No longer shall my heart be Quiet Ch.1

Posted on May 25, 2018



"No longer shall my heart be Quiet"



Chapter 1:   Malmo Reflections






       Malmo, Sweden.



      The city of his birth. In the early morning. With a dull, grey overcast, a persistent drizzle, and a surreal sense of… what?

Foreboding, probably. Latent, emerging fear. The monster meeting the new day, already voracious. Ah… listen. Distant sirens, feeble attempts to bring order to violent chaos, warbling plaintively in the weary dawn. Another day. More… hate.

He turned away from the window in his high rise, and returned to his battle station. The computer screen glowed softly, and beyond that portal, ten thousand potential warriors awaited the latest news. From hell.

Gustav sighed deeply. Closing his eyes just for a moment, he reflected, sadly, on the insane, twisting road, that had led, unerringly to this troubled day. It hadn't always been like this…



      Back in 2018-2020, not that long ago in one sense, there had still been those hopeful that Sweden might survive. As a modern state. The way it seemingly always had. But harsh reality, bombs and bullets, hand grenades and rampaging Islamic mobs, intimidation and hypocrisy, not to mention skyrocketing crime and sexual assaults, had eventually made even the most ardent feminists, for the most part, shuffle sheepishly off the stage. Rotten eggs and tomatoes, of the physical putrifying kind, and in the form of raw anger on the part of infuriated native Swedes, had silenced many of the former Quislings of a once great and modern Nation. Those noisy feminist politicians who nonetheless remained, still unrepentant, (entrenched firmly behind the locked gates of their homogeneous white, upscale communities), bore the brunt of endless withering popular jokes.

He shook his head. There was work to be done.



       Gustav was a young man.

A career professional with a comfortable, affluent life style. Soft spoken, unassuming, and highly intelligent. A humble student of History. But above all, a Realist. An organizer. Recruiter. Leader.

The organization for which he toiled, often at insane personal risk, had grown exponentially. Despite all the nay-sayers, those who had forecast, back in 2020, that the Swedes would roll over, and submit meekly to the Caliphate, despite all the "Sweden-is-finished" talk, patriots had in fact pulled together. He had seen the organisation graduate from irregular street patrols, dealing with petty thieves, thugs, and violent rapists, to a well-oiled machine capable and willing -where necessary – to carry out acts of arson, sabotage and mass civil disobedience. He had at his disposal determined young Patriot men, with muscle and courage, who loved their country, and who were determined to fight the Great Merkel Betrayal to the bitter end. There would be no surrender to either the Islamic Invasion, orchestrated and sinister, or a capitulation to the Establishment Forces. There existed a growing, bitter contempt for nearly all elected officials, and the members of the cowed, broken, gutless Media. Whose sole mission in Life up to this point had been to facilitate Islamic conquest as rapidly and speedily as possible. And apparently welcoming Sharia Law, the emerging Muslim caliphate, and the cultural dilution of the Native Peoples.

He frowned.



      Cultural dilution initially. But after that, he knew only too well, in a few short decades, cultural annihilation. De facto enslavement and subjugation to a violent, foreign, misogynistic, pedophile, sickeningly perverse 7th century cult. A naked, worldly power ideology, pretending to be a religion. Brute force, dressed up in sham holy tinsel and cheap glitter.

     He stood up behind the flickering computer screen. Pacing restlessly, thoughts and questions tormenting him. Once again at the window, he stared sadly out over his ancient homeland.



     How many generations of his forefathers have lived and died there? Too many to count. Going far back before recorded History even began, his ancestors had lived and toiled, worried and fought, bled and died, but never -ever- voluntarily surrendered their heritage.

       But now…



Now he had countrymen willing, eager, falling over themselves, to usher in their nation's permanent cultural and demographic decline and eventual demise.

He shook his head. Time to plan ahead. Not wallow in the recent past. Time to reflect. Plan. Plan. Plan.

The analytic, cold part of his mind took careful control. He silently listed their problems, one by one. Cogitating, meditating, reflecting.



A) They had to continue to swell their numbers of street soldiers, and organize them into effective, rapid reaction, fighting formations. This was easier said than done. Infiltration was the chief worry. Infiltration by agents of an increasingly hysterically repressive Government. The left Wing Government, dominated by so-called 'Liberals' who seemed to have hijacked a word and a value to which they intended only terminal harm. The last thing the Government desired was the 'Liberty' of its citizens, Free Speech or Self Determination. On the contrary. It was their way, or the High Way. Translated increasingly into long prison sentences.



B) After infiltration, the problem was internal efficiency, security, and rapidity of communication. In just his local area, he counted over one hundred and fifty dedicated Patriots. Arranged in 'cells' with six to eight members in each cell, the Sons of Wodan relied on a complex and somewhat cumbersome methodology of 'trickle down' commands. They referred to it as "Descending The Pyramid". Instructions would be passed down from the tip of the pyramid, the top echelon, and be distributed only to the Cell Leaders (also known as Commanders) on the First Step Down. There were eight such cells. Eight leaders. Commanding 57 men. Of those eight cells on the First Step Down, five cells had at least one further Internal Cell. One even had Four Internal cells. These were again cells of six to eight men, arranged on the Second Step down. Headed up by a Cell Commander, who was a dual rated individual. Acting both as Cell Commander for his Internal Cell, situated on the Second Step down, he also was an ordinary foot soldier reporting to HIS Cell Commander on the First Step Down. In this way, the Pyramid was being being constructed steadily from the top down. However, the design factored in hostile penetration of cells anywhere in the Pyramid Structure. No matter which cell was compromised, no matter which Step/Tier that cell was located on, damage limitation was regarded as paramount. Units were expected to exercise a high degree of autonomy, making flexible, local command decisions in accordance with their overall Aims.



C) After infiltration and internal, secure communications, the next issue was commitment and the level of psychological preparedness. It was one thing to ask Patriots to patrol their own communities with the safety of their own kinfolk in mind. Especially that of the women and children. Most volunteered for that enthusiastically. Armed with fists and feet,  clubs and courage, such patrols were effective, and sent a message. The very weight of numbers lent the patrols courage. But Gustav knew that more challenging, pro-active action would be soon required. Taking the fight to the enemy. The psychological profile that matched with a Patriot using his fists and feet, did not necessarily extend a preparedness to use Force of Arms. Never mind, Lethal Force. That need was approaching quickly.



Gustav the patriot, stands at the window, and ponders these fundamental questions. He contemplates overall strategy, and the resultant tactics to be used on the short term, local level.



His brow is furrowed. His heart. Heavy.



In the distance, a bell



tolls.



















Last edited by Francis Meyrick on May 25, 2018, 4:53 am


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