A Dangerous Life (Part 2)
I had made some negative remarks about the ceasefire declared by Prime Minister Ian D. Smith, which was already allowing terrorists to enter from their training camps in Mozambique and Tanzania, with no defense allowed by us in the security forces. I must have made them too loudly because when I finished my patrol at Nyamapanda the big boss of Support Unit, Chief Superintendant “Fats” Waller, called me into his office. “Campbell, I have word that you don’t intend to return here from your vacation in the States. There are some in the police who would like to see you in prison.”
I was astounded. Almost speechless, but not quite. “You mean, after all I’ve done, someone would like that?”
“So, you have a choice. You may serve out the remainder of your contract without leaving the country or buy it out now. You may not, however, leave the country on your vacation and remain in the police.”
“Well, sir – considering everything I’ve done for this country, for virtually nothing… that’s easy: I’ll buy out my contract.”
“Very well. I’m sorry you feel that way.”
“It appears to me, sir, that the government does not plan on winning this thing. Joshua Nkomo is being groomed for leadership at Vila Salazar.” I’d never heard of Robert Mugabe, who we now know was getting the same preparation in Salisbury Prison. “If we were allowed to fight these guys properly, I’d never leave.”
Waller knew I was the most gung-ho guy in Support Unit. But he had his orders. I bought out the next day.
Ironically, I was approached indirectly a few days later by a civilian who asked me to drop by the prime minister’s office on Jameson Avenue and speak to Major Ian King, the PM’s military attaché. I did so. Major King shook hands and got right to it. “You’re going back to the States, we hear. Are you able to find certain military items if I were to give you a shopping list?” I nodded. He handed me a list of about ten items ranging from small arms to patrol boats to red-eye missiles to Douglas Skyraider airplanes. He asked me how I would get them into Rhodesia, considering the United Nations sanctions and blockade that only South Africa ignored.
“I’d probably get them to the Seychelles and stage them over from there.” He nodded and agreed that was possible. He warned me that another country was also possibly involved in supplying these weapons but he encouraged me to arrange these purchases as quickly as possible. I arranged with my American friend in Salisbury, Igor Karpenko, to be the liaison with Major King. I made my way to West Palm Beach to visit with my father on his sailboat and then up to New Orleans to speak with the Phillips Company, builders of modern patrol boats. They were actually able to provide everything else on the list except the Skyraiders.
I called McDonald-Douglas in Long Beach and asked about the airplanes. The man said, “Well, of course, we don’t make them anymore but there are some that are probably for sale in Vietnam. Vice-president Ky has Skyraiders that he might sell.”
The Rhodesian air force had some old Hawker Hunters and Vampires but they were jets and jets were not effective as ground-support planes. Prop-driven Skyraiders were thought to be the ultimate in those days for operations against ground forces.
Just as I was making travel arrangements for Saigon, a small headline appeared in our paper: “UN Censures Jordan for Arms Deal.” King Hussein had beaten me to it, supplying the Rhodesian shopping list to South Africa, which passed them on to Rhodesia. That was that.
Atlantic Richfield (ARCO) offered me a job as a drilling foreman trainee in ’75 and I underwent training in Hobbs, New Mexico, eventually breaking out as a foreman that year, probably the youngest one in the country at that time at twenty-eight years old. I transferred to Bakersfield a couple of years later and after two more years was persuaded to go to work for the John Birch Society in Southern California as a field coordinator. My old man had been a life member but I had never joined it.
I spent a strange year, all of ’79, with this hypocritical organization that advertised itself as anti-Communist but pro-Zionist. Its board of directors had on it members of the Federal Reserve and the Council on Foreign Relations. Its leader was a Freemason. In other words, the John Birch Society was a total fraud on its members, who were told that the enemy was Communism but if a member pointed out that Communism was Jewish, he or she was removed from the membership in disgrace. My job as a coordinator was to punish this sort of heresy. Fortunately for me, all the aware members in Southern California had been purged before I showed up.
I met Congressman Larry McDonald, who later headed the Birch Society until his murder, and he and I had several conversations about Rhodesia. He unfortunately had on his staff a Zionist agent from England named John Rees, who hated me. He obviously knew more about me than I about him. His hatred was connected to my service in Rhodesia.
The experience of confronting Robert Welch, the leader, in his office in Belmont, Massachusetts was very disturbing and added to my seething hatred of Carter, Rockefeller, Kissinger, Brezezinski, et al. By this time, too, the Rhodesians had been sold out by their prime minister and it seemed everything had turned to crap. So I decided to kill David Rockefeller.
A guy I knew had a Thompson M1A1 submachine gun, untraceable, and he gave it to me for the job. I approached another friend from Los Angeles who had been purged from the Birch Society before my time. I knew he had some money and I told him of my plan to go to New York and kill Rockefeller, which needed some support. He immediately agreed on the condition that he would participate in the attack. Unable to talk him out of it, I agreed to teach him his role with a shotgun as a backup to my weapon.
In early 1980, we had found an isolated spot out in the wilds of Carmel Valley, where I showed him how to use the shotgun properly to deal with Rockefeller’s bodyguards, if any. His shotgun was short-barreled but legal. We violated Murphy’s Law and were seen by a couple of hikers, who reported our activity to a game warden who eventually reported it to a sheriff’s deputy. Richard put the shotgun in the backseat and covered it. On our way out of the area, the deputy stopped us with a shotgun of his own. He searched Richard’s car, found the shotgun and fished the keys out of Richard’s pocket and opened the trunk of Richard’s car without a warrant. In the trunk he found the submachine gun.
A few days later we were released but facing felony charges with many years in prison. The Salinas newspapers portrayed me as an ex-mercenary and probable assassin-for-hire, which was not strictly true. Nobody hired me, but the Krugerrands in Richard’s trunk made it look pretty exotic.
My first attorney threatened the DA, saying that he’d better let Campbell go because he’s a wild son of a bitch. That attorney nearly got arrested himself and I fired him when he told me what he’d done. My next attorney was an ex-Monterey cop who assured me that the search would be thrown out as a matter of routine. The deputy had had no probable cause to go in the trunk without a warrant. The deputy, in the preliminary hearing, had lied, saying that the hikers said we had a black bag and that was what he was looking for. The SMG had never been out of the trunk and I think Richard himself was not aware that I’d put it in there.
Long story short, a year later my appeals to the appellate court in San Francisco and the Supreme Court in Sacramento were denied and we had to go to trial. My attorney, Bob Nixon, was beside himself with guilt and anxiety for having trusted the county clerk to supply the transcript of my preliminary hearing to accompany the first appeal. The clerk lied and the lack of the transcript was why the routine appeal was denied both times. He’d promised Nixon that he would take it to the San Francisco appellate court that day and place it with the appeal, because he was too busy to locate it right then.
The morning of the trial came. I went to Nixon’s office to talk it over. He said, “Well, our appeals have been turned down. They can use the weapon against you and you’re going to be convicted and sent to prison. However, there is possibly one thing left for us.”
He said that he wanted me to submit to the preliminary report, also called making a slow plea. A slow plea of what? I asked.
“Well, I don’t need an attorney to plead me guilty.”
“There’s just one crazy thing… You are not mentioned in the preliminary report.”
“How can that be?”
“I don’t know. It’s crazy, but you’re not mentioned.” He gave it to me. I read it and sure enough, only Richard was named. So we went on over to Salinas for the moment of truth. He feared the prosecutor, who had been making a big noise about sending me away, already knew about the discrepancy.
We waited in the hall outside the courtroom. The cocky young prosecutor came sauntering along, hailing my attorney. “Hey, Nixon! You ready?”
“Yeah. Well, we’re going to submit to the pre-lim.” Bob had his fingers crossed behind his back that only I could see.
“Really? Right on!”
Nixon didn’t look at me as we followed the hotshot into the courtroom. We took our seats and the judge entered and sat down. He said, “All right, People v. Campbell, possession of an unregistered machine gun. Are we ready to go?”
The attorneys said they were. Nixon stood up. “Your honor, we wish to submit to the preliminary report.”
“You wish to make a slow plea?”
“Yes, your honor.”
The judge asked the prosecutor if that was all right with him? The prosecutor enthusiastically said that it was. The judge eyed me and launched into an explanation of what I was doing meant. Did I understand what I was doing? Nixon nudged me to say “Yes.”
Nixon stood up. “Your honor, my client is not mentioned in the preliminary report. We therefore move for a dismissal of the charge.” This was followed by about five seconds of silence, at which point the hotshot prosecutor jumped up.
“I object!” The judge looked at him.
“You object to what?”
“Er – I object to this motion!”
“You just said that you were satisfied with Mr. Campbell’s submission to the pre-lim.”
“Well, er –“
“Have you actually read the preliminary report?” The judge produced a copy from his papers and read through it. “Ah-hah… Mr. Nixon is correct that Mr. Campbell’s name is not in this report. Cased dismissed.”
