25 November, 2009

The Redoubt in the Land of Plenty

Posted by Archives in Arch Stanton at 12:55 pm | Permanent Link

by Arch Stanton.

Twenty-eight-year-old United Nations Private Kawanzi Anigbo squinted into the rocket launcher’s sight aperture to get a better view. The rain was making it difficult for Anigbo to see through the opening on the miniature, ladder-like device that served to aim the weapon. Carefully remembering the instructor’s words, Anigbo squeezed the rubber-coated bar that served as a trigger. A low-frequency “whoosh” followed the trigger squeeze as the rocket left the tube.

“Damned rain,” thought Harry as he looked out into the steady drizzle in the light of the late autumn afternoon. It seemed to Harry that it had been raining since the UN-sanctioned evacuation-and-containment project had begun just over four months ago. Harry knew all too well how such rain hindered the efficient movement and foraging of the group now huddled together in the small, single room.

Harry looked around the concrete, bunker-like building they called the “redoubt.” The reason for the name was a sign Harry had found under some rubble inside the bunker after they first discovered the shelter. The sign was made from a slat of wood from an old ammo crate on which someone had scratched the words “REBEL’S REDOUBT” into the plank. Willy had cleaned the sign off and nailed it to a beam that was embedded into the bunker’s concrete ceiling. Since then the bunker’s name had always been “The Redoubt” to its current occupants. Harry moved his gaze over to the five other people who occupied the room.

A small kerosene lamp hung from the rafter beside the sign, casting a sooty, pale light that barely illuminated the motley group of men who occupied the cramped quarters of the redoubt. In the dim light Harry focused on the figure of “The Prophet.” The Prophet sat on a five-gallon bucket on the other side of the heavy, metal door a few feet away. Like Harry, he looked out into the rain through a small opening in the concrete wall.

The inside of the redoubt was damp from the humidity and the perspiration of the men. Because of this, small droplets of condensation dripped onto the Prophet from the top of the window’s opening. He continued to look sullenly out onto the hillside for any signs of activity. The Prophet’s real name was Paul; he was a balding man of 40 with a developing paunch. Paul looked like the computer technician he had been before the evacuation. He had once had a penchant for hunting, but although his enthusiasm for the sport had lessened in recent years, it had honed his marksmanship skills and he was still a crack shot.

Paul had grown up in a religious family which firmly and literally believed in the Bible as the revealed word of God. They had become what were termed “pre-millennial Christians” who believed that they would be spared the horror of the tribulations described in the Book of Revelations, the apocalyptic Book of John. But the “end times” had not turned out like the TV preachers had predicted in the popular interpretation of that book. Paul had always treasured his guns and ammo, but he had firmly believed that he was to be spared the “tribulation period” that he now considered firmly underway.

The fact that Jesus had not returned to spare Paul the experiences of the last four months had left him a puzzled and bitter man. Once a talkative, gregarious individual, Paul was now grim and mostly silent. When he arrived at the redoubt, he had told the other men his personal story about what he believed was God’s betrayal. After that, Stan had dubbed Paul “The Prophet.”

Harry’s intense stare slowly moved from Paul over to Stanley or “Stan” as the others called him. Stan sat cleaning his 9mm Beretta pistol behind a converted wooden crate that now served as a table. He had taken the pistol from a dead UN soldier as he fled the advance of the front-line troops of the UN forces. Harry felt a bit sorry for Stan. Stan was one of those guys who had lived the American dream, never suspecting how quickly that dream would become the nightmare they were all currently living.

Stan was a slender guy with fine features and thinning, blond hair; he had been a consummate runner before the evacuation had begun. He wore wire-rimmed glasses along with the now-filthy, upscale Eddie Bauer clothing. It was the same clothing he had left the house with so many months before on that fateful morning. The UN evacuation-and-containment had taken him totally by surprise. One day he was kissing his wife and kids good-bye at the door of his upper-middle-class home and driving his “Beemer” to his mid-town office suite, the next he was running through the woods in fear of his life.

