Our Trip To the Fatherland
After my discharge in early 1946 and receiving a "Victory Button" to wear in my lapel, I wondered why it was referred to as the "ruptured duck." It wasn't long before I began to realize just how aptly named it was. Five years afterwards it began to dawn upon myself and a few others in our group of friends that most definitely we had fought the wrong people in Europe. As I was of German/English extraction and most of my friends and relatives were all essentially the same breed.
My uncle and I had attended a couple Silver Shirt rallies. I recall how excited we all were at the radio reports re: the German invasion of the USSR. We cheered the remarkable advance of the Panzers, making bets on how soon they would take Moscow. In those days all we knew was Hitler hated communists, and so did my folks, as did we teenagers. I carried and delivered Liberty magazine, and around my tenth year I read Floyd Gibbons' story "The Red Napoleon" serialized in Liberty magazine. In the newsreels of the day I thrilled to the movies of the marching Germans. A few years back I myself had marched in Denver with the "Highlanders."
My aunt told me about Breslau where my mother's family came from. What a beautiful city it was. I dreamed of going to Germany to visit, then came our entry into the war. I did not want to go to Europe against my kindred. I was working as an assistant foreman at Vultee Aircraft at the time when news came that the Department of War was looking for technicians to go to India to help bolster the British effort against Japan. So I signed up and spent one and half years in the China, Burma, India theater (10th AF). There a group of us listened to William Joyce (Lord Haw Haw) speaking from Berlin. I admit I had a terrible set of mixed emotions—my love for my Race, yet torn by my duty to my oath of allegiance. As in the CBI, equipment was scarce and second rate. Why the hell is everything going to Europe? It was the Japs who attacked us, who murdered our men in the Battan Death March!
It was almost ten years after the war that Dr. Wesley A. Swift gave me the truth. It was my Race to whom I owed my allegiance not to politicians who served to enslave and destroy my people in behalf of anti-Christ world jewry. In long private sessions I learned from Dr. Swift that Hitler was perhaps the second witness of our Father's Life Law.
In 1981 my dream to visit the Fatherland nearly came true, then the bombing of our church building. Then in March, after another decade passes, we stretched the plastic to the limit and with the wonderful hospitality of the Manfred Roeder family, my dream of dreams came true.
We landed in Frankfurt. Going through passport check I was shocked—instead of being among blond, blue-eyed people, I was in Calcutta! Everywhere there were turbaned Hindus, Pakistanis, Chinamen of every hue and shade except White, all new arrivals as our plane unloaded, except it seemed these were the majority. We stood in line for the passport check; good looking, blue-eyed young men were routinely checking the passport photos with the person standing before him. As I stood there in line I wondered what these young Aryans thought as they looked at the flood of mud inundating their once pristine land. Our shock was eased as we took the train to the railroad station and found that the mud flood was interested only in the cities. The trains heading for Kassel were occupied by Aryans, mostly German.
German trains are marvels of mass transportation—smooth, quiet and fast. Traveling throughout the countryside was a wonderful sight. The roadways were clean—I mean spotless. The order of the gardens of the homes and flowerbeds were not marred by even one scrap of paper, a can or a plastic cup, obviously the mark of responsible people, a proud kindred folk who honored their national homeland.
We Americans are in a sense rootless in comparison to our German kindred. Several hundred years before Hermann's victory over the Roman armies of Varius, the Israel tribe known as the "scepter bearer" of our Race occupied what is known as the Fatherland. I remeber well what Manfred's son Conrad stated when he visited with us at Aryan Nations in 1982: "I am a German! I really dont care to learn English; German is my language. Germany is my home, my allegiance."
Thinking back in time some 60 years or so, a part of American youth shared some of the traits that were natural in the German family.
Beyond all the wonderful sights we were shown by the Roeders, the most wonderful was being with the entire family, four fine young men and two lovely young ladies, each of which honor their father and mother, the products of a 2000-year-old finishing school of National ethnic Identity, each a model of physical and mental perfection according to the talents each has inherited, physically perfect and qualified in sculpture, portrait painting, music, as well as domestic arts. They all share a love for classical and folk music.
When observing this fine family and their many compatriots, I could not help but think of the guilt that we all share in lending our strength to smash the moral good in order to replace it with total jewish evil that is today's society in the "New World Order”.