Thus ended my felony prosecution. Richard, whose prosecution had been severed from mine, simply blamed me for getting him in trouble, for putting the gun in the trunk and cited my acquittal. He also walked free. My prosecutor was fired the day of the trial and went to work for a shoe company. Nixon was the toast of the Monterey law fraternity for his unorthodox tactic but resigned from the practice of the law a few days later, saying that he never suspected how corrupt the system was, that the county clerk, a friend, could betray him so viciously by deliberately withholding my transcript from the appeal package.
This incident showed me a couple of things. Number one, I needed a political movement to overthrow the Rockefeller gang from power, not just an assassination. I still believed in the assassination of Group members but by a more powerful association of men, not just by lone wolves such as myself. (“The Group” was the term used by Carroll Quigley in his posthumously-published book, The Anglo-American Establishment, to describe the Rothschild/Rockefeller syndicate.)
It also showed me that I needed to think big to start such a movement. I’d been thinking of starting a school for young guys that would instruct them in the important masculine things, such as fitness, history and politics, weapons and self-defense – and chivalry. I mentioned my idea to my friend in New Jersey, Bill Murray, who was another disillusioned ex-coordinator for the Birch Society. He immediately said that no one would send kids to my school and that I needed to write a book.
A book? Me?
So, I did some research and in 1983 came up with The New American Man – A Call to Arms. That was how the militia movement got started. I followed with a screenplay based on the general idea, first called BREAKDOWN and later changed to DEATH VALLEY. The screenplay turned out to be tougher than the book’s first draft, since the former called for revolution and the book hadn’t.
The book manuscript was sent around for comments. Almost no one understood what I was doing, since this was in the Reagan years, and I was obviously way ahead of the power curve, calling for the overthrow of the US government by force and violence during a time when most people were not too upset with things. And nothing came of it until Reagan was gone and replaced by Mr. George Bush of the CIA, who began talking about the New World Order and invading foreign countries, killing millions. Hmm, some guys thought – maybe Campbell was right. But that came later.
Perhaps the most dangerous thing I did came on the heels of finishing the book and the screenplay in ’83. The guy who gave me the Thompson was facing foreclosure on his house and property in the Santa Cruz mountains. He needed some help and some guns to resist the fraudulent foreclosure.
I’d been helping him with his legal defense, typing up his motions and so forth, and even had proposed in the first place his defense which was to sue the bank for fraud and usury, since it had lent credit, technically illegal, but wanted to be repaid in cash. Today, we are beginning to understand the magnitude of foreclosure fraud, with Nevada recently outlawing foreclosures without a true chain of title. But in 1983, this idea was pretty radical. And my friend’s suit was thrown out by a judge who was protecting the bank.
I’d previously provided my friend, Jack, with a .357 magnum revolver. I took an HK-91 rifle to him before the SWAT team got there. We had lunch, I checked him out on the rifle and said I’d probably go on back to Carmel as I’d driven non-stop from Santa Fe, New Mexico and got his message upon getting home. But as I went to open his gate I saw eight or nine camouflaged SWATs marching up the road, armed with rifles and shotguns.
“Hey, the SWATs are here,” I told them back at the house. We went outside and my friend grabbed the rifle. On his shirt he was wearing a Silver Star and a Purple Heart from his shoot-out with Viet Cong. He’d killed thirteen of them with an M-60 machine gun. There was a commotion at the lower gate and Jack ran down to investigate. Two cops with rifles jumped out from their hiding spots and ran after him. I stepped off the porch and motioned vigorously to go back, which they did. I was wearing a sport coat, slacks, white shirt and a tie, so they were obviously confused.
Jack came back to the house. I indicated the two shooters who had gone back behind the bushes and trees. The trees were giant redwoods. I said, “Those guys almost drilled you from behind. You need to be more careful.”
His wife Betty was scared and said to me, “Go up there and talk to them!” I shrugged and headed up to the bushes, about thirty yards away. The shooters aimed their AR-15s at me and ordered me to get on my knees. I declined, saying, “I’m not getting on my knees. I came up here to ask you not to shoot my friend. He just wants his day in court.” I turned around and went back down to the house. They yelled and threatened to shoot, but they didn’t.
Eventually the cops withdrew, so as you would notice. The television and newspapers were allowed to come in and interview Jack and Betty. The phone and power had been cut off so I told Jack I’d try to go down to the country store and call for some help. I said to him that I’d leave my Scottie because if they arrested me, they probably kill her.
I got a hundred yards down the road when cop cars surrounded me. I was arrested and taken to Santa Cruz County jail. Eventually I was questioned by a detective. At no point, either on the road or in the jail, was I read my Miranda rights. I told the cop what Jack wanted. He said that’s not the way to go about it. “Yeah? What is?” He had me taken away to the cells.
The Santa Cruz jail was from the Depression days, like an old Cagney movie, very overcrowded. The Mexicans slept all day and stayed up all night, tattooing each other with ink made from burned plastic cup soot. The whites stuck together and I made a couple of friends.
The detective called me on the jail phone. He accused me of supplying the guns. I had to make a very quick decision, and answered, “Yes, I did.”
About the second day, the jailer called out my name. I went to the cell door. He said, “Attorney visit.”
After going through another strip search, I waited in a small room. Two cops entered and identified themselves, one from the sheriff’s department and the other from the coroner’s office. That didn’t sound good. They said they needed next of kin information on Jack and Betty. “You killed them?”
“We can’t comment until next-of-kin are notified.” I couldn’t help them because I didn’t know their next-of-kin. It didn’t occur to me that they were lying. I staggered back to my cell.
They let me think that my friends were dead and I was looking at Murder One for about four hours. My fellow prisoners were watching a TV through the bars and shouted at me. “Hey, check this out!”
Turned out Jack and Betty and their pregnant daughter and her little girl had escaped through the redwoods, right through SWAT lines, down the mountain to freedom. Jack was at large for a couple of months but eventually arrested in the courthouse as he was attempting to get copies of his bank lawsuit. In his trial, the SWAT leader stated that the sheriff had authorized the team to kill us all. Even the women and child? Yes. He couldn’t say why we weren’t all shot.
Jack was sent to San Quentin for several years. Betty was never caught. Because I had confessed without being Mirandized, as I’d figured, the felony charges against me were dropped. I got ninety days for misdemeanor accessory and wound up doing a few weekends.
So I got through a couple of ill-conceived incidents and realized I’d better jack up my ideas and get serious if I intended to do any good and survive this thing. The big danger lay ahead.
The issue facing us today is police terrorism. Two basic forms: home invasions and internal checkpoints for ID/drug smuggling. Two forms of home invasion: knock and no-knock. The knock form would presumably include a warrant to search, which you would, today, probably allow.
The no-knock form means the door crashing in at three AM with ten armed, screaming hop-heads eager to blow you away after they’ve slaughtered your dog. Flying buckshot from your automatic shotgun is the only possible response you should use for a no-knock invasion.
I had to be a cop for about six months in Rhodesia in order to get into Support Unit, the police anti-terror squad. The agreement between me and the British South Africa Police was that I needed to learn about Africans, how to talk to them and deal with them, since I would be leading nine or ten of them in the Unit. The average American has no idea how this is done.
For all our terrible reputation for racism, I can say with some authority that there was virtually no instance of white police brutality against Africans. Captured terrorists were prosecuted as criminal defendants, some executed if involved in murders, most put in prison. The terrorist leaders, Mugabe and Nkomo and their lieutenants, were comfortably detained rather than prosecuted. All terrorist prisoners and detainees were released after the black takeover.
Support Unit was, before the terror war started, the riot squad. African rioters had been dealt with in typical African fashion in the turbulent ‘60s and the black Support Unit constables and their sergeants got a little carried away by the violence and the unit retired to Tomlinson Depot to avoid more criticism. However, in the early ‘70s, it redeemed itself after its conversion with much training to a full-time paramilitary force against the Chinese- and Soviet-backed sadists sent in to murder and torture people and destroy Rhodesia, all in accord with the American and British blueprint to steal minerals. By far, most victims of Capitalist/Communist terror were Africans.
Support Unit was, during my time there, about forty white section officers and inspectors leading around three hundred African constables and their sergeants in six or seven troops. Our time was split between tracking and ambushing terrorists and acting as guards for the police CID and Special Branch in their investigations of terrorist attacks.
My only experience with police brutality was in being charged with that offence by my boss, the member-in-charge at Mt. Darwin, after I had pistol-whipped a drunken African detective sergeant in Special Branch who had attempted to attack me. This incident, after which I was exonerated by the Officer Commanding Mashonaland Province, confirmed the suspicion of my fellow cops that I really was a Chicago gangster. It was something an American rather than a Rhodesian would do, since in those days I was the only one in the British South Africa Police who openly carried a pistol!
