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Brigade (novel) Civil war Justice / revenge Martin Luther

The Brigade excerpts, chapter XXIX

by Harold Covington

“We Won!”

Covington in uniform
“Exactly,” agreed Zack with a nod. “Kind of hard to trade stocks in a hole in the ground. But if anything, the offensive we’re carrying out right in the belly of the Beast may bring on some kind of especially horrible retaliation here in the Homeland, although I’ve no idea what they can feasibly do that they’re not already doing here. But there’s no way ZOG is going to just throw in the towel and finally give us our freedom, Len. We’re going to have to physically drive them out, every last soldier and bureaucrat and Jew, and then drive stakes through their hearts before they’ll let us go. They can’t afford to give in. Once they concede that the actual territory of the United States is divisible by race, then everybody’s going to want a piece of the pie. The Mexicans are going to demand the Southwest for this Aztlan they’ve been hablamosing about foryears, the niggers will want the South for New Africa, the Cubans and Haitians will demand Florida, the bugger boys may ask for some kind of Faggotstan somewhere, the French might start getting stroppy up in Quebec again, who knows where it will end? Every other continent is composed of multiple small nations, so why not this one? If we go then the whole empire goes, eventually. The power structure doesn’t dare give in to us, or they’re done and their power is finished, and they know it.”

Lear asked. “Are you going to turn into some kind of medieval tyrant now, and decorate the streets with the heads of everybody who’s ever offended you in the past?”

“I am going to secure this area for the Republic, Ted, and I am going to make sure the Americans never come back,” Hatfield told him.

“You were an American yourself, once,” said Lear sardonically.

“I was,” replied Zack with a nod. “I’ve found I prefer being a white man instead. To answer your question, Ted, we’ve had a lot of law in the past few generations. Too damned much law, and not enough justice. Now there’s going to be justice, and some of it may be pretty rough, but I don’t think it’s going to be anywhere near as bad as people think.

Some of the Boys from Operation Applesmash and Operation Pigkill made a stop-offin Houston. Within the space of a week the CEO [Chief Executive Officer] of Exxon turned the ignition key on his Ferrari and was blown through the roof of his garage; the chief financial officer of Gulf Oil was found hanging in his pool house by his own necktie wearing only black net stockings and high heels and lipstick; and the huge, garish main tabernacle of an Evangelical television ministry that was one of Israel’s main financial and Scriptural supporters was leveled by a truck bomb full of gelignite.

“What is that?” whispered Christina in wonder. “I know that song.”

“You remember it from long ago in church, honey,” said her father, his hand on her shoulder. “It is A Mighty Fortress, a hymn written by Martin Luther.”

Ein Festem Burg Ist Unser Gött. They are singing in German,” said Sergeant Karl Vogler, Hatfield’s driver. Tears were streaming down his face.

“So they are,” said Hill somberly. “1945 is avenged, korpsbrüder.”


3 replies on “The Brigade excerpts, chapter XXIX”

My favorite passage from The Brigade:

When they were five feet behind the two expensively-dressed people, some sound or sense made them both turn. They stared at two men coming out of the darkness just beyond the pool of friendly light and laughter, masked so that only the black of their eyes could be seen, and leveling revolvers at them. The two gunmen said nothing, but Jacob Goldman gasped out in a strangled cry, “You!”

All four of them understood what Jacob Goldman had said. He did not know or recognize the men who were about to put him to death. They had always been far beneath him, part of the scenery he saw from the window of his luxury car or a plush office suite, animals who through some accident of nature resembled God’s Chosen People in outward form, but whom the sages of Torah assured him were beasts without souls. And yet he indeed knew who they were, and why they were here. Four thousand years of racial instinct crackled in a moment of cosmic, hideous recognition and knowledge. A timeless drama was once again about to be played out, an ancient debt was once more to be paid, and blood was about to be spilled once more in humanity’s longest war. The men before Jacob Goldman could have been wearing Roman armor, or Crusaders’ chain mail, or Cossack leather and furs, or the black tunic of the SS. Now they wore denim jeans and ski masks, but oh, yes, he knew them. Now he was going to die, because they knew him as well, knew him for what he was.

… and this is my favorite:

Nobody was hitting anything, and no one besides Lockhart was even aiming. But it looked cool as hell on TV, and in America, that was what mattered. By sheer fortuitous accident, what the CNN camera caught for twenty seconds—and twenty seconds is a long sound byte on TV news—was a perfectly blocked shot of stunning dramatic impact. In the far center right of the screen Kicky seemed to stalk up the street. She was firing blindly, howling like an animal in an unthinking spasm of rage and madness, but what the world saw was a wounded Valkyrie screaming her war cry and charging the enemy machine guns that splattered in round strikes all around her.

Harold Covington’s Northwest books are very important to our struggle. The fact that the great Tom Sunic promoted Covington’s Northwest books on his radio show, should be enough to motivate all pro-Whites to read these magnificent books.

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