The View From Olympus: Curiouser and Curiouser

Alice, in the form of the American taxpayer, is wandering ever deeper into the Wonderland that is the Pentagon. An article from the October 15 Army Times is titled, "Hagel devises new mission for Army: Coastal defense force." As Dave Barry says, I am not making this up.The coastal artillery was the only branch of the U.S. Army that had any social cachet, so it is not surprising the Army might want to resurrect it. Considered only as an objet d'art, the coastal artillery has much to commend it. I would enjoy packing a picnic basket and going down to the shorre to watch the disappearing guns fire on passing tankers, and batteries of horse-drawn six pounders could put on a good show trying to pick off the occasional water skier. A cynic might make the argument that coastal artillery would be as relevant to our national security as any other component of the Army.In the real world, the first question facing any proposal for "defense" is, what is it supposed to defend us against? Before an enemy could land in strength on our shores, it would have to defeat the U.S. Navy. Exactly who is in a position to do that is not clear. Neither Russia or China qualify. The Royal Navy just isn't what it used to be. The French are dastardly enough to try anything, but how much threat is posed by landing the French Army is not clear. If it met our Army on the field of battle, the question would be, which is the better French Army? Do we fear a flotilla of a million sampans coming from China? A million dhows from the Persian gulf?There is a serious side to Secretary Hagel's startling proposal. How on earth could a seemingly sane Secretary of Defense suggest such a thing?Years ago, my old colleague Paul Weyrich said to me of then-Senator Chuck Hagel, "He thinks about the Pentago the same way you do." I am sure Paul was right at the time. Yet since the day Mr. Hagel became Secretary of Defense, he has served as a faithful spokesman for the Pentagon's strategy. What is that strategy? As John Boyd put it, "Don't interrupt the money flow, add to it."This happens over and over. Even people who have been critical of the Pentagon, once they get an official position where they might be able to fix the place, turn their coats and become an advocate for it. It is easy to ascribe their new mindset to personal gain: if they play the game, they can count on being richly rewarded by defense industry when they leave office.But something more subtle is also at work. It is difficult to be the only man in an organization who is critical of it. The loneliness of command becomes more lonely still. Not many people have the innere Führung to be able to stay that course. Add in the fact that the people in the uniformed military are mostly individually good people. You find yourself repeatedly upsetting and disappointing them. They cannot understand what you are doing, or why. After all, they accepted the rules of the game long ago. You are in the position of continually kicking a dog that only wants to be your friend.And so we get the Secretary of Defense proposing the Army again serve as our coastal defense force. The Army, which will see only dollar signs, won't tell the Secretary he's nuts. The Navy could say to Secretary Hagel what the First Sea Lord said to the cabinet in London when Napoleon threatened to invade England: "I do not say the French cannot come; I say only that they cannot come by sea." But it probably won't, because the Navy does not take Secretaries of Defense seriously, nor civilian control of the military for that matter.Somewhere in the Pentagon is a wall locker where Secretary Hagel, upon taking office, checked his brain, his backbone, and his balls. It is one of many lockers containing the same body parts from previous senior civilian defense appointees. Can we ever put someone in the Secretary's position who refuses the operation?

Now Available: On War

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Victoria: Chapter 31

By the 21st century, America had become a country of many universities and little education. Her colleges were mostly diploma mills crossed with asylums for the politically insane: howling Bluestockings, inventors of “Afrocentric history,” mewling “advocates” for the blind, the botched, and the bewildered. Frequently, these defectives pooled their neuroses and formed a coalition that took over the campus, turning it into a small, ivy covered North Korea. Any student who dared dispute their ideology of cultural Marxism swiftly felt the hand of “revolutionary justice.”Students still arrived, despite appalling tuition bills, because they needed the sheepskin. America had come to value credentials over performance, so anyone without a college degree remained a bottom-feeder for life. Universities were a classic socialist set-up: a monopoly that produced crap at high prices. Many were little more than vending machines; insert your $250,000, pull the lever, and get your diploma.Inflation proved the ax that finally killed the silly goose. The American republic’s final hyperinflation wiped out college endowments, destroyed the middle class that footed the tuition bills, and finally made worthless the massive government grants and subsidies most universities had come to depend on. The professors were still paid, but in money worth so little a month's paycheck couldn't cover lunch. It got so bad some of them had to go out and get jobs.The break-up of the union and the fall of Washington closed the doors of every college and university. Young people had real work to do, and no state government had spare cash to fund phony “education.” Frankly, nobody much missed institutions that had long since abandoned their function, which was passing the higher elements of our culture on to the next generation. So it was something of a surprise, in early September, 2029, to see students once again matriculating. The way it happened was even more surprising.Sometime in March, an organization based in Zurich called the Foundation for Higher Learning had approached the former presidents of Yale, Harvard, and Dartmouth and asked whether they could start their schools going again if funding were provided. They said they could, and immediately found themselves with a hundred million Swiss francs each – an enormous sum in our poverty-stricken economy. Lured by huge salaries, their professors regathered. Students were offered full scholarships, plus stipends that amounted to enough money to feed a whole family. People without much cash realized their college-age son or daughter could be their main wage-earner, and applications poured in.At the time, I'd been occupied with both the Boston problem and our succession crisis, and I hadn't paid the whole business much mind. Three hundred million Swiss francs was an economic Godsend, because it enabled us to increase our money supply. It was many times what we were earning in foreign exchange from all our exports put together.I had gotten a nose full of “Political Correctness” at Bowdoin, so I guess I should have known what to expect. But that seemed ages ago, and I figured reality would impress itself on campuses just as it had on the rest of our society.I was wrong. Quickly, all the old games started up again. The course catalogs were filled with crap like “Women in Judeo-Christian Societies: Three Thousand Years of Phallic Oppression and The Symbolism of the Bagel,” “The African Origins of Chaos Theory” (a course which was quickly denounced as “insensitive” and withdrawn), and “Salons in the Camp: Lesbian Contributions to Line and Column Tactics in 18th Century European Warfare.”An informal contest developed among the three colleges to see which could be the most PC. The Harvard faculty collectively led a “love-in” that “introduced students to the richness of man-boy relationships.” Yale countered with an “auto-da-fe” in which every heterosexual male student had to choose a “sin” from a PC list – “sexism,” “homophobia,” “good table manners,” etc. – and parade around campus wearing a signboard bearing their “confession.” Dartmouth erected a Temple of Artemis in the center of the green and forced all male students to prostrate themselves before the goddess, on pain of expulsion it they refused.Seeking to establish itself as the best of the worst, Dartmouth called a “faculty workshop” for October 12, Columbus Day, “to discover means for reversing Eurocentrism and white male domination over the North American continent.” Faculty leaders from Yale and Harvard were invited to attend.

***

On October 2, I received a note from Governor Kraft asking me to meet with him the next day and to bring along Ron Danielov, head of our Special Operations forces. We gathered in his small office that afternoon.“Are you both familiar with what is happening in our so-called 'institutions of higher learning?'” Bill opened.“I guess everybody is,” Ron replied. “It's in all the newspapers. I can tell you, people aren't happy about it. We all thought we were through with this kind of crap.”“We soon will be,” Kraft replied. “As usual, there is more to it than meets the eye. Do you know where these colleges are getting their funding?”“From some foundation in Switzerland,” I said.“That's a front,” Bill replied. “Some friends in Europe did a little sniffing around for me. The real source of the money is the UN, specifically UNESCO, the UN’s 'cultural branch.' It’s been a den of vipers for as long as anyone can remember. Now, with UN money, it hopes to poison us the same way it's poisoned so many other places. Only that's not going to happen.”“Where do we come in?” I inquired.“Conveniently, the worst malefactors are gathering at Dartmouth College on October 12,” Bill answered. “They are meeting in Dartmouth Hall, in room 105, which is a small auditorium. I'm going to be there.”“Do they know that?” I asked.“No, and they won't until I walk in,” Bill replied.“Mightn't that be a bit dangerous?” I cautioned.“I intend it to be dangerous – for them,” Bill answered.“Here’s my plan, and here’s where you come in, sergeant. About mid-morning, I will crash their meeting. I’m simply going to barge in, march up to the front and grab the mic. There, I'll explain what "political correctness” really is and why we will not tolerate it, or its advocates, in the Northern Confederation.”“Sergeant, I need two things from you. First, I need snipers concealed in 105 Dartmouth where they can cover the stage. If any of the freaks, phonies, or faggots try to rush me or shout me down, I want them shot. They are going to hear this speech whether they want to or not.”“No problem,” Ron replied. “I hope you don't mind if I’m one of those snipers myself. I’d enjoy taking a few of those bastards out.”“Be my guest,” Bill answered. “But you still need to be able to run the second part of the operation. Once I've said my piece and left the stage, I want a massacre. I don’t want a single one of those idiotlogues to leave that room alive.”“Press will be there, so you can't just blow the building up,” the governor continued. “I want to kill the people who’ve earned death, but no one else. And I want the media, including television, to record and report the whole thing, in every detail.”I was taken aback by Kraft's sudden bloodlust. In the past, we had generally been careful to minimize casualties, especially among people who were at least nominally our countrymen. Knowing a General Staff officer has no right to keep his opinions to himself, I spoke up.“Excuse me, but there’s something here I don’t get,” I said. “When the Vermont Deep Greeners led an actual revolt, we made every effort to avoid killing them. Now we've got a bunch of crazy professors just holding a meeting, and we’re going to slaughter them like so many pigs. Why?”“A good question, captain,” Governor Kraft replied. “It has two answers.”“First, the Deep Greeners were deluded, but they were not deluders. They had swallowed the poison of ideology, but they did not know it as such. They thought what they were doing was good. And a proper concern for the environment is good. We Christians call it ‘stewardship.’ They had simply gone too far, in both their goals and their choice of means.”“Because they erred, they had to pay a price, and they did. The price was banishment. Had we set their lives as the price, we would have gone too far. It is useful to remind ourselves that we are all fools on occasion.”“It is otherwise with the slime now oozing its way toward Dartmouth College,” the governor continued. “These people are not the ensnared, but the setters of snares. They are the deluders, the tricksters, the deceivers who serve the One Deceiver.”“They know political correctness is bunk, and ‘deconstruction’ a mere parlor game with words. Why do you think they devote their efforts so assiduously to youth? Young people have not seen enough of life to tell what is real from what is not. So they drink the poison unaware.”“This mutilation of innocence in the service of death, the death of culture and the death of truth, deserves death. That is what it shall receive. Let it be to each according to his works.”“And that leads into the second answer to your question,” Kraft went on. “By giving each what he has earned – which is to say, by acting justly – we make the point that at least in the Northern Confederation, our culture, Western culture, is recovering its will. We are no longer afraid to act on what we know is right. You know Von Seekt's saying, captain: Das wesentlilche ist die Tat. The important thing is the deed.”“Oh, we've known, most of us anyway, that what was preached in our universities was garbage. Most of the students themselves have known it, ever since political correctness reared its ugly backside in our faces in the late 1960s.”“But we were cowed. We were frightened out of acting on what we knew, because we were told it wasn’t nice, it wasn’t ‘tolerant,’ it didn't ‘respect the rights of others.’ Those arguments were themselves provided by the politically correct, to create the opening wedge for an ideology that, once empowered, showed not the slightest shred of tolerance for any dissent, or dissenters.”“But that's all done with. We're becoming men again. Men have the will to act. This act, I promise you, will speak in a voice no one can misunderstand. This trumpet will not sound uncertain.”The governor turned to Danielov. “So then, can you give me my massacre?” he asked.“Easily,” Ron replied. “Our snipers are good enough to take out the right people and not hit the wrong people, even in a melee, which this will become as soon as the first shots are fired.”“But I think there’s a better way,” Sgt. Danielov continued. “You want to send a signal that we are recovering our will. Killing our enemies does that, but I think how we kill them can make the signal stronger.”“In killing, the hardest thing to do, the greatest challenge to the will, is to kill up close, with cold steel – to plunge your sword or bayonet or dagger into your enemy’s guts and twist. Will you allow us to do it that way here?”“I like it. Yes!” Governor Kraft replied. Let the trumpet sound loud and clear.”“What about the women?” I asked.“These women despise anyone who looks upon them as women,” Kraft responded. “They spit on the word ‘lady.’ If a man opens a door for them, they kick him in the shins. They demand to be treated equally. Let it be unto them according to their wish.”

***

Ron knew what was wanted, so I left it to him to make the arrangements. Precisely because I still wasn’t comfortable with the idea of a massacre, I felt a need to be in Hanover on October 12th. I needed to show myself that I could do what I was ordered even when I was uncomfortable with it. On the other hand, I didn't want Danielov to think I was looking over his shoulder, and I knew I’d be recognized. The targets might suspect something if they spotted the Chief of the General Staff wandering around town.In the end, I decided just to go home to Hartland, where I could get a better sense of the public reaction. I wasn’t at all sure our folks were ready for this. Up home, I was still just “that Rumford kid,” and people would let me know in a hurry what they were really thinking.On the morning of the 12th, I hitched up the wagon and headed into town. The general store had a generator, powered by a turbine in the stream that flowed by the tannery, because they still had a good-sized freezer. The ice cream in the freezer plus a television made the store the town social center. There’d be enough of a crowd that I’d get a good sense of public opinion.The PC congress at Dartmouth was well known to folks, since the papers had been talking about the affair at some length. When I got to the store around 9:30, a good crowd had gathered, and they had hard words for the goings-on. Time had not dimmed their memories of what was worst about the old USA, and this political correctness crap was at the top of the list. More than one neighbor said we ought to take the lot of ‘em out and shoot 'em. I took that as a good sign, but still wasn’t sure how people would react when we actually did it.The television was covering the conference, live, and the other side was laying the groundwork for us as well as if we’d written the script. The speakers were a succession of whiney women and faggy men, all bemoaning this or that “oppression” and blaming the world’s ills on white males. The comments from the Hartland peanut gallery got increasingly nastier; we all felt like we’d gone through a worm-hole into a tour of the Inferno conducted by Catullus. The main sentiment seemed to be, “Why are we still putting up with this stuff?”By around 10:30, I began to fear the local crowd would go home before the action started. Just at the point when Farmer Corman said, “If I want chicken shit, I got plenty to shovel at home” and headed for the door, the picture changed.From the back of 105 Dartmouth, the camera panned to Governor Kraft marching in the side door, to gasps, then boos, hisses, and shouts of anger from the gutter worshipers. Bill's 300-pound bulk tossed those in his path aside like bumboats around a battleship as he climbed toward the stage. Grabbing the mic from some stingy-haired bitch reading a poem about making love with her Labrador, the governor bellowed, “Sit down and shut up!”They did. Auctoritas has that effect, even on the illegitimate.“Fellow revolutionaries,” were Kraft’s next words. Recovering quickly from their initial shock, a few of the snakes hissed at them.“You doubt that I am a revolutionary?” he replied to the hisses. “Oh, how very wrong you are. Very wrong indeed, as you will shortly learn,“Now 'fellow,' I confess, is merely a bit of polite rhetoric. After all, I cannot address you as 'ladies and gentlemen.' You would be 'offended,' about which I care not a fig. But it would be untrue. You are neither ladies nor gentlemen. Considering how long you have coupled with demons, I'm not sure there is any humanity left in you at all.”No one was moving toward the door of the Hartland general store now. It was so quiet you could have heard a mouse fart. Like all effective leaders, Bill wore the masque of command well.“You see, I am not one of the beguiled,” Governor Kraft continued. “I know whence you come. I have studied your history. You are not descendants of the hippies, despite your bedraggled appearance. You are not the offspring of Quakers and Anabaptists, for when you say 'peace,' you mean 'war.' You did not grow from the Suffragettes, nor the civil rights movement, nor apostles of tolerance such as Roger Williams.”“For your father in Hell, no less yours than Lenin’s and Stalin’s and Mao’s, is none other than Karl Marx himself. Your poison, the poison of political correctness which you have striven these many years to inject into the Western bloodstream, is nothing less than Marxism translated from economic into cultural terms.”At this, one aged crone on the Dartmouth faculty, Professorette Mary Ucistah, realized the danger. The governor was about to unveil PC’s ultimate secret: where it came from and what it really was. She jumped to her feet and cried, “Come on, people, let’s shout this pig down. You know the chant: Two, Four, Six, Eight, We Know Who the People Hate. . .”Their eyes fixed on the professor, few television viewers noticed Bill look up slightly toward the rafters and raise his eyebrows. Ron read the signal correctly. 105 Dartmouth rang with one shot from a sniper rifle, and “Ms.” Ucistah's brains splattered across the backs of her colleagues. The room froze.“Thank you for the courtesy of your attention,” Bill said quietly.“As I was saying, the sewage which you have poured for decades into the once-sweet grove of academe is Marxism, nothing less. The derivation is obvious. Like classical, economic Marxism, cultural Marxism is a totalitarian ideology. From Marxist philosophy, it derives its vision of a “classless society” – a society not of equal opportunity, but equal condition. Since that vision contradicts human nature, society will not accord with it, unless forced. So forced it will be. Thank God, you never got control of the power of the state, not in full. But on campuses like this one, where you did gain power, you made your totalitarian nature clear. Cultural Marxism was forced on everyone, and no dissent was allowed. Freedom of speech, of the press, even of thought were all eliminated. Anyone who challenged you, student or faculty or administer, was driven out.”“Like economic Marxism, your cultural Marxism said that all history was determined by a single factor. Classical Marxism argued that factor was ownership of the means of production. You said that it was which groups – defined by sex, race, and sexual normality or abnormality – had power over which other groups.”“Classical Marxism defined the working class as virtuous and the bourgeoisie as evil – without regard to what members of either class did. You defined blacks, Hispanics, feminist women, and homosexuals as good, and white men as evil – all, again, with no attention to anyone’s behavior.”“Classical Marxists, where they obtained power, expropriated the bourgeoisie and gave their property to the state, as the ‘representative of the workers and peasants.’ Where you obtained power, you expropriated the rights of white men and gave special privileges to feminists, blacks, gays, and the like – Marcuse's revolutionary class.”“Classical Marxists justified their actions through a warped economics. You justified your actions through a deliberate warping of the language: deconstruction. Deconstruction ‘proved’ that any text, past or present, illustrated white male oppression of everyone else, just as economic Marxist analysis ‘proved’ the exploitation of the working class. Deconstruction was in fact merely political scrabble. Compared with it, classical Marxist economics was at least intellectually challenging. But then, most of you never had minds.”“But that is not all I know about you,” the Governor continued. “I have visited, through history, the fetid holes where your cultural Marxism grew. I have read Gramsci, the Italian Communist who pioneered the translation of Marxism from economics into culture as early as the 1920s. I know Adorno, and his Frankfurt School that in the 1930s crossed Marx with Freud. I have studied ‘Critical Theory,’ the product of that school that carried the bacillus into American universities. I know the whole, sordid story of your sorry ancestry among the exiled refuse of European Marxism, the story of how failed intellectuals worked for what is now almost a century to stab our culture in the back.”“But as I said at the outset, I too am a revolutionary. My revolution – our revolution, here in the Northern Confederation – is against you. Marxist revolutionaries of every yellow stripe, wherever they obtained power, brought ‘revolutionary justice.’ Anyone or anything that furthered their revolution was just, anyone or anything that opposed it was unjust. And the unjust were liquidated, by the millions.”“Now, by your own standard let you be judged. You have opposed our revolution, so you stand condemned.”“You are condemned, let me hasten to add, not by me alone, nor merely by those who live today in our Confederation. Your jury is every man and woman who for three thousand years has labored and fought and died for Western culture, the culture you sought to sacrifice to your own pathetic egos.”“And that jury’s sentence is death.”At those words, the doorways to 105 Dartmouth filled with our men. Each wore a white surplice with the red Crusader cross emblazoned on a shield over the heart. Each held a Roman gladius, the short, sharp stabbing sword of the Roman legionary, in his right hand. Through the doorway closest to the stage, a choir of monks filed in. Mounting the stage, they began chanting the Dies Irae. At that signal, the soldiers set to their work.The hall held 162 politically correct luminaries – 163 if you count “Ms.” Ucistah’s corpse. The work of slaughter went quickly. In less than five minutes of screams, shrieks and howls, it was all over. The floor ran deep with the bowels of cultural Marxism, and at least in the Northern Confederation, it was dead.As intended, the television showed the whole thing, the faces frozen first in terror, then in death. It was not a pretty picture, even to those of us who had seen war. As the cries turned to moans, and the moans were replaced with nothing but an occasional twitch of a limb unconnected to any living brain, the Dies Irae too softened until the choir was silent.Then, Governor Kraft, who had stood like some human Matterhorn overlooking the carnage, moving and unmoved, turned and walked slowly, as if in solemn procession, toward the door. As he did so, the choir broke again into song, now in a major key, strong and soaring: the Non Nobis. “Not to us, Oh Lord, but to Thee be given the glory."In the Hartland general store, I had kept one eye on the television and the other on my neighbors. Perhaps my own ambivalence made me overly sensitive, but Kraft’s massacre was a high-risk move, and public reaction would determine whether it worked or blew up in his face.State o'Mainers are born with poker faces and stuck tongues, so at first it was hard to judge. But as the massacre proceeded, I began to notice a few thin smiles, the sign a Yankee likes what he's seeing.After Kraft left the stage in 105 Dartmouth, Farmer Corman reached up and turned off the set. “Waal,” he said, “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I thinks that deserves a toast. Here’s a jug of my best cider, which I brought in to sell, and I see some glasses theah on the shelf.” The glasses and the jug quickly went round.“Heah’s to our Governor, the State of Maine, and our own Johnny Rumford, who’ve had the courage to do what we should have done a long time ago.” As the glasses were raised, a kid in back shouted “Hip, hip, hurray!” Three cheers rang out, and I bowed my thanks for good neighbors and a people who deserved their liberty.