Seventeen years later, I was living in Los Angeles when the video emerged of LA’s finest beating the tar out of Rodney King. Up till that time, it was the most repulsive and cowardly thing I’d seen on tape, since there wasn’t much taping going on in the early ‘90s. With all the taped and digitized atrocities we’ve seen lately, it’s pretty tame. But it showed Americans the gangster side of police work. It and its green-lighting by the Simi Valley jury were shocking enough to trigger the worst riots in US history, even if most of the destruction (six thousand buildings burned down) was committed by George Bush’s CIA. LAPD Chief Daryl Gates was a CIA operative so maybe the whole thing was contrived, but it did reveal a frightening look at police work in America. Such cowardice and gang behavior by police was inconceivable in “racist white Rhodesia.” The Rodney King beating was a mild (non-lethal) version of African terrorism itself!
Now, of course, things are much worse for everyone. Cops are regularly executing Americans on the street. They kill us with guns and tasers and sometimes beat us to death. They pull people out of wheelchairs and slam them headfirst to the concrete. They shoot people for traffic violations. They steal money, drugs, vehicles, property and whatever they can find and call it “jeopardy seizures,” using the stolen loot for whatever they want. There is no legal recourse to these cop crimes, since judges and prosecutors will take no action against them. So I figure that the cops are doing what they’re told to do by their bosses.
I asked a question of one of the Lew Rockwell libertarians the other day. He’d written a think-piece about the American police state. I said, how do you plan to deal with roadblocks and home invasions?
“We still,” I wrote him, “have the means to prevent martial law if we can overcome the conditioning and mind control designed to disarm us mentally and physically. A new resistance movement without a leader must be encouraged.
“We've reached the end of the peaceful phase of the plotters' campaign against us. We're moving into the violent phase. Americans must now start the payback for all the financial, political, military and police crimes against us and against foreigners in our name. A manifesto is needed to energize Americans and release them from artificial and religious restraints imposed on us to prevent self-defense.
“LRC needs to get out of the theory and into the practice of maintaining liberty.”
“I agree with what you believe will happen, but you are wrong about LRC. LRC has done more than any and all libertarian and liberty fighting organizations to change the minds of many. In order to gain freedom back, peaceful means are necessary. All violent revolution has ended in as bad or even worse abuses by the state, especially when military rule is the result.
“Education one mind at a time is necessary to achieve any situation that would result in a society based in freedom. It really doesn’t take that many, given that there are nearly 300 million of us. The problem now is that the sheep in this country are fully dependent on government and the property of others taken by force, and the apathy due to state indoctrination has arrived at such a place as to consume most.
“If all had to be self-reliant, things would change immediately, but if this self-reliance comes due to economic collapse, which is what I think will happen, then violence will be the result. We will all lose if this happens.”
I still wanted to know what he would do personally against police terrorism.
“I get what you're saying and appreciate what LRC has done, and that it is getting tougher every month. But the question now is what do you do when confronted with a criminal cop or six? Our education must now become practical rather than philosophical. What are you going to do? What should you do? When is it correct to kill cops and feds? It doesn't matter that ‘this is playing into their hands,’ which is the excuse to submit - where do we draw the line regarding assault and battery on us by our employees?
“As you can imagine from my background, I am in the federal crosshairs and have been for a long time. But I have made it clear in radio shows and the essays that I welcome a visit and that they should bring all the ambulances they can find. Thanks entirely to the Waco martyrs, this sort of rhetoric is a black flag for them, so far. They do not want another Waco, especially the first part. That atrocity grew the militia into the millions and could only be stopped by killing a bunch of their own workers and children in Oklahoma.
“They are capable of anything. What are we capable of?”
This sort of talk makes the libertarians uneasy.
“First, there is no reason to talk of violence as a solution, as violence can only be justified in real self defense. My belief is that any and all peaceful dissent should be practiced at all times. Anything other than a non-violent approach will always end in disaster as it has always has. In the case of America, there are close to 300 million of us, so it wouldn’t take much to turn the tide.
“The obvious problem is that approximately 95% of the population (or more) is dependent in one way or another on the government. In addition, most have been fully indoctrinated into this horrible system, which means that most are completely apathetic. My belief is that this will only change when the money stops flowing, and people are forced to take care for themselves. I think an economic collapse or worse will have to happen before this scenario can become evident.
“I am more than able to take care of myself and my family, but I am just one guy. Going after those in the system as an individual, unless not given a choice, is foolish, and could turn out to be dangerous to those we hold dear. In my case, there are many things I would never submit to, but I will not act overtly stupid either. I will of course always be willing to protect my family in any way possible when confronted with any dangerous situation.
“As to the state gendarmes being our employees, nothing could be further from the truth. That has never been, nor will it ever be. The state can only operate by force, so there is never a partnership or trust, only aggressive behavior on those “governed” by others.
“You are also correct that the state is capable of absolutely anything, so long as they have the consent of the governed, which they most certainly now do.
“All my best to you, and watch your back!”
He wants to keep it on theoretical ground.
“Okay, we're still in the theoretical. Peaceful dissent, fine fine. Philosophical stuff, fine fine.
“What about the real world? What about roadblocks and unwarranted searches? What if the cops bust in your door ‘by mistake?’ I suggest you look at Alex Jones' video from the other day which records his being pulled over 98 miles north of the Mexican border by Border Patrol. Drug dog, but they weren't looking for drugs. Looking for narcotics, which must be some fine kind of distinction to them. Citizenship checks and searches are now authorized by the Supremes a hundred miles from any US border all around the country, which is a big chunk of the territory and a couple hundred million people. So it's all ‘legal.’ What are you going to do? That's a rhetorical question but one you've probably considered. I don't require a response.
“Jones, for whom I have some grudging respect, told them to go to hell and wouldn't let them bring their drug dog into his RV. He blasted them verbally for running drugs and guns and taking bribes. They left him alone. That's why I'm bringing this up. He had the guts to say no and they didn't have the guts to deal with him the way they were dealing with all the boobs in line who let them run the dog in all their cars. So far, it's all bluff. But the bosses are going to demand some blood to keep us in line. Then what? Just think about it and get out of the philosophical thing, because that's just talk.
“The only way to prevent a crackdown is to advertise that we're not only willing to kill them but welcome the opportunity. They don't care for that. This is America, after all. There is no safe way to deal with official terrorists. Once they get the green light to hurt us and terrorize us, they have to be hit hard.
“The thing I don't like about the LRC philosophy is that it's just philosophy, trying to play it safe. Stop assuring the bad guys that you mean them no harm. They love to hear that.”
Intellectuals think they can reason their way out of anything and they get a little defensive when called on it.
“I’m sorry, but you know absolutely nothing about me, and should not assume anything. I do know for certain that your way will fail miserably, and if it succeeded, we would end up with military rule. At that point, all would be resigned to force and violence, and there would be no winners, and no freedom.
“As an aside, I have never once assured any ‘bad guys’ in government anything!”
I let it go. But of course he is assuring the government killers that he won’t resort to violence, no matter what they do. His statement (“First, there is no reason to talk of violence as a solution, as violence can only be justified in real self defense. My belief is that any and all peaceful dissent should be practiced at all times. Anything other than a non-violent approach will always end in disaster as it has always has. In the case of America, there are close to 300 million of us, so it wouldn’t take much to turn the tide.”) shows confusion and fear.
“Real self defense” against killer cops is what we’re talking about! Dog, do you expect to live forever? Peaceful dissent at all times? What disgraceful thinking. How un-American! How does this egghead think that America became a country? Everything is based on violence, or on the readiness to use violence.
Let’s get that straight in our minds. Violence such as we’ve never seen here is coming. Violence against us and our loved ones and our friends and against people we don’t know and will never know. As long as it keeps happening to the ones we don’t know, the eggheads and cowards will stay in their ivory towers, spouting philosophy.
At this point, Alex Jones and anyone else with guts can stop a dirty search and seizure attack at roadblocks by just saying “No.” Jones may be quiet about the Jews but there is no denying his ability to deal verbally with the police gangsters on their own turf and back them down. That was an important thing he did and certainly wasn’t expected by the Border Patrol gangsters.
Even Ron Paul is angry at the TSA taking over highways in Tennessee, where they are running a pilot test program of random searches against American motorists, gauging our reactions. Tennessee, the home of Davy Crockett!
So, what would Davy Crockett do? He’d be whacking cop heads with his Pennsylvania rifle.
How about Louisiana’s Jim Bowie? Now there was the toughest, wildest son of a bitch in American history. Not much doubt how he’d respond to these highwaymen. He’d stick his big knife in their guts.
All of this could be avoided with the destruction of the Council on Foreign Relations, the private outfit calling all the shots. As soon as that den of iniquity is leveled, the police state will collapse. But, in the meantime, we’re going to be confronted with cop gangsters at roadblocks. This is where the rubber will meet the road.
