This is, thankfully, not my usual blog fare.

But it is the first time I have had to strike a name from the roll, that is, my list of subscribers, because of death.

I lost a comrade recently. We’ll call him “Dietrich”. He was a great guy. He was one of the earliest subscribers to my blog, and I want to tell you a little about him.

At my age, I am no stranger to death. I’ve lost people I love and watched others pass whom I did not know at all. I’ve mourned the absence of friends and grieved the loss of children with their parents. But this was the first time a comrade dear to me has moved on. He was special, different from my other friends and much of my family, in that he knew my secret: that I am a National Socialist. And he was too, in his way.

Discovering other true National Socialists is not as easy as one might think. Let’s be honest, it’s not like we can walk around with Party armbands on and expect to attract friendly, smiling faces offering kind words of encouragement; or pin a Party badge on our lapel and offer enthusiastic “Heil Hitler” salutes as we pass one another on the pavement. All the more so here, for us, as we live on the West coast near one of bastions of neo-communist sentimentality, where failing to genuflect before the rainbow-flag waving BLM troglodytes could get you doxxed, swatted, and if you resisted, arrested for the “hate-crime” of having an opinion contrary to the liberal orthodoxy and thinking for yourself. Heaven help you if you speak out-loud what you actually believe.

Yet, find each other we did. We met when I joined an organization that honors our ancestors who fought for the Southern states in what we like to call the War of Northern Aggression. You might know it by its more common designation: the Civil War. I’m talking about the Sons of Confederate Veterans of course. But even here, one is well advised not to make assumptions: Contrary to what the media (and that most heinous of organizations, the Southern Poverty Law Center) would have you believe, The SCV is a race-neutral organization. Their mission is to promote the virtues of the Southern culture (community, loyalty, bravery, honor, tradition, family, etc.) while honoring those who fought to preserve their homes and way-of-life from the rolling tide of greedy Federal expansion. The issue of slavery seldom enters into the discussion, and is generally acknowledged to have been a bad idea.

In short, the SCV is focused on ancestral heritage and genealogy, not ideology. Indeed, there are many Black members in the SCV. What’s more, even from its founding in 1896, no tolerance was given to those who wished to combine membership in the SCV with more racially charged agendas. A quote from the original SCV constitution sums it up:

“The Sons of Confederate Veterans neither embraces, nor espouses acts or ideologies of racial and religious bigotry, and further, condemns the misuse of its sacred symbols and flags in the conduct of same.”

What’s more, the requirements for membership include the following:

“Membership is open to all male descendants of a Confederate veteran, twelve years and older, regardless of race, ethnicity, or religion. U. S. members must embrace the Constitutional view of the Federal government supported by Confederate Veterans and be loyal and patriotic American citizens.”

So, your average SCV meeting is not filled with National Socialists, or even strong candidates for the American Nazi Party. There are many veterans of the armed forces who, having sworn allegiance to the US Constitution when they joined, still take that pledge seriously.

But I knew Dietrich was a little different when I first met him. One oftentimes knows when they are with a person where a sense of fellowship naturally arises. Kindred spirits. It helped that he talked in that considered, Southern manner—I won’t call it slow, just—paced or measured. Where one’s thoughts precedes one’s speech. It’s different than our West coast verbal rhythms, where we do just talk slow. It annoys the hell out of people from the North East who talk faster than they walk. Here was a person you could actually converse with. Share ideas. Maybe a learn a little something.

It all clicked into place when one night we were standing watch over a monument in danger of being vandalized by antifa (SPLC foot-soldiers, sponsored by Jewish communist stooge George Soros) and I noticed his ring. “Oh,” I said, “a SS-Ehrenring. Very nice.” It was a reproduction, of course. An original, if you can actually find one, would cost about the same as a good down-payment on a new car. Still, I’ve been meaning to get one myself.

He looked at me, taken aback. In all his years of wearing it, no one had ever spotted what it actually was. And from there, our true conversation began: his German heritage, his admiration of what Hitler tried to do for Germany, and his appreciation for the basic principals of National Socialism.

Over the years, our conversations grew deep enough for me to share with him my membership in the American Nazi Party and the role I play in the movement. When I started my blog, he was one of the first to subscribe. After each entry, he would email me and we would debate the finer points back and forth. I valued his input, for not only was he better read than I, but he brought an interesting perspective to the conversation: for all of his appreciation for National Socialism as a movement and political ideology, and the true nature of National Socialist Germany, Dietrich never joined the American Nazi Party. He seriously considered it, he really wanted to, but he simply couldn’t: he was a Christian pastor and he could not sign-off on the inherent antisemitism built into the platform.

He was on-board with every other aspect of the movement, even recognizing that at its core, National Socialism is a positive force working to build up the White race, not a negative trying to tear down others. And he fully acknowledged the differences between the various races, and thought they ought to remain separate and unmixed, particularly in regards the African-Americans, as we use to call them. He noted the undue influence Jews have in our society, and the ills that such influence causes. But to him, Zionism (that is the say, the ideology) was the problem, not the race. As a Christian pastor, who drew from both the Old and the New Testaments, he simply could not bring himself to condemn the people from whom Christ descended.

What sort of wrench did this throw in our friendship? None at all. I understood and respected his position, though I disagreed with it. He felt the same toward me. We agreed to disagree. In every other respect, he was National Socialist through and through: actions speak louder than words after all. He kept true to the White race in his personal life; he supported me in my efforts to “spread the good word”, even if my “good word” was a little different than his; as best he could, he carried himself as a responsible and productive exemplar of White society to the end. Does it matter that he did not join the Party? Of course not. Consider this: at it’s height, actual membership in the NSDAP is estimated to have been only around 11% of the German population.

What’s more, he continues to contribute to our cause, in his own way. While assisting in the clearing out of his home, I was told his family wasn’t too keen on his “German fixation” and I could help myself to his books. I now have three full boxes of books to sort though on National Socialist Germany. Most of it, to be fair, is military history, but much of it are hard-to-find first person accounts.

Just like me, he also acquired a little of this and a little of that: M43 caps, a trench coat, a tunic or two. Things you like to wear around the house (let’s be honest, the Germans were the best looking troops of the war, and the stuff is comfortable). Heck, we were even the same size, enjoyed the same pipe tobacco, and both served in the Army- his BDU uniforms looked just like mine (but he outranked me). It got a little eerie.

And as I sorted, I couldn’t help but notice how much the detritus of his life looked an awful lot like the stuff in mine. It was all-to-easy imagining someone sorting through my stuff, hopefully years from now, and finding the exact same treasures. What will I leave behind? Who will I leave them to? Will I be the “Dietrich” to someone else, a kindred-spirit, guiding and inspiring. Will I be the person that reminds some other National Socialist soul that they are not alone, that there are others out there that believe as we do who quietly keep the flame alive while we work to rekindle the bonfire?

I knew we had a lot in common, but I really didn’t know how much until he was gone.

I Had A Comrade, by Johann Ludwig Uhland

I had a comrade,
You won’t find a better one.
The drum beat for battle,
He walked by my side, In equal step and pace.

A bullet came flying:
Is it for me or for you?
He was torn away,
He lies at my feet,
As if he were a piece of me.

He still wants to give me his hand,
While I’m reloading.
[I] Can’t give you my hand,
Stay in eternal life,
My good comrade!

Amerika Erwache