The coming European Civil War (5) – The Question

Posted on January 22, 2017

The coming European Civil War(s)

Part 5:  The Question

       It was very late, and they had been talking for hours.
Now, silence reigned, and Gustav reflected on the wide areas of History and Culture that they had covered. They had discussed the multiplying terrorist outrages in great length. The Bataclan massacres, the Charlie Hebdo outrage, the truck attacks in Marseille and Berlin. They had discussed the rampant child grooming scandals, and the stunning degrees to which Police, Social Workers, and local politicians had ignored the years long scandal. How the very forces that should have protected young children, were complicit in a massive cover up. How the gullible masses were being manipulated, and expected to accept the continuing wave of attacks as 'the new normal'. A regrettable, but perfectly acceptable price for the wondrous benefits that multi-cultural diversity was sure to bring, at some glorious future date. But what had touched Gustav the most, were the endless photos of young women raped, and mercilessly beaten. Scarred for life, mentally and physically. Their young faces, beaten black and blue. Their once bright eyes pummeled shut. Teeth knocked out. Contusions, abrasions, deep scars and puncture wounds over every inch of their bodies. Cigarette burns. Rope burn marks around wrists and ankles, a testimony to the utter brutality so gratuitously exercised. It was hard to imagine why a man, any man, would seek to methodically destroy the fresh beauty of such young people. Gustav found his teeth clenching, and his breath coming quickly, in short agitated bursts. When he looked up from studying the carnage of the Government protected Muslim rape gangs, he noticed that the old man was studying him closely.

      Next came written reports. Newspaper cuttings. Legal omissions and failures. Rapists given absurdly pitiful custodial sentences. Or, worse, let out on bail. Suspended sentences. It was clear that judges were under tremendous pressure. Possibly even fearful to be labelled 'racist'. The prisons themselves, full of Muslims, were out of control. Pressure groups were lobbying left, right and center for the rights of prisoners. Correction officers, in fear of their careers if labelled 'racist' were unable -or unwilling- to maintain rigid discipline. It was if the prisoners ran the jails. They probably did.

      Gustav, increasingly angry, struggled to formulate his thoughts. Victor, nodding patiently, produced a piece of paper, and handed it across.
      "This", he said, "was posted anonymously on the Internet. It is written in reply to a question somebody asked. Namely "What is guerilla warfare like? What is it like to fight a superior foe?" This answer has been circulated widely. Nobody knows who wrote it, or even which conflict it refers to. But there is, of course, speculation. I'd like you to study it closely, and tell me if you sense it to be true and accurate, or a faked, made up story."
Gustav read for several minutes in silence.

What is guerilla warfare like? How does it feel to wage war against a superior foe?


Are you sure you wish to know? Is it idle curiosity? Nothing better to do? A few seconds of titillation? Before you surf off to something else? Or do you wish, somehow, to understand? To gain an insight? To learn from History? Truly? I can tell you this: if you gaze into the abyss, beware.


Because the abyss stares back at you.

It's 01.20 in the morning. I can't sleep. That's a commonplace. I often roam the night. I don't need some blasted psychologist to get his mitts into my mind, and diagnose me with some fancy-dancy, technical, pseudo trendy mental disorder. I have always felt a cold contempt for shrinks. Stay away from me. You will get nothing. Just a silence, and eyes that are closed to you. I already know that there are scars, deep scars, carefully hidden away. For decades. They are my scars, and I don't need your irreverent, curious, wanna see and wanna poke, clinical questions trying to dissect my thinking like some lab rat. I've been there, and you got very little. You never will.

Yet, as I grow older, I sense the time is maybe approaching to finally tell at least some fraction of my story. And maybe not. When I saw this question on Quora, I tried to ignore it. I would go back, and look at it. Ignore it. It was almost as if my fingers, despite themselves, crept towards the keyboard. I pulled them back. Surfed away. Tried to forget the question. Next thing, once again, I found myself studying the… the… abyss. My fingers creeping forwards. My mind pulling them back. Yes, I have a story to tell. Maybe.

A loved one recently asked me, one quiet night, to talk about it. I asked: why?

I already knew the answer. I am loved. Those who love me, wish to understand. They sense the wall that pushes them back. Maybe it hurts them.

What is guerilla warfare like? How does it feel to wage war against a superior foe?

I think about those who love me. I think about how to explain to them, simply, that

some knowledge is dangerous.