As I wrote in Code of Conduct, at first we’re going to play nice with these hoods and try to get through without any grief. A cursory trip on YouTube today reveals that they’re already giving us grief with no probable cause, all around the country. So, whose country is it? Is it theirs?
No, it’s ours. We pay the bills. The cops live off us and our stupid generosity and tolerance of their bad behavior.
The LRC guy above said that violence is never a solution. Really? I’ve found violence to be the only solution in some cases. It’s always the solution when violence is used against you first. You must counter immediately with overwhelming violence to keep from getting hurt or killed. You must be ready to get violent at the first sign of a threat. So anyone who says that violence is never a solution is a coward or a liar or without any life experience.
We’re in the age of the most cowardly weapon in the CIA’s arsenal, the drone. These flying murder machines are operated by desk-bound cowards in air conditioned offices thousands of miles away from their unsuspecting victims. It is a matter of time until cowardly police begin using drones, merged as they frequently are with the CIA and “trained” by the Anti-Defamation League.
But that’s down the road. Today, we are confronted with an increasingly malevolent gang of terrorists who call themselves policemen. We are also confronted with an anonymous death squad operating in the White House that has been given the authority to designate certain Americans for assassination, with several dozens of us on their black list. It’s the 21st Century version of the CIA’s Phoenix Program in Vietnam, so it’s not as if our government hasn’t done this before. The black list, now reportedly designating dozens of candidates, will grow to include thousands of us. The ultimate enemy of the Council on Foreign Relations is the normal American. We can be sure of one thing: the death squad is a bunch of creeps from the CFR and ADL.
It might interest the reader to look at a screenplay found on this website (under “More” and then “Media.”) DEATH VALLEY was written in 1983. It describes what is about to happen here, including the White House death squad and the Marine Corps joining forces with the people against the army.
With the combination of the White House death squad and sadistic hop-heads in the police, we are in deadly danger. The logical method will be for police to arrest and kill us. That method would put us before and after death in the criminal class, and would keep the sheep calm. They’d figure, hmm, must have been some kind of criminal. We must gear up mentally to use deadly force against police terrorists because they will be exploited by the CFR to capture and kill us.
But this essay is meant to deal with the more mundane aspects of police roadblocks and “identity checks” that we are seeing now. For now, the minimum response by us is to refuse any and all searches without probable cause. “No, you need a warrant,” is the answer we give when the smiling cop asks sweetly if he can do a “routine search.” When the smile disappears and he says, “Why, you got something to hide?,” you reply, “Nope, nothing to hide. But you’re going to need a search warrant. If you violate my rights, you’re going to need a lawyer because I’m going to sue your personal ass. What’s your full name?”
“The Supreme Court says I can search you without a warrant.”
“Is the Supreme Court going to provide you with a lawyer? Because you’re going to be in court as a defendant if you violate my rights. Give me your full name.”
That’s about as far as I can go with the peaceful response to an attempted illegal search. I recommend an e-book on dealing with cops on the street at http://protectyourfreedom.net/book/default.aspx
It has some very good advice for ten dollars, things your lawyer would probably not tell you or even know himself.
Still, this essay is online extremism, and the message is that at some point in our near future, we’re not going to be able to talk our way out of trouble at a paramilitary police roadblock, which may have the White House black list hanging on the wall. As I said in Code of Conduct, if things get as bad as indicated, take as many of the traitors with you as you can. You are authorized to defend yourself against unwarranted deadly force with your own deadly force against all terrorists, no matter what clothes they’ve got on. Use your car, your truck or whatever you’ve got on you.
These guys took an oath to defend us from all domestic enemies. If they won’t do it, we’ll have to do it, because they’ll have joined our domestic enemies.
A Dangerous Life
Life has become dangerous for us all, thanks entirely to the Jews. They’ve put us, the living, into deadly danger. Millions of others haven’t been so lucky, because they’re already dead. Dead at the hands of Jewish Capitalism and Jewish Communism. Dead at the hands of the Bush family war machine. Millions of Bush victims since 1991, not to mention the Wilson, Roosevelt/Truman, Eisenhower, Johnson and Nixon dead. Mass murder always has behind it a Jewish purpose. Mass murder is good for the Jews.
The hopeful changeling now admits there is a star chamber, a death panel, operating in the White House, that decides which Americans can and should be assassinated.
We’re pretty sure that we’re on a list. The Jews have been making their lists and checking them twice. Everyone’s naughty and nobody’s nice. The big wipeout, the population reduction down to 500 million, is the only way that the Jews can think of to remove all opposition. Even if they could realize that impossible dream, they’d keep killing the survivors because that’s all they know to do. They can’t build anything other than A-bombs and plagues. They can’t do a lick of work and they’ll kill you if you do. They are the destroyers.
Anyway, the reader may be curious as to how someone could get to the point at which he seems to cultivate danger. In this writer’s case, it was automatic and started way back.
My parents put me horseback before I could walk. A professional polo player from Texas, Billy Skidmore, gave me my first horse, a very fast Thorobred mare called Chocolate Drop, when I was nine. I rode her bareback for three years because it was too hard to get a saddle on her, small as I was. Naturally this led to a lot of wrecks until my legs got strong and I could avoid getting my nuts crushed in a hard stop. Three years of that kind of riding will turn you into an honorary Comanche.
By the time I was twelve, horse people in Oakbrook wanted me to ride for them. They needed a boy because most riders were girls. An honorary Comanche was needed. A famous trainer named Hugh Gentry, who’d won the National Horse Show in New York, decided he’d train me for the US Equestrian Team. I underwent his tutelage in the art of jumping over fences and other obstacles. He put me on progressively more powerful horses and eventually one of them was too much for my young hands to control. She ran off with me, high-centered on a big jump from the wrong direction and I came off and got hung up and dragged. She kicked me in the head and about killed me. Compound skull fracture and messed up my left profile. This sort of thing is the downside of horses, which I would explore time and time again.
This was my excuse to get into something safer, like polo and eventually rodeoing. I was never comfortable jumping big Thorobreds anyway, getting them lined up and timing the jump-off point. My parents hadn’t counted on me nearly croaking, also. Nearly but not quite croaking became a specialty as I got older.
As dangerous as guns are in the wrong hands, that was never a problem for me because of hard-core safety training since age seven. I started carrying either a .38 or a .45 at age nine and have never dropped a gun or had an accidental discharge. Guns are a necessity for us all, if we haven’t all figured that out yet. Gun safety, though, must be part of our DNA. And once we are safe, we need to be carrying protection all the time. I don’t believe in concealed carry permits. We don’t need no stinkin’ permits because for one thing, the cops know you’re packing. They can drill you and say, well, we knew he was packing because his permit’s on record. We don’t require permission to take care of ourselves. We don’t just need a gun at home, where it’s “legal.” We also need it on the road or in a store or wherever. If your life’s worth protecting part of the time, it’s worth protecting all the time, as my friend Louis Beam once said to me. It’s the American way, about the only decent part of it.
Throughout high school in California I spent my spare time working on a cattle ranch in Carmel Valley and rodeoing when possible as a roper and pickup man, which is definitely the most fun thing to do in a rodeo. Not the most dangerous thing usually but it can get interesting. Bull riding is the most insanely dangerous thing in the world but the broncs can do a number on you, too.
I spent most of my high school years dealing with bullies and gangs, first in Los Altos and then Carmel. I’d won my weight division in boxing at Los Altos and this came in handy in Carmel. High school for me was like going to jail every day. I fought like a tiger and finally eliminated all opposition by my junior year. The best one, the one that set a pattern for me, started when one of the gang members grabbed my glasses as I got off the bus, another one stepped on them and the first one took a swing at me. They didn’t know about Los Altos. The fight was a good one, lasting twenty minutes or so. The one guy hemorrhaged and had to go to the hospital. The rest didn’t like the sight of blood and lost interest. No more gang problems. I should have done it a year or so earlier.
This set the pattern for my life, dealing quickly with intimidation. The teachers, counselors and administrators were all useless cowards. The only way to get along is to be willing to fight at the drop of a hat, once you know that talking and trying to avoid trouble is getting you nowhere.
In 1964 I discovered fast cars but since I was only eighteen and wanted to go road-racing in European-type single-seaters, this was not possible to do in the US, which required the driver to be twenty-one. And there was the matter of the draft, so like an idiot, I volunteered for the army. At the induction center in Oakland the doctors didn’t like the look of my knee, which had had two surgeries for a football injury. And it would have one more a year later. They told me to go home, which didn’t break my heart, since I’d figured that Vietnam would be another pointless slaughterhouse like Korea. I didn’t realize what a slaughterhouse it would actually be.