Somehow Stan had stayed alive and made it to the redoubt after meeting up with the others. Just how he had survived, though, was uncertain, because he never related to the men how he had spent his time between that day he left the house and their present predicament. Now Stan silently wondered what had become of his family and if he would ever see them again.

Harry moved his gaze further to the right, drawing Hector into focus. Hector was the “ultimate” survivalist and his appearance proved it. Although Hector had never actually been in the military, you would have never known it by looking at him. He was a lean individual who had maintained his physical conditioning for the past nine years in anticipation of his current situation. The military “camos” Hector wore were of the type that had the small squares all over it. Some of the squares in seemingly random patterns were blacked out, giving the odd impression of a kind of military crossword puzzle. Hector said it was for “infrared invisibility.”

Today, as he had every day for the last six months, Hector donned his full 782 gear compliment; 782 gear is what the Marines call the various combat fashion accessories like the helmet, gas masks and web gear. In fact his web gear and pistol belt were Hector’s fashion statement ever since the evacuation had begun. The web gear consisted of suspenders that supported the pistol belt that in turn supported the various knives, pistol ammo pouches, medic kit and other authentic surplus military equipment Hector had purchased in preparation for this day. By his own admission, Hector was “ready.” From the top of his Vietnam “boonie hat” all the way to his jump boots, he was dressed for the part, but recently doubts about his survival had begun to creep into Hector’s mind.

Before the evacuation, Hector had always carried a weapon; usually a pistol and always a few knives to assure proper preparation for the pending disaster that he knew would occur. The only question was when the disaster would occur, but not to worry: he was always ready. Hector’s favorite sayings were of the type such as, “Kill ‘em all and let God sort ‘em out” and “Let’s rock and roll.” He had even owned a shirt with this motto that featured the image of a skeleton holding an M60 machine gun. Now, after four months of hiding and maintaining a constant vigil that included sleeping with his weapon, Hector was beginning to tire of the daily reality of self-defense and fighting for…for what no one in the room really knew. There really wasn’t any other reason for their actions other than the most basic: to survive. There was no cause, no banners or flags to follow, no battle cries to yell as one went to his glorious death. In fact there was no glorious death; there was only the grim reality that a moment of inattention would almost guarantee a sudden and senseless demise.

Harry continued to move his gaze around the small, drab room, his eyes settling next on Dieter. Dieter appeared as a ghost from the past in the form of a Waffen SS soldier. He was wearing a WWII camouflaged SS uniform with its distinctive and rather archaic camouflage pattern. Leather “Y” suspenders and belt completed the outfit along with a “coal scuttle” Stalhelm, which now lay beside Dieter on the floor with its rim upturned. Dieter felt tired, very tired as he sifted his hand through his short steel gray hair that he had cut himself. Like the rest of the small group, Dieter was middle-aged and feeling too old now for such games, games that, like the regime whose uniform he wore, were already lost. Dieter shifted the Walther P-38 at his side to obtain a more comfortable position on the cement floor. Before the evacuation, he had been a military collector who specialized in selling authentic and reproduced German equipment from the WWII era. When the evacuation began he simply went into his inventory and took the best equipment that he felt he would require. He had taken a Mauser rifle, but soon ran out of ammo and now carried an M-16 acquired from a UN soldier he had inadvertently met up with during a foraging patrol. The Walther still used the same 9mm ammo though, so he had kept it as his sidearm.

“Damned Nazi,” thought Harry in an unusually severe moment of bitterness. “Why don’t you wake up and see that the Nazis were a bunch of losers.” Initially, some of the group did not want Dieter in the redoubt but he had proven his worth at a critical moment when the UN forces had ambushed them on that foraging patrol. Dieter had killed two UN soldiers with his bare hands in close combat and saved Stanley’s life in doing so. As such skills were vital to the rebels, Dieter was begrudgingly allowed to join the members of the redoubt.

