Personal Blogs

Apart from Le Roi himself, I am the only commander on the field of battle who has men and women in every unit on our side.  I am the commander of the “Wall of Noise”.  Soon it begins.  I have all my forces in readiness.  The preparation has been arduous, but the discipline and devotion to duty has moved me to tears.  It has been such a change from the shambolic behaviour of the members of the company when we were on our journey here.   I told them to breathe more deeply and they breathed.  I told them to make their foot-movements neater and more geometric and they did.  I told them to stand up and perform as if their lives depended on it.  This drama we will only get to perform once, but whatever happens will be recorded in history.

            The heart of the orchestra is a classical ensemble who are playing the Leningrad Symphony.  They are accompanied by African drummers, blues bands, punk bands, ska bands, Scottish pipers, South American pan-pipes, West Mongolian throat-music, a kazoo band, a ukulele band, an accordion band, and an unaccompanied choir singing mainly heavy metal songs. 

*

Name: Sunil Chandra.  Rank: Lance Naik.  Serial number: 2981.  I am the King’s batman.  I polish his boots, iron his uniform, maintain his kit, cut his hair, and drive his car.  The only military tasks I do not perform for him are to clean his rifle and sharpen his bayonet and his kukri.  He does these for himself, as you would expect any soldier to do. 

            Since the fighting started, I have been seconded to the Gurkhas, even though I am Indian, not Nepali.  That is why I have the Gurkha rank of Lance Naik rather than Lance Corporal.  During this battle, I am acting as a runner, delivering orders to the units.  My unit is being led by Colonel Gurung, and is on our left.  The other Gurkha detachment is on the right, and is being led by the recently-promoted Major McCann. 

            I was brought up as a Hindu, and I am still true to my religion.  I believe that our King is an incarnation of Lord Vishnu.  I know that sounds ridiculous.  I thought it was ridiculous myself when the thought first occurred to me, but the evidence is mounting.

            He had us doing weapons training and target-practice when we were still on the spaceship, before any of us even knew that we were going to land here alive.  Why?  He knew that this war would happen.  He saw it all.  He has the capacity to see the future.  I have asked him many times how he can predict things, but I have never understood the explanation, because I am mortal. 

            Before we started opening the crates full of old rifles, he said to us that the bayonets would say, “Made in Sheffield” on them, and they did.  He had never opened any of the crates, and never seen any of the bayonets, and yet he knew what it would say on them.  Either he had seen one in a previous life, or he can see through walls. 

            His blood cured us all of the disease which afflicted us a few months after we landed.  His blood is healing. 

            I know he is going to lead us to victory.  Bullets will bounce off him.  He is immortal.  When he impales an enemy with his bayonet, it will not just kill: it will cut the enemy’s soul to ribbons. 

*

I am well-chuffed to have been chosen by Kelvin – King Kelvin – to be on his staff for the big battle.  “Waverley,” he said, “Waverley, I want you to be one of my staff officers.  What rank are you?”  I told him I was a corporal.  He promoted me to captain on the spot. 

            We are in a trench, over-looking Hardboard City.  The parapet has been reinforced with concrete.  Kelvin is looking at his watch, and looking through the periscope, working out when to give the order.  He keeps listening to his walkie-talkie. 

            He is listening to something that none of us can hear. 

            ‘Commence Operation Vesta,’ I hear him say.  That is the signal for the artillery to begin firing.  I have seen the orders for this operation, and they read like this. 

            A creeping barrage is to be put down, beginning at the far side of Hardboard City, and moving towards our position at the rate of 100 yards per minute.   This barrage will use only high explosive shells, and will stop as soon as the whole built-up area of Hardboard City has been shelled.

            Another barrage will then commence, this time using only incendiary shells.  This may be aimed at any targets that the artillery officer deems appropriate, and should continue until the ammunition is exhausted.

            Another barrage will then commence, this time using shells containing poison gas.  This should continue until the ammunition is exhausted.

            Finally, the artillery officer may fire as he sees fit, by using iron balls. 

            The idea is to get the enemy’s troops to move forward, behind a dune that they are supposed to think will provide them with cover.   I don’t understand it, but some kind of trick seems to have gone into producing what looks like earth, but in fact will not stop our bullets.    

            And then we are going to massacre them. 

            I can hear the guns.  The creeping barrage has started. 

*

I have just ordered the artillery barrage to begin.  I can hear Shostakovich’s Leningrad symphony through the PA.  The idea is to deafen them as well as blow them to fuck. 

            The only thing to do now is to wait, and to see if they behave the way we expected them to behave. 

            The poison gas is only chlorine.  We do have reserves of sarin, but it requires an executive order from me to release it.  The chlorine is only because it is very easy for us to make, and I thought it would frighten them. 

            The wind has changed slightly, and I can hear the music better now.  I can hear both the barrage and the music.  I am glad.  I had given specific orders that they should be executed at the same time.   The cacophony within the music reinforces the dissonance with the sound of the barrage.  I don’t just want to kill them: I want to drive the survivors insane. 

            I won’t even begin to think about relaxing until the incendiary barrage begins.  Hardboard City will go up like a roman candle.  Even so, I will feel easier when the poison gas barrage is finished, and I can lead the infantry in. 