***

Bill Kraft had gambled and won. No one in the Confederation regretted the loss of the treasonous intellectual scum who, perhaps more than anyone else, bore the responsibility for what had happened to the old USA. But I felt there was still some unfinished business, and a few days later, back in Augusta, I asked Bill if he would stop by my boarding house lodgings some evening so we could talk.He came on a cold November night. Knowing that the route to Bill’s heart and brain lay through his stomach, I had stopped by Father Dimitri’s to wheedle something special. Not only did the good priest provide the tin of caviar I had hoped for, he threw in a few bottles of vintage Port, Bill’s favorite drink. “Just lubricating the wheels of government,” he said smiling as I thanked him and his Tsar for their generosity. He knew one good bottle often accomplished more than many memos.Bill arrived around eight and caught sight of the sideboard as he was shucking off his field-gray greatcoat. “I’m pleased to see the General Staff has been maintaining a productive relationship with the Russians,” he said jovially.“Tanks and caviar are a happy combination,” I replied.“Especially when it's Sevruga,” Bill added, quickly pouring himself a glass of Port and diving into the tin.“I’m glad to see you’ve gotten your appetite back,” I joked.“Nothing picks up the spirits better than a good massacre,” he mumbled through a mouthful of black pearls. “An ‘Un-rest Cure,’ you know.”“Having a bit of Saki with our caviar?” I teased.“Reginald would approve, I’m sure,” he purred. Bill’s ecstasies, like his rages, were something of an art form.Seeing an opportunity to turn the conversation the way I wanted it to go, I asked, “I wonder how many of the young men growing up today in the Northern Confederation will ever have a chance to read Saki?”“Not many, I guess,” Bill replied. “That’s always a problem with revolutions. You lose a lot of good things too.”“Is it time to start getting some of them back?” I asked.“What do you have in mind?” he said.“A real university. You know what that is. It’s a place where people study Latin and Greek, read Aristotle and Cicero and Thomas Aquinas, learn Logic and Rhetoric, and come to appreciate the classics of our English language – Jane Austin and Chesterton and Tolkien and, perhaps, even our friend Saki.”“I would like to see that too,” Bill said. “But can you read Chesterton on an empty stomach?”“Who was it that said, 'If I have money, I buy books, and if there is any left over, I buy food and clothes?'”“Virgil, I think,” he answered. “But I'm not sure our fellow citizens are Virgils.”“Why don't we ask them?”“You mean a referendum?”“Exactly. Remember the first truth about modern war: you have to trust the troops.”“True enough,” the Governor said. ‘And you have to take risks. The risk here is that if it’s voted down, it may be hard later to bring the issue up again.”Bill chewed thoughtfully for a while as he pondered my idea. “OK, I’ll do it,” he decided. “I’ll make the proposal to the other governors, and I’ll campaign for it in public. If we lose, we lose. If we win, we’ll be on the road to rebuilding our culture. To me, that’s ultimately what it’s all about, everything we are doing.”

***

The other governors agreed the people should decide, and the vote was held on December 24th, 2029. The citizens of the Northern Confederation decided to give the future a Christmas present. The measure passed with 63% of the vote.There was a general feeling that since Dartmouth College saw the death of the old, ideologized, corrupted education, it should also be the place classical education was reborn. Besides, we wanted a college devoted to teaching undergraduates, not a “research university.”From every corner of the Confederation, real scholars emerged from hiding, hiding they’d been driven into by cultural Marxism, and offered to teach, even though the salary was small. Many had no PhD; their work was their credentials. Most proved dedicated and effective teachers.Autumn, 2030, once again saw students matriculating. The number was small – no stipends this time – but they were earnest. They came for knowledge and understanding, not a sheepskin. Small farms and factories cared little about degrees. At least in the N.C., civilization was returning.

The View From Olympus: The Fall of Baghdad

ISIS is now in the process of taking Baghdad. Our pathetic excuse for military intelligence does not recognize that fact, because it does not understand how light cavalry operates. ISIS cannot take Baghdad by assault, so U.S. analysts think Baghdad cannot fall. It can, and at present it is on the way to doing so.ISIS is encircling Baghdad with light, fast-moving forces just as American Indians, who were also irregular light cavalry, encircled a wagon train. The Indians shot in arrows. ISIS is shooting in mortar shells, rockets, and the poor man's Predators, suicide bombers. ISIS's object is to get the Shiite forces defending the city to come out into the open countryside, where light cavalry can and will cut them to ribbons. They do not have to come out very far; ISIS is now eight miles from the Baghdad airport.Punishing Baghdad with bombardment may or may not get the Shiites to make that mistake. So I expect ISIS to undertake other operations to compel them to do so. A thrust at Karbala or even Najaf is likely. ISIS is already south of Baghdad. To those who think Najaf is too far, I would point out that irregular light cavalry warfare advances and retreats in vast sweeps. It is not about taking and holding ground. It is about destroying the enemy's forces. The elements of the coalition that is ISIS that are holding ground and providing local government are Baathist. They know how to do those things. The Islamic puritans provide the light cavalry. Both are necessary to ISIS's success: they are the cheng and the chi.As ISIS encircles Baghdad, it will try to cut off the city's supplies. Light cavalry cannot undertake a mortar siege, but they can raid supply lines. Shiite forces detailed to guard those lines will find themselves in the positions of the Turkish infantry facing Lawrence of Arabia's light cavalry. You may recall that did not end well.What about America's overestimated air power? ISIS is countering that in a number of ways, some obvious, some quite creative. As I predicted, it has learned the standard countermeasures quickly: dispersion, camouflage, movement at night and in bad weather. I think it is also using the stuff we mistakenly think of as "combat power": tanks, artillery pieces, APCs, etc. (we leave out maneuver and velocity) as decoys. ISIS may have come up with the best decoy of all, in the form of two or three jet fighters (or rumors thereof, which work almost as well). Every U.S. flyboy will fixate on them, hoping to be able to claim a kill. The cat will go for the catnip rather than the mouse.I think ISIS may also be decoying us on the operational level with the siege of Kobani. That siege makes little sense except as a deception. As an operatioal Schwerpunkt, it is a dead end, although it works to paralyze the Turks on the mental level of war by pushing them into bed with the Kurds, whom they loath. That isn't enough of a benefit to justify what even a small siege costs ISIS. But if, as I suspect, ISIS's real operational and strategic Schwerpunkt is Baghdad, then the price ISIS is paying in Kobani is easily worth it. All last week air strikes intended for Iraq were often diverted to Kobani. Air defenses come in many varieties, not just missiles and guns.When will Baghdad fall? Probably within a few months or not at all. Light cavalry cannot sustain a status quo. Its power is in its dynamism. If a situation stabilizes, it must alter its objective or fail. However, once the fall of Baghdad begins, it will culminate very fast. The tipoff we have reached that point will be when the Shiite infantry leaves Baghdad to engage ISIS in the open. It will be slaughtered, because with forces so intermixed, only our A-10s will be able to operate effectively. You know, that airplane the Air Force hates and wants to scrap.If you are an American or other Christian in Baghdad when the infantry marches out to fight the cavalry on the plain, get on the next flight out. There won't  be any more.

Goddesses and Men at Harvard

When I was a student at Dartmouth, 1965-69, Harvard, like my alma mater, was all male. With virtually all other men's colleges, it has since been forced by political correctness, aka cultural Marxism, to admit women (note that women colleges have not been compelled to admit men). That changes the culture of an institution in innumerable ways, many not to its benefit. When I was at Dartmouth, virtually no one locked their dorm room doors. Now, you need a code just to get into a dorm. If there is a threat, men can take care of themselves. Women can't. So with women come endless demands for better security. Dartmouth's police force, which in my day was a joke (when two campus cops in a cruiser tried to stop a multi-dorm snowball fight, the students carried them, in their car, up the steps of Baker library and left it there), is now omnipresent. Appropriately, its initials are SS.The script of culturally Marxist feminism (an earlier feminism was pro-family) does not end with women's admission into previously all-male institutions. Then come demands for parity, including in activities not natural to women; making women comfortable, which is to say creating the atmosphere of a boudoir; and finally privileging women over men in everything. Cultural Marxism's goal is not equality. It is putting its victims groups, feminist women, blacks, gays, etc., above white men, non-feminist women, conservative blacks, Asians, and so on. The losers come out on top, while the producers are forced to the bottom. This is the Frankfurt School's interpretation of Nietzsche's "transvaluation of all values."At Harvard and elsewhere, the feminists' current plot is to accuse virtually all men of rape, which in New-speak means any action a woman doesn't like, even if she decides she didn't like it long after the fact. The cultural Marxists use such bogus definitions to justify phony statistics like "one-third of the women on college campuses have been raped." To protect women (who by their nature need infinite protection, which is to say the demand can never be satisfied), the college must establish star-chamber judicial processes whereby any male student accused of rape or any other sexual assault is presumed guilty. Just as with judicial proceedings in other totalitarian, ideological states, the accused is judged and sentenced before the trial begins.This recently happened at Harvard. Amazingly, some professors have dared stand up for equal justice for men (which is very politically incorrect, since by definition all men are oppressors). The October 16 New York Times reported that

Dozens of Harvard Law School faculty members are asking the university to withdraw its new sexual misconduct policy, saying that it violates basic principles of fairness..."Harvard has made the Title IX office (Federal anti-discrimination law) the charger, the prosecutor, the investigator, the adjudicator, and the appeals board...So at every stage, that office is deeply invested in the rightness of what they did at the prior state," Professor (Janet) Halley (one of the signers) said...The new policy, the professors said, is skewed against the accused, who have no assurance of adequate representation, or of a chance to confront witnesses or present a defense at an adversary hearing.

None of this is unique to Harvard. The same kinds of totalitarian "codes of sexual conduct," coupled with judicial processes straight out of Stalin's Moscow, are going  into place at colleges and universities across the country. The only surprise is that some faculty at Harvard (including at least one woman) objected.The same elevation of women into goddesses who can do or say no wrong and degradation of men into helots has come or will come to every institution the feminists target. The process is already well underway in the military, where any NCO or officer who gives a woman an order she does not like risks a charge of sexual harassment, with a commissar-like system of authorities who lie outside the chain of command to back her up. With women now being forced upon the combat arms, God help the male tanker who, when the tank lurches, bumps up hard against a broad.The culturally Marxist ideal is a society of empowered women and emasculated men. Any such society would be too soft, too weak, too sentimental to survive very long (as our treatment of Ebola illustrates). But the fact that the destruction of manhood means the destruction of Western society (or any society) is music to the cultural Marxists' ears. That has been their objective from the beginning. Thanks, ladies, for giving them a helping hand. Just remember that when civilization vanishes, you end up getting dragged by your hair to the nearest cave.

Retroculture

When you get down to the brass tacks of the Counterrevolution, virtually all the political and social thought revolves around one question: "How do I combat modernity?" Our own William S. Lind has attempted to answer this question in a few of his works, including The Next Conservatism and the short story that eventually became Victoria, with something called Retroculture.As Lind describes it, Retroculture is (or would be) a movement in which people pick a time in history prior to the 1960s (because that is when the major cultural upheaval began in the open) and build their lives around the norms of the day, complete with period clothes and technology. For instance, in Victoria, the character Bill Kraft drives a 1948 Buick Roadmaster and "was dressed in about the year 1945: well-cut brown double-breasted suit, wide tie, holding a brown fedora." The story's narrator later describes walking into Bill Kraft's home like walking through a time lock. Everything from the appliances on the kitchen counter to the family's manners were straight out of the late 1940s.To me, the Retroculture idea has always seemed more than a little LARP-y. Will driving old cars, wearing fedoras, and speaking with archaic diction stoke the fires of a powerful new sociopolitical movement? Probably not, but it will get you laughed out of serious conversation.Lind does not mean it to be quite as superficial as it is presented, however. It just takes more explaining to get to the core of the idea. The picture he paints of a happy, respectable family from the 1940s becomes a ray of light that starkly contrasts against the cold, degenerate reality of modernity. It's meant to be a vision of what could be if we consciously changed our ways. A common refrain from Lind goes like this: "If you know you've gone down the wrong road, what do you do? You don't keep driving. You turn back." Retroculture uses the past as a guide and a benchmark. It calls for reshaping our lives to resemble, on a broad scale, the lives our ancestors led.Retroculture addresses most of the important aspects of the modern world. Notably, technology and the ways in which it interferes with human lives and relationships is a major consideration for the movement. Microeconomics, a focus on local concerns over global abstractions, agrarianism, and even New Urbanism are a few more components of the remedy laid out to affect a return to normality. However, an examination of Retroculture's motivations displays where Lind's Boomer conservatism and our own Millennial Traditionalism diverge.Lind's vision of a Retroculture movement hits on all the visible flaws in modernity, but fails to acknowledge the rotting superstructure underneath. Two crucial aspects are missing. First is a clear definition of the people that are to make up this social movement. "Values" and a vague memory of how life used to be is simply not enough to be a binding social force. The second is the central role spiritual matters play in a healthy life. "Comfort", "normal", and "ordered" are all descriptors for the conservative's good life. Traditionalists answer that those are not good enough. Traditionalism builds upon the thede. Actions are performed to glorify God and to build the civilization. The individual strives to transcend himself, becoming a shining example of greatness--of godliness--to others and putting duty to the tribe before his own corporeal needs and desires.The best vision of a Traditionalist sociopolitical movement looks a lot like Archeofuturism. The layman, along with 80% of the rest of his civilizational cohorts,  lives in Medieval villages with agrarian and artisanal economies. Indeed, he lives a comfortable, normal, and ordered--yet still transcendant--life, which for him is much more than good enough. Certain roles in society require stepping out of the village life and into cities where properly evaluated technology plays important roles in advancing human lives.Retroculture's main benefit might be that it acts as an entry point into Traditionalism. Modern man simply needs to look to how his ancestors lived if he is ever to recover some semblance of a normal life, let alone a rewarding one. Retroculture has all the right prescriptions for the societal dieases it addresses. It only needs a shot of Traditionalism.

The View From Olympus: The Chinese Way

The Western way of doing things is by butting heads. From the phalanx to the joust to American football, men of the West have met challenges head on. Sometimes it works. Sometimes, as on the Somme in 1916, it doesn't work. But it is built into our culture and is unlikely to change.The Chinese way is different. Chinese prefer to take on problems indirectly, with maneuver and strategem. Watch a Shar Pei, a Chinese breed of dog, in a fight. It doesn't go for the other dog's throat. It goes for its hamstring. Indirection is as fundamental to Chinese culture as head-butting is to Western culture.The BBC recently reported a typically indirect Chinese strategic move that is brilliant. China has been locked in conflict with Vietnam, the Philippines, Malaysia, and, indirectly, the United States, over ownership of small islands in the South China Sea. The islands are not important of themselves. What is important is the claim they give to control over adjacent waters. To China, the conflict over the islands has been a strategic liability. It has now solved that problem. How? By building its own islands.In a bulletin dated September 10, 2014, the BBC

report by Rupert Wingfield-Hayes said China was building new islands on five different reefs. He and his team documented Chinese work to dredge tonnes of rock and sand from the sea floor to pump into Johnson South reef in the Spratly islands, which are also claimed by Manila...The works appear to have been going on for months.

In typical Chinese fashion, Beijing has outmaneuvered its opponents. Who can possibly question Chinese ownership of islands China built? China can now allow the conflicts over existing islands to simmer down. Its claim over the waters it wants derives from indisputably Chinese islands.As the Chinese government turns ever more toward traditional Chinese culture, we should expect more indirect approaches by China in matters where we have disputes. The move away from Marx and Mao to Sun Tzu and Confucius has been slowly gathering steam since Mao died. According to a story in the October 12 New York Times, "Leader Taps Into Chinese Classics in Seeking to Cement Power," Xi Jinping has gone to forced draft. The Times writes,

In November (2013), Mr. Xi visited Qufu, Shandong Province, where Confucius was born, to "send a signal that we must vigorously promote China's traditional culture"...In May (2014), the overseas edition of the state-run newspaper People's Daily published a selection of 76 of Mr. Xi's quotes from Chinese ancients, most often Confucius or Mencius, but  also relatively obscure works that suggest a deeper knowledge of the classics..."As China grows stronger, this force for restoring tradition will also grow stronger," said Yan Xuetong, director of the Institute of International Studies at Tsinghua University in Beijing and author of "Ancient Chinese Thought, Modern Chinese Power."

"Ancient Chinese Thought, Modern Chinese Power" well sums up where China is headed. Its corollary might be "Modern Western Thought, Modern Western Weakness." As the West has adopted the ideology of cultural Marxism that has as its primary objective the destruction of traditional Western culture, it has devoured itself. Now, in most of the West, the will to live is almost gone (just look at the birth rates). China too became weak during Mao's "Cultural Revolution," which sought to destroy traditional Chinese culture. Now, the return of that culture has brought China new strength. Perhaps there is a lesson there for the West.Whether or not the West rallies and turns back from the road to Avernus, it will face a China that thinks and acts differently from the itself. In a contest between head-butters and maneuverists, the maneuverists usually win, absent a gross disparity of strength. If the West insists on destroying everything that has defined it for 3000 years, that might be good news. A world dominated by traditional Chinese culture would likely be a far better place than a world dominated by Islam, corporate greed, or unending disorder.

Victoria: Chapter 30

The election for governor was held on May 15, and Bill Kraft was elected with 83% of the vote. He had opponents. In Maine, the law made it easy for candidates to get on the ballot. We didn't want any rigged two-party system like in the old United States, because the two parties soon became one party with a common interest in keeping everyone else out. But most folks in Maine knew what Kraft had done for us, and they wanted to give him a chance to do more.Governor Kraft was inaugurated on May 20, and since the other N.C. governors all decided to come, they got together for a meeting. There, they agreed that Kraft would remain the supreme decision-maker in military matters, just as the two previous Maine governors had been. States rights notwithstanding, everyone knew what war required.I was called before the governors to tell them where the implementation of the peace agreement with the Muslims stood. The World Islamic Council had agreed to return the black Christians kidnapped from Boston and sold into slavery in return for the Islamic POWs we held. But so far, nothing had happened.I'd been communicating directly with the Egyptian military authorities in Cairo, who were in charge of the exchange for the Islamic side. At first, I'd been troubled by an incessant gurgling sound on the phone; I figured it was some kind of recording or EW device. Then one of our intel guys with some experience in the Middle East explained that the Egyptian general was just smoking hashish in his water pipe as we talked. I understood why not much was happening.However, the Egyptians did tell me they had collected some 3000 of our blacks in camps outside Cairo, ready for exchange. To get things moving, I proposed we tell them that as of June 1, unless the exchange was underway, we would forbid all our Islamic prisoners to practice their religion. No prayers five times a day. No Korans. And we'd send 'em all to work on pig farms.Most of the governors liked that idea. But Bill Kraft was uneasy. “Gentlemen, I have to tell you this whole business troubles me. It's gut instinct, and I can't put my finger on it. But I feel in my bones that when we bring these black folks back to Boston, we're bringing in trouble.”“They won't be in Boston very long,” New York's governor responded. “Thanks to CORN, blacks are already moving out of the cities, back to the land, in substantial numbers. We're not seeing the usual crime or unrest among those who remain. The good blacks have taken their community back from the scum. It seems to me these blacks coming back are good Christian folk who'll help that process along.”“What would be the effect if we repudiated our agreement with the black community to get their people back?” the governor of Rhode Island asked me.“Militarily, it wouldn't be a problem,” I replied. “The blacks know we won't tolerate disorder and we have the muscle to put it down.”"But I think CORN has shown us the way to make the Confederation's blacks into contributing members of our society. If we broke faith with them, we would undermine their new direction,” I added.“Of course, as a soldier, my word is my bond. If the Confederation broke the deal I made – a deal that saved Boston from widespread destruction – my honor would be at stake. I would have no choice but to resign immediately.”The governor of Massachusetts broke in. “If I may speak bluntly to Governor Kraft, does he expect us to agree to break our agreement with the blacks just because he has a gut feeling?”“I cannot expect you to do that, and I don't,” Kraft replied. “But as those of you who have been in war or studied war know, sometimes your instincts are your best guide. Are you willing to agree to repatriate the blacks slowly, into a few limited areas, until we see how it goes?”In the old days, politicians would have rolled anyone, military or civilian, who offered an argument like Kraft's. The game was just to “win” the immediate squabble so someone could look good by making someone else look bad. But the cold shower of reality we had all taken in the break-up of the U.S.A. had changed things.“I know Governor Kraft's achievements as a soldier,” the governor of New Hampshire said. “If he says his soldier's gut instinct troubles him about this, I'm troubled too. In the world we now live in, it pays to be careful. I don't see any harm in some sort of quarantine of the people we're getting back. Being too soft is what brought our old country down. I'd rather risk being too hard.”The word “quarantine” seemed to do the trick. We didn't know what these people might be bringing back with them. It would have been risky for the Muslims to impregnate our blacks with a genetically engineered disease because of the risk it would spread to their own people, but it wasn't impossible.The governors recommended that the matter be handled as a national security issue, which put Kraft in charge and left me to work out the details. Before the end of the day, the General Staff had selected a couple areas in Roxbury where returnees would be held for three months, until we could be sure they were not infected. The migration to the countryside had left places enough there for them. The remaining local residents could go or stay, but if they stayed they would be stuck there for the same three months. The governors seemed comfortable with that.In the absence of any word from Cairo, on June 1 we implemented our threat. We made sure Al Jazeera got pictures of their POWS shoveling pig manure. We also made clear it would continue until the prisoner exchange began. The next day, Cairo called, and on June 7 the first planeload of our blacks landed at Logan. It took off the same day filled with Egyptian POWs returning home.Boston received her heroes gratefully, but Boston's blacks also accepted the quarantine. They had learned some lessons, including patience. They knew that when the Confederation acted, it was for the common good. In the 21st century, it was wise to be prudent.For about six weeks, everything went smoothly. The number of black returnees grew steadily. Some local folks had deliberately stayed in the areas where they were quarantined, to help them reintegrate. It turned out that in almost every case, the experience of being sold into slavery had strengthened their Christianity, not weakened it. These people would be assets to our society.Then, on July 23, I got a phone call from the head of the public health office in Boston. “Captain Rumford, I don't like making this call,” the fellow said. “I hope what I'm about to tell you is wrong. In the last week, we've had fourteen deaths among the blacks who returned from Islamic countries. They all showed the same symptoms. Now, we've got three local people from the quarantined areas showing those symptoms.”“What are they?” I asked.“First, inflamed swelling of the lymph glands, usually surrounded by a ring. Then, fever, chills, diarrhea, and internal bleeding leading quickly to death.”History told me immediately what we were facing. Black Death.“It's the plague, isn't it?” I asked.“Yes, it's plague. But there's a difference. Normal bubonic plague responds to antibiotics. This one doesn't. The doctors have tried every antibiotic known, with no positive results.”I gave orders to tighten the quarantine by evacuating all areas bordering those where the returnees had settled. No one was to be allowed in or out on pain of death. Snipers in full MOP gear were positioned to enforce that order. The prisoner exchange with the Islamics was also suspended immediately.We had a network, established in the 1990s by the Marine Corps, that tied us into scientists who were specialists in biological warfare and genetic engineering. I immediately pulled a team together to go to Boston and figure out what we were facing. If it was genetically engineered, we needed to find out how before we could develop a vaccine.Meanwhile, the black returnees continued to die. We had communications with them, of course, so the picture was clear. Just as in the Middle Ages, the houses filled up with dead, the living too weak to drag out the bodies. Some dropped in the street, where the dogs and rats feasted on them.We sent every medicine we had, but none made any difference. Some white doctors and nurses went in as volunteers. Since this plague took at least six weeks before symptoms appeared, they could relieve some suffering before they too went down. By then, we hoped to have a cure.The scientists worked frantically, but without success. The problem was, there were many ways bubonic plague or any other disease could be genetically engineered to get around the usual vaccines and medicines. Finding which genes had been altered and how took time – too much time for those who had been infected. By the end of September, they were all dead, including the local residents who had remained and the volunteers who had gone in to succor them. Roxbury was a cemetery.Yet even as they died, those black Christians accomplished something. They did not rage or rail or issue demands. They prayed together, and died together, quietly helping bear one another's burdens to the end with a Christian patience that inspired us all. In so doing, they worked powerfully to change whites' late 20th century image of blacks from whiners who always demanded something for nothing or punks with guns to an older, truer picture: a good, faithful people who suffered without complaint and humbly served God and their neighbor. In a society that was beginning once again to accept such qualities as virtues, that was no small legacy. It did much to ensure that blacks had a solid future in the Northern Confederation.