It is maybe better not to know what your father was involved with. What he did. What he supported. Carefully. In cold blood. As a… what? To them, we were terrorists. Evil. Snakes. Monsters. Reviled.

Was I? Were we? No heart? No compassion? Or did we maybe care a lot?

You might think I ramble. But I am merely preparing the ground for the few here, the very few, who earnestly seek to -perhaps- understand. Only the 'anonymous' feature of Quora even makes this hesitant step into the daylight tentatively possible. The confronting of demons, that are now multiple decades old.

I never decided to become a 'guerilla fighter'. Or a paramilitary. I never consciously made that decision, as a decision. It was a process. It started when I was a young man, late teens. Infuriated by rampant injustice. Or maybe it started before that. On my mother's knee. Listening to terrible stories. As she would tell me, quietly, unutterably sadly, of a History full of wrongs. She would tell me of Injustice, and thuggery. We would speak in hushed tones, as if somebody might be listening. I will always remember the sadness in her eyes. The look of fear. A shadow. So I grew up with the seeds already planted in my mind. As a teenager, I finally saw, and experienced, first hand. I was beaten up, viciously, kicked unconscious, solely for being identified as being on 'the wrong side'. And I admit, I mouthed off. Those who kicked me, beat me, spat on me, and screamed hate-filled religious obscenities in my face, wore uniforms. They regularly carried pick ax handles. Although dressed in Law Enforcement uniforms, I saw them throw bricks and Molotov Cocktails, assist in burning down houses, and wholly pervert the cause of the Law. The Government Media -of course- pretty well covered that part up. That is all I will say. And they helped, unwittingly, to create a monster. A fury, that was to re-visit them, over and over. On my terms.

From then on, a quiet, hidden rage consumed me. Behind my nonchalant exterior, carefully crafted, burned a terrible fire.

What is guerilla warfare like? How does it feel to wage war against a superior foe?

It's lonely. It's dangerous. It's a paranoid existence. You want to constantly look over your shoulder – literally. You train yourself, force yourself, not to do so. You discover a coldness inside of you, that is truly sub zero. A hardness, that is beyond granite. Even as you pass through checkpoints, and your car or truck is searched, and you act the amiable fool, and chat about the weather, knowing what lies hidden in a secret compartment, (and the consequences) you are cold. Every nerve is tingling. You loiter seemingly unhurriedly under their very guns, the barbed wire and their guard towers, as if you are without a care in the world.

Imagine, if you like, a small room, late at night. The people in that room, maybe five or six altogether, speak quietly. I am shown photographs. Street maps. We plan. We work out how we are going to do it. We have days to plan, sometimes weeks. It is all about the how. We are way past the why. It is important that you understand that. The why is unspoken. The why was a stage I went through that started on my mother's knee. It ended on the floor of a small, rundown house, with six or eight uniformed thugs kicking me unconscious. Laughing while they were doing it.

You never forget.

Our little cell, beautifully organised, impossible to crack open meaningfully (only our leader knew anybody above), was to meet many times. And plan. And carry out.

The first time I squeezed off a trigger in earnest was on a dark night. The first time I killed was on a dark night. Unlike some of the other stories here, where contributors describe remote actions, the results of which were largely unseen (smoke in the distance), when you fire into somebody's head, from fifteen feet away, it's personal. His head jerked, and he went down without a kick, and lay perfectly still. It was the result of weeks of careful planning, and it worried me not in the slightest. Even after all these years, I still feel the ice cold contempt. He deserved it, believe me. For what he had done.

Ah. Many minutes have gone by. I contemplate what I have written. Some part of me wishes to delete this draft. Forget it. Another part of me is like a silent old man, gazing thoughtfully into the fire. As the flames sputter, and lick hungrily around the logs, you wonder where his silent mind has gone. You wonder what shadows he sees in the fire. I can tell you what he sees. Sadly.

History repeating itself.

Because of infuriatingly dumb politicians. The lessons of yesterday, the lessons of centuries, unstudied, unlearned. More young men are facing the cold wind of quiet realization. Yes, my young friend. The Media are absurdly biased. Bought and paid for. Most politicians are empty chattering heads. Together they are surrendering your country. Sacrificing your culture. Endangering your loved ones. In my time, along ethnic and religious lines. It was attempted ethnic cleansing. Today, in Europe, same-same-similar, disguised perhaps (for now) ( “Our Message is one of Peace “) but you are being led to slaughter on the bullying, thuggish altar of political correctness. Cultural suicide looms large. The inevitable imposition of an alien culture and a disguised, but nonetheless hate-filled alien belief system. It hurts. I know. Will you be led willingly into the dark night? Like sheep to the slaughter?