Sitting in the corner, just past Dieter, Harry could make out yet another ghost in the form of a dim shape that lurked among the shadows. Harry surveyed the outline of William P. Beauregard III – at least that was his Christian name; but everyone called him Willy. Willy was a son of the South; a real honest-to-god Southerner whose forefathers had served both in the Confederate States Army and the CS Navy. In fact his great, great grandfather had actually been one of the few Southerners who had owned a large plantation along with the slaves that were required for such an agricultural enterprise. Willy was a tall, lanky, middle-aged individual who sported a handlebar mustache and a neatly-trimmed goatee. He stood ramrod straight and had a gracious attitude that had not been popular since the end of the genteel South. Willy was dressed in the torn and dirty uniform of a Confederate colonel. Oddly, he still retained the dress uniform’s gold sash with tassels and a saber. Normally Willy preferred Docker slacks and a sport shirt for his daily activities, but that fateful day, when the evacuation had begun, Willy had been en route to a Civil War-reenactment ceremony. Thinking a gang was up to no good, Willy had mistakenly run a government road block and had the tires shot out on his car. After he ran it into the ditch, Willy jumped out of the vehicle to find black-attired, UN troops firing at him, so he had “hightailed” it into the woods. It was obvious to Willy at that point that the UN soldiers were not going to let him surrender alive.

Harry was just about to return to his vigil at the window when he heard a loud, ringing thump and a metallic sound of a helmet scuttling across the room. As Harry turned his focus back toward the room, he heard Hector say, “Goddamn it! Move your helmet out of the middle of the room so I don’t have to step over it.” Dieter replied, “If you weren’t such a heavy-footed lout you wouldn’t need the entire room to move from one side to the other.” At this point Willy intoned, “Now gentleman, we have enough trouble without this; if we don’t stand together now, we will surely perish individually, so let us…” “Shut up, reb,” interrupted Hector, “you lost your war a long time ago.”

Paul yelled at no one in particular, “you clowns have been playing war while the Lord’s retribution is at hand; why don’t you wake up to the reality that the angel of the Lord will soon be calling us home with his trumpet.” “Hoo, Boy!” boomed Hector, “now we’re dealing with reality.” Stan looked up from his now assembled pistol saying: “Willy is right, don’t we have enough trouble already without this incessant bickering?” “Great,” said Hector. “Now we have the yuppie gallery siding with the Klan so we can hear about how we can all live together in our global village. Just where were you, Mr. Elite Snob, when we were out telling idiots like yourself that this crap was going to happen? Maybe you were sipping your wine and discussing your latest inside-stock-market coup with the other snobs down at the country club.” “Hector, you’re an asshole” replied Stan. “Yeah, sure I am. The truth still hurts, though, don’t it?” retorted Hector.

Dieter quietly interjected at this point, “why don’t we all simmer down and go back to cleaning our weapons?” “Goddamn Nazi, I told you to shut up!” thundered Hector. Dieter looked at Hector menacingly, “You are about to…,” but before he could finish, Hector, knife drawn, sprang across the room at Dieter like a tightly-wound coil released from confinement. Dieter deftly deflected the first blow as Hector came at him in a rage.

Like Paul, Harry’s attention had been immediately diverted from his post as a lookout; instead, it was now centered on the emerging brawl in the middle of the clammy bunker. Because of the fight, Harry and Paul both missed the forms moving towards the redoubt through the trees outside. The UN soldiers took up positions around the bunker, which by now was emitting the sounds of a deadly struggle.

The redoubt was well-camouflaged and the UN soldiers would have probably missed it altogether had it not been for the loud voices issuing from within it. Had Harry or Paul seen the UN troops moving outside, the small group of rebels could have possibly used the escape tunnel thoughtfully provided by the former tenants, but all of this was missed as the current residents of the redoubt waged an internal war of their own. The UN troops had almost finished encircling the redoubt as shots rang out from inside the bunker.

The fires of hate were gone in the aftermath of the intense heat generated by the UN’s white phosphorus round. It was much to Anigbo’s surprise that the “Willy Peter” – or white phosphorous round – that he fired into the bunker had found its mark. The missile had actually passed through the small, almost invisible window of the concrete wall. The reason for Anigbo’s surprise was that he had invariably missed much larger targets when practicing at the UN firing range.