***

Nor did their deaths go unavenged. In the Muslim countries where Boston's blacks had been sold as slaves, the buy-back program had slowly gathered them in camps, in preparation for the POW exchange. There, they had been injected with the engineered plague. The Islamics thought this safe enough, since the disease took about six weeks to manifest symptoms and was not contagious until it did. That was plenty of time for them to be shipped off to the infidel.Only now it wasn't because we had halted the exchange. So the plague broke out in the camps. There, too, the blacks died, but in the process they infected their guards. Islamic countries not being noted for their efficiency, their quarantines had holes in them, and the bacteria crawled through. Soon, plague was raging through the slums of Cairo, Istanbul, Tehran, and Islamabad. By the Fall of 2029, thousands were dead or dying and hundreds of thousands were infected.We still held the Islamic POWs, and I thought turnabout was fair play. I asked our scientists to come up with a different genetically engineered variant of plague, one that would mimic the symptoms of the Islamic variant but not respond to the same vaccines or treatments. Genetic engineering had become all too easy in the 21st century. Some teenagers working in a basement in Stockholm cooked up one bug that gave a week-long case of diarrhea to anyone who ate either rutabaga or herring, thus wiping out Swedish cuisine. We had the right stuff in a couple weeks' time, and as soon as we had inculcated it in the POWs by mixing it with their hummus, we sent them home. Our blacks were dead or dying, so the POWs were no longer of any value to us as commodities.The Islamics took us for fools, welcomed their heroes with open arms, and ended up with a mix of plagues it took them three years to sort out, at the price of millions of dead. It was a small lesson in not playing games that advanced, disciplined societies could play better.Governor Kraft's gut instinct had saved us from a similar catastrophe, but it had been a close call. The lesson, once again, was that closed borders were essential to survival. It wasn't just movements of people that had to be controlled. It was easy enough to send a bacillus by shipping container or mixed in a bulk commodity. Foreign trade fell drastically throughout the world as every import had to be quarantined, examined, and tested. Only what was local was safe, and even at home we developed a “neighborhood watch” to report any suspicious basement laboratories. This didn't require a police state. People were eager volunteers, because they knew the mortal danger genetic engineering posed to everyone.It was funny, at least for those with a sense of irony, the way Americans in the early 21st century had howled about the stupid mistakes of earlier generations in pursuing “better living through chemistry” and similar scientific great leaps forward. As they scorned their forefathers, they made the same blunder on a vaster scale. Genetic engineering rolled Frankenstein's monster, “The Fly,” and the Black Death all into one, yet they hailed it. Computers reduced their operators to mindless androids while hooking them on the drug of virtual reality, yet they were the miracle machine no one could do without.It wasn't a case of those not knowing the past repeating it. They knew, yet they repeated it anyway. That's what brings civilizations to their end.We in the Northern Confederation were lucky, once again. We figured out early what everyone who survived learned eventually. Just because a technology exists doesn't mean you have to use it. Those who depart from the ways of their ancestors do so at their own peril.

Traditionalism, the Anti-Ideology

In a conversation I had with the editor of traditionalRIGHT, we discussed the nature of ideology, traditional/conservative, and identity politics. The editor mentioned a discussion he had had with Bill Lind. He asked Bill how being a conservative and a Christian is not ideology. To put some context on this question, it should be noted that Bill Lind stresses the point continually that conservatism is not an ideology. Yet the editor pointed out that Christianity is a set of beliefs rather than a commitment to a tribe or location, much like ideology. Unsatisfied with Bill’s answer, the editor asked me. So I took a swing at it. This article will be a breakdown of my definition of traditionalism and how it is non-ideological.For starters lets define terms. I will define ideology as: a set of beliefs that are universal in scope (i.e. human rights) and materialist in essence (the denial of a transcendent reality). Identitarianism is: particular in scope (my land, my tribe) and generally material in essence. Traditionalism can either be particular (Ancient Hebrews, Medieval Norse, or Modern Meiji Japan) or universal (Hinduism, Christianity, Islam, and Platonism, Roman and Mongol Paganism), but both strands of traditionalism are committed to a transcendent reality.Ideology is an essentially rootless organism; the premier ideology is Marxism. Marxism is universal and materialistic. It denies particularity whether it is gender differences, racial differences, or even IQ differences. It is materialistic in that it denies God, Angels, or Platonic forms. Without any objective transcendent system to appeal to, ideology must of necessity resort to force over persuasion; as Isaac Asimov said: “Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent.” Ideology is toxic, anti-rational, anti-human, and anti-life. In that it is universal it has cut itself off from particular reality, and in that it is materialistic it has cut itself off from ultimate reality. With no roots it inevitably withers and dies.Identitarianism is an essentially particularist world view, and the example I will be using is the New Right (its North American or European branches agree on the essential dogmas); though Black and Native American groups could work as well. Identitarianism shares with ideology a commitment to materialism. They will often talk of the Old Norse gods as examples of Jungian archetypes. This practice has been jeered at by Matthew Parrot as WOTAN (Will Of The Aryan Nation). They may use religious symbolism, but the symbolism is empty formula. The dominant metaphysic of identitarians is materialism. This can be seen with their thinly and not-so-thinly veiled appeals to Nietzsche and the Overman. The edge they have over ideology is that they are not rootless--they have roots in race and land--but the problem is that their roots are constantly in flux. Nothing material is permanent whether it be the land we live on or the people we know. The inherent weakness of idenitarianism is its passibility. It fails to value anything constant.Now we reach the nub of this whole essay: what is traditionalism? How does one try to define a group that includes Shamanists, Jews, Christians, Shinto, and Hellenists? It’s difficult, but what I hope to do is to distill the essential nature of traditionalism that all these groups participate in. Traditional societies can be either particular or universal as we see with Japanese Shintoism (particular) or Buddhism (universal); therefore neither of these two delimiters can be essential to traditionalism. What is essential to traditionalism is transcendence. All traditional societies agree that there is a world beyond our physical world, a world beyond sight. Only men with great spiritual erudition and insight can peer into that world; they are the prophets, poets, and philosophers of the past. All societies valued the shaman, sage, prophet, and philosopher as the one who could see what really mattered. Plato really comes very close in formulating a general traditional world view. There is the perfect world of forms (immaterial, immortal, and unchanging essences) and physical reality (material, mortal, and passable). Plato’s philosophy is the resolution to Heraclitus' flux and Parmenides stasis. For the former everything was motion and for the latter everything was fixed. Plato said they both were right, but in different senses. In describing the material world Heraclitus was correct and in describing the spiritual world, it was Parmenides. This world beyond sight that is represented in philosophy, mathematics, geometry, and theology is the ultimate source of reality. Whether this source is called YHWH, Brahma, the Forms, or what have you, all traditional societies see this source as the ground of being.Are universal or particular traditionalisms superior? I will answer that the universal forms of traditionalism are. For if all traditional societies are rooted in an unchanging expression of reality and the world beyond sight, why should that universal standard be limited to locations or persons in time and space? Furthermore, persons and places are themselves passable and therefore unsuited to be firm foundations for belief. Imagine if rulers were subject to change in length and unit of measurement with the passage of time. Would they be of any use? Of course not, ergo persons and places are the metaphysical equivalent of that useless ruler. Christianity is the metaphysical equivalent of a true ruler that does not change in length or unit of measurement from day to day. The universal does not need the particular to justify itself, thus an appeal to land or race is superfluous at best and incoherent at worst. Christianity is a more consistent traditionalism in that it acknowledges the primacy of God as the universal source of all things, and as a natural concomitant, a relatively uninterested view of race and land. What makes one Christian is not one’s parents or place of birth, but one’s beliefs.Christianity, which is a subset of traditional society, returning to the editor’s query of Bill, is universal and so is ideology; what makes them different? Is not Christianity just another rootless ideology? No. Ideologies like Marxism are not even capable of being rooted in anything, Christianity, unlike Identitarianism, is rooted in ultimate reality itself or as the case may be, God Himself. Unlike Marxism, Christianity is grounded in something. Unlike identitarianism, Christianity is rooted in something that does not change. Believing that Christanity and ideology are similar merely because they are universal is like believing that worms, caecilians, and snakes are all related because they are shaped like ropes.Christian traditionalism is superior to both Marxism and identitarianism in that unlike the former it has a rootedness, and unlike the latter it is rooted in the eternal, unchanging God.

The View From Olympus: Worse Than Lissa

In 1866, off the island of Lissa in the Adriatic, the Italian Navy suffered a humiliating defeat by the Austrian Navy. The Italian fleet was superior, especially in number of ironclads. But the Austrians attacked not in a parallel line, but in a three-vic formation, relying on the ram (at one point an Austrian wooden three-decker rammed an Italian ironclad!). The Italians fled in disorder after heavy losses.Now, the Italian Navy is suffering a defeat worse than Lissa, worse because it is at the strategic, not just the tactical level. At the orders of the Italian government, the Navy is being forced to escort or carry thousands and thousands of African refugees, who are pouring across the Mediterranean at a rate of at least 500,000 a year to Italy. Navies are supposed to prevent invasions, not facilitate them. It is as if Don Juan de Austria, instead of defeating the Ottoman fleet at Lepanto, had escorted it to Italy so it could land a Turkish army.On a number of levels, this is madness. Most of these immigrants will be nothing but burdens all their lives on Italy or any other European country where they are allowed to settle. They are coming from utterly dysfunctional cultures, which they will bring with them. If they are Muslims, they will not only fail to acculturate, they will refuse to do so.All this has been true for some time. But there is something new: Ebola. It appears that in a few months, African cases of Ebola may number in the millions. Some Ebola carriers will join the migration north, which will swell further as people attempt to flee the disease. Italy has experienced the plague before. Does it really want to be Ebola's land bridge into Europe?The root of the problem is political correctness both in Rome and in Brussels. It dictates, in its usual womanish way, that we must welcome refugees regardless of what baggage they bring with them because they are "hurting." Our  own future, even our own survival, must not be allowed to enter into the equation. The abandoned puppy must be welcomed into our home even it it has rabies.A sane policy is not difficult to identify. The Italian Navy should be given a new mission: return all intercepted refugees (and it should try to intercept all of them) to North Africa. If the countries there say they will not accept them, the Italian Navy has a good amphibious capability. It simply picks an area of deserted beach, makes a landing, put the Africans ashore, and leaves. Italy is much stronger militarily than any North African state. The refugees are coming from North Africa. What is the objection, beyond a suicidal, mawkish "humanitarianism?" This is, after all, why countries have navies: to stop invaders and make them go home.Regrettably, until the Italian people demand it by voting for anti-immigration parties, the lunacy will continue, because all the other parties are terrified of being denounced as politically incorrect. We see this same paralysis in all the governements of Europe except Switzerland (the Swiss remain a people rooted in reality). That is why, in each election, the anti-immigration parties grow stronger: some Europeans want the European peoples to continue to exist in their own homelands.Meanwhile, so long as the usual cowards and imbeciles govern in Rome, the Italian Navy will continue to suffer a massive defeat that is not its fault (contrary to the popular wisdom, the Italian Navy performed well overall in World War II, despite a crippling shortage of fuel oil that meant its big ships could seldom go to sea). The politicians have turned once-noble Italy into Italia cagoia.

Victoria: Chapter 29

Down at Mel's, the talk was about our new governor. The problem was, we didn't have one. We'd never had an election to choose a new lieutenant governor after Governor Adams was assassinated and Bowen moved up. While most matters were handled directly by the people, through referenda, if the war heated up again we'd need someone who could make decisions, fast. The Roman republic had elected dictators in times of crisis. We didn't need to go that far, but we did need a governor, and this time it had to be a good one.Everybody knew who that was: Bill Kraft. He believed what we believed, he could make decisions and he understood war. But Bill was not about to cooperate."Nolo episcopari," he growled when the speaker of the state legislature asked him if he'd take the job – “I don't want to be a bishop,” the ancient answer a priest is expected to give when he is selected for that honor. The difference was, Bill meant it.I added my voice to the many telling him he had no choice, Maine and the Confederation could not do without him, we could not afford another mistake, and so on. He would have none of it. When he got up from his half-eaten meal and marched out of Mel's, I knew he was serious. I'd never seen Bill leave a table while it still had something edible on it.At the Speaker's request, I joined him and a few other political movers and shakers at his office after lunch. Sam Gibbons, the speaker, was clearly worried. “I think we all expected Bill Kraft to replace Bowen, as soon as we knew what Bowen had been up to. I know the folks back home in my district want him. Bowen's treason upset them in a serious way. They feel Maine could go the way of the old USA if this sort of thing continues. They know Kraft and what he has done for us, and they trust him. If I have to tell them he won't do it, they'll really start to worry where we're headed. They just won't understand, and frankly, neither do I.”“Have you ever visited Bill Kraft at home?” I asked.“Nope,” Sam answered. “Bill doesn't really like politics, or politicians, even ones who agree with him,” Sam explained. “He does like Marines. Have you been there?”“I have,” I answered. “And I think I understand why Bill is afraid of the governorship. He lives a quiet, ordered life, a retro-life if you will. That's his anchor, and it enables him to think creatively and boldly without becoming unstable. My guess is he fears the ‘celebrity’ life of a political leader would overturn that. He's probably right. It's not for nothing that “Innsbruck, ich muss dich lassen” is a sad song.”“I can understand that,” Gibbons said. “We all feel it. I'm a lot happier back on my farm than here in Augusta. But in Bill's case we have to get him by it. No one else can make the people of Maine confident in their leaders right now, after Bowen. What if we just put his name on the ballot, hold an election and let him win, which he would?”“I seem to remember another popular military leader named Sherman who faced the same kind of political draft,” I said. "His answer was, ‘If nominated I will not run, and if elected I will not serve.’ I suspect we'd hear something similar from Bill Kraft.”“Isn't there some way we can order him to do it?” Gibbons asked.“He only takes orders from the Kaiser,” joked one of the other politicos.Bingo! As the light went on in my brain housing group, I could feel a big grin spreading over my face. Herr Oberst Kraft had played one on me by letting me go after the Deep Greeners without a full sheet of music. Now, it was payback time.The others saw my idiot grin. “You got an idea?” Gibbons asked.“I do,” I replied. “I think I can arrange for Bill to get an order from the Kaiser, or more precisely from the King of Prussia – they're the same person.”“Who is it?” asked another politico.“The head of the House of Hohenzollern.”“I didn't think Germany had a Kaiser any more,” Sam said.“Technically, it doesn't,” I answered. “But technically, Prussia doesn't exist any more either. I don't doubt Bill's Prussia is real, but its place is in his heart, not on the map. That Prussia has a king, and its king is the head of the House of Hohenzollern. If he orders Bill to accept the governorship of the state of Maine, he'll do it. As a Prussian officer, he'll have to.”“How do we get to this king?” Sam asked.“Through his ‘dear friend and cousin’ – that's how the kings of Europe addressed each other, even when sending a declaration of war – the Tsar of Russia,” I said.

***

Following our little meeting, I walked a few blocks to the small wooden house that was the Imperial Russian Embassy and the residence of the Russian ambassador, Father Dimitri. In the front room that was his office, the samovar was bubbling beneath the double-headed eagle, and from the kitchen the ambassador brought out blini and a tin of caviar. “Thanks,” I said. “You know all we eat up here any more is fish. You wouldn't have a nice beefsteak back there, would you?”“Not on Friday,” Father Dimitri answered, laughing. “Besides, fish is good for you. Caviar especially. Health food. And it goes so well with vodka,” a large bottle of which adorned the silver tray bearing the imperial coat of arms. I helped myself to a generous glass.I explained our problem to the good priest, and why we needed assistance from his sovereign. He knew first-hand what Bill Kraft had done for Maine and the Northern Confederation, and why we needed him to be governor. He also knew this would be the best joke ever played on the formidable Herr Oberst, and his eyes danced with laughter.“I know His Imperial Majesty well enough that I can say he will assist in this,” Father Dimitri concluded. “Give me ten days, then check back with me to see where things stand. I would guess that Prince Michael, the rightful King of Prussia and German Kaiser, would be willing to oblige my Tsar in such a matter, but I cannot be certain.”We left it at that, and I returned to my office and other business, principally the business of trying to control our borders. As bad off as we were in the N.C., others had it worse, which meant they wanted to move in with us. We couldn't allow that. By the early 21st century, it was evident around the world that any place that got things working was immediately overwhelmed by a flood of people fleeing places that didn't work. Unless it could dam the flood, it drowned. It was dragged down to the same level as the places where the refugees were coming from. We didn't intend to let that happen to us.About mid-afternoon on April 23rd, I was going over reports from New York militiamen of shootings of would-be illegal immigrants when the door of my office was flung open with a crash that nearly tore it from its hinges. Filling the doorway was Herr Oberst Kraft, in full dress Prussian uniform including Pickelhaube and flushed, beet-red face. (The old saying in Berlin was that there were two kinds of Prussian officers, the wasp-waisted and the bull-necked; Bill tended toward the latter.) “Do you know the meaning of this?” he bellowed, waving some documents in my face.I quickly guessed I did, but my gut told me to be careful. It was always hard to tell whether Bill was genuinely angry about something or just keeping up his reputation. If he really was as mad as he looked, I might be in for a hiding. Bill Kraft was no athlete, and big as he was, as a Marine I knew I could take him if it came to that. But I also knew I could never do that to him. I owed him too much. If he really was going to pound me, I'd just have to sit there and get beat up.“Moi?” I replied. “Mais mon colonel . . .”“Cut the froggy-talk, you little worm,” he yelled. “How dare you cook up some forgery in the name of the King of Prussia! That's lese majesté, you maggot, and the penalty for it is death! I ought to run you through with my saber just as you sit and let your pathetic soul dribble out all over your damned reports.”“May I see the papers you're holding?” I asked, beginning to understand the cause of his wrath. He thought we were making light of his All-Highest.“Here,” he said, stuffing them into my face. “But you can drop the charade. I'm sure you wrote them. Who did you get to forge His Majesty's signature and mail them from Germany?”What he handed me was a letter from Prince Michael von Hohenzollern to Herr Oberst Kraft, on royal stationery, ordering him to accept the governorship of Maine if he were elected to it.“I am certain this letter is genuine,” I said to the enraged Kraft. “Further, I believe I have a witness. Will you accept the word of the Russian ambassador?”That brought Bill up short. His face began to show a different expression – less anger, and dawning wonder. “Is it possible His Majesty really has sent me orders?” he asked. “I've served him since I was a boy, but I never thought he knew I existed. How could this be?”“Will you come with me to Father Dimitri's?” I suggested.“Yes, I guess,” Bill replied, cooling down but still wary. “You know, when I first received the envelope with the Black Eagle of Prussia on it, my heart almost stopped, not from fear but from hope. Then I realized it had to be some trick. If it is . . .” His face started to redden again.“It isn't,” I said, skirting dangerously close to the edge of the truth. “Let Father Dimitri explain.”It took us about fifteen minutes to walk to the Russian embassy. Bill's face was blank, his mind far away. The private world in which he had always lived was taking on a new reality, and it was both wonderful and terrible to him.My own thoughts were penitent. In what I had conceived as a good joke, I had trespassed on the core of my friend and mentor's being. It does not do to laugh and make merry before the Ark of the Covenant.Father Dimitri received us with the inevitably generous Russian hospitality and a good priest's sense that we were on perilous ground. Bill took a glass of tea but didn't even look at the tempting zakushki placed before us. He handed the letter from Prince Michael to Father Dimitri. “Captain Rumford tells me you know something about this,” he said in a slow, flat voice that told me he was pulling hard on his own reins. “Is it genuine?"Father Dimitri, who also spoke German, read it carefully. “Yes, it is genuine,” he replied. “I can confirm that in writing with St. Petersburg if you want me to, but there is no question about it. These are orders for you from your King.”“How do you know?” Kraft asked the priest. My stomach was wadded up tight as a fist around a grenade with the pin pulled. If Bill took Father Dimitri's answer the wrong way, my relationship with him might be shattered irreparably. If that happened, I knew I'd have no choice but to resign as Chief of the General Staff. I could not function without his guidance and support. I would also have lost a good friend.“You may recall that on the day Governor Bowen was hanged, you were approached about the governorship, which you declined,” said Father Dimitri. “Your refusal concerned many of Maine's leaders deeply. They felt that you alone could restore the people's confidence in their leadership after Governor Bowen's treason.”“Later that day, one of them came to see me and asked my assistance. He did something that you may dislike, but that you must also admit is not improper in emergencies. He asked my help in contacting your superior – your King.”Every language has one phrase that captures the essence of its speakers' culture. For German, it is “Wer ist ihrer Vorstehener?” – Who is your superior?“I communicated the situation here, and your central role in the creation of an independent Maine and the Northern Confederation, to my superior, His Imperial Majesty Tsar Alexander IV,” father Dimitri continued. “He expressly directed me, when he assigned me here as his ambassador, to take such actions as I believed necessary to uphold the independence of the Northern Confederation. In my dispatch, I told him I believed it necessary for you to be Maine's next governor, if the Confederation were to endure.”“You may remember, Herr Oberst, that our Tsar was once a soldier himself, a general in the Russian Army. He understands Auftragstaktik, that wonderful Prussian contribution to the art of war. He therefore trusts his subordinates – or replaces them. Trusting me, he laid my case before his fellow sovereign – by rights – the King of Prussia.”“Prince Michael read my description of the situation here in Maine. He is a Christian prince. Desiring to support the effort to rebuild Christian civilization in North America, he sent you his order to accept the governorship if the people offer it to you. It was his decision, no one else's. The order is genuine, it is from him to you – he knows who you are and what you have accomplished – and it expresses his wish.”Bill Kraft sat unmoving, unblinking, almost as if in a trance, his eyes fixed a million miles away, or more than a century back. East Prussia, Allenstein perhaps, a clear day in early fall with a hint of the steppes in the east wind, his regiment drawn up on parade, himself on horseback in front. The Kaiser, Wilhelm II, stops his horse, smiles, commends the appearance of his men. Explains his intent for the coming maneuvers, gut, alles klar. Oh, and you'll soon be coming back to Berlin – plans division, West, in the Grossgeneralstab.Slowly, Bill came back to us. “Father Dimitri,” he began in a soft, almost inaudible voice, “I thank you for what you have done. It goes without saying that I will accept whatever orders my King gives me. But to me, what has happened here touches on much more than any order. I must know this letter is genuine. Forgive me, but I must ask if you are prepared to swear that what you have told me is true?”The good priest's Bible lay open on his desk, to the Psalm appointed for the day. Reverently, he took it, kissed it, closed it, and laid his right hand on it. “I swear, before God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost, before the Blessed Virgin Mary, Blessed Michael and all angels, and Nicholas, Tsar and Martyr, that what I have told you is the truth.”“Thank you,” Bill said quietly. Then he turned to me. “May I ask what your role was in this?”It was time to face the music. “I was the one who asked Father Dimitri for his help in reaching Prince Michael. I'm the one who went over your head.”“Thank you also,” he said. My stomach began to relax. I'd made it over the bar.Bill took a couple deep breaths, as if coming up for air after a long dive into some hidden depth. Gradually, he was reconnecting with the world.“May I not tempt you with some Sevruga?” asked Father Dimitri. I knew Bill was very fond of caviar, and this was the best.“I'm sorry, I just can't right now,” Bill replied. “I have eaten and drunk too deeply of other things this day. If you will excuse me, I need to be alone for a while.”“Of course, we understand,” Father Dimitri replied kindly. “But before you go, I have something else for you.”From his desk drawer he removed a small box, richly worked with gold, looking like a Faberge egg. “This came with today's dispatches. Prince Michael sent it to my Sovereign, with a request that he send it on to you. The box is a small token of esteem from Tsar Alexander.”Slowly, Bill moved to take the box. He stared at it for a long time. Then, almost reluctantly, he opened it.Inside was the Pour le Merite – the Blue Max.

