L'Affaire Glenn Miller
[It has come to my attention that recently my policy on the use of alcohol within the Movement has been subject to certain---mmm, how can I put this politely? Well, let's go with "distortions." In view of this, I would like to remind any who are interested of exactly WHY I feel the way I do about Movement boozing. - HAC]
C-GRAM: March 2nd, 2007
L'AFFAIRE GLENN MILLER
If there is one thing I detest, it is dragging out the Movement's ancient history, since so much of our Movement's ancient history sucks, major league.
However, in response to a number of inquiries I have received resulting from another e-mail I sent out yesterday, it appears that I am compelled to do so. Specifically, I must describe in detail the revolting Glenn Miller episode. You guys might want to go ahead and hit the head before you start reading this one. I am afraid it's going to be another one of my epics, for which I apologize, but this has to be done.
I will be sending this to the full list, by way of explanation regarding my attitude towards alcohol in the Movement, and why I will never again, under any circumstancesbecome involved in any way with Movement drunks.
Through a process which in itself would require a book to describe, in 1978 I became the leader of the National Socialist Party of America's North Carolina unit, in 1979 Deputy Leader of the Party, and in 1980 Party Leader of the whole shebang, such as that shebang was. This was back in my Hollywood Nazi days, when I wore the costume, and I will not deny that it had some damned fine moments, not the least in May of 1980 when I got 43,000 votes in the Republican primary for State Attorney General and carried 46 of North Carolina's 100 counties. At one stage we had almost two dozen active and reasonably high quality people in North Carolina who wore the costume, plus over a hundred supporters of various kinds, which for a Hollywood Nazi group was pretty good for one state.
My main aide and lieutenant at the time was a man named Frazier Glenn Miller, who approached me in 1977 after hearing my recorded White Power Hotline phone messages in Raleigh, N.C. I made a lot of mistakes during this period, and if I had to pick one, the main mistake I made was in allowing myself and our group to become virtually dependent on a single individual, Glenn Miller.
I will not detail all of his character defects, which are known to anyone who has followed the VNN board for the past few years. I do feel that I should mention that one of the skeletons in Miller's closet was his prior marriage to a Polynesian woman while he was in the army and the fact that he had several non-White children, a fact that he concealed from me and which I only learned about by accident at a late stage in the game. Then there was the "Peaches" episode. Not to mention his later testimony in the 1988 Sedition Trial and the Shelby murder trial, his time in the Witness Protection Program, etc. etc. etc.
But I will keep this germane to the topic. Miller's main fault, the one under discussion here, was his absolutely uncontrollable alcoholism. Miller was one of those alcoholics who gets up in the morning and immediately pours himself a drink. He drank all day, steadily, from morning until night. He appeared completely unable, not just unwilling, to stop. He had to have it. When he was finally arrested in 1987, after his ridiculous "Declaration of War," all the FBI had to do to break him was withhold his liquor for a few hours and he broke down and confessed, telling them everything they wanted to know. Jack Jackson once told me that their brief career as revolutionary guerrillas consisted of Miller dragging Jack and the late Doug Sheets to a bunch of bars, getting drunk, and the jumping up on a table and yelling "My name is Glenn Miller, and God, guns, and guts made this country!" Miller also accused Jackson and Sheets of plotting to betray and murder him, but stayed with them because Jack made sure to hang on to the booze money. But all that came later.
I knew about Miller's dipsomania from the very beginning, and yet I was so desperate for help, as I am today, that I made the classic Movement mistake of trying to get mileage from a creep. I paid, the Cause paid, and everyone else paid a terrible price for my carelessness and incompetence in the Miller matter. Some, like Steve Miller (no relation) eventually paid in lengthy prison sentences. Some, like Tony Wydra, J.W. Waters, and another man whose name I did not know because this occurred after I had left the country, paid with their lives. The number of broken marriages, broken families, and ruined lives is beyond calculation.
True, most of this were the results of Miller's own term as Fearless Leader of the White Patriot Party and had nothing directly to do with me. But Glenn Miller was a monster, and I was the Dr. Frankenstein who created him and unleashed him on the Movement. My determination to avoid ever repeating this tragic error will probably explain a lot about my present attitude and way of doing things.
At first, it seemed that the benefits of Miller's activity counterbalanced the problems caused by his constant drinking. He owned a large farm in Johnston County which made an ideal rally field, and which we used for all kinds of functions and meetings, notably the Hitlerfest of 1980 and also various functions related to the Greensboro case. It was also our firing range and training ground. He donated money and paid for a lot of printing and other expenses out of his own pocket. Love him or hate him, in his day Miller was dynamic. He installed his own recorded message in his home and he was constantly out distributing literature and recruiting. He organized the massive literature distributions we did of tens of thousands of Thunderbolt and New Order newspapers and leaflets, with military precision. On the surface, he was ideal.