After the round hit home, venting its incinerating warhead into the bunker, the Israeli lieutenant in charge of the UN-sanctioned “Racial-Purity Elimination Squad” slapped the top of Anigbo’s helmet. The Hebrew officer then said fluently in Anigbo’s native tongue, “Good boy, Anigbo, I’ll see that you get extra rations for this tonight.” Anigbo smiled; he had never eaten this well back in Africa. America really was the land he had heard of; it really was the land of plenty.


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  7. 24 Responses to “The Redoubt in the Land of Plenty”

    1. CW-2 Says:

      A timely allegory of our present lamentable disunity and woeful lack of preparation. Huge deficiencies when facing a determined and implacable enemy.

    2. Irma Grese Says:

      LOL! That’s WNs alright – fighting, attacking and sniping EACH OTHER instead of the enemy. Keep it up and it will be a MUD WORLD after all!

    3. Howdy Doody Says:

      Like rust it never stops on its own.

      The forum may have alot of b.s. but it also has solid granite so IMO the jooos will go nutz to turn off or the evangelical cheating on their wife types.

    4. old dutch Says:

      Hector hmmm…a Puerto Rican “White Nationalist”. LOL. This story must be titled “The Hal Turner Diary” or “Lou Dobbs Does New Jersey”. Until the next excerpt keep your Captain Linder Decoder Ring at the ready.

    5. 2050 Says:

      ^^huh?^^

      Sounds as it probably would if Tim and Tom were in the same bunker.

    6. zoomcopter Says:

      Not a happy ending, but entertaining and a good moral to it.

    7. Ein Says:

      Defeated by dissention from within.
      How typical!

      Good story, Arch!

    8. Tim McGreen Says:

      Jeez, Stanton, why must your introductions always be so long?

    9. joeglas Says:

      Speaking from personal experience in the hope that it may come in handy to someone not in the military if push comes to shove.As a member of the Croatian army I was badly wounded in a Serb ambush on May 4 1992(my right hip was shattered by an AP round;I was captured and spent 15 months in captivity and would not have survived had I not been placed on a prisoner exchange list within 24 hours;amongst other pleasentried,my left ear was cut off).No amount of training can prepare one for the reality of combat.The thing that really comes into play for the average grunt are physical conditioning.You may be called upon to move across extremely rugged terrain hauling a lot of gear.The most important thing to bear in mind are ammo and water.Id rather be hungry four days than thirsty for one on a warm day.

    10. zoomcopter Says:

      Doesn’t the sniper posted outside the bunker, on the ridge, take out the lieutenant, in chapter 2?

    11. CW-2 Says:

      The inevitability of armed conflict has not yet been fully absorbed by the collective White consciousness. Most of us still cling to the optimistic belief that a clash of arms and its attendant horrors can be avoided.

    12. CW-2 Says:

      PS in Chapter 3 an elite group of battle hardened WN catch up with Anigbo’s now leaderless Somali platoon.

    13. zoomcopter Says:

      “The inevitability of armed conflict has not yet been fully absorbed by the collective White consciousness. Most of us still cling to the optimistic belief that a clash of arms and its attendant horrors can be avoided.”

      Maybe, maybe not, CW-2. Lots of people are arming themselves, with a vague, undefined awareness of uncertainty and the feeling that something is just not right and that it’s much better to be prepared, than not. There certainly has been a huge run on guns and ammo.

    14. Nordlander Says:

      It is a good story, Arch Stanton. Though I think it has more to do with forums than with reality; when violence comes on a large scale, racialist-minded Whites who have never even visited a forum will unite and fight.

      That’s a sobering story, Joeglas. Your ear cut off – sounds like what I have heard of the Bosnian war. Like we say over here, “We’ll soon be like Bosnia.”

    15. Howdy Doody Says:

      Those that are sober can see the regime tyranny at every level and the majority are quiet and don’t even say much to their family. Though in the last year several aquintant’s have told me they are very concerned for their families and the future.

      It is my quess the majority of White do not watch TV.

      I wonder how many of the Good Working men who wrong in divorced courts and witnessed their children suffer for it, have awoken or have seriously pondered the Why’s ?