So I sold my ’55 Austin-Healy, which I had managed to spin out in the rain a couple of scary times and not get killed and bought a round-trip ticket to Melbourne, Australia. It just seemed like a good idea at the time and turned out to be a very good idea, since there was a motor racing school, the Birchwood School of Motor Racing, in Melbourne run by a transplanted Englishman named Jon Leighton. He used some very neat Lotus 18s for training and one of Jack Brabham’s world championship Cooper F-1 cars. I spent half of 1965 learning the limits of these fragile little death traps. It turned out that I had some talent for this sort of thing. Jon said that I needed to go to England where the serious formula racing was.
So I did eventually. My new wife and I spent some time down in Mexico City in ’66, where I was supposed to go to college at the University of the Americas. But we’d had to sneak in the country illegally because of a bond requirement on our new VW Microbus placed on all students. I mentioned the names of some famous Mexican polo players from Hermosillo that I’d known growing up and bribed a couple of Mexican bureaucrats to give us tourist visas after our passports had been confiscated for four days by the head of Sonora immigration. All seemed fine until the university asked for my bond number? We wasted no time escaping a Mexican jail.
By December, ’66 we were in London and I did some more training and eventually racing. At one race at Brands Hatch, which was the world’s first one for Colin Chapman’s new idea called Formula Ford, I’d lent my Lotus 51 to Ed Marriage to qualify. He spun it and broke a brake line, which wasn’t noticed by my mechanic until I was on the starting grid. He said he’d just stand here and maybe the scrutineer wouldn’t notice the puddle of brake fluid forming under the rear end. And we were off. I was outbraking the leader going into Druids when the brakes disappeared at about eighty. I shot by the leader and into a flag marshal and then into the earth bank. No seatbelts in those days. This was the same place that the son of my hero John Surtees was killed just a few years ago. The marshal survived and so did I. But I got to thinking, this is just fun and games. Maybe it’s time to grow up and so something meaningful.
We returned to the US and I enrolled at the University of Nevada at Reno. I’d been learning about Communism while in England, reading everything I could grab, and when several of my new professors started spouting off with familiar nonsense that I’d picked up in England, I decided to investigate. I got with the new Students for a Democratic Society (SDS) and eventually became the secretary of our local group. I observed how the Communist professors manipulated the trusting students and conditioned them in subversion. It was mostly racial in those days. For example, we would be told to go to an apartment house and ask about the rent. The landlord would show us an apartment. Then we’d send in a black student and try to get the landlord to deny him a place. It never worked, but that was the typical way SDS would try to create race problems.
A really nasty professor from Europe figured out that I was not a genuine subversive and he said that he’d get some black thugs from Oakland to come up to Reno and deal with me. I figured it was time to do something else and I relapsed back into the racing world, starting the School of Slide Control in conjunction with the University of Nevada, which provided me with the land for my school. I was able to take much of the danger out of driving in high-speed and/or bad conditions. Growing up in the ‘50s, car crashes scared me quite a bit and there is no more useless way to lose your life. I was able to take the mystery out of sideways driving for young and old, experienced or not, but there was not sufficient demand for such knowledge and the school closed after a year. Too bad, because I’d negotiated a discount for my students with AAA.
Within a few months, I was sent to British Honduras, South Africa and Rhodesia to discuss with those governments the new country project. Mike Oliver of Carson City had written a book called A New Constitution for a New Country and had several thousand productive people who were willing to put up money and relocate to get away from the IRS and similar agencies in their respective countries. The new country would be based on no income taxes and no draft. The idea was to promote production and liberty. The government of British Honduras (Belize today) was quite willing to give us one hundred square miles but wanted us to build a highway from Belize City to Belmopan, fifty miles inland. This was too expensive. So I went to Johannesburg to meet with Dr. Nico Diederichs, the South African minister of finance. Our meeting was sabotaged by his secretary, Mr. Conradie. So I went up to Salisbury to meet with the minister of internal affairs, Jack Howman.
Howman said he’d looked over our proposal and it was too bad for us that his predecessor, Lord Graham, was not still in office as he would have favored it. But, he said, “Change has come to Rhodesia.” I said quickly, “By change, do you refer to international socialism?” He stared back at me. He finally said, “We could never exempt any group from taxation and conscription.”
The project was a failure but I discovered that a war was starting in Rhodesia. It seemed a wonderful way of life there, ex-colonial and romantic as hell. I bought a new book called The Silent War and studied it when back in the US.
We settled in Houston, where we’d left the Jeep after driving back from Central America. I got a job building a bridge downtown and enrolled in the Commercial Diving Center. Six months later I started out as a rigger with Continental Divers in Louisiana. On one offshore job setting risers on a production platform about fifty miles out in the Gulf, the sea got too rough and we were stuck on the platform. We riggers got the crane operator to dangle us over the work boat to let it get under us so we could get aboard. But as we hung over the rough sea with the work boat trying to get under us, the head rigger pulled a knife on me in the close confines of the ring basket, asked me if I was afraid to die and stabbed it into my cork life vest. We finally got back on the boat and I went below. The head rigger had mistimed his departure from the basket in the rough seas and sprained his ankle. I reappeared with my new Randall Model 1 knife with an eight-inch blade, tapped him on the shoulder and rammed it into his life vest when he turned around, penetrating it somewhat. I asked him if he was afraid to die? I had no more problems with him.
Soon, J&J Marine Divers in Pasadena, Texas hired me as a diver. One day, the owner, John Galetti, entered the divers’ area and eyed us. Settling on me, he said, “Campbell, you’re a SCUBA diver, aren’t you.” I said, “No, sir.” None of us would admit to such a thing, since we very much liked having an air hose pumping us air from the surface. The big fear was getting trapped and running out of air. “Whaddya mean? You went to diving school, didn’t you?” “Yes, sir.” “They teach you how to SCUBA dive?” “Yes, sir.” “Good. You got a job in the morning. Go upstairs and find some doubles and charge ‘em up. Be at the dock at the Ship Channel at five in the morning. An attorney from Rice University will meet you there.”
So I did. The attorney and his crew loaded me on a little Chris-Craft and we headed down the channel toward Galveston. We cruised for several miles and then dumped a metal detector over the side on a long cable. We pulled it around for an hour until there was an indication on the instruments that we’d found a sunken barge. The attorney finally said, “Okay, last year a ship hit a barge, which sank here in the channel. We’ve got to locate it and eventually bring it up. The channel has to be dredged once a year to keep it fifty feet deep for the big ships. If the dredge hits the barge down there, it’ll wreck it, big lawsuit, so go down there and find it.”
Over I went, following my line down to a concrete weight I’d thrown in first. When I got down into the black depths, I started feeling around in the mud and then started a circular search pattern around my weight, increasing the length of the tether. Then I’d pick up the weight and move it and repeat the circular pattern. The attorney and the others could see where I was by the empty bleach bottle tied to my line.
I didn’t find the barge. I found an oil drum, the only metal down there. I explored a little and found both walls of the channel. I went up and got another set of tanks and went back down. At some point, I started hearing a banging noise over the sound of the regulator bubbles.
As I pushed my hands down into the mud, feeling for the barge, I finally realized the banging sound was a ship’s engines. A ship was coming. I was in the Houston Ship Channel. It was getting so loud that my head was throbbing. What to do? I couldn’t surface or I’d be hit. I couldn’t sneak up one side because the ships caromed off them like toboggans rather than steer. How deep was I? How much space between me and the hull? I thought back to diving school and the plimsoll lines on the sides of ships. What do they draw when loaded? About thirty-five feet. And the ship channel is fifty feet deep. That’s not bad. Wait – the channel’s filled up with silt and mud and has to be dredged every year. It’s probably got ten feet of mud in it. That’s five feet between me and the hull, if I’m lucky!
So I started digging my way down in the mud, trying to cover myself up. I lay there like a flounder. Then I remembered the bleach bottle, the line to the weight and the line to my wrist. If it got in the props, it would reel me in like a fish. I tried to get it off my wrist but couldn’t tell with all the mud.
The hull passed over me, the pressure wave pushing me farther down in the muck. It seemed to take forever and I hoped I wouldn’t be sucked into the huge props as they went overhead. The ship passed and the propwash lifted me out of the mud and violently head over heels, ripping off my face mask, but I still had the regulator between my teeth. I dropped the weight belt and made my way to the surface.
The stern of the Japanese supertanker still seemed directly overhead, it was so huge. It was very low in the water, all the plimsoll lines submerged. As I bobbed around in the wake, I looked for the Chris-Craft, which I finally saw over by the shore. They’d gotten out of the way, of course. I waved but they took their time coming over, waiting until it was safe.
I clambered up the ladder and dropped the tanks on the deck. I looked at the lawyer. “Why didn’t you tell me that ship was coming? It ran right over me.”
He said, “Well, you were so far down there, I never thought you’d notice.”
No more barge hunting that day.
