crown, and that, essentially, if he swore to these laws, then he would be swearing to the crown.
De Valera becomes so upset about the treaty that he resigns his position, but he still wants to have a say, so he ends up running again.
And really, I think the resignation was more of a protest than a serious resignation.
But when he runs again, he develops this very condescending attitude.
And around this time, Collins really takes up certain ideas.
He comes to the support of gun control, and he also talks about checks and balances in the Irish government.
On the whole, and despite any controversy regarding the treaty, the treaty was supported by Sinn Féin.
The Civil War comes about, and it comes about over, of course, this question of Ulster.
This breaks out into some fighting, and one evening, Collins goes out on a car trip with some of his supporters.
He gets involved in a firefight with some diehard anti-treaty Republicans.
Of course, you could say that Collins should have stayed out of this, but he may have been under the influence of some libation, and as a result of getting involved in this firefight, he was shot.
After Collins' death, de Valera admitted that the treaty was in fact the will of most, and he also said that the Civil War in Ireland did more damage than the British.
This author also discusses how Lloyd George was aware of the boundary and that there had been a boundary commission drawn up by the English and they were trying to respect the Protestant-Catholic boundaries.
Now, in 1932, de Valera admitted that he had undermined the treaty.
I suppose that admission is hardly surprising since he certainly didn't support it.
In 1933, there were changes in judicial law and citizenship rights, and essentially what you had at that point was you had the elimination of the king from the Constitution, but English bases were still allowed in Ireland.
By 1949, a republic was declared.
The author notes that, in his opinion, the Civil War really, at the end of the day, seemed unnecessary and that they were really fighting over some very small differences.
So I suppose you could say this book is a case in point of white people sadly finding a great deal of strife over matters that I suppose one could say they needn't have fought over.
So I hope you found this discussion to be of interest.
I know that I've discussed the troubles before, and so a lot of this does seem somewhat old hat to me because I've read a few books on this prior, but this book was suggested to me several months ago, and so here we are getting to the end of the year, and I decided why not give another go to the history of the troubles.
So thank you very much.
Thank you so much for listening.
Have a good evening, and hail victory, comrades.
We're about to die, 18 wheels are rolling.
We're going to do what they say can't be done.
We've got a long way to go, and it's short time to get there.
I'm westbound just like a band that runs.
If you put hard on the pedal, the sun's never minding brakes.
Let it all hang out, cause we gotta run the baby.
Now we're going to the boys.
Greetings, comrades.
This is the trucker coming at you from someplace I don't get to very often.
The Mile High City.
Denver, Colorado, where it's snow-free, low 30s.
Roads are open.
Not sure why you haven't made your migration to the homeland yet, or at least your scouting trip.
I know, you're probably getting tired of me harping on this, but hey, it's probably my last contribution of 2017, so yeah, I figure I'd just go and throw one last one in there.
So, anyway, alrighty.
You know...
Not to get religious on you guys, but I kind of look at Mr. Covington and our movement as kind of like Noah.
He's trying to build an ark.
An ark for white people.
And once it starts raining nigglets and they get all uppity and start their routine that they're claiming that they want to kill off all the white people and stuff, what you gonna do?
Try to climb your way across the country at the last minute to climb onto the ark that we're already trying to get set up out here.
So, what's it going to be?
Are you going to wait until the last minute?
Or are you going to make your preps and get your hineys in gear and get on over here to the northwest where you're supposed to be?
You know, it's not a bad place.
I mean, we've got some bigger communities, and we've got some smaller communities.
I wouldn't advise necessarily Seattle or Portland or some of the other larger metropolises out here, but I've traveled through a lot of the small ones, and there's not much in the way of dark-skinned people there.
I mean, you get out in the farming communities, you get a lot of the Hispanic types and stuff, but...
Once we get this established, they should be moseying on their way back down to their taco land and stuff.
So, just thought I'd make mention of that.
So, I mean, we're not looking for necessarily just two of each, but a male and a female, many of them, that would be nice.
Who knows?
You lone males or you lone females might find another one.
Somebody out here to pair up with once you get here.
I, myself, have been up here in the homeland since early 1980.
I'm an organic migrant.
My wife spent her later school years up here from, like, grade school and high school up here in the Northwest.
And her grade school years growing up in Northern California, so she definitely likes the area.
That's why we're still here.
But yeah, it's a nice area.
It beats where I grew up at, over there in Michigan.
Not knocking Michigan and my fellow Michiganders that might be over there, but it's a bit warmer over where we're at, down there in the Puget.
We don't get it near the snow and the ice that I did there in the base of the thumb, where I grew up at.
But of course, I led a sheltered life, unlike Mr. Covington.
I grew up in an all-white community and went to all-white schools.
We didn't have any nigglets or Mexicans or nothing like that there.
It was strictly white people.
We had to go to, like, north to Port Huron or south down to Detroit to go and check out the dark-skinned people.
So, hey, that's where I grew up at.
And it was really nice growing up in an all-white community.
Why don't you go and make your scouting trip and your migration?
You might like it.
If we can get this show on the road, it would be really nice.