      Remember the brain washing and leftist anti White Red Guard type of Maoism did just start a year ago, but at least 50 years ago.

      Where as it used to be the big cities only now the rural areas the of Kwa have peirced faced useful idiots and jooos in the county regimes chamber of commerce etc.

    16. Howdy Doody Says:

      It’s my quess that the majority of White men do not watch TV.

      I wonder how many of the Good Working men who were severly wronged in divorced courts and witnessed their children suffer for it, have awoken or have seriously pondered the Why’s ?

      By chance I have know over half dozen men who were divorced with children, and it was the women who wanted Red Sports cars or moving or working a government job rather than keep house, because she was College indoctranated etc.

      Remember the brain washing and leftist anti White Red Guard type of Maoism BS did not just start a year ago, but at least 50 years ago, most likely it really got going with FDR’s and his Cabal.

      Where as it used to be that the big cities were the only left wing hell holes, now even the rural areas the of Kwa have peirced faced useful idiots with jooos in the county regimes, chamber of commerce etc.

    17. Tum McBreen Says:

      Look at this Adam Lambert thing on TV. The guy was forcing somebody to simulate oral sex. That is now the new norm. The Jews are really making their move this century. It’s been nine years and things could not be going faster. When gay sex and gay kissing and gay everything, three percent of the pop remember, is now the new cute standard. Wow.

      But you are right. It has been a step by step progression. First porno brought into the seven eleven’s in the sixties… then the ridiculing of Archie Bunker in the seventies… Then the rise of gang themed inner city music and Madonna type sexual expression mainstream in the eighties… and now flat out jewish culture and gay expression. In movies a very Jewish James Bond and Black heros outnumber the white heros and Blacks are, what, twelve percent of the population?

      I wonder if there really will be some type of war. The jews have the money and the civilian power. There still seem to be whites in the general corps in the military.

    18. Tum McBreen Says:

      Well with Paul out of the way the WN’s would have just been making a lot of noise what with all the gay sex that’s supposed to be normal. They would have been killed anyway. Therefore I’m not sure what the point of the story is?

      When the 3% that are gay rape the 97% that are not there is going to be some noise too. Maybe drive over to a ruined Home Depot and get some sound insulation for the bunker? Problem solved no matter how it shakes out.

    19. New America aka Harold Glass-Covington Says:

      Get ready everyone, with my NW Orwellian Republik and me as Rabbi Fuhrer Maximus you need not worry. Send your donations today to my one-room apartment to the attention of my landlady (address forthcoming) and together, along with my ‘heavy lifting’ will usher in a new glorious age of prosperity for me, oh….and ‘you’ of course. You know, even though I refer to you all as the Bowel Movement and clusterfuck losers I really, ahem, care about you. That’s why with your gift/donation will be put to such good use establishing my NW Orwellian Republik…I got to sneeze while i’m typing this….ahhhh…suuuuckasssss….hoooo. Anyway, an address from my assistant and personal adjutant ‘New Amerikwan’ is coming soon. I have to say, he’s a damn fine sycophant. Its hard to find those these days. I just wish he’d actually buy a computer and move out of his Grandma’s basement suite. Hard to give advice when your 40 years-old and afraid of women.

      Hail your future Fuhrer!

      H1G1C1 Maximus
      (my new signature – Harold Glass-Covington)

      PS. Please send money soon I need to purchase a new walker and ointment for the red spots on my crotch area. Thanks.

    20. Irma Grese Says:

      ^^^ Hmm. Looks to me like SOMEONE didn’t get the point of the story. ^^^

    21. Tim McGreen Says:

      Miss Irma, don’t you see? *Burp* ….New Amerika aka Harold Glass-Covington is spreading the glorious Gospel of the coming NW Republik! He shouts it from the rooftops and fire-escapes of the flophouses where he resides and from the overnight holding-cells downtown, from every adult video-store in the greater Portland area and from all the geriatric mental wards, too. He is a visionary and a real mensch. *Burp*….How could I have mocked him for so long?