***

After Bill had gone and I had recovered with more than a few glasses of vodka, I looked seriously at Father Dimitri and said, “I don't know what you've learned from this day, but I learned that I won't be playing any more jokes on Herr Oberst Kraft.”With a gentle smile, Father Dimitri replied, “You still don’t understand the Russian sense of humor.”

Victoria: Chapter 28

Hope, they say, is a fool, and perhaps so was I. But I had hope the new year of 2029 would see normal life begin to return to the Northern Confederation. With the war in remission and the black problem on its way to a solution, our main difficulty was that the economy was in the tank. We were caught in a depression worse than that of the 1930s, a lot worse.As in Russia in the 1990s, the breakup of the country had severed so many trade relationships that industry came to a standstill. There were no raw materials, no spare parts, no markets. The Pine Tree Dollar held its value, because we stuck to the rule of not printing any we couldn't back with gold or foreign exchange. But to get foreign exchange, we needed to export. To export, we needed to make things. And to start making things again, we needed to loosen the money supply, which we couldn't do because we couldn't print more money. Our empty wallets told us why economics is called "the dismal science."Bill Kraft worried that voters would demand we start issuing money we couldn't back. That didn't happen. Folks weren't about to forget why the old USA fel1 apart. There was no nostalgia for decadence. People just took in their belts a notch or two, huddled together in the one room that had heat and looked for opportunities to work.Slowly, those opportunities came. With the Federal government and its OSHAs and EPAs and EEOCs gone, someone with an idea could just set up shop. In Massachusetts, one of the companies on Route 128 made a breakthrough in battery technology and began manufacturing power-packs for European and Japanese electric cars. In New York, a crazy retired colonel started building small dirigibles using carbon fiber frames, as replacements for helicopters. They cost only one-tenth as much to operate and maintain for the same lift, and foreign orders started coming in.A computer wizard in Providence came up with a terminal that gave the user hard copy as he typed, thus guaranteeing he would never again lose days of work because the system crashed. He called his device a "printwriter," and it sold like, well, typewriters.I was tempted to go into business myself, making a practical and highly gratifying attachment for the telephone which would, upon detecting voicemail on the other end, immediately zap the receiver with a gazillion-volt charge and turn it into a blob of melted celluloid. Regrettably, my General Staff duties proved too demanding to allow a diversion into Geschäft.Most new businesses weren't fancy or “high tech.” Rather, they represented a step back into the early years of the Industrial Age. They were small shops, located near rivers and railroads, making things people needed: plows and hoes, carts and wagons, frying pans and treadle sewing machines and hand operated washers.It wasn't clear at the time, but these NIPs – New Industrial Pioneers – marked the real “new wave” the Tofflers and other fat fools had predicted. Only it was the opposite of everything they had foreseen.First, it centered on making things. It turned out that passing around “information” among computers was just a video game for adults. It wasted vast amounts of time, produced nothing, and caused living standards to fall faster than a whore's drawers. By moving back into the Industrial Age, the NIPs began laying a sound base for a stable prosperity.Second, in the real new wave, enterprises were small. Bigness did not result in efficiency. On the contrary, anything big – government, business, an army, whatever –created a labyrinth in which incompetents could hide, breed, and “make careers.” Instead of a “world economy,” we found ourselves moving toward many small, local economies where maker, seller, and buyer all knew each other and understood what worked.Third, the new wave marked the end of rampant consumerism. A dose of reality, in the form of hard times, taught people what was important: a few useful things, made by hand by real craftsmen, built to last for generations. Some people called it the "Shaker Economy," and that wasn't off the mark.These were the beginnings of a Retroculture society, though at the time they were actions driven by necessity, and we saw them as nothing more. An invisible hand was at work – not that of Adam Smith's market, but the infinitely more powerful hand of God. For the first time in generations, we were willing to be the sheep of His hand, and let His wonders unfold.

***

But in the year 2029, that all lay in cloud. We were scrambling to make ends meet, all of us. The General Staff had quickly demobilized the army, all but three battalions which were stationed as quick reaction forces, one in Connecticut and two in New York. Local militia were responsible for keeping the borders closed. It was less than a bare-bones arrangement, but the Confederation didn't have the money to do more, and the men were needed at home to hammer and forge, plow and reap.The first crisis of the year came in April, right on April Fool's day. I scented that something was in the wind, because for the previous three weeks, no one had been able to find Governor Bowen.This wasn't merely a case of the governor being “unavailable;” we were accustomed to that. He had vanished. No one had any idea where he had gone, not even the nurses who took care of him or his wife. What made it all the stranger was that, for many months, he had been unable to leave his bed.Bill Kraft proved unusually unhelpful. He'd gone home to Waterville and he declined to return to Augusta. Nor would he let me come up there to see him. He told me flat out it would be a waste of my time and his. I suspected his was a Taoist withdrawal – inaction as a form of action –but that didn't help clear up the mystery. The legislature was out of session, nobody moved to recall Bowen by referendum, so all I could do was sit like Mr. McCawber and wait for something to turn up.Around 10:30 in the morning on the first of April, my phone rang. On the other end was Major Jim Jackson, formerly a Marine reservist in Vermont and now the NC General Staff rep in Montpelier. “We got some funny goin's on here,” he said, “and I thought you ought to know about ʻem. As we speak, I'm lookin' out the window at men and women both, all headed toward the state capitol and all carrying weapons. They don't look like our sort of folks, either. Most of the men have long hair, and the women seem to be the horse-faced sort. If its some kind of April Fool's gag, they're doin' a good job of keepin' a straight face."“If this call is an April Fool's joke, it'll be on you, because I'll have you clapped in irons 'til May,” I replied.“It isn't,” Jim replied. “I'm now seein' a few flags. They appear to be green.”“Shit, more Muslims?” I asked.“I doubt it, here,” Jim answered.“Who else would have green flags?”“Deep Greeners,” Jim answered. “Vermont's still got a good number of ʻem. They've kinda gone to ground since Vermont First took over, but they didn't die off. If I were to bet, I'd bet that's what I'm lookin' at. They're seedy enough. And no one else would give women guns.”Deep Greeners were the Khmer Rouge of environmentalism. They believed nature was a gentle, sweet, loving earth goddess who had been ravished by Man the Despoiler. The earth could again be a Garden of Eden, if only man could be removed. That this would leave no one capable of appreciating the garden did not occur to them. Deep Green was the most radically anti-human ideology humans had yet invented, in that it called for man to eliminate himself. There were, of course, exceptions: Deep Greeners were fit to live. But nobody else was.“OK, Jim, go check it out, and try to stay out of trouble,” I ordered. “Alert the local militia, too. I'll be over as soon as I can get there, with part of the Kampfstaffel.”The Kampfstaffel was a new unit, established after demobilization, of two infantry companies. It answered directly to the Chief of the General Staff. Mostly, I used it as a Lehr unit, to experiment with new tactics, techniques and weapons and to train other units. In battle, they were a force I could use to intervene personally. In this case, they had some interesting gear I wanted to try out, stuff the Marine Corps had developed in the 1990s as part of "non-lethal warfare."We were ready to move out just before noon when Jim Jackson called again. “I was right, it's Deep Greeners,” he said. “They've taken over the capitol building and most of the downtown. Nobody's done any shooting, so far. I've got one of the handbills they're passing round, and it's what you'd expect: demanding an end to all industry, especially the NIPs, condemning logging and farming as ‘rape.’ They even say we should burn down all our towns and cities and make everyone live like they do, in huts and holes in the hills."“Who's leading them?” I asked.“Your governor, Bowen,” Jim said.“What? Bowen's there?”“Standing tall and strong on the capitol steps, in the midst of a speech that's gone on for two hours already and gives no sign of stoppin',” Jim replied. “When I left, he was sayin' that oxygen is a precious resource, and no one who didn't worship ʻMother Gaia' should be allowed any.”“What action have you taken?” I asked, knowing that as a General Staff officer, Jim would have done more than collect information for someone else to act on.“The local militia is mobilized, and we're quietly evacuating the citizens from downtown,” Jim answered.“We'll put the area around the capitol under siege as soon as that's done. I'd like to avoid any shooting if we can.”“We're thinking the same way,” I said. “I'll be there with a company of Kampfstaffel by this evening. Out here.”

***

We rolled in around eight that night. The militia had sealed off downtown Montpelier, with the Deep Greeners inside. They weren't allowing any food in, but hadn't turned off the water or gas yet. We weren't quite ready for a confrontation, nor did the Deep Greeners seem to want one. They thought that if they ran up the Deep Green flag, Vermont would rally to them. It didn't.We could just wait them out. But I saw this as an opportunity to demonstrate the Confederation would not tolerate putsches. Every state, and the Confederation as a whole, now allowed initiatives and referenda. If Deep Greeners wanted to change our course, they could put their ideas on the ballot and let people vote. Unlike the late United States, we had a legitimate government.Our Kampfstaffel company had brought along a gadget I thought might force the issue. It was a sonic weapon, developed by the French decades ago, that caused people to lose control of their muscle functions – including their sphincter. Basically, they flopped around like fish and pooped their pants. What could be more appropriate than making Deep Greeners soil themselves? We also grabbed some local fire engine pumpers to use as water cannon; overnight, our troops welded shields on them to protect the operators from rifle fire.We attacked at first light on April 2nd. The sonic weapon was on an LAV. It led our column right up to the capitol, followed by three fire engines and infantry with gas grenades. The Deep Greeners, with Bowen, now in the pink of health, out in front, met us on the lawn of the capitol building. They were carrying weapons, but they didn't point them. Evidently, they hoped we would massacre them in front of the television news crews, creating martyrs for their cause.Instead, we turned on the sound weapon. The effect was immediate. The Deep Green crowd hit the deck, involuntarily, as they lost all muscle control. We didn't even need the fire hoses or the gas.As soon as we turned the sonics off, our infantry moved in and started handcuffing the Deep Green warriors and tossing them in wagons. I directed the media reps to come in close, real close. They quickly got a strong dose of eau de excrement. Holding their noses, the TV and radio announcers reported the smell-o-rama, which sent their audiences into howls of laughter. That took care of the “martyr” danger. No one becomes a hero by crapping his drawers.So ended the Deep Green putsch. By noon on the 2nd, downtown Montpelier was returning to normal, and the governor of Vermont met with the legislature to determine the fate of the putschists. It was quickly decided that since they were unsatisfied with life in Vermont, they ought to go somewhere else.Cascadia had a strong Deep Green party, and the government there had been following events in Vermont with interest. They volunteered to take the expellees, and on the morning of April third we dumped them on two Air Nippon Airbus 600s and sent them on their way to Seattle. To help Cascadia appreciate what it was getting, we did not give them an opportunity to change their pants.

***

That was not quite the end of the matter. On the evening of the 2nd, I had received a telegram from Bill Kraft, commanding “Return Bowen to Maine immediately.” So I tossed our good governor in the back of my LAV, to find in Augusta on the 3rd a welcoming committee of Kraft, the leaders of the legislature, and the town jailer, who was there to escort the Hon. Mr. Bowen to the slammer.Bill and I adjourned for dinner at Mel's. When we'd ordered our codfish cakes and boiled potatoes, which was all the menu offered in those hard days, I gave the Herr Oberst my best hurt puppy look and said, “Old friend, you set me up, or at least I think you did.”“I did not ‘set you up,’”Kraft replied, somewhat on the defensive. “If I'd told you what I knew, you would have acted just as you did anyway.”“What did you know?” I inquired.“I knew Bowen's sickness was an act,” he replied. “At first it was real. He was overwhelmed by the responsibility of being a wartime governor. Like most politicians in the old United States, he'd spent a lifetime learning how to avoid decisions. When he had to make some, he came unglued."“But that passed. By the time of the governors' meeting in New York, he was over it. I was getting reliable reports that when he thought he was alone, he was quite spry. Once I figured out he was acting, the question was why? If he just wanted to be governor of Maine and serve his people, he had no need to pretend he was sick. So who or what was he serving instead?”“I got a break, thanks to one of the oldest engines of human history, female jealousy. Bowen's wife had noticed that one of his nurses, a certain Miss Levine, spent increasing amounts of time with him. He brightened notably when she entered the room, and was sufficiently indiscreet to ask for her if she wasn't there. At the same time, he grew colder toward everyone else, including his wife.”“Naturally, Mrs. Bowen thought they were having an affair. Afraid to cause scandal, she approached me quietly for advice. I immediately suspected something more was going on. So I arranged for Miss Levine to get a telegram calling her home to attend a sick momma. Along the way, her journey was unexpectedly interrupted when the train made a water-stop. She was escorted to a waiting automobile, and thence to a small fishing shack on the coast. Interrogation techniques soon proved they have not lost their efficacy."“It seemed Miss Levine was a devoted Deep Greener. She did appeal to Bowen's amorous propensities, but those just opened the door. Bowen had absorbed a great deal of cultural Marxism under the old regime, and his breakdown came in part because he found himself heading a government that rejected everything it stood for. She worked her feminine wiles to convince him he could become a hero by embracing Deep Green and leading it to power. That restored his health, and also gave him reason to keep his cure secret until he could find a way to act.”“Did you know Bowen was involved with the Deep Greeners in Vermont?” I asked.“Yes,” Kraft replied. “Miss Levine had established that connection for him. Threatened with the gallows, she agreed to become a double agent. She convinced Bowen he had to communicate with the Vermonters in writing. I got copies of all the letters.”“Why didn't you tell me all this?” I asked.“I was afraid you would counterattack too soon. It's a bad American habit. We needed to let our enemy commit himself irrevocably before we acted.”“And what will happen to Bowen now?”“He will be tried for treason, convicted, and hanged by the neck until dead,” Kraft replied.

***

The wheels of justice ground coarse but swiftly in the Northern Confederation. Bowen went on trial before a jury of his peers – twelve white men – on April 7. The weasel first reverted to his helpless invalid act, then suddenly recovered his health to offer a stirring defense of cultural Marxism. The jury literally laughed in his face. The prosecutor gave the court Bowen's treacherous letters to the Vermont Deep Greeners, and on April 10, it took the jurors less than fifteen minutes in deliberation to find him guilty.Bowen's lawyer – we had not yet recodified the laws and eliminated lawyers – knew his client was as guilty as Judas, and hadn't spent much effort suggesting otherwise. Instead, he focused his efforts on avoiding the death penalty. He presented the court with a stack of glowing character references. The prosecutor pointed out they were all written by former politicians or lobbyists whose palms Bowen had greased under the old American regime.The defense then called a variety of clergymen – and, foolishly, some women, including one purporting to be the Episcopal “Bishop” of Maine (Bill Kraft, a traditional Anglican despite his Prussian commission, referred to her as “the Vestal”) – who testified that the death penalty was unchristian. The prosecution responded by offering the local Monsignor as a witness. He methodically cataloged passages from the writings or sermons of each defense witness where they had departed widely from Christian doctrine. With a twinkle in his venerable eye, he then recounted how the church itself, in its salad days, had not hesitated to turn the most hardened of sinners over to the secular arm for the ultimate sanction – while praying, most sincerely, for their souls.Bowen's attorney's final trick was to call Mrs. Bowen to the stand. Perhaps he thought conjugal bonds would inspire her to plead for mercy, and a faithful wife's tears would sway the court.But Mrs. Bowen proved to be made of sterner stuff. Her plea to the court, while not what Bowen's lawyer had hoped, was most eloquent."Your honor, men of the jury, perhaps you can imagine how hard it is for me to say what I must. Perhaps you can't. Asa was a good husband, and I think I've been a good wife. I loved him, and I think he loved me. I know I love him still.”“That's what makes it so hard. If I were angry with him, or jealous because of his unfaithfulness, it would be easier. But I'm not. I wish with all my heart that he and I could simply walk out of this building together and go home.”"But I know I must honor a higher love, my love of this state of Maine. And I do love her. I love her rocky spray-swept coasts and quiet forests, her old ways and silent people. And I know Maine's women, no less than her men, must do their duty by her."“My husband betrayed us. There is no other way to put it. He tried to sell us out to people who would have destroyed us. I know what kind of people they were. Asa used to bring them by the house all the time, back when we were still the United States. They were always going on about this cause or that, somebody who was a ‘victim,’ somebody else who was an ‘oppressor.’ I'd invite them out to see our garden, a nice garden. But they couldn't see it, or me, or anything. All their brain was taken up by some ideology, so they couldn't see at all. And what they could not see, they would destroy."“If my Asa had succeeded with these Deep Greeners, this State of Maine my family has loved for more than 200 years would have vanished. It would not have been the same place. I don't know what it would have become, but it would not have been the same. It would not have been Maine.”“I would like to ask mercy for my husband. But I do not have the right to do that. All those generations who went before us, who carved our state from the wilderness with lives of toil and hardship, who gave all they had to make us what we are, forbid me. What Asa did might have reduced all their labor and pain and sacrifice to nothing. No one has a right to do that."“My husband is guilty of a terrible crime. I thank God he failed in it. But he did it, and he must pay the price. I will miss him, and mourn him the rest of my life. But I cannot ask you to spare him. Do your duty, as I have done mine.”

***

The judge, along with the rest of us in the courtroom, was deeply moved. His voice echoed as he sentenced the Honorable Asa Bowen, former governor of the great State of Maine, to hang by the neck until dead on the 15th of April. Those of us who remembered what April 15th had meant in the old U.S.A. found it a most appropriate day for hanging a government official.The gallows were set up in front of the State House, still a burned-out shell thanks to federal bombing, but a symbol of Maine nonetheless. The whole town turned out for the hanging, and other folks came from all over Maine, despite the difficulties of travel. I was pleased to see that many parents brought their children. They weren't too young to learn that the wages of sin are death, that Maine was recovering its nerve.Right at noon, just after the factory whistles blew, Bowen stepped out of the horse-drawn paddy wagon, draped in black, that had brought him from the town jail. Before him walked a priest reading Psalms. Bowen kept his dignity, mounted the platform unassisted and stood on the trap. The executioner, in his black mask, hooded Bowen and bound his legs. The noose was slipped over his head and tightened. The priest offered a prayer for Asa's soul; most of us bowed our heads and joined in the “Amen.” It was the state's duty to execute justice, but God could be merciful. At exactly 12:10, the hangman pulled the lever and Bowen dropped. It was a clean kill.It was also time for lunch.

The View From Olympus: Don't Shop At This WAWA

Americans know WAWA as a convenience store, but to anyone familiar with West Africa it has another meaning: West Africa Wins Again. The phrase refers to the impossibility of getting anything to work right in that benighted region. I recall reading the story of a classic WAWA that began when a Western visitor returned to his hotel room to find the sink had fallen off the wall. The hotel's engineer was called, and the Westerner suggested that when he fixed the sink, he put some props under it so it would not happen again. The engineer nodded, and the visitor went about his business. When he came again to his room, he found the sink duly propped up--in exactly the position he found it before, hanging at a crazy angle pointed toward the floor. West Africa Wins Again!Now, with no understanding of West Africa, President Obama has decided to send about 3000 American military personnel to the region to fight the Ebola epidemic. To the folly of a war without troops against ISIS, we will add an exercise in futility against Ebola. The only result will be the mother of all WAWAs as our efforts have no effect on Monsieur Ebola's progress while they expose thousands of American troops to a hideous disease. Brilliant.The press continues to be full of stories illustrating the impossibility of the mission. When Liberia briefly established a quarantine in a neighborhood in its capital, the average bribe residents had to pay to go through the lines was $0.50. Someone I know who has done business in West Africa told me, "The best thing about the place is that the bribes are so cheap!" Local regulations required anyone flying out to do so on the national airline. Not wanting to commit suicide, he desired to leave on a European plane. For $100 he got the country's Minister of Transportation to personally escort him on board.The September 19 New York Times reported on the result in Guinea when a team of health workers went to a village to give the people accurate information about Ebola and how it spreads. The villagers stoned them to death.The September 23 Times reported in a front-page story that the Sierra Leone Health Ministry had reported just ten deaths from Ebola in the capital of Freetown. But the Times quickly found that just in the last eight days 110 Ebola victims were buried in just one of the city's cemeteries. The story quoted the World Health Organization as saying that the official numbers "vastly understate the magnitude of the outbreak."

International health experts here had no explanation for the striking discrepancy between the government's tally of the dead in the capital and the cemetery crew's statistics. Several of them noted the general confusion surrounding official statistics here from the beginning, with one leading international health official saying: "We don't know exactly what is going on."

West Africa Wins Again!The essence of WAWA is the impossibility of making anything work. Incompetence, ignorance, corruption, and every other impediment to function you can imagine--and many Westerners cannot--exist on a colossal scale. There are almost no exceptions. Should you find one, a local witch doctor will probably put a curse on it so that the locals run away. The world portrayed in Through the Looking Glass is a rational world compared to West Africa (and much of the rest of Africa as well). You had might as well try teaching calculus to camels as trying to make anything work in West Africa.So into this mess we will now send American troops, who will have no authority, no power, just good intentions. The road to West Africa, like the road to that other place (to the degree they can be told apart), is paved with good intentions, and the corpses of those who had them. An earlier age knew the warning, "Beware, beware, the Bight of Benin, for few come out though many go in."Beyond futility, increasing our involvement runs an ever-greater risk of bringing Ebola here. The more cases there are, the more the virus has has opportunities to mutate. If a mutation creates a variety of Ebola that spreads through the air, not just direct contact, we will have gone from bubonic plague to pneumonic plague, which was worse. We have already established the dangerous precedent of bringing American Ebola victims here. Multiply their numbers, add the mutation, and presto!, we have a plague on American soil that could rival the Black Death in its effects.Once again, America's womanized culture cannot resist the argument of "Oh, the poor (fill in the blank)." Womanish sentiment overrules all reason, all facts, all prudence. It's as if the country were governed by a basket of kittens.In the unlikely event that anyone wants a realistic picture of Africa and the bottomlessness of its futility, there is a book on the subject: Evelyn Waugh's Black Mischief. Set in East Africa, which generally works better than West Africa, it tells the story of what happens to Westerners' good intentions on the black continent. The sacrificial troops on their way to fight Ebola might find it amusing; Waugh was a brilliantly funny satirist. Of course, no one in Washington will be interested in the warning the book conveys. That may be the biggest WAWA of all.