To not have to go and deal with all the ooga-booga that happens back in the late 60s, 68, when they had the race riots.
And then the Rodney King crap and the Watts crap and all that kind of stuff.
So, well, anyway.
Alright, well, this is the trucker throwing something in for this week from Denver, Colorado, the Mile High City.
Alright, well, waiting to see you all out there on the road making your scouting trip and your migration to the homeland.
Alright, this is the trucker signing off from a mile up.
Merry Christmas all.
We're down and down.
We're 18. We're open.
We're gonna do what they say can't do though.
We've got a long way to go.
Any short time to get there I'm Chris Bounders Watch your bandit run I'm Chris Bounders Thank you.
Since we're coming up to Christmas, it's time for our one Christmas story.
I've mentioned the story more than once on this program and played this song, but although these events happened 103 years ago, it's one that I think needs to be retold at every Yuletide season, because this falls into the we-must-never-allow-ourselves-to-forget category.
World War I was one of the most horrific experiences that Western man and Western civilization has ever undergone.
In many respects, it was worse, I think, than World War II because it came at the end of almost a century of virtually unbroken peace and prosperity and economic and cultural growth in Europe and here in America.
Now, sure, there were a few hiccups, like the Franco-Prussian War, but basically, for almost a hundred years, everything was on an even keel, pretty much, and the white man was free to be all that he can be, especially in such places as Germany, Great Britain and her colonies, and here in America.
One of the saddest stories in history, I believe, is the story of the Christmas Truce of 1914.
This occurred on Christmas Eve, five months into the war.
When men on both sides of the trenches stopped fighting and held spontaneous Christmas celebrations instead.
No official ceasefire was declared, but more than 100,000 British, French, and German troops participated in the unofficial truce along the length of the Western Front.
The truce began with Christmas carols.
The German troops had put candlelit Christmas trees on the trench parapets in many places along the front, and at 11 o 'clock, which was midnight in Berlin, many of them began to sing Stille Nacht.
Silent night.
The British soldiers listened and then responded with carols of their own.
Then the soldiers started shouting Christmas greetings to each other across the barbed wire, and from there it went on to general comments and conversation, which was possible because in some cases those damn trenches were so close that it was actually possible to communicate over the distance.
I gradually met on both sides of the trenches, put down their weapons, and started spontaneous Christmas celebrations.
Their officers ordered the men to keep shooting, but the truce spread all up and down the front lines.
Men climbed from the trenches to shake hands in no man's land.
They shared food packages from home, traded gifts and souvenirs such as buttons and hats, and they ate and drank together.
On Christmas morning, soldiers again sang Christmas carols, and signboards dotted the trenches.
Since more German soldiers spoke English than English soldiers spoke German, the signboards were written mostly in English.
Sometimes the English was simple, like, you no fight, we no fight.
Men exchanged cigarettes, chocolates, cakes, sausages, and the Germans in one sector even rolled out a barrel of beer into the middle of no man's land to share with the British and the French.
The soldiers played football and enjoyed the freedom to move about without danger.
The truce also allowed burial parties to safely retrieve recently fallen soldiers and bring them back behind their lines.
Both sides held joint services for their fallen comrades.
In many sectors, the Christmas 1914 truce lasted through Christmas night, and in others it lasted until New Year's Day.
In years to come, the officers on both sides made sure that there was no repetition of the informal truce by ordering huge bombardments all along the Western Front beginning on Christmas Eve that lasted through Christmas Day.
This episode has always haunted me because it was probably the last time in history that Germans and Englishmen met as equals and friends.
From then on, the curtain of Jewish propaganda and demonization of the Germans descended, and the poison of it still hangs in the air between Germany and the rest of the world like a gas attack in the trenches.
Anyway, in memory of that night and day when our two peoples last exchanged the hand of friendship without a wall of filthy Jewish lies to divide us, this is Arnie Dormsgard.
O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum, Wie treu sind deine Blätter.
Oh O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum, wie treu sind deine Blätter.
Du grinst nicht nur zur Sommerzeit, nein, auch im Winter, wenn es schneit.
O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum, Wie treu sind deine Blätter.
O Tannenbaum,
Oh, Mektelein, oh, Mektelein, wie falsch ist dein Gemüte?
Oh, Mekdlein, oh, Mekdlein, how wrong is your gemido?
You said to me, in my happiness, now, as I am, you go back.
My little, oh my little, how false is your gemido?
O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum, wie treu sind deine Gnötter.
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, WA 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.
The news had come out in the First World War The bloody Red Baron was flying once more The Allied Command ignored all of its men And called on Snoopy to do it again Was the night before Christmas,
forty below When Snoopy went up in search of his foe He spied the Red Baron Fiercely they fought with ice on his wings Snoopy knew he was Christmas bells,
those Christmas bells rang up from the land asking peace of all the world and goodwill to man The Baron had Snoopy dead in his sights He reached for the trigger to pull it up tight Why, he didn't shoot well, we'll never know.
Or was it the bells from the village below?
Christmas bells, oh, it's Christmas bells.
Ringing through the land.
Bringing peace to all the world.
And goodwill for men.
The Baron made Snoopy.
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