What is guerilla warfare like? How does it feel to wage war against a superior foe?

I don't regret my actions. It was thought out, premeditated. I do regret some of the unutterably stupid that was carried out in our name. We were totally outnumbered. By a factor of… what? Here, I just hit the calculator. In our area, about a hundred and fifty to one. A hundred and fifty of them, in uniforms, against one of us, like a ghost, appearing, and disappearing. But our very existence hinged on our cell structure. You and I could belong to the same organisation, and pass one another in the street, during daylight, and not recognize one another. We would never realize that we had met up at a prearranged spot one night, wearing balaclavas, to take on a vastly superior enemy. The cell structure is powerful, but also leads to surprises. Other people doing 'stuff' that leaves you furiously angry. Own goals. Insane foolishness. And that I regret. Bitterly.

The years have rolled by. I look back, and I have regrets. I don't regret the struggle. We achieved a lot. The blatant injustices are mostly a thing of the past now. They know better. But I am sad at the suffering. On both sides.

Did we learn from History? Did you? Did our politicians?

Hell, no.

Look at what is happening in Europe today. Don't you think that many already see the writing on the wall? Don't you think that already, all over Europe, embittered young men are quietly banding together? Giving up on their elected 'leaders'? It's a repeat of the late nineteen thirties. Whilst Chamberlain and his doves tried hard to appease Hitler, making fine speeches, and appealing to lofty principles of brother nations, insightful young men quietly joined the services, and the understaffed Royal Air Force. They knew what was coming. It didn't take a genius. The Teutonic writing was on the wall. Today, this time, the common enemy is a different one. The script is different as well. But the Radical Entity, relentless, unstoppable in its fanatical zeal, like a ravenous beast, shares many of the same characteristics. Insatiable. Fanatical. Cunning. Fascist, in many respects.

Yes, I suspect this chimera will be confronted. In time. When people have finally had enough of the cowardly appeasement and mass surrender of their politicians. But strong young men will bleed, and die, before this is over.

History is being written today, by the unbelievably dumb actions of Angela Merkel and co. I'm not sure which characteristic is the most egregious: their stunning naivety, or their hubris. The seeds of future armed civil conflict have been 'liberally' spread. Young men are quietly organizing. From Sweden to Austria, and Belgium to Poland. And they too will turn to the cell structure. It's the only way. If you are serious.

What is guerilla warfare like? How does it feel to wage war against a superior foe?

You do what you have to do. Most ordinary folk will roll over. Grumble, complain, fuss. Submit. Do nothing. A handful of men (and women) organize. The dedicated ones are incredibly hard to beat. That has been proven, over and over again. History is often shaped, decisively, by a relatively small, even tiny handful of dedicated…

Guerillas. Freedom fighters. Militia members. Thugs. Terrorists. Paramilitaries.

It depends entirely on your point of view. On your experiences. How hard they kick you in the face. How much they terrify your parents. How hard they leer at your sister. How absurdly they undermine and subvert the Rule of Law. How successfully – and blatantly- they push you out of whole neighborhoods. Often, one street at a time. Sound familiar? Nothing changes.

I sigh, and debate hitting 'submit'.

Maybe I should just 'delete' the bloody thing.

I don't know. I honestly don't know.

More than forty years later, the fire is burning.




Gustav handed the paper back."It's powerful." He reflected.  "And it's genuine".
Victor studied him closely. "Why do you think that?"  His voice was soft.
"Because of the loneliness. The paranoia. The death of normality. You cross over, and life can never be the same again. You have lost something. Innocence. It's true. I can feel it."

Victor, with his eyes steady, and his voice level, regarded him gravely.
"You are right. It's a huge step".
There was a silence in the room, interrupted only by a tired ceiling fan.
Almost as an afterthought, Victor added:
"And you are correct. It IS genuine. I know it is."
He got up, and headed out of the room. He paused, with his hand on the door knob.
"I know…"
His eyes were clear, and firm.

"Because I wrote it."  

(to be ctd.)

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on January 27, 2017, 10:39 pm

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