Victoria: Chapter 27

On September 15, just after lunch, I was finishing packing up my to move back to Augusta when Gunny Matthews stuck his head in the door. This time, he was smiling. Not only had he played a central role in liberating Boston and saving his fellow black Christians from slavery, his own pastor had backed me up in telling him he had been faithful through it all.“Come on in, Gunny,” I said. “Pardon the mess, but General Staffs live on paper. Even this short operation has generated plenty for the archives.”“Don't you use computers, sir?” the Gunny asked in wonder.“Just as paperweights,” I replied. “The only electronic security in the age of computers is not having any computers. The only computers in our army are in the Nachrichtendienst, where we have a nest of nerds who hack the other side's computers.”“Retroculture again, sir?” the Gunny asked jokingly.“Ayuh, that's what it is,” I replied. “I never did trust any machine that wasn't run by steam.”“Well, sir, I guess it's Retroculture I came to talk to you about, in a way,” the Gunny said. “At least Retroculture may be a solution. I came to talk to you about a problem, a big problem, facing our Northern Confederation.”I could tell Gunny Matthews had a piece to say, so I leaned back in my chair, put my boots up on the desk and reached for a fresh cigar, a good Connecticut Valley maduro. The Gunny knew from old times that meant he had the floor.“Sir, let me put it to you straight. The biggest problem I see facing the black community is bad blacks.”“Now, you know we have a lot of good black people. You saw that in the Corps, and in the Battle of the Housing Project. Everybody saw it in Newark. The problem is, in most places, it isn't the good black people who run the black community. It's the bad blacks. It's gang leaders and drug dealers and drug users. It's muggers and car-jackers and burglars. It's pimps and prostitutes, beggars and plain-ol' bums. It's people who just won't work for an honest living.”“Sir, you know and I know the Northern Confederation isn't gonna live with this. It's not the old United States. The Northern Confederation is for people who want to live right, by the old rules. They won't tolerate having little pieces of Africa all over the place. And they shouldn't. Africa's a mess. I'm thankful for that slave ship that brought my ancestors over here, cause otherwise I'd be livin' in Africa, and I don't think there's a worse place on earth.“Sir, I'm not talkin' to you just on my own account. I've been speakin' with a lot of folks, back in Boston, in the churches. We don't want to go on livin' like we have been, surrounded by crime, drugs, noise, and dirt. We know that if we don't clean up our own act, the white folk in the Confederation are gonna clean it up for us. We want to do it ourselves, to show folks what good black people can do.”“What I'm here for, is to ask if you can help us find a way to do that,” the Gunny concluded.“Hmm,” I said, “Do you have any ideas about solutions?”“Yes, sir,” Gunny Matthews answered. “We've had a group working on some ideas. But we don't know what to do with them.”“OK, let me see what I can do,” I said. “Give me a few days, then call me.”The Gunny took his leave, and I followed him down the stairs to pay a call on Herr Oberst Kraft. He'd been expanding his political network into the new states, and he'd know who to talk to.The smoke from my cigar mingled fragrantly with that from Kraft's pipe, and he offered me a glass of Piesporter Michelsberg Spatese '22 to wash down both. I laid out what Gunny Matthews had said to me, and asked if he could help make the political connections. The Northern Confederation didn't have any real central government and didn't want one, so what we needed to do was present something to the governors of the states.“Your black friend is perceptive,” Kraft said when I concluded. “In fact, at the political level we have already recognized the black problem as the first thing we have to face, now that we have an interval in the war – and no, the war is not over yet. But this can't wait. No one in the Confederation has any intention of tolerating disorder in our black inner cities. It represents everything we revolted against when we left the United States.”“We have some ideas ourselves about how to solve it, and we have no hesitation in taking whatever measures are necessary, however harsh,” Kraft continued. “The will is there. I'll tell you, quite frankly, that some well-placed people simply want to expel every black from our territory, and I think a majority of our citizens would agree.”“I could understand that, and I think Gunny Matthews could too, given the black crime rate,” I replied. “But I also know there are good black people, good enough that they'll work and even fight for the same values we believe in,” I continued. “Don't forget the black Christians from Boston who chose slavery over renouncing their Christian faith. I read Gunny Matthews’ effort as a message from the same kind of people that they're now willing to do what it takes to get back their own communities. If they can do it, then the blacks could become an asset to the Confederation.”“I don't know,” Kraft replied. “Perhaps you are right. The black community was an asset as late as the 1950s. But we cannot allow it to remain what it is now: a burden the rest of us have to carry.”“Are you at least willing to hear what Matthews and his people want to do?”“Yes, we can listen. But remember, das Wesentlich ist die Tat. We will only be satisfied with actions and with results, not intentions.”“Agreed,” I said. “Will you set it up so they can make their pitch to the governors?”“Yes,” Kraft answered. “But not to the governors alone. This matter is too important for that. The meeting will be carried live on radio, so every citizen in the Confederation can participate.”

***

On the afternoon of the first Sunday in November, the governors of the states in the Northern Confederation met in Albany, New York, to hear the leaders of the “Council Of Responsible Negroes" present their proposal. Even our Governor Bowen attended, though he looked like death warmed over. The session had been scheduled for a Sunday afternoon so the Confederation's citizens could gather around their radios without missing work or church.Since the liberation of Boston, what to do with the Confederation's blacks had become the number one topic of public discussion, thanks to my promise to bring Boston's black Christians back out of slavery. The deal was not popular; for too long, “black” had meant “criminal.” Fortunately, the governors realized I had made a military decision, one that had enabled us to re-take Boston with a minimum of fighting. Our troops, who for good reason did not relish combat in cities, understood it too, and they explained it to their families and neighbors. Otherwise, I might have been in for some tar and feathers.Anyway, it was clear that Gunny Matthews, the director of the Council Of Responsible Negroes, or CORN, had a tough row to hoe. The question was, could he and his people come up with something this late in the game that would change black behavior and white attitudes?The meeting was chaired by the governor of New York, since it was meeting in his state. Meetings of the governors had no authority to make decisions for the Confederation; each state had to decide matters for itself. After throwing off the heavy hand of Washington, we had no desire to create much in the way of a new central government. Such sessions were held, infrequently, purely for purposes of gathering information and sharing common concerns.Facing the row of governors were the four leaders of CORN from the four states that had significant black populations: New York, Connecticut, Rhode Island, and Massachusetts. Gunny Matthews represented both Massachusetts and CORN as a whole; he was the organization's president. In fact, he had put CORN together in the few weeks since Boston was re-taken, building on work a handful of blacks had been doing since the 1980s. These pioneers had realized the black community's problems were mostly of its own making, and while they took a lot of crap from the cultural Marxists, they had persevered and slowly grown. Now, most blacks had turned to them for help and hope.The governor of New York opened the session with a few remarks that reflected what most people in the Northern Confederation were thinking:“Your Honor, we are here today to discuss the most urgent matter facing our Confederation, now that the United States no longer exists and our borders are, at least at the moment, quiet. Within those borders we hold people, black people, who are a threat to the rest of us. Blacks threaten to be what they have been for many decades: an economic burden and a source of disorder, crime, violence, and even, as we saw in Boston, war. Unlike the United States, the Northern Confederation will not live with this threat. A state's first responsibility is to maintain order, and we will. However, if blacks themselves can successfully end the threat and permit all citizens of the Confederation to live in harmony, that would be the best possible outcome. We have come together today to hear from you, as representatives of the black community, proposals to that end. You may proceed.”Folks in the N.C. liked their leaders' speeches to be short and to the point. The governors understood that. So did Gunny Matthews.“Gentlemen, thank you for this opportunity to speak,” the Gunny said. “As the leader of the Council Of Responsible Negroes, I do not dispute anything the governor of New York has said, because it is true. As a whole, the black community did become a burden on and a threat to the rest of society, starting sometime in the 1960s.”“But it was not always that. As late as the 1950s, any of you could have walked safely, alone, through the black neighborhoods in your cities. You would have found intact families, with married fathers and mothers, who supported themselves and contributed by their work to society. You would have seen small but neatly-kept houses fronting clean streets. The people there would have welcomed you. If you were hurt or in need, they would have helped you. Their skins may have been black, but their hearts were as white as yours.”“I say this because it proves that negroes are not inherently disorderly or criminal. It is not in our genes. The catastrophe that overwhelmed the black community over the last sixty years came from following the wrong leaders and the wrong ideas. That has happened to other peoples as well. It happened in Germany and it happened in Russia. Other peoples have turned from their wicked ways and lived, and we can do the same.”“We know we must take strong measures, painful measures, to rebuild a negro civil society. We are prepared to do that. And we will do it, for ourselves, if you will let us.”“Here is our proposal: First, we will put an end to black crime. Any negro who commits a crime involving violence or threat of violence, or breaks into a home or business, or steals a car, will hang. Any negro accused of such a crime will be tried within 48 hours, the jurors will be picked from the residents, black or white, of the street where the crime was committed, the trial will be over in 24 hours, and the sentence will be carried out within three days. We'll build gallows in every park. We'll gibbet the hanged corpses on every street corner. And negroes will do the hanging.""Not only will we hang every drug dealer, we'll hang every hard drug user. Anyone, black or white, on the street in black neighborhoods will be subject to random drug testing. Anyone who fails the test will be dragged to the nearest gallows and hanged. The drug test itself will count as the trial.""Second, we will enable all negroes to work, produce, and contribute to society instead of taking from it. For decades, regulations imposed by the U.S. government made it impossible for most blacks, and many whites, to start a small business. Anyone who tried was visited by dozens of inspectors and regulators demanding something or other “under penalty of law.” Now that government is gone, but the new members of the Confederation, New York, Massachusetts, Connecticut, and Rhode Island, still have many such regulations of their own. They have minimum wage laws that price negro labor out of the market. They have zoning laws that prevent a negro homeowner from running a boarding house. They have laws that allow only union shops to bid on state contracts.""Before welfare, negro communities had a thriving small scale economy. If you will allow us to get the regulations and regulators off our backs, we will build our own economy again.""Third, we will make certain no more negro children grow up in cities. Cities have always provided rich soil for vices of every kind. The other reforms we have proposed will help, but the city will never be as healthy, physically or morally, as the countryside. Therefore, any negro family that has or wants children will be resettled on a farm. Our states have vast amounts of land that used to be farmed but now lies fallow. World prices for food are rising. Life on a small farm will not make negroes rich in money, but it will give them rich lives.""We will buy the farmland we need for rural resettlement. We will pay for it by sharecropping. No one will be forced to sell to us, but many whites own more land than they can farm, and they will profit if they sell. The Amish and the Mennonites have volunteered to teach urban negroes how to farm. We know we can do it, because most negroes used to farm.""This is our proposal. If you will approve it, we are ready to put it into effect within 90 days. We ask you to give us three years to prove that it works. If it does not work within that time, we will know black people cannot live in this country, and we will leave. We will lead our people back to Africa.""Our question to you is, will you give us a chance to show that negroes can live good, productive lives?”The governors’ body language told me Gunny Matthews’ proposal had struck home. It was serious. It meant no more shuckin' and jivin'. If it didn't work, the blacks would leave the Northern Confederation. The risk to the rest of us was the possibility of three more years of black disorder, if it didn't work. I figured we could live with that risk, especially since the potential payoff was a lot more land under the plow in a country and a world short on food.The governors asked a few questions, then turned the meeting over to the citizens of the Confederation. Anyone could phone in their question or comment, and the response was broadcast live so everyone could hear it. I was happy to hear that most people seemed to react as I did: they were willing to give the blacks a chance, since they promised to leave peacefully if they failed.By about nine that evening, the callers had dwindled, and the governor of New York moved to end the session. He did so with a surprise. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I know we are accustomed to allow every state to make its own decisions. But on this matter, and undoubtedly on others in the future, we need a common policy. I therefore propose we take a lesson from the state that gave birth to our Confederation, the State of Maine. I propose we submit this proposal to the people, in a referendum held throughout the Confederation.” Each state had to make its own decision on that proposal, so the meeting adjourned.I had quietly mobilized militia around each city that had a substantial black population, in case of trouble. There wasn't any from the blacks, but in Lawrence, Lowell, and Methuen, Massachusetts, the Puerto Ricans rioted.The Massachusetts militia quickly encircled the affected areas in each city, then blockaded them. They turned off the water and gas, stopped all food deliveries, and waited. It took about 48 hours for the first Puerto Rican refugees, cold, hungry and thirsty, to approach the militia's perimeter. There, by my orders, they were turned back.Meanwhile, the Massachusetts legislature passed a resolution expelling all Puerto Ricans in the three cities from the Commonwealth. Once that law was in place, the militia announced over the radio that Puerto Ricans would be allowed to leave each city by one exit. The exit was chosen to be convenient to a railroad, and after the PRs had been fed, given water, and allowed to warm up, they were packed into boxcars for a short trip to Boston harbor.There, freighters were waiting, along with John Ross's LPH and his Marines. The PRs were led on board the merchantmen, and on November 17, the convoy set sail on “Operation Isabella.” It anchored off the small Puerto Rican port of Aguadilla on Thanksgiving Day. The Marines came ashore in case there was resistance – there wasn't – and the human cargo was landed. Our men were back on board their amphib and sailing for home in time for turkey with all the trimmings, and Massachusetts had a double reason to be thankful. There were no more riots.By December 15, all the states in the Confederation had accepted the governor of New York's idea for a nationwide referendum on the CORN proposal. It was held on January 3, 2029, and it passed by 58%. Surprisingly, the referendum got strong majorities in virtually every black ward. The lesson we taught the Puerto Ricans probably helped, but the fact was that most blacks were ready for a change. After all, most of the victims of black crime were also black.Quickly, inner-city crime vanished. The shiny new gallows stood mostly unused after the first few weeks. The whole “black militant” act everyone had groaned under for decades simply collapsed. As Dr. Johnson said, the prospect of being hanged concentrates the mind wonderfully.What astonished many of us, including me, was how quickly the out-migration to the countryside began. Even though most urban negroes had been born and reared in the city, they retained some ancestral memory of a happy country life. We didn't have to force them to head for the farm; they wanted to go. Churches, white and black, worked together to find landowners who would accept negro sharecroppers, sharecroppers who, unlike those in the old South, would eventually own the land they cleared and farmed. The Amish and Mennonites proved to be excellent teachers. Within a year, over a third of the urban black population was relocated on farms. By the end of the three years given by the CORN plan, the only negroes left in the cities were old folks without kids and a few black professionals. Gunny Matthews and the other negroes who had seen through the “victims” hokum had brought their people home.Today, in the year 2068, our negro farmers are the bedrock of our agriculture. Their products make up more than 30% of our exports. Black and white folk still mostly keep to themselves socially, as is only natural, but they work together for the good of our nation. The black visionary whose vision came true was not Martin Luther King, but Booker T. Washington.If you visit a one-room negro country school, at recess you may hear the children jumping rope to this little song:

Hang him highOr hang him low,To the hangmanHe will go.Hang the fatAnd hang the thin,Bow his headAnd stick it in.Hang the youngAnd hang the old,Hang the bullyAnd the bold.If he steals,He sure must know,To the hangmanHe will go.

It's always been true that children learn their lessons best at play.

The View From Olympus: D.O.A.

President Obama's strategy for war with ISIS, announced last Wednesday, appears to be dead on arrival. The recognition of its immense gap between ends and means has been almost universal. So has the perception that many of its assumptions are baseless.The plan has virtually no support within the U.S. military, which recognizes it is a pipe dream. The Army's senior leadership, which sees that the strategy would ultimately result in another major land war, is cackling like MacBeth's witches around their pot over the prospect of a bigger budget. Sorry, guys; the American people will not support another major land war on the far side of the world.Part of the reason President Obama's strategy is D.O.A. is the obvious fact that our air power has no effective force to work with on the ground, outside Kurdistan. The "moderate" Syrian opposition is a fantasy. An op ed in the September 16 New York Times by Ahmad Samih Khalidi, an academic now teaching at Oxford, notes that

The alleged moderates have never put together a convincing national program or offered a viable alternative to Mr. Assad. The truth is that there are no "armed moderates" (or "moderate terrorists") in the Arab world--and precious few beyond. The genuine "moderates" won't

take up arms, and those who do are not truly moderates. Within Iraq, given the recent collapse of the Iraqi Army, we would depend on Shiite militias to provide the ground forces. One of the better-trained of those militias, Kataib Hezbollah, said, according to a story on page 11 of the same New York Times, "We will not fight alongside the American troops under any kind of conditions whatsoever." Its only contact with Americans would be "if we fight each other."So obvious are the unrealities in President Obama's strategy that it has elicited laughter. The same Times story quotes Iran's supreme leader, Ayatollah Ali Kamenei (remember, Iran is on our side against ISIS), as saying "he had 'a hobby,' which was 'listening to Americans making statements on combating ISIS--it was really amusing.'" The Arab states' guffaw came in the form of offering air power, which the U.S. military has in vast surplus. It is as if Dr. Johnson, told one day in the Literary Club that the city of Newcastle had asked him to stand on his head, replied "Why no, sir, I shall not refuse them. I shall offer them instead a shipment of coals!"Not surprisingly, the Obama administration is backing away from its "strategy" as fast as it can. A front-page story in the Sept. 15 Times said, "In interviews and public statements, administration and military officials described a battle plan that would not accelerate in earnest until disparate groups of Iraqi forces, Kurds, and Syrian rebels stepped up to provide the fighting forces on the ground." Since that is likely to happen soon after the return of the Twelfth Imam, it is a condition that effectively scuttles the whole thing, beyond some meaningless air strikes.Encouragingly, some thoughtful voices are daring to ask in public whether ISIS is a threat to us at all. We may end up turning it into one, but at present, it is not. It is part of the ongoing, expanding Sunni-Shiite civil war, in which our only interest is in seeing both sides kill each other in the largest possible numbers. If President Obama feels compelled to "do something" about ISIS for political reasons, he could act as I suggested in an earlier column. A massive, suprise air strike on ISIS's capital of Raqqa, intended to reduce the whole place to rubble in an hour, would be accepted by the American public as suitable retaliation for ISIS's killing of two Americans. Obama might actually find himself popular again. A long footnote: In my last column, I noted that the Pentagon should be able to give the pesident the option of sending a small, competent, fast-moving ground force that could rout ISIS in a campaign of days, or, at most, weeks. In theory this force exists, in the form of three Marine Corps Light Armored Vehicle (LAV) battalions. The original concept behind the LAV (I know because I am one of the three people who, as a staffer to Senator Gary Hart, initiated the LAV program; the other two were a Senate Armed Services Committee staffer, Steve Dotson, and a Marine one-star named Al Gray) was to create one or more LAV regiments that could serve as Soviet-style Operations Maneuver Groups in third-world situations. Only once in the 25-plus years since have the LAV battalions been used this way, when they were grouped for an operational advance on Tikrit immediately after the fall of Baghdad. We should not go in on the ground against ISIS, but should the president decide to do so, that would be the way to do it. It would require a commander who knows operational art from pachinko, of which we have very few. But one who could easily do it is Marine four-star General John Kelly. By putting a four-star in charge, the Pentagon would ensure the LAV operational maneuver group got support when it needed it. Pitting regular light cavalry against irregular light cavalry in a campaign of rapid maneuver, the regulars should easily come out on top, if only because their skill at techniques should be much higher. Of course, if the president were to ask the Pentagon for this option, it would immediately say it is impossible, because a success by a small, fast force using maneuver warfare would not justify larger budgets and force structures. At senior levels, the budget war is the only war that matters.

Challenging European Despair: Riding the Tiger in the European Myth

Much has been said, probably too much, on the writings of JRR Tolkien. For a community of Traditionalists I believe Tolkien stands triumphant as the best example of where a synthesis of Germanised (paganised) Christianity in the form of a strange orthodox Roman Catholicism can find unity with the cultural ideas of European paganism and heathenism and have enough common ground to share the metaphysical space. Crucially that should be our starting point in any exploration of Tolkien’s writings; the man was a Catholic spiritually, and believed in the veracity and solidity of the Bible and Biblical traditions but he was also a staunch lover of Anglo Saxon culture, Germanic paganism and the way of life and spirituality of the Germanic, Nordic and Celtic tribes. In the story of the Lord of the Rings, Tolkien believed he was giving back the English people their religion.

“I have not been nourished by English Literature . . . for the simple reason that I have never found much there in which to rest my heart (or heart and head together). I was brought up in the Classics, and first discovered the sensation of literary pleasure in Homer...I do know Celtic things (many in their original languages Irish and Welsh), and feel for them a certain distaste: largely for their fundamental unreason. They have bright colour, but are like a broken stained glass window reassembled without design. They are in fact ‘mad’. . . but I don’t believe I am...[I] set myself a task, the arrogance of which I fully recognised and trembled at: being precisely to restore to the English an epic tradition and present them with a mythology of their own.”

Rooted in their mingling of pagan faiths via the Romans, Celts, Germans, Scandinavians, and myriad other Northern European tribes, the English for Tolkien stand on a firm ground of belief and certainty of a singular spiritual source of creation, what he called in the Silmarilion, Iluvatar, or All Father. From out of this central source emanated all the pantheistic conceptions of “gods” with the classical pagan and Romanised/Grecian pantheon present in the vast array of Valar and Ainur, just as the Indo-European cultures had their gods and Titans, Asuras and Devas, Aesir and the Vanir, etc. From out of these forms emanated a further conception of universal creation and evolution, and thus contradictorily a spiritual sense of creation by a colossal but conscious force was unified with a scientific but mythical approach, essentially a form of proto-Cosmotheism. This unified approach to interpreting the myths of all peoples is best summed up in the words of William Pierce:

“All we require is that you share with us a commitment to the simple, but great, truth which I have explained to you here, that you understand that you are a part of the whole, which is the creator, that you understand that your purpose, the purpose of mankind and the purpose of every other part of creation, is the creator's purpose, that this purpose is the never-ending ascent of the path of creation, the path of life symbolized by our life rune, that you understand that this path leads ever upward toward the creator's self-realization, and that the destiny of those who follow this path is godhood.”