I closed my eyes to the fact that he was literally never seen without a beer in his hand, and later a mixed drink, and later a pop bottle full of straight whiskey. I close my eyes to the fact that much of his recruiting was done in bars, and the men and some of the women he brought into the group were barflies and drinking buddies of his own stripe. I closed my eyes to the fact that his increasingly bizarre White Power Messages were nothing more than drunken ravings, a fact which if anything increased their listenership but brought the NSPA into great disrepute because he came across as what he was, a drunken redneck yelling "Nigger! Nigger! Nigger!", sometimes literally.
I closed my eyes to the fact that he drove all over eastern North Carolina in his truck or his car on Party business, drunk as an owl behind the wheel. Inevitably, he got pulled over and arrested and charged with DUI. More often than not, I was the one who had to drive many miles through the dark to the jail in Smithfield or Rocky Mount or wherever and bail him out. When Miller's license was revoked, he drove anyway and got arrested, again and again and again, for driving drunk while his license was suspended. I have no idea to this day how he escaped a prison sentence himself.
I closed my eyes to the fact that his constant drunkenness, foul mouth, and the personality problems which emerged when he was wasted were driving away the very type of solid, intelligent, and able people the Party needed. (How often did I hear "I agree with the Party, Harold, but I'm not going to try and work with a bunch of drunks, people I wouldn't associate with in my regular life"?)
I closed my eyes to the fact that Miller's behavior with firearms while drunk, and the behavior with firearms of his growing clique of soaks while drunk, was becoming increasingly erratic and dangerous, including at least three accidental discharges in the North Street headquarters building which fortunately didn't hit anyone, although one shotgun blast blew out a street front window, fortunately not when there were any cars or pedestrians going by. (I let Miller stay in the HQ during one of my out of town trips, and when I noticed the bullet hole in a table leg when I got back it turned out he'd had some kind of DTs and fired at a hallucination.)
I closed my eyes to the fact that his behavior was becoming a serious danger to others, including his own family, as when he would dress up in full Nazi "uniform," strap on a .357 Magnum, and go out driving to bars and elsewhere around Johnston County with his young children in the car, asleep in their pajamas because he had no baby-sitter. (His wife would leave him for long periods, sometimes to stay with her family in Chicago and sometimes for a stay in a local mental institution.)
On one occasion we were going in convoy to an NSRP meeting in Rocky Mount, a dozen or so of us in "uniform." I had told Glenn and the others flat out that there was to be no drinking around the NSRP people, many of whom were religious and funny about alcohol. It was about a 100-mile trip. Needless to say, Miller took his most sodden clique with him in one car and smuggled a cooler of beer into the vehicle. About twenty miles short of Rocky Mount they ran out of beer, and against orders they pulled over into a rural convenience store to piss out the beer they had already consumed and to buy more. In the lead vehicle I saw Miller's car pull over, and I went back. I was just in time to see the drunken Miller pulling his gun out of his holster, about to shoot some hapless old black in the parking lot. I had to disarm him and force him back into the car, with the aid of his own club, who were fortunately not so drunk that they didn't realize he'd gone too far. Again, I have no idea why no one called the cops and we all weren't pulled over and busted on that one.
The ultimate disgrace came in November of 1980, at the time of the Greensboro acquittals. We were expecting some problems from Reds and general scum at the HQ in consequence of the Not Guilty verdicts, so I had some men in for all night duty. The next morning I was expecting a reporter from the Raleigh Times, the old afternoon newspaper in Raleigh. This was Robin Clark, an old Chapel Hill High School friend (fortunately) who was passably sympathetic, since we both went to the same integrated hellhole. Clark showed up at the North Street HQ, another comrade came down, and led him into the literature room. (This was about 9 AM.) There behind the duty desk, in a litter of Old Milwaukee cans, lay "Stormtrooper" Glenn Miller, passed out on the floor drunk in full Nazi "uniform" and regalia, jackboots and all, .357 Magnum on his hip, his trousers soaked and a pool of urine soaking into the carpet. He had pissed himself.
I walked in then, and I will not attempt to describe my feelings. I took Robin upstairs and I said, "Look, Robin, I know you're a reporter and you have a job to do. That disgraceful thing on the floor down there is a fact, and I know I can't reasonably ask you not to print it. All I can do is tell you that if you decline to mention what you saw down there in your story, I will owe you a favor as big as the Empire State building, which you may call in at will." (He didn't print anything. He called in his favor in March of 1981 when he walked off with the only photo I had in my possession of John Hinckley in NS attire, taken at the 1978 St. Louis meeting, what would have been a historic photo since it was the only other proof besides his card (signed by me) that Hinckley was an NSPA member for a few months. The photo disappeared, confiscated by the Feds.)
That was finally it. I sat Glenn down and I told him that was it. The camel's back was broken. "Either the drinking stops or you're out," I told him. After a series of hysterical scenes and "open letters," Glenn left the NSPA. Thus was born the White Patriot Party, lifted on a tide of beer and Bourbon. And Hell followed with it, for a lot of people.