Oilfield diving eventually became too dangerous even for me. If the water and pressure and equipment didn’t get you, the riggers would, since they thought we were making too much money anyway. Or decompression sickness. Saturation diving required maybe a week in the deck decompression chamber and that gets old. So I headed back out west to work on a big cattle ranch in California.
When I got there the owner, Captain Robert N. Miller, said the only thing he had for me was the deer hunter job. I told him I wasn’t a hunter. He shrugged and said that’s all he had. These ranchers were growing a lot of alfalfa but there were about a thousand mule deer that had been chowing down on it. So they wanted me to take them out. I tried scaring them away with a surplus air raid siren. No luck. I started shooting the old ones and cripples. No dice. They kept eating.
One game warden was realistic about it. I was on a depredation permit which allowed spotlighting at night time. He told me to dress them out and he’d come collect them for the state mental hospital at Atascadero. So I did, but when he came to get the ones I’d shot and dressed, he said the meat was too green from all the alfalfa.
His relief, however, thought I was a very bad man and he was determined to arrest me, prosecute me and put me in jail. He tried several times to catch me and finally one night saw that I’d gotten a doe with a .45 automatic. I didn’t know it’s illegal in California to hunt deer with a handgun.
A visitor to the ranch was the former director of California’s Fish and Game Department, Nick Carty. Captain Miller told me to take him and find him a big buck, which I did. I asked Mr. Carty if he could get my Colt pistol back but he said he couldn’t. Nevertheless, a few days later I got a call at the ranch from the courthouse and the gal said to come get the gun.
Now, I was hunting mostly at night but during the day I was putting cattle guards where the gates were, digging precision rectangular holes with a back hoe for the cattle guards which were made from railroad steel. The holes were about three feet deep. I left the holes open for placing the guards later.
One of the Cat drivers, an old guy named Merle, kept pestering me to take him hunting. I said I was the only one on the permit but he kept at it and I finally said, okay. That night he accompanied me to one of the fields that had several hundred deer in it. I stayed in my Jeep and shone the spotlight on one, which he nailed with his old surplus Jap army rifle. Up roared the relief game warden with his lights off. He yelled, “Good evening, Mr. Campbell!” as he pulled next to me. “Who’s that out there?” Merle dropped down in the alfalfa and disappeared. I could see it wiggling as he scrambled away on all fours. The game warden gassed it, trying to catch Merle. I took off toward the bunk house, about ten miles away on a different part of this forty-thousand acre ranch. The warden couldn’t find Merle so he started after me. I sped up when I saw him coming and was leaving quite a dust cloud behind me. His cruiser had a lot more power and he caught up but visibility was bad.
You know what happened. I got to one of the gates, which I’d left open, and swerved to go around the gaping cattle guard hole with no cattle guard in it. The game warden couldn’t see well enough to figure what I’d done and he kept going straight at the gate. It was Dukes of Hazard. He planted his car in the hole in a very sudden stop, tearing out the whole front end. That was the last we saw of that or any game warden ever again. I heard he went through the windshield, but only part way.
All this killing and fooling with the man got me in the mood to go back to Africa. The hundreds of deer I’d killed were just trying to make a living but there were some mean boogers over there that really needed killing. I began to correspond with the Rhodesian Army and they thought I fit the bill for officer training. As I was getting ready to go, though, I got a telegram saying that I would be over the 25 year age limit when the officer training program started in January, ’73. I went anyway and appealed the ruling and was turned down. So I joined the British South Africa Police.
I joined with the promise that I would join Support Unit after six months in Uniform Branch, which I spent in Bindura and Mt. Darwin, Rhodesia, which today is known as Zimbabwe. Rhodesia when the whites were in charge, Zimbabwe now that the blacks are in charge. Rhodesia was paradise, Zimbabwe is hell.
I had radio duty one night in Mt. Darwin and my job was to take situation reports from the eighty or so white farmers in the area, every hour. They would identify themselves with “Sitrep nil,” or maybe say they heard gunfire close by, or whatever. At some point one of the Greeks in the village called to say that an African was pissing in his drive. Paris owned the gas station. I said I’d come down if I had a chance. But then one of the farmers called in to say there was gunfire in his labor compound. I called the big boss, Ron Dick, who was Officer Commanding Mashonaland Province. He was in charge of everything. I briefed him on the farm and the report. He got on the SSB and spoke with the farmer and told him the army was on the way, since I’d already notified them. Their camp was next to the police camp.
As Chief Superintendent Dick was speaking with the farmer, Paris came in the radio room. “So what are you going to do about this drunk kaffir?” Ron Dick looked at him. I explained the situation. The boss was not impressed and turned back to his radio conversation. “Oh, and he says he’s a copper!”
Ron Dick heard that and said to me, “Well, Campbell – go get him.”
I jumped up and headed for the motor pool to get a Land Rover pickup. I should have taken a half-dozen African constables with me as it turned out but it was past midnight and I couldn’t find any. So I went alone.
I drove over the hill into the village of Mt. Darwin and pulled in to Paris’ gas station. There was a white Land Rover, which should have tipped me off. A very big African was peeking around the back of it so I got out and approached, saying, “Hey, who are you?” He yelled at me to get away. He yelled that he would beat me up if I came closer. I told him to identify himself. He yelled, “I am Detective Sergeant Koronel! And you fuck off, you white one-bar PO shit!” I didn’t care for his language, especially the white part.
“Come on out and show yourself.”
“If I come out, I fuck you up!”
“Well, come on!”
He strode out toward me, brandishing fists as big as hams. I pulled my Colt .45, not pointing it at him, but off to the side so he could see it. “Ah! A pistol! You shoot-ee me?”
“Naw. Just get in the truck.”
“You no shoot-ee me?”
“Then I fuck you up!” With that he went for my head with a big fist. I slammed the Colt into the side of his head and he dropped like a stone. The Greeks around Paris cheered. After a minute, Koronel woke up, got to his knees and said, “Now I really fuck you up.” So I swung again and again he went to sleep. The second time he woke up and tried going away on all fours so I brought it down for the third time on his bloody head and he was down for the count. When he again awoke, he got up, dusted himself off and got in the back of my pickup.
I was brought up on charges by my boss. Koronel said he was going to kill me and the whole thing was brought before the boss of bosses, Ron Dick. He clucked sympathetically at Koronel’s seething version and my boss’s demand that I be sent to jail. But he told them that his orders were for PO Campbell to bring Koronel in and this the patrol officer had done. Case dismissed.
My boss was beside himself with rage. Dave Parry, the member-in-charge of police at Mt. Darwin, was infamous for getting his enemies killed. He’d sent three guys from Internal Affairs into Chesa tribal trust land to fetch their tents after leaving hurriedly due to terrorist activity. Bob Bland, Denis Sanderson and Jerry Hawkesworth were ambushed at the camp, the first two shot dead. Hawkesworth was wounded and force-marched all the way to Tanzania, finally released a year later. Sanderson had gravely insulted Parry by suggesting the tall grass in front of the police camp be mowed, as it could hide a terrorist attack. Problem was, an attack happened as soon as the sun went down. So Parry got even with him.
Parry stopped me in the hallway and said, “Campbell, you insubordinate bastard! You’re going to finish your farm patrol on a motorcycle! And I don’t want you taking that bloody .45 with you!” This was also a death sentence, since the boys in the bush could hear our Yamaha police bikes coming quite a ways and knew we were unable to defend ourselves with both hands on the handlebars. No cop had ridden a motorcycle around there for over a year. But I did it. I did, on the way back from Eric Fletcher’s farm, encounter a log across the road at high speed and laid the bike down. I’d swiped an Uzi from Parry’s gun safe and it was slung around my neck as I crawled off the dirt road into the weeds. I of course also had the Colt automatic in a shoulder holster. The boys had probably gotten bored waiting for me, or could see that I was ready to return fire, but there was no ambush that evening. This affair resulted in Ron Dick’s transferring Dave Parry to duty in Salisbury where he could order no one else to death.
On another evening, long after bedtime, I was awakened by a police reservist and summoned to the radio room. Superintendent Ron Saul told me there had been a double farm attack and I was to lead the army squad to the first one, at Ralph and Cynthia Edward’s place. A terror gang had left notes threatening a dual attack on the Edwards and on my friends Gerry and Pam Arnott and I called them on the party line before heading out with the army.
We got to the Edwards place while the attack was still going on and made our way in with me calling to Ralph not to shoot us as well. The army lieutenant had us go on foot after the cattle guard to avoid detonating a landmine with our big truck. We found notes inviting us to follow the ters, which we declined to do in the dark. We’d wait until the tracker dogs arrived at dawn. At dawn, two CID cops drove in even though the drive hadn’t been cleared of mines. One was found later and these two cops were lucky not to have been blown up. They collected terrorist cartridge casings for future prosecutions and told me that I was to take them to the second farm, that belonging to Dick and Ann Faasen. When we got there, I said this is it, but has the road been cleared? The terrorists would typically plant a Soviet or Chinese tank mine in the drive before their attack, and when the good guys came to the rescue, they’d get blown up. Detective Ted Painting said the engineers had cleared it, the army’s down at the house. Okay, let’s go in.