For those that have read the Silmarilion it goes without saying that such sentiments could fall from the lips of any of the Vanyar in their state of perpetual unity with the gods in Valinor.Returning to our main point then, Tolkien believed the Lord of the Rings and its companion literature was a method by which the English people could retrieve their spiritual consciousness from the mire of rationalism and modernism and regain their contact and contract with the numinous. Tolkien was effectively the first and most brutally self-aware Romanticist of the tail end of the Kali Yuga. That Tolkien based his stories in an ancient age is not unknown and he even went as far as to date the War of the Ring in a historical period, roughly 5300BC when Sauron was finally defeated, and the floods of the Genesis narrative occurring 2300BC, to fit it neatly within both pagan and Christian structures.However it is also worth noting that Tolkien despised allegory (“I cordially dislike allegory in all its manifestations, and always have done so since I grew old and wary enough to detect its presence. I much prefer history – true or feigned– with its varied applicability to the thought and experience of readers. I think that many confuse applicability with allegory, but the one resides in the freedom of the reader, and the other in the purposed domination of the author”) and when pressed to confirm or deny whether the Orcs and forces of Mordor were supposed to be Nazis or Communists he always returned the spiritual dimensions and enforced the point that anyone could be spiritually an orc and anyone an elf. In his private letters he said to his son that the triumph of technology over nature was a sure victory of the orcs in the modern era. His loathing of allegory then places the story of the Lord of the Rings if it is a semi-historical (therefore mythical) event as being part of an ever cycling form of history, or eternal return as Nietzsche would have it. He understandably saw the roots of the conflict he described in the Lord of the Rings rooted in a consistently returning pattern throughout the ages as anyone with an understanding of myth would agree.Moral “good” and moral “evil” come into conflict and the two go to war, two world views clashing and coming to a head and ushering in a new age, with soldiers on both sides believing they will bring in a new period of peace (or enslavement) which will better the world (for their own kind). It is therefore easy to see how people cling to the Lord of the Rings by applying it to their own lives and the political and social climates in which they find themselves. In that sense Tolkien has been hugely successful in his desire to give the myth back to English people. The “system” will be described as the Eye of Sauron, NSA computers, the CIA, nosey nanny statists etc. all being compared to the machinations of the wicked characters in the War of the Ring. Heroes and heroic last stands for noble causes are easily compared with the people of Rohan and Gondor and corruption is pointed out in the characters of Denethor or Boromir, both being tempted by the ring in similar ways, wanting to use evil objects/subjects for positive ends. This form of applying myth to current situations is ancient and Europeans in particular have done it for millennia, eventually encouraging the repetition of these events to the point of living them out almost identically again. It seems hugely ironic then that Tolkien may have had a hand in the repetition of such a myth coming into the forefront of the European psyche, especially as we face hordes of eastern and southern invaders into Europe and the majority of Sauron’s human allies were Haradrim, Southrons, and Easterlings, a blindingly obvious mix of Ottoman, Persian, Arabic, and African cultures bent on the destruction of the old crumbling, morally vacuous empires of Gondor, Rohan, and Arnor.Leaving the strict sense of allegory behind we can loosely see a pattern emerge for our own benefits especially in the sense of seeing patterns of similarity between our own predicament as men of Tradition and that faced by the characters in the War of the Ring. Arnor then emerges geographically and culturally as a kind of Scottish/Scandinavian mountainous area where the once semi-immortal heroes of the sunken continent of Numenor lived, a clear reference to the ideas of Atlantis and Hyperborea which Tolkien was known to enjoy. Anyone interested in the linking of this land with that of the North Sea islands should read the appendices to “Fall of Arthur” by Christopher Tolkien where he expounds on his father’s writings of Tol Eressea and the hidden isle of everlasting youth of the Celts and Britons, etc. The Shire is obviously the south west of England and anyone who doubts this needs to come to Wiltshire, Oxfordshire, Gloucestershire, Somerset, etc. and spend some time among west country folk to see that the Hobbits are alive and well at county fairs and farmers unions around the rural backwaters, still worrying about who has the best sheep and pigs far more than wars in far off lands. Rohan then slips neatly into the German territory, what would have once been the Mark where the horse-riding German warlords conquered and controlled most of what the Romans called Germania and pushing constantly into neighbouring lands. Gondor then becomes what was once unified with Germany as the Holy Roman Empire, i.e. the split Empire under Rome and Constantinople. Again Tolkien was clear that the White City of Minas Tirith was Constantinople and the savagery of its fall at the end of the War of the Ring echoed the brutal sack of the city by the invading Turks; the only brutal point about that fact being that the White City did fall and the enemy still control it.Bringing this all back to a useful angle leaves us with the following points; history, like myth moves in patterns and cycles, and the mythic structure of the “great war” which Tolkien laid out in both the Silmarilion and the Lord of the Rings (which themselves mirror each other in strange forms) follows the same pattern as our own history and the current struggle we face. All around us are the citizens of the fallen empire of Gondor and Rohan, all around us are spiritual orcs, mutilated traitors who have betrayed everything to a foreign alien and evil god, all around us are the soldiers of the once great kingdom, beaten, down trodden, certain of failure, unprepared and unwilling to fight. All they have binding them to each other is a sense that there was once something better, they have the legends and myths of their people, and even though once great cities like Minas Morgul and Osgiliath have fallen into enemy hands, the embittered people of Gondor endure, even though a false king sits on the throne and the true king resides unknown and ignored in the wilderness somewhere in the far north. That binding sense of unity the inhabitants of Middle Earth retain is Tradition, it is the sense of a great Golden Age when gods (elves) and men walked together and as that age is slowly receding and dying a great myth has died with it and continues to crumble brick by brick. The concept of Riding the Tiger, then, essentially becomes the concept of carrying the Ring back to Mordor to be destroyed, a hopeless task, certain to fail, but one we do nonetheless.In this article I’d like to look at three core moments of despair which grip major characters and the entirety of the struggle itself to destroy the Ring of power and defeat the Eye of Sauron. In the Fellowship of the Ring there is a moment of great doubt and it is voiced perfectly by one character, the same occurs again in the Two Towers and again in the Return of the King and each time a great eucatrastrophe occurs, when suddenly the powers of darkness are flipped and a character or pair of characters face something spiritual, overcome it, and advance onwards. This is crucial to both Tolkien’s entire work and our own Traditional application, especially of concepts like Riding the Tiger.

 FELLOWSHIP OF THE RINGThat moment in Fellowship of the Ring is when the fellowship itself has been shattered by the Uruk Hai and split into three groups; Frodo and Sam carry the ring alone on a perilous path through a perpetual valley of the shadow of death which just gets worse and worse as they advance, Merry and Pippin have been captured by Orcs and are being carried to Isengard where when it is discovered they are not the ring bearers they will be executed, and the main warriors are scattered by the Orcs only to regroup and find Boromir mortally wounded at the hands of Lurtz, Aragorn slays the chief Uruk and goes to Boromir’s aid. We will quote the scene (as it appeared in the movie) in full and then assess it step by step.

BOROMIR – Frodo...where is Frodo?ARAGORN – I let Frodo go.BOROMIR – Then you did what I could not. I tried to take the ring from him.ARAGORN – The ring is beyond our reach now.BOROMIR – Forgive me, I did not see. I have failed you all.ARAGORN – No, Boromir. You fought bravely. You have kept your honour.BOROMIR – Leave it! It is over...the world of Men will fall and all will come to darkness and my city to ruin.ARAGORN – I do not know what strength is in my blood, but I swear to you... I will not let the White City fall, nor your people fail...BOROMIR – Our people...our people...I would have followed you, my brother...my captain, my King.ARAGORN – Be at peace, son of Gondor

So to begin with Boromir asks after the person he has wronged, he is panicky, he believes he has broken the fellowship and ruined the quest (which he has in some ways, but for a better end), Aragorn assures him all is well, that Frodo continues on the mission. Boromir is broken and confesses to his crime, he knows Aragorn is the better captain, better leader, he refused the ring’s temptation and proved himself where Boromir failed, he pleads forgiveness and begins to despair. This is the position many Traditionalists and Nationalists find themselves in when plans are foiled or original measures they took to combat the enemies they see on all sides were thwarted and they see certain failure, they despair and they have a realisation at how foolish their early methods were. A more sensible character around them voices Aragorn’s assurance, "you fought bravely and have kept your honour," but Boromir and the despairing Traditionalist continue, "leave it, it is over, the world of men will fall and all will come to darkness and my city to ruin."Here then is the crucial answer which the redemptive character gives, there is strength in the blood, the hereditary right of the king to rule is not in question and Aragorn and Boromir’s earlier argument about his right to claim the throne of Gondor is brought back, Aragorn essentially promising that he will do what is necessary. He describes the people of Gondor as your people, pointing to the alienation between the men of Arnor and the men of Gondor and Rohan, but Boromir, filled with the realisation of Aragorn’s aristocratic spiritual strength, repeats, “our people.” Then comes his great moment, the full U-turn of his despairing moment, "I would have followed you to the end," to the very pits of Mordor, fighting tooth and nail for their country, as brothers, no longer separated by the old borders and old animosity of different interpretations of tactic, in death it is all washed away, my brother, my captain, my King. This moment is the first when Aragorn is referred to as King by one of the characters and it is a critical realisation for all involved. In that last moment Aragorn is King of the united kingdom of Arnor, Rohan, and Gondor, and Boromir is forgiven of his moment of weakness and dies in the position of a knight and son of Gondor in the words of the ranger who is now a king on the unstoppable path to his rightful throne.These moments speak volumes to the way the despairing Man of Tradition can be brought round, they are central to the myth Tolkien spoke of being given back to the English people. In the moment of weakness and doubt the faithful man almost destroys his mission through desperation for power or the opportunity of ending the fight quickly, but he is wrong and he does harm to those he seeks to protect. The voice of reason and certainty in the person of Aragorn is intended to echo that of Christ or Arthur or Beowulf in their own myths and legends where they reassure a trusted friend and comrade that all is in hand, all has gone well, no wrong has truly been done and the war is not ended, there is still fight and strength in those who continue on.This is crucial for us to understand as Europeans. When one of our number makes a mistake, despairs and sees only enemies, ruination and annihilation, those of us who are certain of victory have a responsibility to stand up and say with Aragorn, “I swear to you, I will not let the White City fall nor our people fail.” It is not a meaningless piece of rhetoric, it cuts to the very core of the European myth, we will not fail

 THE TWO TOWERSThe second time in the trilogy when someone faces ultimate despair again features Aragorn and is in my opinion the fundamental turning point of the entire story. Each book contains a eucatastrophe but the one in the Two Towers is the eucatrastrophe par excellence for all of the characters involved.Right at the end of the battle of Helm’s Deep the characters face certain death and their resolve to fight honourably begins to waver. Once again, the groups are split, Helm’s Deep has been virtually sacked by Uruks, Gandalf is gone, the Rohirrim are lost, the army of Rohan has been slaughtered and the women and children will be slaughtered by the horde pounding at the door.

THEODEN - The fortress is taken. It is over.ARAGORN - You said this fortress would never fall while your men defend it. They still defend it. They have died defending it.ARAGORN - Is there no other way for the women and children to get out of the caves? Is there no other way?GAMLING - There is one passage. It leads into the mountains. But they will not get far. The Uruk-hai are too many.ARAGORN - Tell the women and children to make for the mountain pass. And barricade the entrance!THEODEN - So much death. What can Men do against such reckless hate?ARAGORN - Ride out with me. Ride out and meet them.THEODEN - For death and glory.ARAGORN - For Rohan. For your people.THEODEN - Yes.........Yes.........The horn of Helm Hammerhand......shall sound in the Deep......one last time.THEODEN - (placing his hand on Aragorn's shoulder) Let this be the hour when we draw swords together.THEODEN - Fell deeds, awake. Now for wrath......now for ruin and a red dawn.THEODEN - Forth Eorlingas!

Again, let’s break this down. Theoden stands a broken king, all his words and his bravado have been shattered, he was certain of victory, all his hopes had been pinned on using the tactics that had worked before and this new enemy, the Uruk Hai (and their suicide bomber), have broken the wall and annihilated his men. He says without hope “the fortress is taken, it is over,” Aragorn angrily retorts that Theoden (a fellow king) had said with certainty that the fortress would never fall whilst his men defend it, perhaps Aragorn here is feeling the fear as well that his promise to Boromir to not let the White City fall would also face similar despair. Theoden does not answer Aragorn’s anger and instead stares at the floor. Aragorn immediately turns to concern for the women and children and asks if there is a way for them to escape, just as we face the same concerns in Europe, whilst the men of our nations sit and despair, staring glumly at the floor, women and children are raped and murdered.Theoden then enters what I believe to be the state of mind every European Traditionalist and Nationalist is currently feeling, “what can men do against such reckless hate?” He has no answers, he has no tactics, his tactics failed, he has nothing but despair and hatred for his enemy but no way to act, nothing which feels like it will work. And then, then Aragorn speaks. “Ride out with me, ride out and meet them,” the answer of the heroic man, the man with vigour and hope and pride in himself and his people, a true King, he says the answer is to fight. And again Theoden gives a despairing answer, the answer our men would give in this day, “for death and glory.” All they see is the certainty of death and extinction so all they can say is “at least we can say we stood against them.” NO! Aragorn responds, “for Rohan, for your people.” This is the moment the entire story flips, a despairing king realises his duty, the great stories of his ancestors, he realises the power of myth, he senses the great moment of the great hour of the great age and he feels forces of the great age moving through him. “Yes, yes, the horn of Helm Hammerhand shall sound in the deep one last time.” It does not matter that he believes they will all die, it does not matter that he still believes there is no hope, he has chosen to act and he has chosen to fight back.The European man stands upon the same precipice, our women and children are in the caves, but the enemy is at the door, they are weeping, “they are at the door, they have broken through,” and all about us stand stunted, staring, slack jawed men who stutter and weep, “what can men do against such reckless hate,” and all we need, all we need, is an Aragorn to stand up and say with a loud voice, for all of Europe to hear, “ride out with me, ride out and meet them, not for death, not for glory, but for Europe, for our people.” I do not doubt for a second that all true men of Europe would stand with one voice and say together, “we will follow you to the end, brother, captain, king.”

 RETURN OF THE KINGThe last moment of doom and despair comes at the final battle, when all of the men of Rohan and Gondor have risen up to defend their nation, they have ridden to the field of battle, the old alliances have been honoured, the armies of the world are gathered at the fields in front of Minas Tirith and man of Gondor and Arnor stand opposing the forces of darkness, Easterling, Haradrim and Southron and make war to the knife.In the great castle of the White City the false king has gone mad, the city wall has been breached, all appears to be lost –

GANDALF - Retreat! The city is breached. Fall back to the second level. Get the women and children out. Get them out. Retreat.The orcs enter the city and slaughter anyone in their path, women and children scream as they are butchered.GANDALF - Fight! Fight to the last man. Fight for your lives.PIPPIN: Gandalf! Gandalf! Denethor has lost his mind. He’s burning Faramir alive!GANDALF -Up! Quickly!As Gandalf and Pippin ride up the city the Witch King lands in front of them.GANDALF - Go back to the abyss! Fall into the nothingness that awaits you and your master!WITCH KING - Do you not know death when you see it, old man? This is my hour!WITCH KING - You have failed! The world of men will fall.

Again (!) this theme is repeated, at Boromir’s death the focus was on the White City falling, at Helm’s Deep Theoden despaired that the fortress had fallen and all was lost and now from the lips of the enemy himself the declaration, “the world of men will fall, you have failed, this is my hour.” Does this declaration not resound from the lips of every Communist, Liberal, government politician, and Islamist across the world? Do we not hear it all the time from every one of the enemies of Europe? You have failed, your empire has fallen, your people will be wiped out, you will be punished, this is our time.And once again, the same thing happens, the eucatastrophe, the horn is blown in the distance, Gandalf and the Witch King look up, both of them surprised as the horns blow again, as something from the north gathers on the horizon. The Rohirrim appear with the rising sun and stand ready for battle.

THEODEN - Eomer, take your Eored down the left flank.EOMER - Flank ready!THEODEN - Gamling, follow the King’s banner down the centre. Grimbold! Take your company right after you pass the wall. Forth and fear no darkness!THEODEN - Arise! Arise riders of Theoden. Spears shall be shaken, shields shall be splintered, a sword day, a red day ere the sun rises!!Theoden rides across the front of the men, running his sword along all their spears.THEODEN - Ride now, ride now! Ride! Ride for ruin and the world’s ending! DEATH!ARMY - DEATH!THEODEN - DEATH!ARMY - DEATH!THEODEN - DEATH!THEODEN - DEATH!EOWYN/MERRY - DEATH!THEODEN - Forth Eorlingas!

Gone is the man who despaired at the battle of Helm’s Deep. Here stands a true son of Rohan, and giving frank and sharp orders to his men finishes with a staunch command “forth, and fear no darkness.” Then begins his speech to his men, most of whom are certain to die, but he has experience behind him now, he has faced worse odds and he has lived and he has triumphed, he has the fire of victory in him now, but he gives the opposite speech and in my opinion steals the show from Aragorn in terms of rousing words. He does not encourage his men to victory, he calls them to rise, arise and he promises that their spears will be shaken, their shields splintered, this will be a sword day, a red day, a day of blood and violence and savage death. As he rides in front of them clashing his sword against their spears he calls them to ride for ruin and the world’s ending. Then begins a chant which every fascist and nationalist from the 1920’s and 30’s would have warmly appreciated “Death! Death! Death! Death! Death! Death! Death!” This is no meaningless war cry, this is the battle chant of European men, and as they ride from a trot to a gallop they are certain of their place in their history.That Aragorn returns as King riding a white horse and enters the battlefield with an army of dead knights, saves the city and massacres the enemy army is for me by this point moot, because the Riders of Rohan have had the victory of the day, when all was lost, all was beyond hope and everyone was despairing, when the Witch King declared this to be his hour, the men of Rohan stole it from him.CONCLUSIONSThis is our myth. British men--European men--can look to the Lord of the Rings as a cyclical tale of eternal imperial might which has faced the men who call this continent home. We have faced Moors in Spain, Huns and Mongols from the East, Ottomans from the South, and savages from all over the world trying to take our countries by force and to enslave our people, rape our women, and murder our sons and daughters. But each time an Aragorn, a Theoden, an Arthur, Beowulf, and Sigurd has emerged from among the men of the north and raised an army in defense of her borders. Each time the borders of our Europe are threatened, when orcs run rampant in our streets, when our old cities fall and the enemies without and within begin to openly declare their desire for us to be destroyed, wiped from the face of the earth, that is when a Leonidas, a Charles Martel, a Crusading Army, a Holy League arises and says enough.Again I will repeat, as Traditionalists and Europeans we stand at the brink of our Helms Deep, when all will be lost, when every man and woman and child thinks, there is nothing left, we are doomed, what can be done? And a man will rise up from somewhere in the north and say “ride out with me, ride out and meet them.”Until that day brothers and sisters, do not despair. We are certain to win. Read more from Craig Fraser where this article was originally posted, at http://www.sigurd.org.uk/journal/

The View From Olympus: Another Strategic Failure

On Wednesday, President Obama outlined his strategy for dealing with ISIS. It is a strategy set up for failure, because the means are insufficient to the desired ends.President Obama has set the goal as destroying ISIS. The phrase he used in his speech to the nation was "degrade and ultimately destroy" ISIS. Secretary of State John Kerry had already announced this objective. According to the September 8 New York Times, Kerry said, "We have the ability to destroy ISIL (ISIS). It may take a year, it may take two years, it may take three years. But we're determined it has to happen." The same day's Times reported on its front page,

The Obama administration is preparing to carry out a phased campaign against the Islamic State in Iraq and Syria that may take three years to eventually destroy the terrorist army . . ."What I want people to understand,“ Mr. Obama said in an interview broadcast Sunday on NBC's “Meet the Press," "is that over the course of months, we are going to be able to not just blunt the momentum" of the militants, "we are going to systematically degrade their capabilities; we're going to shrink the territory that they control; and, ultimately, we're going to defeat them," he added.

Those are maximalist objectives. But the means President Obama announced are not sufficient to attain them, absent a great deal of good fortune. This is not because the president is "weak." It is because the U.S. military is a one-trick pony. That one trick is to bomb. As President Johnson said in frustration during the Vietnam War, “Bomb, bomb, bomb, that's all my generals know how to do.“To see how inadequate the means are for the announced strategic ends, it is helpful to evaluate the President's plans on John Boyd's three levels of war: the physical, the mental, and the moral.Physically, the president's strategy relies on air power. The reasons air power alone will fail, as it always has, are many. The enemy quickly finds ways to conceal and protect himself from air attack. It's harder in desert country, but by no means impossible. Irregular light cavalry forces such as ISIS are difficult to distinguish from civilians from the air, and they will quickly intermingle their columns with traveling civilians so the air strikes kill women and kids. They will lose any specialized military equipment, but they don't depend on that.For an air campaign to be effective, it must act in cooperation with competent ground forces. In Kurdistan, those exist. They do not exist elsewhere in Iraq, as the disintegration of the Iraqi army demonstrated. Shiite militias will fight, but are usually poorly trained and bring moral baggage, as noted below. There could be an effective ground force working with our air power in Syria, in the form of the Syrian Arny of President Bashar al Assad and its highly competent ally, Hezbollah, but President Obama has ruled that out for ideological reasons. The "moderate Syrian opposition" he wants to rely on consists of twelve men living outside Syria in luxury hotels. It is a chimera.If our military were competent, it could offer the president the option of a small--2500 to 25,000-man--"Afrika Korps" that could employ maneuver warfare on the ground, cooperating with American air power, to serve as the chi force to the Iraqi Army's and militias' cheng force, much as Rommel did for the Italians in North Africa. But the Pentagon can't do that. The generals would quickly tell the President they would need at least 250,000 men to go in on the ground. Otherwise, the only option is bombing. So we'll bomb.We will supposedly create effective allies on the ground through American training. Has anyone else noticed that all the armies we train lose, starting with South Vietnam? We train them in obsolete Second Generation war, war dependent on vast firepower and logistics they do not and cannot have. We trained the Iraqi Army that just broke and ran. So the prescription is more of the same? Again, it is all the U.S. military knows how to do.On Boyd's mental level, a continuous air war above ISIS, similar to that which Israel has waged in Gaza, even during times of relative peace, will be wearing to ISIS and the civilians in areas it controls. ISIS will suffer attrition. But because it is just one problem that requires adaptation, not a cascade of ever-greater problems, it will not pull ISIS apart. Once you've seen the one-trick pony's one trick, you don't care much about seeing it a second time, or a five hundredth.It is on the moral level, Boyd's most powerful level of war, that President Obama's strategy is the weakest. The September 11 New York Times quoted one American "security official" saying, “We cannot be seen as the Shiite air force," but in Iraq that is what we will be. On the ground, we will be acting in support of an overwhelmingly Shiite Iraqi Army (what's left of it) and Shiite militia. That will drive Iraqi Sunnis toward ISIS.By attacking ISIS, a force with few air defenses, from the air, we will fall once again into the doomed role of Goliath endlessly stomping David. That will strengthen ISIS‘s moral appeal and serve as a highly effective recruiting tool for them.In the region where it operates, ISIS's moral strength is already great and growing. Contrary to what President Obama said Wednesday night, ISIS represents true Islam, pure Islam, Islam as it poured out of the Arabian deserts to overwhelm Christian North Africa and the Christian Levant in the 7th century. That gives it tremendous moral appeal to Arab Muslims, especially if they are young men with nothing to do, which is the one product Arab societies overproduce. As air attack has its usual effect of pushing those under bombardment closer together while giving them a burning desire for revenge against enemies they cannot reach, ISIS's power at the moral level of war will grow by leaps and bounds. Again, that is power at the most decisive level of war--against which all we can pose is some attrition.So failure is as guaranteed as anything in war can be. When President Obama's strategy fails, the war party in Washington will howl that America's "credibility" is at stake. President Obama or his successor will be subjected to great pressure, not to acknowledge failure and get out, but to escalate. That will mean, once again, sending hundreds of thousands of American troops to fight another war in the Middle East--and suffer another defeat, because we do not know how to fight Fourth Generation war.