*

This should not be happening.  I was given misleading information.  Before I came here, I was told that the colonists were degenerate and embarked on a downward spiral resulting from their own racial inferiority.  We are now being bombarded.  I am not sure what sort of weapon is being used against us but, whatever it is, it is quite potent.  I have a white, Anglo-Saxon army, equipped with support weapons and assault rifles.  I should be able to defeat any racially-inferior force which attempts to get in my way.  This should not be happening.  

I received a bill from Pamela Collins for the cost of repairing the Cinderella costume.  It was for 28 sovereigns, six shillings and four pence, which seemed punitive, but I paid it.  I sent her 29 sovereigns, because I don’t deal in pifflingly small amounts of loose change.   

            The name “Cindersgate” seems to have stuck.  Every notice board on the ship has a picture of my arse on it, usually next to the safety information.  A visitor from another world might think that it was something to do with fire drill or first aid.  “Look at these buttocks in case of emergency.”  I wish this notoriety might have lead to something, but it has not, other than meaningless sniggering.  

            Things with Jessica were very bad, at first.  She locked herself in her cabin, and would not talk to any-one.  The person who eventually got her to calm down was Emile.  He was determined that we should not miss out any performances, not even for one day.  Strangely enough, he was pleased.  He said that every ticket would be sold out, because people would believe that they might see another spectacle like the one of Jessica and me.  Just about the only people who never mention it are Anna’s women.  It is as if they had been living on another planet.   Sometimes I feel like going to see one of them just to get away from the noise.

*

My name is Richard Spalding, though I intend to change it when I finally become the Leader.  I am a lifetime member of the Party.  I am a committed National Socialist.  My mission is to restore the Spirit of the Nation to this country.  This weak, divided, racially-mongrel nation.  This nation which has been overrun by kikes, Pakis, niggers, spicks, chinks and all the rest of the racial vermin.  We can and will get rid of the racial pollution.  We can and will restore our sense of National Purpose.  The Spirit of the Nation will rise again, like a phoenix from the flames of everything we are going to burn: synagogues, mosques, temples, crack-dens, queer clubs, so-called “art” galleries, universities, libraries – and all the vermin inside them.  We will get rid of the whining academics, the Jewish lawyers, the weirdo film directors, the “conceptual” artists and the Indian doctors.  We will get rid of the scientists, the historians, the social workers, and all their bleeding-heart lesbian collaborators.  We will get rid of dykes and queers and bisexuals and all the other perverts.  We will get rid of all the androids from His Majesty’s Forces.  The Nation will defend itself, and make its own conquests, with its own blood.  Technology will be a slave to the Nation, and not an agent within the Nation.  We will get rid of “genetic enhancements” and “companion androids”.  In place of those aberrations we will have tradition, conformity, normality, and the things which Nature intended.

            We will sack every female worker who is taking a job that could be done by a male.  There will be no more feminism.  Women will be in the kitchen and the nursery and will have to ask permission to wear shoes.  Women will have no part in political activity.  

            We will get rid of the reds and the liberals who have dragged this Nation into the gutter and all but destroyed it.  We will clear-up crime.  We will reduce inflation.  There will be houses and jobs for all native, pure-bred white males, and those of kindred blood.  There will be security and stability.  We will train and arm the white, male working-class.  We will create a new officer elite, charged not just with the defence of the Nation but with the guardianship of its racial purity.  We are taking up the Unfinished Task and, this time, it will be finished.  We will build a regime that will last for a thousand years.  We will create a new civilisation, possibly the first real civilisation the world has ever seen. 

            I have not yet reached my full potential within the Party, which is to be the Leader.  I am now the third-youngest Regional Organiser in England, though I would much prefer the title Gauleiter.  I am in direct command of  500 storm-troopers.  I am a Captain in the Racial Guardians.  I have been awarded a bronze Eye of Odin for knowledge of Racial Science and Racial Politics, and I have three gold Hammers of Thor for victories over the reds and the queers.  

            There are times when I wish I could get some of those who currently control the Party, tie them to chairs with piano wire, and start on them with iron rods, pliers, and a blow-torch.  They are on the brink of rooting-out and destroying the foundations of liberal democracy, but I cannot believe how slowly they move.  They have already passed the Enabling Act.  The current Leader can rule by decree, but where are the decrees?  Where are the firing squads, the camps, the ovens, the mass graves?  Where are the Einsatzgruppen?  How many Jewish and Asian businesses have been closed down?  How many queers, reds, wogs  and deviants have been rounded up?  How many androids have been destroyed?  The Nation is moving.  The National Spirit is restless.  It cries out for change.  It cries out for the shedding of blood.  It cries out for leadership.  They have introduced a new flag, which is a Union Jack with lightning bolts in front of it.  This is pathetic – embarrassing.  The flag this nation needs, as any white nation which is about to wake up fully to its National Purpose needs, is a black swastika on a which circle, surrounded by a red field.  The swastika is the Führer; the white circle is the Party; the red field is the white working class.  This is perfection; this is poetry; this is the highest form of art: Aryan, accessible, meaningful.  

            One thing seems to point to the Zone of Destiny.   The Party’s Security Department has identified something called the “Alpha Project” as a major risk of racial pollution and behavioural deviance.  It is a bunch of queers who have set off for another planet.  Nobody knows if they are actually going to get there but, if they do, they must be hunted down.  They must be suppressed.  

            I have offered my services as the Leader of the mission to destroy this bunch of mongrel-queers.  It seems likely that my offer will be accepted.  On this mission, I will not be a Regional Organiser.  I will be the Leader.  I will be the Führer.  I will be the Godhead.