When you drive on dirt roads in terrorist areas, you tend to become obsessed with the appearance of the road, swerving around suspect spots that could well be where a mine was planted and covered up. On our way in, in a long right-hand bend, I thought I saw such a spot. I was jammed in the back with a half-dozen African witnesses from the Edwards attack, my rifle clamped between my knees as I looked up the road between Ted and Doug Jones, the driver. I watched the spot disappear under the hood, right about where the left front tire should run over it.
The noise was what you’d expect from twelve and a half pounds of TNT. The scene through the windscreen raised up to the sky and rotated about ninety degrees and then went black. When I awoke, I was alone. The African witnesses were gone. The Land Rover was on its side. I picked myself up and grabbed my rifle and tried making my way out. I looked down at the spongy thing I was stepping on and it was Ted Painting, now covered in dirt and gasoline from the gushing tank under his seat.
I got out and found Doug, who was just standing there, holding his chest with both arms. “Ribs are broke,” he said. I said, “Doug – Ted’s in there and there’s petrol all over him.” We bent down and grabbed hold of the roof rack and with some superhuman weird strength pulled the Land Rover back upright. I looked at Doug to congratulate him but he was gone! How could that be?
Ted was now exposed and I knelt down with him. As he was wearing shorts I could see that his left leg was broken, but it was still attached. Our main fear with landmines was losing our legs. He lay there on his stomach and opened one eye. “My back hurts and I can’t feel my leg.” “Yeah, Ted. You’ve got a broken leg but that’s all it is. You’re leg’s still there.”
“I need to look.”
“Well, if your back hurts, you don’t want to twist around now.”
“You wouldn’t fool me, would you?”
“Okay, go ahead and look.” He stretched and peered back down his leg.
Just then, Doug reappeared. He came around the front of the wreck, dusting himself off. “I don’t mind gettin’ blown up but that was ridiculous.”
“Where’d you go?”
“My coat got caught on the roof rack and took me over the top. Landed on my face.”
We put Ted on a helicopter and I wanted to go with him. But Doug and I still had to go down to Faasen’s house so he could investigate the attack. Ann had taken a bullet through her arm as she lay sleeping when the terrorists poured AK fire through the bedroom window. And her arm had been draped over her head. But there she was on the couch, chatting about it. I had a fat lip and my rifle muzzle had been jammed in my eye, Doug with broken ribs, Ann shot up. Quite a homey scene. I asked one of the army engineers how he could have missed that mine? These things happen.
Support Unit was my idea of living. We were about forty white guys and about three hundred African constables and their sergeants. We’d spend about half our six week patrols ambushing terrorists, the other half protecting cops such as Ted and Doug on their investigations of terrorist attacks. Never a dull moment. I did pull a six-week holiday tour at Vila Salazar, on the Mozambique border, guarding the top terrorist and forty-five of his senior commanders who’d been in detention for eight or nine years. That is, my men guarded them. I toured the Ghona-re-zouh game reserve in which the detention camp was situated. What a glorious place, with all the game animals of Africa in great numbers. Joshua Nkomo was the head of ZAPU, the Zimbabwe African People’s Union, supplied by the Soviet Union. The guys I was actually fighting up north were ZANU, the Zimbabwe African National Union, headed by Robert Mugabe and sponsored by the Chicoms. ZAPU operated in the southern part of the country. There’s plenty to be said about Nkomo, Mugabe and Ian Smith, but some other time.
The most dangerous thing that happened to me in Rhodesia was cerebral malaria. Regular malaria is bad enough but cerebral malaria is usually lethal. I’d neglected to take my quinine pills because they were so god-awful. It felt as if I had an ax buried in my skull and I lost over thirty pounds in three weeks of delirium and agony. The doctors in Salisbury, when I finally was taken there after two weeks in a tent in the Zambesi Valley, were surprised that I’d survived.
And then, Ian Smith declared a cease-fire. I’d seen that he’d been grooming Nkomo and Co for leadership at Vila Salazar, so I bought out the remainder of my three year contract and headed back to the US. I’d have stayed there forever, in my beloved Support Unit, if the plan had been to win.
End of Part 1
The big oil companies have become very safety conscious. That’s all you hear about with them. And most of them mean it. Big change from when I started out as an ARCO drilling foreman in New Mexico in the ‘70s, when the way to deal with hydrogen sulfide gas was to hold your breath. I had to give a roughneck mouth-to-mouth when he collapsed from inhaling it on a drill stem test near Artesia. Surprisingly, he survived. One good whiff of sour gas and you generally croak. A production hand climbed up on our 500 barrel test tank to check the amount of oil in it. He died while peering into the hatch.
Today, the pendulum has swung the other way. The first time the H2S alarm goes off, we evacuate and the designated guy, sometimes me, dons the air tank and facemask and investigates. Hands get written up for no safety glasses, no seatbelt on the forklift, smoking, using a cell phone on the mud pit, no steel-toed boots and lately, not wearing fireproof (cotton) clothes. I always think back on that John Wayne movie about Red Adair where they were installing a wellhead on a “blowing” well, no eye protection, with the high-pressure mud and junk blasting into their eyes – for real – and wonder if anyone lost his eyes making that scene. So, safety is good.
Maybe there’s a reason the company is in such a hurry to get the oil out of the ground. I’d just never heard of drilling more than 8,000 feet in twenty-five bit hours, with water. No drilling mud – just fresh water. Skidding the rig sixteen feet and starting the next one. Twenty-five bit hours (actual drilling), electronic logs, running casing and cementing – three and a half days. Now, a lot of this is due to the easy drilling, obviously. In most places in the country where I’ve worked, 8,000 feet could take ten days, two weeks, or much longer in hard formations. But these guys are running this like a contrived TV program, the different rigs trying to set or break speed records. The hands are only doing what they’re ordered to do by the operator – the oil company.
In February, I was hired as a drilling consultant by a large independent operator based in Texas. After a couple of days spent learning the computerized daily reporting system, my new boss, the senior drilling foreman for the company, called me on my cell phone and told me to drive to a rig that was experiencing high-pressure gas problems, that he wanted “to test my (well-control) skills,” as he put it. He said he would meet me at the rig later.
I drove over, went into the company man’s trailer and introduced myself to my counterpart, the drilling consultant whom I would be relieving. He was doing paperwork. I asked what was going on? He said they were coming out of the hole with the drill pipe and directional assembly to run casing. The bit had quit drilling at 8,000 feet, several hundred feet above TD (intended total depth) and maybe the mud motor had broken. Hard to say. Is there a gas problem? He shrugged and said they’d been fighting it for a couple of days. He said the chief engineer had been there and told him to come out of the hole and start running casing.
Did he mind if I went up on the rig floor? Nope.
Now, this was extremely unusual, for an outsider such as I to be sent to another guy’s jobsite. Why didn’t they test his well-control skills? I’m sure the other company man was irritated that I was there, and I couldn’t blame him. I would have been extremely irritated, especially if I had been given bad orders which I was duly following. It didn’t make any sense. I’m reluctant to tell this story because it really doesn’t make sense. But it is an indicator of what’s going on in this country.
Up on the rig floor, the driller greeted me uncertainly. I asked what was going on? He said they were about half-way out of the hole, at 4,200 feet. I looked out past the rig floor at the mud pits, the huge steel tanks that held the hundreds of barrels of drilling mud. Great gouts and bursts of mud were shooting up twenty feet high from the possum belly, where the mud exits the horizontal flowline from the well and pours back into the rig’s mud system. “What’s that?” I asked rhetorically. “That’s gas, and it gets worse than that,” he answered drily. “Uh, huh. Stop right here.” With a large sigh, he ordered the roughnecks to set the slips. Rather unnecessarily I remarked, “We can’t come out of the hole while we’re taking a kick.” The driller nodded in total agreement. I really couldn’t get this, these guys being ordered to do everything we’re trained not to do. Did the letters “BP” mean anything?
I got on the phone and called my new boss, “Hey, they’re about halfway out and they’re taking a big kick.” He said he’d be there shortly. The toolpusher appeared and we compared notes. I asked if they’d recorded shut-in drillpipe pressure? He said they had, down at 8,000’. They’d first taken the gas kick at 7,600 feet a day earlier but had not performed the routine procedures to bring it under control. In order to figure out what weight your mud needs to be to control a kick and prevent a blowout, you need to shut the well in with the blowout preventer and record the amount of pressure coming up the drillpipe. It’s called SIDPP, or shut-in drillpipe pressure. The formula is pretty simple: you divide SIDPP by .052 and divide that by the true vertical depth in feet and add that number to the current mud weight. That will give you the Kill Mud Weight, or how heavy the mud needs to be to control the gas pressure coming up from down below and prevent a blowout.