Victoria: Chapter 26

Back when we were establishing the armed forces of the Northern Confederation – just Maine at the time – I had sent one of our Christian Marines, Captain Rick Hoffman, formerly of the U.S. Navy, down to Portland to see what might be done about creating a fleet. Hoff had his work cut out for him, since our only ship was the LPH John Ross pirated when he came north.I hadn't paid much attention since to what Hoff was up to, partly because we hadn't needed a navy yet and partly because he had a mission order and could be trusted to carry it out. I figured by now he ought to have done something, so I ordered him to our HQ in Worcester to help plan a naval battle."Waal, do we have a navy or don't we?" I asked the good captain when he reported in, "I hope we do, because we sure need one right now.""We have a navy of sorts," Hoff replied. "It's nothing the old U.S. Navy would have called a navy, but I think it can fight.""Can it cut the Islamics in Boston off from the sea?""I think it can, if we use a combined arms approach," Hoff replied."What do you have in mind?" I asked."We've developed two types of warships," Hoff explained. "I should call them 'warboats,' because they're pretty small. The first is a gunboat, armed with either a ‘Stalin organ’ multiple rocket launcher or a Russian 240 mm mortar. They are converted fishing boats, which means they can carry plenty of ammunition, but they're slow. Our second warboat type is torpedo boats, converted from speed boats.""Did the Russians send us torpedoes?" I asked."No. They don't have torpedo boats any more, and the experiments we tried shooting their submarine torpedoes from converted speedboats were not very promising: We're using spar torpedoes.""Spar torpedoes?" I asked, not sure I'd heard right. "Hell, those disappeared with the Civil War. I'm all for Retroculture, but isn't this taking it a little far? How will our crews survive ramming a torpedo on a stick into a Muslim destroyer?""We're a little more modern than that," Dick replied. "We're up to about the 1880s. After the Civil War, in Europe, navies developed spar torpedoes that could be towed behind and off to one side of a torpedo boat. Instead of ramming the target, the torpedo boat could cut ahead or astern of it, and the towed torpedo would still hit the ship’s side. That's the kind we've got.""Still sounds pretty risky to me," I commented."War is dangerous," Hoff reminded me."Well, you should have the advantage of surprise, anyway," I responded. "The Islamics won't be expecting a type of attack no one has made in more than a century. How do you plan to use your boats to cut Boston off from the sea?""There, I need some help," Hoff answered. "We can't do it alone. It has to be a combined arms operation – the old rock-paper-scissors trick. If we have surprise, and I think we will, I believe we can sink or disable the five warships the Islamics now have off Boston. Once the warships are gone, the transports are dead meat, and we can set up a blockade. What we can't do is deal with the warships they will send to replace those we sink, because by then they'll be on the lookout for our torpedo boats.“The best answer to those ships are our F-16s. But they can't operate near Boston so long as the Islamics have air cover out of Logan. So our navy needs to take out that air cover to allow our aircraft to keep their ships away.""Can you do that?" I asked."Yes, I think so," Dick said. "I've talked to the Boys in Utica, and they'll launch a massive feint toward Boston with every F-16 we've got at the same time we make our torpedo attack on the Islamic warships. That will make the Islamics launch their aircraft in response. Assuming our torpedoes hit, the way will be clear for our gunboats to blow the hell out of Logan airport. When the Muslim F-35s and F-16s get back, the only place they'll have to land is in the ocean. After that, our F-16s will have clear skies to defend the approaches to Boston from any more ships the Muslims may send.""OK, you've thought this through well," I said. "Combined arms is the answer. As always in war, the outcome is in the hands of Dame Fortune, but you've done everything possible to make her job easy. How soon can you do it?""It will take about three days to infiltrate our gunboats and torpedo boats into the Boston area," Hoff answered. "Their weapons systems are concealed, so they look just like other coastal traffic, which the Islamics haven't blocked. We want to attack at first light with the torpedo boats, when their warships will be silhouetted by the dawn and we can come out of the shadows. The gunboats will already be in Boston's outer harbor, posing as the fishing boats they were. Utica is ready now, so let's say we make D-day September 10th, four days from now. We need to move fast, or there won't be any white Christians left alive in Boston.""There may not be any by the 10th," I said, "The one thing Muslims seem to do efficiently is murder. Anyway, I'll need that time to get our ground forces in position to attack. We should move when you do, and we'll need to bring up artillery. A good artillery stonking should rattle them. But I fear we'll still face heavy urban combat, which is the nastiest job on the face of the planet.”"I'll leave that part to you. I'll be busy enough playing 'Canoes vs. Battleships,'” Hoff said. "But I do have a question for you. All the attempts at forced conversion to Islam we've seen in Boston, and all the crucifixions, have been of whites, Hispanics, and Asians. What has happened to Boston's black Christians?""Hmm, that is a good question," I answered. "To be honest, I hadn't thought of it. I guess I just assumed they were being left alone because they were black. But we shouldn't assume that. Islamics don't like black Christians any better than white Christians, as they've shown by slaughtering hundreds of thousands of them in Africa. I'll look into it."

***

After Hoff left for Portland to get his Navy moving south, I asked our intel officer, Capt. Walthers, what he knew about the fate of Boston's blacks. He hadn't asked the question either. But he said some blacks had fled through our lines, with the white refugees, and he'd see if he could find out what they knew.I went back to work, writing the orders to deploy our forces close-in around Route 128 in preparation for the assault. The Islamics still had not attacked us with air, but I didn't want their air recon to pick our movements up and tip them off something was coming. So we still had to move at night, on back roads, in small units. There were plenty of houses and barns to hide in during the daytime.That evening, just after I'd finished giving the last motorcycle courier movement orders for the artillery, Walthers rang me up."Skipper, I've got someone you may want to talk to, a black fellow who got out of Boston just last night. He says he knows you, and he knows what's happening to Boston's blacks. His name is Matthews.""Shit, Gunny Matthews? Yes, I know him. Send him up to my office.""Aye aye, sir. He's on his way."Mathews was the hero of the Christian Marines' first battle, the Battle of the Housing Project. I'd lost touch with him since. Whatever the Islamics were doing to Boston's blacks, it was great knowing he was still among the living.My door was open, as usual, and I soon saw a very downcast Gunny Matthews standing in it. I got up to shake his hand and congratulate him on his escape. He wouldn't take my hand, and he wouldn't look me in the eye. That wasn't the Gunny. "What's wrong?" I asked. "Are you hurt?""Terribly hurt, sir," he replied. "But I did it to myself. You don't want to shake my hand, sir, not after what I've done.""Sit down," I ordered. "Now, what's this crap all about? You're still a Christian Marine, and you're still my friend. What happened to you?""No sir, I'm not a Christian Marine anymore. I'm not a Christian any more. I have some information I think you should hear, sir, but once I've told you, and told you how I got it, I'll be gone. I'm not fit to be around decent people no more."“As your commander, I'll be the judge of that," I replied. "Tell me what happened to you, what you did, and most important, what you know about the fate of Boston's black Christians.”“Yes, sir. Well, sir, you know what's been happenin' to the white folks in Boston. Back in our churches, we wondered whether the Black Muslims would do the same to us. A few days after they started crucifying white Christians there on the Common for everyone all over the world to see, they began rounding up black folk, too. We all knew people who 'disappeared.' Some came back as Muslims. They told us they'd seen other blacks refuse to convert, but they didn't know what happened to 'em.”“So, sir, I decided to try and find out. I went straight to the Black Muslim's headquarters in the State House and told ‘em I wanted to become a Muslim. I figured if I volunteered, they'd trust me more, and maybe I could find something out.”“So I did it. I said the words, ‘There is no god but God, and Mohammed is his Prophet.’ I turned my back on Jesus Christ, sir, and I denied him. That's why I said I can't be a Christian Marine any more. Of course I didn't mean it, it was a, what did you used to call it? Something French, oh, yeah, it was a ruse de guerre. But still I said it, so I guess I'm no Christian anymore.”“But it worked, sir. They'd had a few other people just come in and volunteer, but not many, so I was something special. They gave me the rank of major in their Black Muslim army, and some Arab handed me a whole bunch of his country's money. They put me on the staff that was overseeing the conversion of other black people to Islam. There, I found out what they're doing to black Christians who won't convert.”The Gunny paused, whether for breath or for drama I didn't know. "And what are they doing to them?" I asked, playing my part.“They're selling them, sir. As slaves, back in the Arab countries. When a plane or a ship arrives with Muslim troops or equipment, it doesn't go home empty. It goes back filled with black Christians, sir, to be sold as slaves."“You're sure of this?” I asked, realizing we'd just been handed a potent weapon if it were true.“Yes, sir. I've got proof. I've got it with me.” Gunny Matthews reached into a canvas bag he'd been carrying and hauled out a bundle of hand-written notes.“The Arabs, once they had the black folk who wouldn't convert rounded up, told 'em what was gonna happen to them. They thought they'd get some more converts to Islam that way. And they did get a few. But most black Christians are strong folk, sir. They're like the church ladies you remember. Unlike me, they wouldn't deny their Lord and Savior, Jesus.”“After they'd been told they were goin' back into slavery, when I could be alone with them, I told 'em that if they wanted to write their families and tell 'em where they were going, I'd try to get the letters through. These are their letters. I'd still like to get them to their families, like I promised, sir, but I thought you might have some use for them first.”“Gunny, you done good,” I said, with a grin on my face. “I think it's safe to say I – we – will make very good use of those letters. Are you ready to go on the air, letters and all?”“Sir?”“Gunny, the forces of the Northern Confederation are about to attack, to liberate Boston. You have just given me the keys to the city. If you'll do it, I'll call a news conference where you will tell the whole world's media what you just told me, and you'll show them the letters. I'll time it so it hits Boston right before our assault. I suspect every black in Boston, including the Black Muslims, will go for the throat of the nearest member of the Islamic Expeditionary Force as soon as he hears what his ‘allies’ have been up to. We'll have those camel-drivers between two fronts and they'll collapse in a heart-beat. You've given me the most powerful psychological weapon since Germany shipped Lenin to St. Petersburg in 1917.”“I'll do whatever you want to help my people, sir. All my people, black and white,” the Gunny replied. “I know I'm not a Christian any more, but to me, all Christians are still my people.”"Gunny, listen to me. You're still a Christian, as good a Christian as any and better than most,” I said. “Remember a guy named Peter? He denied Christ three times before the cock crowed, and he was the rock on which Christ built his Church. Christ knew what you were doing. I strongly suspect he put you up to it. Your idea was too good not to come from the Holy Spirit.”“I don't know what the one unforgivable sin is, but it surely isn't using a ruse de guerre. Not only are you still a Christian Marine, when you get to Heaven, I suspect they'll have a special big show when they give you your crown, with all those good Church Ladies belting out some Gospel number to shake the rafters. As I said, you done good. And you've helped save the lives of lots of other Christians, including my troops.”I could see relief dawning in the Gunny's face. Planting some hope was all I could do now, because we had a city to storm.

***

September 7, 8, and 9 were days of gut-wrenching tension. Our troops and "warboats" were moving into position. Gunny Matthews was briefing key members of the international press on the fate of Boston's blacks, with release embargoed until noon on the 9th. The weather forecast for the 10th was good for our navy; some morning fog then clear, with light winds. Our infantry was deployed to attack, not on major routes, such as I-90 and I-93, but on all the back roads and minor streets. The Islamic Expeditionary Force had focused on defending the major roads, leaving the small stuff to their Black Muslim allies. I was relying on Matthews' message to clear them.Meanwhile, all I could do was wait and gulp down Maalox. Bill Kraft reminded me of what von Rundstedt did when he got the word that the Allies were landing on the beaches of Normandy. He went out into the garden and trimmed the roses. He had already done all he could, and anything more would just get him into his subordinates' knickers where he shouldn't be. It was a good lesson, but it didn't untie the knots in my stomach.The first action opened on schedule at noon on the 9th. At a massive press conference with reporters from all over the world, Gunny Matthews told his story. We beamed it into Boston, live, on radio and television. Then, the Gunny read, over the air, all the letters he had brought out with him. We knew they would authenticate his account in the minds of our Boston listeners, because the names and family events mentioned in them would be recognized. Those who heard the words of their own wife, husband, child, or grandparent would tell others the letters were real.By the evening of the 9th, Boston was crackling with light weapons fire, and the deeper reports of tank guns and RPGs were starting to be heard. Boston's blacks were turning on their Islamic “friends.”At first light on the 10th, among the fog banks drifting outside Boston's harbor, the lookouts on the five Islamic destroyers and frigates spotted some small boats messing about at low speed. Some were fishing boats, others the kind of speedboats used to run hashish between ship and shore in a trade both sides made money from. Nothing seemed unusual, on a blockade that had never been challenged. The lookouts knew the infidels had no navy, and besides, it was time for morning prayers.Precisely at prayer time, the speedboats gunned their engines and turned sharply toward the Muslim warships, on courses that would take them across their bow or stern. The spar torpedoes ran about 20 feet outboard of the torpedo boats and 100 feet astern. The morning calm was broken by the deep booming of underwater explosions as 250 pound charges blew truck-sized holes in the Prophet's war galleys.At the same time, the Islamic air controllers at Logan Airport picked up a mass formation of incoming Northern Confederation F-16s on their radar. Within minutes, Saudi F-35s were scrambling to intercept, followed by everything else that could fly. No one noticed that on the fishing boats near the end of the runways, crewman were taking the canvas covers off tubes planted amidships. The first rounds from our gunboats' mortars and rocket launchers began impacting the runways and support facilities at 06:40. There were no Islamic warships to interfere.Our zoomies badly wanted to get into furballs with the Islamic fighter aircraft, but I had forbidden it. Our pilots were better, and I was sure we would win, but I was also sure we'd take some losses. Never fight an enemy you can destroy without fighting. True to their orders, our F-16s turned tail and fled west when they picked up the lead Saudi F-35s closing on them. The Islamic aircraft turned back also, jabbering on their radios about how the Christian dogs were hopeless cowards. They got back to Boston to find Logan a burning heap of wreckage. Some tried to land anyway and became one more wreck amid the potholed runways. Others tried putting down on highways; the ones that made it were captured by our advancing infantry. Most ditched in the bay.With the Muslims' air force wiped out, our F-16s launched a second strike, this time for real. They finished off two Islamic warships that had remained afloat after our torpedo attacks, sank the Islamic transport ships and strafed and cluster-bombed the Muslim armor and artillery.Our ground assault had also kicked off at first light. Our infantry walked into a city-sized civil war. Everywhere, blacks were fighting troops from the Islamic Expeditionary Force. Militarily, the result was to open the door to us, since the blacks had gone after the Arabs, who were mostly on the main roads. The back streets were clear.Without any direction from General Staff headquarters, our forces moved to encircle the regular Islamic units. That made me proud, because it showed that the concept of achieving a decision through encirclement had taken hold. The effect in this case was a double encirclement: first a ring of blacks around the foreign forces, then an outer wall of Northern Confederation forces around the blacks.The question was, how would the blacks react? Would they fight both us and the foreign troops? Or would they welcome us as friends and liberators? Around noon on the 10th, I realized this would be the decisive question. It was not something I could determine sitting in an office in Worcester, no matter how good the comm (and ours was good, thanks to using Radio Shack gear and not the garbage the old U.S. forces had bought through their Soviet-model procurement system). I had to be there to get a feel for it. So I grabbed the chopper we kept ready at the door, and had a motorcycle recon squad meet me at Waltham. I took a soldier's bike and the rest of the squad led me into the city.A major pocket had been closed just south of Waltham, along I-90, between Newtonville and Route 128. In it was most of the Islamic armor, which had been put there to block an armor thrust by us that never happened. We'd blown bridges on I-90 before and behind the armor, so it couldn't move. On the other hand, we didn't have the heavy weapons to take it out. Tactically, it was a Mexican stand-off, but operationally they were toast because their shipping was gone.John Ross and his Marines had led the column that created this pocket. I found him on I-90, just west of the blown bridge that cut the road back to Boston. In our army, he wasn't surprised to find the Chief of the General Staff arriving on a dirt bike.“How's it goin', John?” was my formal greeting.“It's goin' good, best I can tell,” Ross replied. “From what I hear on the net, the rest of the Arabs are either caught in pockets like these guys, or are running for the harbor, where they'll find their ships sunk.”“It's over for the Islamic Expeditionary Force,” I said. “All that's left is for us to cut up their U.N. blue berets and use 'em as toilet paper. But it's not them I'm worried about. It's the local blacks. How are they reacting to you?”“None of them are shooting at us, and I've made sure we don't shoot at them,” John answered. “The black civilians have welcomed us and given us some good intel. Of course, most of them are Christian. You notice the markings on our vehicles?”I hadn't. John took me over to the Dodge pickup he was using as a command vehicle. Painted on the side was a white shield with a red Crusader cross. “You'll find this on just about every vehicle in our army. The men came up with it on their own, as we waited in our jump-off points,” he said. “The cross tells the local Christians we are friends.”“But the black troops are Black Muslims,” I said.“I think most of them are galvanized Muslims,” John replied. “And they all know what their Muslim 'brothers' have been doing to fellow blacks who wouldn't convert. I think many of them would come over to us, if we could talk to them.”“Why don't we try?” I suggested.I broke a whip antenna off a vehicle, tied my handkerchief to it and started walking forward. John Ross came with me, as did a Catholic chaplain, Father Murphy.The Black Muslims had built a small barricade of trucks and overturned cars between themselves and us. Beyond it, further west on the pike, they had a larger barricade built the same way between themselves and the Arabs. Periodically, the Arabs sent a tank shell into it, and the blacks responded with light weapons fire.As we approached the smaller barricade, we could see weapons pointed at us. “Stop,” a voice called out. “What d'ya want?”“We want to talk with you,” I replied. “A white flag means parley.”After about a minute of silence, another voice called, “Who do you want to talk with?”“All of you,” I answered.Again, silence. Then someone in cammies carrying an AK stood up on the barricade. “OK, come on,” he said.We climbed over the barricade and found a couple hundred Black Muslim militiamen gathered in front of us. Their faces showed uncertainty, not hate. They were caught between one enemy and one might-be enemy, which was not exactly a comfortable position. The man who had told us to come on said, “I'm Captain Malik al-Shawarma. What do you have to say to us?”“What's your real name?” I asked.He hesitated a moment, then answered, “John Ross.”Our John Ross grinned, then said, “I'm John Ross too. Glad to meet a cousin I didn't know.”That got a few chuckles, which was a good sign. “Captain Ross, I've got two things to say to you and your men,” I said. “First, you've been had. You've been conned, you've been swindled. This “Islam” stuff is crap. You're not Muslims. And the whole Black Muslim bit itself is just Father Divine and the Reverend Ike and the Kingfish all over again – a few folks who get rich by selling you their shit.”“Most of you, maybe all of you, became Black Muslims not because you believed it as a religion, but as one more way to ‘get Whitey.’ Well, it's been a long time since Whitey sold you as slaves, as your Islamic ‘friends’ have done with your real friends and family members. In your hearts you know that what your mother or grandmother taught you is true; Jesus Christ is Lord. He's the One sitting up there, the One we'll all meet some day. It's not some damn camel-driver who sits at the right hand of God.”“We all get conned on occasion. I got conned by a car company once. I bought a Saab, which is what you do when you own one. You got conned by Mr. Farrakhan and a bunch of rug merchants, and you bought a false religion. Once you realize that and dump this Black Muslim garbage, we have no quarrel with you, nor you with us.”“That's the second thing I have to say,” I continued. “We don't want to fight you. And I don't think you want to fight us. If you do, you'll lose. The whole Islamic fleet is on the bottom of the bay. Our aircraft will sink any new fleet that comes within 250 miles of Boston. You've got no way out – except to join us instead of fighting us.”“What do you mean by ‘join you?’” one militiaman asked.“First, renounce Islam. Then, turn in your weapons and go home,” I replied.“Most of us know we was had by Islam,” Captain Ross said. “Anything that makes slaves of black people is our enemy. But we want to kill these Arabs. They sent my own grandmother into slavery. Can we keep our weapons until that's done?”“No,” I replied, “because we don't want to kill the Islamic Expeditionary Force. We want to capture it, then trade it for the black Christians who chose slavery over renouncing their faith.”“You mean you're gonna get our people back?” Captain Ross asked, amazed.“That's exactly what I mean,” I answered. “Anyone who is strong enough to accept slavery rather than renounce Christ is someone we want as a citizen. We don't care what color someone is. We care about what a person believes and how they behave. The black Christians of Boston are our people too, and we want them back.”The militiamen looked at each other in astonishment. They'd been told what the “white devils” wanted was to put every black they could lay hands on in the kind of camp where they only came out through the chimney. Now, we were saying we wanted to bring back blacks someone else had gotten rid of.As usual, the moral level of war was the strongest. A voice came from the crowd, “You got a deal.” The rest nodded their agreement.“OK, start stacking your arms over here,” I said. “I need volunteers to team with my men and talk to the rest of the Black Muslims in this city. Our deal is open to everyone. Who's willing to help?” More than one hundred hands went up.After tossing his AK on the pile, one militiaman came up to me. “When we accepted Islam, or thought we did, they had us say, ‘The only god is God, and Mohammed is his Prophet.’ What can we say now to become Christians again?”I turned to Father Murphy for an answer. “You've already been baptized, son?” he inquired. The militiaman nodded yes. “Well then, you're still a Christian. Jesus Christ sees into your heart. He doesn't need any magic formula to know you are His.”“Isn't there anything we could do to give up Islam?” asked another from what had become a growing group around the priest.“Well, I suppose there is,” Father Murphy replied. “Are you willing to take Communion from a Catholic priest?”Again, the nods said yes. And with that, Father Murphy took some crackers from an MRE and a half-drunk bottle of Ripple found among the rubble and said Mass. As he intoned the Words of Institution, more and more of the former Black Muslims gathered around him, until he had them all. Both John Rosses and I knelt with them to receive the Body of Christ. I still don't know how the crackers from one MRE provided the Host for all those people, but they did.