      And with the help of his Assistant Deputy Maximus Unterfuhrer New Amerika, who drives the Rebbe around in Grandma’s old Ford LTD station wagon at 3 in the morning to throw pamphlets out on people’s lawns, the Gospel of the NW Imperative will be spread from one *Burp* residential street to the next. Of course, Junior Commander New Amerika never drives the Rebbe around without wearing his Captain Christopher Pike uniform. That would be disrespectful.

      All Hail our soon-to-be New Leader, H1G1C1 Maximus Rebbe Glass-Covington! *Burp*….Excuse me, I’ve been drinking a little tonight.

    22. Harold Glass-Covington aka H1G1C1 strain Says:

      Comrade Tim, or should I say BSE :

      Thanks for the endorsement. I think I’ll name you Minister of Truth and Reconciliation. Sorry, already have a Propaganda Minister, one Frank Cohen (aka Colin) who agreed to his new posting. We go back to the American Nazi party Chicago “sharing a bunk” days. His dream of being Fuhrer has long since left him, you know, the *conviction* and prison sentence and all. Or course, I only shared a bunk with him, that’s all! I’m not gay, really I’m not!

      BTW, I will direct New America to do your adjutant duties as he REALLY needs to get out of the house and away from my manual that even I don’t follow “March Up Country!”

      [quote] Miss Irma, don’t you see? *Burp* ….New Amerika aka Harold Glass-Covington is spreading the glorious Gospel of the coming NW Republik! He shouts it from the rooftops and fire-escapes of the flophouses where he resides and from the overnight holding-cells downtown, from every adult video-store in the greater Portland area and from all the geriatric mental wards, too. He is a visionary and a real mensch. *Burp*….How could I have mocked him for so long? [/quote]

      Frank invited New Amerika over for some beers and talk about the current situation. New Amerika seemed eager and willing to fufill any and all duties expected of him. Of course, Frank expects “bunk talk” too. New Amerika says he has gotta ask his Grammy first before he can go over to frank’s place.

      [quote] And with the help of his Assistant Deputy Maximus Unterfuhrer New Amerika, who drives the Rebbe around in Grandma’s old Ford LTD station wagon at 3 in the morning to throw pamphlets out on people’s lawns, the Gospel of the NW Imperative will be spread from one *Burp* residential street to the next. Of course, Junior Commander New Amerika never drives the Rebbe around without wearing his Captain Christopher Pike uniform. That would be disrespectful.[/quote]

      Thanks again! You know, I cannot understand why people don’t accept my authority and beyond reproach character? Don’t they (the Bowel Movement goy) understand that I’m so above them I might as well be a God to them? Can’t they understand they have to look beyond the flophouse, the walker, the obese form with multiple red splotches, the greasy beard, the trademark disruptive traits I engage in, the Section 8 the Army gave me as a schizo sociopath, the shaking of the head by my relatives when my name is mentioned and their wish I’d simply just go away, and all the ‘heavy lifting’ I’ve done on behalf of the ungrateful goy and fully made conscious of this through New Amerikwan? I have people skills, what’s matter with you stupid fucking goy?

      Yeah, sure I need beer, Jack Daniels, doritos, internet connection and daily welfare maintenance money constantly and always, I’m the natural leader with needs and in these tough and near disasterous economic times it should go to me;period. Got it GOY? New Amerikwan can see the light (through my beard) and even helps me dress as a good sycophant goy. Why can’t the rest of you see me as your future fuhrer and master? The Orwellian NW Repubilk will come a reality as sure as I use a walker, so join up or be left out.

      [quote] All Hail our soon-to-be New Leader, H1G1C1 Maximus Rebbe Glass-Covington! *Burp*….Excuse me, I’ve been drinking a little tonight.[/quote]

      Your natural born Leader and Fuhrer Maximus, the original H1G1C1

    23. Tom McReen Says:

      Where are the sanctimonious posters decrying trolling, unnecessary attacks on other VNNers and the lack of unity? Or do they only appear after posts by me, Curt or New America?

    24. Tim McGreen Says:

      McReen, have you tried using a stronger laxative? How about a stick of dynamite?