I said to the driller, “We just need to follow standard procedure.”
“Standard procedure! That’s what we’ve been wantin’ to hear from somebody for two days!” I thought, what the hell’s been going on here?
The toolpusher told me that SIDPP was 450 psi and my calculations indicated that our mud weight needed to be raised to around 13 pounds per gallon, a mud weight that was unheard of in the area, where they like to drill with water that weighs about 8.5 pounds per gallon. I reported my calculation to my boss, the senior drilling foreman. He in turn called his boss, the chief engineer, who said to tell me to kill the well where we were, at 4,200 feet, with 12 pound mud. I said, “We can’t. We have to run back down to TD and kill it there.” But those were my orders.
Sure enough, we couldn’t kill it half-way out of the hole with that mud weight. The chief engineer came back out to the rig and I introduced myself. I also introduced the idea that we needed to run all the way back down to 8,000’ and do this correctly. And that it would probably require a mud weight of thirteen pounds per gallon. “Oh, let’s not go there,” he said quickly. I said, “I know we’ve got a frac gradient to worry about but we also have this rig to worry about.” I didn’t really know what the fracture gradient was here, but he nodded, indicating that that was a potential problem, fracturing the formation with mud that’s too heavy and losing circulation and control of the well. That turned out not to be a problem. The problem was that these guys were speed freaks used to drilling with 8.5 pound water and no mud. The problem was that they didn’t like delays such as this.
“How do you figure we’d ever need 13 pound mud?” he wanted to know.
“Well, shut-in drill pipe pressure down around 8,000’ was 450 psi…”
“Where’d you hear that?” I didn’t rat out the toolpusher, who was behind me.
“I just heard that’s what it was.”
“No, it wasn’t. It was never that high.” I shrugged and sat back down while we watched the mud blowing up out of the possum belly. Eventually he gave the order to run back down to 8,000’ and kill the kick. And it took two days and 13.7 pound mud to kill it.
Our problems were just starting. The heavy mud created a condition called differential sticking. The hydrostatic pressure down the hole with that heavy column of mud was higher than the formation pressure and the pressure differential made the drillpipe stick to the wall of the hole. We’d prevented a blowout but were stuck in the hole. So, standard procedure was set in motion. We had about a half-million dollars of equipment stuck down there. If it couldn’t be retrieved, we’d have to leave it and pump cement around it and start over. It’s not something a drilling consultant wants on his CV, even if it wasn’t his fault. So we free-pointed the drillstring by stretching it and measuring the stretch with an instrument we ran down the inside of the drill pipe on a wireline. Then we ran in with an explosive charge of det cord on the wireline, put a left torque on the drillstring and detonated the det cord right at a connection. We backed off the “fish,” (the stuck portion) and came on out with the free drillpipe, leaving the expensive stuff, the mud motor and directional tools, in the hole.
The next step was to run back in with a set of fishing jars and screw into the fish. Then we pulled up and set off the jars, which are supposed to nudge the stuck part up-hole. We jarred and pulled on it for a couple of days, to no avail. So here was where I made my wages, besides preventing the blowout in the first place: I proposed to the company that since we had over 500 barrels of kill-weight mud in storage, plus the 450 barrels of it in the hole, that we change the hole over back to fresh water and induce a gas kick and neutralize the differential pressure that was sticking us. I said, we know how to kill it and we’ve got the kill mud to do it on hand. Well, that was considered too radical. Then, after four more days of fruitless jarring and pulling, they said, Okay, do it. And we did and it worked like a charm. We pumped fresh water down the drillpipe and when a couple of hundred barrels of it started up the annulus the drillpipe started to move. We immediately started pumping the kill mud behind it and prevented the severe gas kick that the company had feared. Apparently never been done before in that area. And we brought out the entire drillstring and the half-million in drilling equipment. But our problems weren’t over!
Since we’d been jarring and generally tearing up the hole, I recommended what’s called a wiper trip, which is just standard procedure. When we got the bit out of the hole and inspected it, we found that the PDC (diamond) bit had been ground down from its original 7.875” diameter to about 5.5”. Not good. But, the company reasoned, the casing we’re running is only 4.5” in diameter. Should be okay. I said, but we really need to wipe it and ream it out to the full hole size, since the hole had been directionally drilled in a big S-curve and there would be a lot of friction on the lateral section. No, just go ahead and run pipe.
So, we ran the casing and it stacked out about two hundred fifty feet above TD. Not good. And it got stuck there. Really not good. Shoulda wiped the hole, boys. But I had the sense not to point that out, since they didn’t seem to like me much at this point. They said, cement it where it is. Now, it got ugly. The company wanted what’s called a weighted water spacer pumped ahead of the cement. Spacer and cement would each weigh over 15 pounds per gallon. Well, what we got when we pumped the cement was almost all of it back. We all had never seen so much cement returns. You’re supposed to get some but what happened was the spacer channeled through the heavy mud, made a little tunnel all the way from 8,000’ to the surface and the cement followed up the little tunnel, instead of displacing the mud and surrounding the casing as it’s supposed to do. That was the problem with the BP Gulf blowout – the Halliburton cement job was no good, just like this one, and the high-pressure gas was allowed to communicate to the surface, also through that little tunnel. You can imagine that all this was going through my mind for all these days.
The cement job was done by late afternoon. Wait on cement to harden up for a few hours and then install the wellhead, secure the well and skid the rig to the next location. At midnight, however, the driller and toolpusher came to my trailer with very bad news. “You better come look at this.”
“We got cement coming out the backside.”
Sure enough, cement was oozing out the casing valve at an increasing rate, which none of us had ever seen before. I called the company and was told to put a gauge on it. We did so and within an hour, pressure had built up on the casing to over 1,000 psi. This was extremely bad news because there was no good way to control this pressure other than to shut it in. But with that kind of gas pressure, with no cement around the casing, we had the potential for the ultimate oilfield disaster: a crater. That’s what can happen if the gas comes up outside the casing, escaping upward between the casing and the formation due to no cement shutting it off, which is the whole purpose of a cement job.
I was asked for my recommendation, which was first, run a cement bond log and then a squeeze job. Very standard procedure for a bad cement job. What had happened on the Deepwater Horizon was similar. They had a bad cement job. And a Schlumberger wireline crew had been on the rig for a couple of days preparing to run a routine cement bond log to find out where the cement bond was good and where it was bad. But my counterpart on that rig, the BP company man, told the Schlumberger guys to go on home, that there’d be no CBL. Even Halliburton was surprised at that, saying, “Well, we’ve got to have a CBL.” Nope. Imagine, on an extreme high-pressure well such as that, the US government agency in charge of overseeing it allowing such a violation of standard procedure – it’s unthinkable.
The cement bond log showed that we didn’t have a cement job, obviously. Since we’d cemented the casing in two stages, we couldn’t run the wireline CBL tool below the stage tool at 2,000’ without drilling it out, which they didn’t want to do. So we shot holes in the casing at 1,700’ and tried squeezing cement through them, but couldn’t get an injection rate. Shot more holes at 1,500’ and got a great injection rate and I pumped four hundred sacks of cement. And then the damndest thing happened: the chief engineer ordered us to open up the casing valve. The whole idea of a squeeze job is to squeeze cement through those holes you shot in the casing against pressure. But with the casing valve opened, there was no pressure to squeeze against, and the cement was pushed out the same damn casing valve by the pump pressure coming from cement pump truck. Again, the gas pressure on the casing built to 900 psi very quickly. We had to explain to the chief engineer that a squeeze job needs the casing valve closed. We had one more chance to do this squeeze job, as we were running out of room on the casing.
So we shot four more holes just below the surface casing shoe at 580’ and were finally successful in getting a cement squeeze there, filling up the annulus with cement and at least temporarily preventing a cratered blowout. Pressure on the backside was at last zero, right where we wanted it.
The company informed me on the last day of my shift, after three weeks of making my wages, that they didn’t think I was a “good fit” for them and didn’t want me back. I agreed and said so. First time I was ever run off, though. The hands weren’t glad to see the “standard procedure” guy leave.
This was an extremely disturbing experience, as the non-oilfield reader might also understand. It could have all been avoided by following standard procedure long before I showed up. Instead of drilling with lightweight water and going after speed records, they ought to be drilling with mud and slowing down a little. Their actions after encountering the serious gas kick were reckless and incomprehensible and frightening to the drilling crews working for them for those two days of blowing gas and mud. All six drillers I worked with over those three weeks pointed south to a location where four hands were burned to death in a blowout a few years earlier. This company wanted these guys to keep coming out of the hole with gas and mud blowing and then rig up and run casing. One spark and it would have all been over.
As it is, I can’t help but wonder if that squeeze job around the surface casing will hold that high pressure gas coming up from around 7,600’?