***

The battle was over in one day, and thankfully, our casualties were light, as was the damage to Boston. By the 11th, the encircled elements of the Islamic Expeditionary Force knew their fleet was destroyed and their exit closed, so they asked for terms of surrender. We assured them they would be treated as POWs and exchanged for Boston's blacks, provided they left their equipment undamaged. They agreed, and we inherited a huge park of the latest tanks, artillery, and air defense weapons. For real war, most of it was inferior to the older, simpler gear we already had, but we still found ways to use it. 70-ton tanks work fine as coast artillery.With the revelation of the Islamic trade in black slaves, the Black Muslims ceased to exist. The vast majority turned Christian, and were welcomed back by the church ladies as prodigal sons. “General” al-Shabazz became Willy Welly again, and took up his sax in the cause of the WCTU. Some people wanted to hang him, but the consensus in Boston was that the Martyrs of the Common would rather have a convert than a corpse.Boston again became the capital of Massachusetts, and Massachusetts, shorn of its long-standing liberal illusions, was accepted into the Northern Confederation. Connecticut and Rhode Island came in, too, giving us a solid, defensible block of the old northeastern United States. Again, I had hope of demobilization and peace.But our war wasn't over yet. The next battles would be against poisons within.

The View From Olympus: The Next Move

President Obama's reluctance to just "do something" about ISIS is correct. He should be applauded, not criticized, for saying we do not yet have a strategy to deal with ISIS. It is not a simple problem. I suggested a strategy in a previous column, but if we adopt it, no one will notice. It is covert and takes time to work.However, ISIS's execution of another American may put irresistible pressure on the president. If so, there is something he can do that would have an effect. It would not be decisive, but it would create a problem for ISIS.ISIS has wisely adopted the Hezbollah model for 4GW organizations.It not only fights, it also provides the people under its control (if they are strict Sunnis) good government. Taxes are lowered, officials don't require bribes to do something, crime is suppressed, and people get services the state should provide but long ago ceased to do so. The obvious goal is to build legitimacy, the coin of the realm in Fourth Generation war.The U.S. could drive a wedge between ISIS and the people to whom it is trying to appeal. We should announce that we will "severely punish" ISIS for its murder of American citizens, and warn all civilians to leave all town and cities under ISIS's control. Then, we pick a town or small city, not too large, not too small, and flatten it. Not just "precision" strikes from an F-18 or two; we hit it with every B-52 and B-1 that can fly. Most of the bombs will just be making the rubble bounce.Then, we announce that we may (or by implication may not) give other places the same treatment. If the civilians flee, ISIS loses its logistics base and it has shown it cannot protect them. If ISIS forces people to stay, then we do hit some more places and lots of civilians die. Either way, ISIS loses legitimacy. Its bonds with the population are damaged if not shattered.Such an operation--we might call it Templar Express--requires stronger nerves than the Washington Establishment possesses. It relfects the reality that in this situation, if you are going to do anything, it has to seem big. Strategically, it isn't. It will not destroy ISIS.The usual hand-wringers will howl if we flatten a place full of civilians, but the Hama rule applies. It has to be over fast. You cannot keep up  a campaign like this very long.As the FMFM 1A, Fourth Generation War (K.u.K Austro-Hungarian Marine Corps) argues, for a state to prevail in 4GW, it must either take a slow, patient, careful approach in which it may suffer more casualties than it inflicts, or it must get very violent very fast--and get it over quickly. That is the Hama model. Regrettably, the leadership of almost all states tries to split the difference, because that is what politicians normally do. But that guarantees that the state loses.In the event that we do not split the difference here--most probably because Obama has the courage to continue to do nothing until we can identify a strategy with some promise of success--the president would do well to remember in future teapot crises two bits of advice. The first is from President Nixon, who was far and away our best president on foreign policy in the 20th century: It can be useful to be thought just a little bit mad. The other advice comes from a fellow who had some prominence mid-century: if you are going to act in a crisis, your action should be "Eiskalt und Blitzschnell"--icy cold and lightning fast. And don't ever, ever split the difference.

Victoria: Chapter 25

Summertime, and the blacks were uneasy. It had been hot in Boston over the last week, and July was the usual month for the usual riots. Now, Massachusetts would have to look to itself to put them down. There was no more 82nd Airborne standing by just in case. But it shouldn't be all that hard. The traditional "whiff of grape" from the Massachusetts State Police usually sent the rats running for their holes, once they'd looted the Koreans and Jews. No reason it should be any different this time.I clicked on the radio and caught a reporter speaking from the Boston Common. "A green flag is flying from the State House, and fires have broken out throughout Back Bay," he was saying. "Columns of cars and trucks festooned with green streamers, full of armed blacks, have been moving through central Boston, heading across the Charles River into Cambridge and west on the Mass Pike toward Brookline and Suffolk. I see people dressed in white moving onto the Common for what appears to be some sort of rally. We're told to expect an announcement soon from the State House, where General Hadji al-Malik al-Shabazz now has his headquarters."This didn't sound right at all. What were the blacks doing on Boston Common and in Cambridge? That wasn't their turf. Green flags? Some Muslim general? Did the looters bump into a Shriners' parade and the two get mixed? I needed to get the gouge on this, fast, so I called John Kelly, our Christian Marines' Massachusetts commander and now a colonel in the State Police."Col. Kelly's not in his office at present," said his worried-sounding secretary. "Would you care to leave a message?""No, I need to talk to him right now," I replied. "Patch me through to him over your radio net.""I'm sorry, sir, I can't do that. Our radio net is being jammed," she told me.Shit, what kind of rioting blacks have an electronic warfare cell? "OK, don't worry about it," I told her. "I'll get a hold of him another way."We had a Christian Marines satellite phone network which we didn't use unless we had to. I punched in John's number, and after about 20 rings he picked up. "Ire, thank God," he panted, using an old nickname earned by my sunny disposition. "We've about had it here. At least you can get the word out.""Word about what?" I replied. "What in hell is going on? Isn't this the usual summer ghetto free-fried-chicken-and-watermelon riot?""No way," Kelly replied. "This is a Black Muslim operation to take over all of Boston. It's organized and it's disciplined. They've already moved their command element into the State House. I'm trapped with about 20 other state cops on the top floor of the left wing of the building. John, I'm afraid it's the Little Big Horn for us."My mind immediately began racing, thinking of what we could do to put together a quick rescue mission. If there was one person I didn't want to lose, it was John Kelly. "Do you have any way out of there?" I asked, which was a dumb question since he'd already said he was trapped."Negative," he replied. "They're using gas, and we don't have masks with us. We're trying to throw the gas grenades out the windows as they shoot them in, but they've already gassed us from floor to floor. I've lost a lot of guys, John, and I'm afraid we're all toast unless you can get here in a big hurry. I'm expecting another assault within half an hour, and we've got nowhere left to go."How fast could we move? We had a few helos down at Portsmouth, New Hampshire. That was about 50 miles from Boston, as the crow flies. We had to get a scratch crew together, and they'd have to plan en route. About all we'd be able to do is hover over Kelly's wing of the State House and lower some lines."Can you get to the roof from where you are?" I asked John."Negative," he replied. That meant we'd have to try to lower the lines near windows and hope they could grab them, then pull themselves up. It would be a desperate attempt, but it was a desperate situation. Better a wrong action than no action."OK, John, hold on as best you can. This time Major Reno is coming through. Let me get things in motion and I'll call you again," I said."Thanks, Ire," he replied. "Thanks for everything, not just this. Whatever happens to us, what the Christian Marines have done has made a difference. In the end, that's all that counts. Out here."I immediately rang up the CO of the helo outfit at Portsmouth and explained the situation to him. He said he'd have a crew in half an hour. It would take another half hour, at the least, to get to Boston. If we made it in time, there was still an excellent chance the helicopter would get shot down as it sat over the State House, a big piñata for everybody to blaze away at. But we had to try.I also called Governor Bowen to let him know what I was doing. As usual, he wouldn't take my call, which saved me having to get his approval. If he'd disapproved, I would have gone ahead anyway.I picked up the sat phone and called John Kelly again to let him know the cavalry was coming. It would be close, but we had a chance. Like last time, it rang and rang. Finally, I heard a click. "Who dis?" a voice said in an accent I recognized all too well. Maybe it was one of Kelly's men."Put Colonel Kelly on," I ordered."Allah is Great! Allah gon' kill all da white devils!" the voice replied. "All da white devils gon' burn in hell! Ha ha ha ha...."It was over for John. I hoped it had been quick.

***

I canceled the rescue mission, then sat back to think. Should the Northern Confederation get involved in this? Massachusetts was not a member of the Confederation. It had remained loyal to the federal government until there was no federal government. We didn't owe Massachusetts anything. And if Boston burned, maybe that was just desserts for all those decades of Kennedys and Welds and liberal cultural rot. Whenever anybody had tried to defend our old Western culture, they'd screamed "Intolerance!" and shut them down. Now, we could let them see what kind of "tolerance" they would get from the Black Muslims.On the other hand, Massachusetts still held a lot of good Christians within its borders. John Kelly had been one. I remembered the folks around the table at Tune Tavern, in south Boston, where the Christian Marine Corps was founded. What was happening to them now, and to the rest of the Irish Catholics in that neighborhood? And if the Black Muslims succeeded in Boston, what effect would it have on the blacks in upper New York state's cities, which were part of the Confederation? Islam had spread there as well, as it had among blacks in virtually every city in the old USA.I recognized it was time for some Prussian advice. Bill Kraft was still in town, waiting for our big victory banquet that was scheduled for August 4, a date he had insisted upon for reasons he wouldn't explain. I found him comfortably ensconced in a Victorian garret at his boarding house, his nose in Sigismund von Schichtling's criticism of von Schlieffen."You hear the news from Boston, Herr Oberst?" I asked, thinking I could take him by surprise with the latest scoop."Indeed," he replied. "It's not surprising. It's the opening of Phase Two.""Phase Two of what?" I inquired, slightly deflated but curious."America's Second Civil War," he answered. "You didn't think it was over, did you?""Well, I guess I did," I said. "I hoped so, anyway. You think what's going on up in Boston is of more than local importance, I take it?""Very much so, as you will see," he responded. "The war in America has just intersected the Third World War, which has been going on for at least fifty years. You know the war I mean: the war of Islam against everybody else. Have you forgotten how we ended up with Egyptians in Bangor?""No, but I didn't connect the two," I said. "Are you suggesting what's going on in Boston has been planned elsewhere?""Your naiveté would be charming, were you not Chief of the General Staff," he scalded. "I am expecting a call shortly from Geneva." Following the demise of the United States, the UN had relocated to the old League of Nations building there. "While we wait, you might wish to rummage about the 'Bismarck' shelf among my books. He will be more relevant than von Moltke to what is coming.""Instead, why don't you put your book down and let me tell you what I'm thinking?" I said.Kraft obliged graciously, overlooking my shot back at him, and I shared with him the conflict in my own mind about whether we should get involved in Boston. He listened, expressionless, and let me say my piece."Seen only within itself, this question is difficult, as you've found it," he replied once I was done. "But it is transparent if we see it in its larger context.""What we are, John, is the West. We are Christendom, at least its remnants. It was for the West that we left the United States, once that country was taken over by the cultural Marxists, who are enemies of Christendom. The Northern Confederation is a Christian nation, or it is nothing. We've already seen where nothing leads, and I do not think we will make that error again.""Islam is an enemy of Christendom, and a deadly one. It has been our enemy since its beginning. All of North Africa, the Levant, Turkey, these areas were once Christian. You can ask our Egyptians what happens to Christians in those places now.""If we are part of Christendom, then we must fight the Islamics, because they will attack us as soon as they think the odds favor them. If they succeed in Boston, they will try the same thing in every one of our cities. Nor should you think the appeal of Islam will be only to blacks. They will shape and tune their message to white audiences as well, and they will penetrate them. They will use any means that work. Saudi Arabia used to pay tens of thousands of dollars to any American citizen who would convert to Islam.""John, let me put it to you as a question," Bill concluded. "We decided we were on Christendom's side against Islam when we accepted those Egyptian Christian refugees in Bangor. Then, we took on someone else's fight. Do you think we can walk away from the same conflict when it's being fought on our own southern border?"Again, I realized I'd thought too small. Bill sometimes missed some of the trees, but he always saw the forest. "I guess you're right, because that's the strategic perspective," I said. "But what do we do about Governor Bowen? If he has to make a decision on this grand a scale, he'll break out in assholes and shit himself to death.""The Bowen problem will soon solve itself," Kraft answered. "He is permanently on the edge of a nervous breakdown, and one day he'll go over it. Meanwhile, the governors of Vermont, New Hampshire, and New York are for intervention. I've already talked to them. So is a majority of Maine's state legislators. They are prepared to call an immediate referendum on the issue if you, as Chief of the General Staff, formally recommend the Northern Confederation intervene. The Egyptians in Bangor will go to every town and farmhouse in the state to explain what Islam is and does. I think it will carry.""How long will that take?" I asked."Two or three weeks, at least," Bill replied."What do we do in the meantime?""Develop our plans and deploy our forces.""What happens to Boston before we get there?""The Black Muslims take it over. The whites will have to fight their way out. For reasons I don't yet understand, the Islamics are trying to encircle the city and keep the whites in. They may be planning to use them as hostages.""If they do, will it keep us from moving into the city?""We shouldn't move into the city," Bill said. "Casualties would be enormous, and much of Boston would be destroyed. In fighting for our culture, we don't want to destroy its monuments. The way to take a city is by siege. Remember, cities can't feed themselves.""We'll plan our deployment accordingly," I concluded. "Please convey my thanks for your assistance to the Prussian War Ministry."Bill grinned. "I will do so with pleasure. I'm sending dispatches to Koenigsberg this afternoon.""Not Berlin?""Sadly, we Prussians remain exiles, even in Germany."As I was putting my cover on and walking out Bill's door, the telephone rang. He motioned me to wait as he picked it up. "It's Geneva," he said in a stage whisper after the caller had identified himself. Bill said little, other than, "As I expected." After the call was finished, he turned to me. "The U.N. General Assembly has given its approval to sending a Muslim expeditionary force to Boston, under the U.N. flag. Russia will block it in the Security Council, but that won't matter. It's only a fig leaf, anyway. The real actor is the World Islamic Council, made up of every Muslim nation. I'm sure the expeditionary force was on its way before the Black Muslims made their move in Boston.""So for the first time, a World War will be fought on north American soil," I reflected. "I guess we couldn't luck out forever." I took my leave from Bill and went back to General Staff headquarters to set the new deployment in motion. It looked like there wouldn't be any demobilization in our future for a long, long time.

***

Within twenty-four hours of the U.N. vote, the first Islamic transport aircraft began landing at Logan airport, carrying a battalion of infantry from Muslim Bosnia. That was America's reward for helping establish a Muslim state in Europe in the 1990s. Two Egyptian squadrons of U.S.-made F-16s and one of Saudi Arabian F-35s came in to provide air cover; it was clear our New York Guard F-16 drivers would get some air-to-air action in this war. Three days later an Islamic naval task force arrived off Boston, including Iranian, Pakistani, and Indonesian destroyers and frigates, plus transports with 20,000 Egyptian and Iraqi combat troops equipped with tanks and artillery. The equipment was the best oil money could buy. As Bill Kraft had suspected, this whole thing was coordinated from the outset. Otherwise, it would have taken the Islamics months to respond with forces this large.On August 15, the people of Maine voted for war. The rest of the states in the Northern Confederation had already done the same, in their state legislatures. A Governors' Council met on the 16th, in Concord, New Hampshire, to make the formal decision. Bowen maintained a zombie-like detachment, saying not a word. His secretary said he was so doped up he could hardly walk. I was past anger, and felt genuinely sorry for him. He had never sought the office he now held, much less expected to be deciding on questions like war or peace. Why didn't he resign? No one would have thought worse of him for it. War proves many men inadequate to their tasks. It usually forgives those who get out of the way so others, more able, can do the job.On August 17, as darkness fell, we began infiltrating Northern Confederation forces into Massachusetts. I expected enemy air attack, so we moved in small groups, on back roads, at night. Speed of advance was not important. The Islamics had established a perimeter roughly along Route 128, and so far showed no signs of moving beyond it. I had begun to suspect that their planning didn't go beyond securing Boston, and they weren't sure what to do next.With the enemy's far superior fire power, I knew we couldn't stop them with a perimeter defense if they tried to break out. Instead, we put small outposts forward, a couple miles outside of Route 128. Their job was to watch, report, help the refugees who were still slipping out in some number, and block any supplies from going into Boston. Behind them, I set up a network of light infantry ambushes running as far west as Worcester, south to Fall River, and north to Methuen. It was good light infantry country, especially against an enemy who would probably stick to the roads. I kept our LAV and tank forces dispersed in small, concealed lagers north of the border on I-95 and west of Worcester along the Mass Pike. If the Islamics tried a major break-out, there would be plenty of time to concentrate to counter it, if in fact we wanted to concentrate. In the face of their air power, I thought we might prefer to use our mobile forces in motti tactics, just like our light infantry. If the enemy comes at you with a spear, you usually do better breaking the shaft than trying to dull the point.By the 25th, our forces were in place. The Massachusetts state legislature met in the Worcester train station and formally applied to join the Northern Confederation, putting all state forces under our command at the same time. There was no reaction from the Islamics, beyond some air reconnaissance missions. We doubted those saw very much.Boston was now besieged by land, but the Islamics had control of the sea, which meant they could stay in Boston as long as they wanted, just as the British did during the American Revolution. I spent my days considering what we could do about that and wondering just what they were up to in Boston.

***

We soon got an answer to my second question, and found out why the initial Black Muslim eruption had tried to trap as many whites as possible. On September 1, 2028, "General" al-Shabazz, who until the uprising had been known as Willy Welly in the upscale Roxbury nightclub and whorehouse where he played the saxophone, called a news conference to announce that "the triumph of the Prophet will begin in Boston, on the Common, on September 3, 2028." All news media, including those from the Northern Confederation, were invited to cover the festivities.At ten A.M. on September 3, the General Staff gathered around the TV in our temporary headquarters in Worcester to see the show. Al Jazeera gave us a ringside seat. I figured we would get a parade of some sort, sermons from various mullahs, and maybe some indication of what the Islamics would do next. At some point the Sitzkrieg had to end.The ceremony opened with General al-Shabazz giving a raving, largely incoherent sermon about "the sword of the Prophet" from a platform set up in front of the State House. Behind him were an array of mullahs from various Islamic countries, plus the commanders of the Islamic Expeditionary Force in their U.N. blue berets.Then, twenty whites, obviously prisoners, were marched out in front of the platform. Several were in the torn and bloody remains of a uniform of a Massachusetts state trooper. I stared intently at the screen. My God, that's John Kelly! I couldn't be sure, because the prisoners' backs were to the camera, but the way the guy carried himself was just like John, both hard and loose, ready for anything. I prayed silently, Lord, let it be John. Let us have him back. Then I stopped short, realizing we didn't know the script for this play. John might be better off dead.A mullah was introduced as the Ayatollah Ghorbag from Qum, in Iran, and he came down from the platform. Standing in front of the first prisoner, he said, in English, the Islamic formula: "There is no god but God, and Mohammed is his prophet." The prisoner responded by repeating the same words back to him, making himself a Muslim. The Ayatollah then handed the new convert a crucifix, which he dropped on the ground and stomped.The shabby little rite went on, working slowly down the line of whites. Then, after seven worms in a row had turned, somebody dropped their lines. The Ayatollah was standing before the man next to the state trooper I thought might be John. The prisoner repeated the magic words: "There is no god but God, and Mohammed is his Prophet." The Ayatollah held out the crucifix. But the trooper drove his shoulder, hard, into the new Muslim's arm, reached out for the crucifix and snatched it from the startled Ayatollah. I could see the side of the trooper's face as he turned – it was John! The Christian Marines' Massachusetts commander held the crucifix up, kissed it, shouted "Vivat Christus Rex!" and drove his big, black Mass state trooper boot into the Ayatollah's groin. The mullah bent doubled, and John smashed both his fists and the crucifix down on the back of his neck. Ayatollah Ghorbag went down like a bag of manure.Around the television, we all yelled, "Arugah!"Black Muslim guards poured out from around the platform and fell on John. I expected them to kill him on the spot, but they just held him down. The unconscious Ayatollah was carried off, another mullah took his place and the ceremony resumed.But John's courage proved infectious. When the Muslim cleric said the formula to the next man in line, he said nothing back. So it went, until they came to the only woman in line. She was straight-backed, had certainly seen her 65th birthday, and looked every inch a Boston Brahman. Before the mullah could say anything, she announced, "I am Mrs. Elliott Cabot Lodge. I was baptized in the Church of the Advent, I was married in the Church of the Advent, and I shall be buried from the Church of the Advent. Nothing you may say to me will make the slightest difference." If the mullah didn't understand all she said, her expression was unmistakable. It perfectly summed up the words, "High Church Anglican." Wisely, he passed her by. Between her example of Christian courage and John's, only two other prisoners converted to Islam.General al-Shabazz then took the podium again, to announce that all the "white idolaters" the Black Muslims had captured would be given an opportunity to convert to Islam. "Those who refuse," he shrieked, "will die a dog's death!" Uh-oh, I thought. Here it comes.The guards grabbed those who had remained true to their Christian faith, shoved them together and marched them across the street onto the Common. There, crosses were waiting. The Islamics made sure the Al Jazeera cameras got a clear view as the prisoners, starting with John, had nails driven through their wrists and their feet into the wood of the cross, which was then erected. John said the Nicene Creed, in Latin, as the hammers pounded. Mrs. Lodge wept, but she didn't scream.Death by crucifixion is slow, and Al Jazeera didn't stay for the end. An Egyptian soldier we captured later told us John Kelly took two days to die.The Islamics set up an assembly line process on every side of the Common, where the ceremony went on all day, every day. Most whites had managed to escape the city, but we figured they had captured between fifty and one hundred thousand. Thousands converted. Thousands refused. The Common soon was crowded with crosses, to the point where it looked like a convention of short telephone poles, each holding the broken body of a Christian martyr. They even had special, tiny crosses for the children, who gasped and wheezed out their breath looking over the little lake where the swan boats used to sail.As can happen in a siege, the advantage of time had turned. The Black Muslims could hold Boston forever, so long as they controlled the sea. But we had to do something. We couldn't just sit there and watch our fellow Christians die horribly.The people of the Northern Confederation were with us, every man and woman, now. They knew why this had to be our fight, and why we could not let Islam get a foothold on our shore. They would accept the casualties of a direct assault. But the Islamic Expeditionary Force had enough troops in the city that I was sure an assault would fail.Their critical vulnerability was the sea. That's where we had to attack.