So, you may well ask, why didn't I do something before all this? Why did I close my eyes?
I could give you all the rationalizations I used, rationalizations that you will hear even today from all kinds of people to excuse corruption and misbehavior and perversion in the Movement from both leaders and rank and file. "Look at all Glenn does for the Party--we have to have Glenn's farm for rallies--okay, Glenn's got a bit of a problem, but we're all human and surely the good he does compensates for it---." Yadda, yadda, yadda. No, it doesn't. It never has. The bad always overcomes and drives out the good, eventually.
The truth is simple. I did nothing because at that time, I was one of the boozers too.
Our two headquarters were both within walking distance of our veritable temple of Bacchus, the Peace Street Market, which being near the NC State campus always had incredible sale bargains on cheap domestic beer, and I put away a respectable number of cases of it down through the years. Long story short, I became not a political leader or revolutionary writer or anything of the kind, I was a drinking buddy, and it simply became impossible for me to establish any order or discipline, because I wasn't The Boss, I was good ole Harold the drinking buddy.
I was always a bit more in control than Miller--at least I hope I was. I never got on the White Power Message drunk, in any event, and I never blew any bullet holes in the walls while I was smashed. But I was part of the problem--and I knew it, even then. I won't get into all the tortured rationalizations I used to convince myself that I needed to set an example by total abstinence and by drying up the headquarters. Anyone who has ever had a drinking problem themselves will know them off by heart. I won't go quite so far as to say I was an alcoholic myself. I probably wasn't, because eventually I stopped on my own, without any Twelve Steps nonsense. Not just for reasons of health and high blood pressure, but because I realized I simply wasn't getting anything out of it any more, and an alcoholic never does that. But that was years later, and it doesn't excuse my failure with Miller.
Enough. I'll wind it up now.
I am now 53 years old. I cannot swear to you that I will not make any mistakes with the Northwest Migration. I probably will. But I can assure you that I will not make the same mistakes I made in the past. I don't dare. Because it's too important. This time it's the real thing. No more practice swings, no more do-overs. If we fuck it up this time, we lose everything, our race, our civilization, our identity, our children, our very existence in the scheme of things. No can of beer or glass of single malt is worth that.
This time we are going to do this right, and we are going to do it right from the beginning. There will be no more Glenn Miller-style slippery slopes, at least on my end, because I simply will not set foot on the slippery slope, right from the start.
I do not demand that everyone reading this immediately stop drinking. I'm not that dumb. Absolute Prohibition is impossible. We learned that from 1919 to 1933 with the Volstead Act. I am not trying to interfere in anyone's personal life, but where the racial struggle is concerned, we have no personal lives.
What I will do is set an example, and now I have explained to you why. I will not attend any political function or racial event where alcohol is served or available or allowed, because if it is in the vicinity, someone is going to drink it. (Banning it does no good if you don't control the venue. Anyone who has ever attended a Klan rally can describe to you the constant shuffling and sneaking back and forth from the rally field to the cars and trucks wherein the beer cooler and the brown-bagged whiskey bottle is concealed.) That means tight control on the venue for any meetings.
In Northwest Observer #57 you will read about Phases Three and Four. I am not so dumb as to believe that I can lead some kind of temperance movement within the Movement or stop people from drinking. And eventually, I know our people will operate in bars and alcoholic settings. I know the real world is not the world of my novels. Although in those books I try to describe to our people how they should act and be, I know that my characters are idealized and probably will have little counterpart in the real world. That does not mean that the attempt should not be made to set a standard, and set it high as possible.
In these early phases, what very little capital and authority I possess is moral, and I don't want to squander it on a hopeless cause like preventing people from drinking. But I can and I will practice what I preach.
In any revolutionary movement, drunks are dangerous, lethally so. They are unreliable. They are weak of will and character. Their lives revolve around something other than the revolution. Their minds are fuddled even when they are sober and their judgment is always impaired, either by alcohol itself or by their body's craving for alcohol and their mind's inability to live any other way except between drinks. The task we face is damned near impossible as it is. Throw alcohol into the mix and we're dead, our children are dead, our race is dead, and everything we have ever accomplished will be pissed up against the wall just like that last six-pack.
HAROLD A. COVINGTON
No wonder LinderMiller and Co. hate your guts. Your honesty is hard to refute. I believe you and anyone that ever even thought about calling on the phone or sending TGM a dime, should be encouraged to read this post from you. I have not liked him since the very first time I heard him on a CI short wave show back in the 80s proclaiming his adherance to CI and hawking his book. Then I heard his name mentioned again and read about his connection to David Lane.
Sounds like you really did try to see some good in him but he failed at every opportunity given him. Nothing to be ashamed of there. I had never heard anything in detail like this. It is always something like: "yeah he likes to drink whiskey." Too bad that someone can't post this over at VNNF for the sinking boatpisspules.