Even though I’d avoided prison by confessing to supplying the guns for Jack to defend himself against foreclosure fraud and eviction by the Santa Cruz County SWATs, I got several years of probation, during which I was not allowed to have any firearms. Naturally this meant nothing to me. My probation officer would occasionally call and ask if I had any guns and threaten to come over for a search of my house. I always answered, “Well, come on over.” He never did.
Bob Hitchman took me to an Air America reunion in St. Petersburg where it was agreed that I would write the screenplay for the proposed movie about the group. The job went to another writer, who I must say wrote a funny script. Mine was more serious and factual, based on material from Hitchman and Jerry McEntee.
An ex-Air America pilot gave me another Thompson M1A1 and I got a machinist friend to complete a dozen 80% receivers from Philadelphia Ordnance. I put a new barrel on an early Soviet AK-47 and put together a couple of Browning .30 caliber air-cooled machine guns. Also an M-2 carbine for my wife.
The manuscript of The New American Man sat around for quite a while, which was a good thing, since I hadn’t properly credited the Jews for our downfall. During this time I got to know a couple of experts who made a big impact on my thinking. One was Heinz Weichardt of Pebble Beach. Heinz was the son of a well-known German journalist. His mother was a famous Jewish opera singer. He read the manuscript and let me know how deficient it was in Jewish facts. Heinz’ amazing life story is found online, “Under Two Flags.” The other was retired Air Force Lt. Col. Walter Maiersperger, who’d grown up with Jews in one of the New York City boroughs. The two of them were what we could call “Jew-wise.”
Hitchman had worked in Libya with Ed Wilson and barely avoided going to prison for running Khadaffi’s helicopter and C-130 programs. Wilson was in Marion federal penitentiary and Hitchman persuaded me to go visit him a couple of times and write a screenplay about him. Wilson’s millions had been seized by Larry Barcella, the federal prosecutor, and he couldn’t even afford a good attorney. Willis Carto gave me a Spotlight press credential to get in the prison and I eventually turned Wilson over to my good friend, Andrew St. George, who wrote some excellent pieces about the CIA renegades Shackley, Clines, von Marbod and Secord, all of whom borrowed big bucks from Wilson and then had him sent to prison and not repay him.
Wilson was a control freak who wouldn’t give me the rights to his story even though I had a studio interested and Lee Marvin to play him. He had me call Warner Bros, which was preparing a movie about him based on Peter Maas’ dishonest book, The Death Merchant, and threaten them with a lawsuit if they proceeded. They dropped the Maas project. But Wilson wouldn’t play ball with me so I quit taking his collect calls from the prison. He was eventually released when it was shown that Barcella had framed him and his CIA buds had set him up.
In 1988 I met a couple of Jesuits who had just returned from El Salvador. Turned out that they knew my hero, Roberto D’Aubuisson, who had defied the CIA and the Communists and saved that country from a Sandinista-style takeover. I hired them to accompany me back to San Salvador and introduce me to the Major, which they did. We became good friends, along with his cousin, Geraldo O’Bierne. My book was about to be published and Roberto offered to endorse it. “I have read this book and recommend it!” He was accused as the head of the “death squads” and I was attempting to emulate his actions in the US.
His lawyer became my lawyer and we were going to go partners on the landmine vehicle that I had designed, which is described in “Psychological Armor,” and elsewhere on this website. I was very impressed with the high level of energy and industry in El Salvador, and it would have been a good partnership. Unfortunately, before we could do this, D’Aubuisson died prematurely. He’d survived several CIA assassination plots leading up to his death from cancer, which I suspect was induced.
The New American Man – a Call to Arms was self-published in early 1989 and all 2700 copies were sold over the next year. It came under FBI scrutiny immediately, as did I. The FBI attempted to arrest me in Anchorage shortly before the book arrived at the local bookstore. They tried to arrest me at the radio studio but I was being interviewed by phone in California. They tried to arrest me at a public meeting in Medford, Oregon in 1990 but I was tipped off and again they came up empty-handed. I suppose they had to catch me in the act of committing sedition because they never came to my home in Carmel before or afterward.
The Secret Service did come to my home in Los Angeles in ’91, based on my next book, Our Struggle, that was sent out in chapter form to subscribers that year. Bo Gritz, the CIA assassin, was one of the subscribers and he passed the material on to the FBI, who passed it to the Secret Service. Three agents came to my place and said they would kill me if I were ever in the presence of Big George Bush.
The militia movement took off in ’90, growing eventually into the millions especially after the attack by the Marshals, the ATF, the FBI and the Delta Force against the Weavers in Idaho and the Branch Davidians in Texas in ’92 – ’93. Our house was destroyed by the Northridge earthquake in January, ’94 so we allowed the insurance company to move us to Montana where I hooked up with the Trochmanns in Noxon.
These people had started something called the Militia of Montana, which turned out to be a family business of hustling fifth generation videos and T-shirts. But I attempted to turn it into something more serious and supplied them and their MOM associates in the area with a dozen high-quality machine guns and ammunition and marine band radios and some financial support.
I distributed German MG-3s, MG-34s, Brownings, Stens, AKs, Thompsons, G-3s. My old army Jeep was set up for a .50 caliber Browning M-2 machine gun and two .30 calibers. We were to be tested soon after I arrived, shortly after the BBC produced a sneering documentary on us, in which we assured viewers that we were ready for a fight. A few days later, a caller in Sandpoint, Idaho said that an army convoy was headed our way on Rt. 200 at a high rate of speed. I sped home and told my wife to take the children and get out, which she did. I called the other members on the marine radios and gave instructions.
Route 200 is the most dangerous road in America, as far as I know. It has unguarded curves that shoot you right into the very deep Clark Fork River, if you’re not very careful. An army convoy speeding down that death trap was unthinkable.
The big Browning was downstairs and I hurriedly brought up the two parts, the receiver and the barrel (which weighed 84 pounds). I installed them on the Jeep’s pedestal mount, set the headspace and loaded it. Ditto with the two smaller guns. Two militia guys appeared at my place just as I was taking the Jeep out of the garage. “What are you doing?” I said, “I’m going to meet the army guys.” They begged me to wait until the army showed its hand. I walked out and looked up the dirt road, spying the lead deuce and a half on Rt. 200. “Well, they’re here. Go and follow them and let me know what they do. If they cross the bridge it means they’re attacking the office and I’ll come up from behind.”
I called another guy with a German machine gun out by the Noxon Dam, a few miles east of town, who was waiting for them. I said if they get that far and turn around to come back, open up on them. He said he would. The two guys called and said the convoy kept going past the bridge into Noxon. It was going so fast they couldn’t catch up. Convoy speed is 45 mph but these guys knew they were bait and were probably not following orders. It was insane.
They got out to the dam and suddenly slowed down. My friend thought, this is it, they’re going back, and he pulled the charging handle and let it go, making the gun ready for action. But they got down to convoy speed and kept going east, doubtless figuring they were no longer in danger.
The two guys following them reported a couple of new sedans with Helena license plates, obviously feds, with multiple antennae on the cars, no doubt monitoring our radio calls. The Trochmanns literally headed for the hills and refused to answer their radios!
It was in the months to follow that they admitted they were working with the FBI and ATF. John Trochmann met with an agent in Missoula, Mike Houck, once a month for six hours and downloaded all the hundreds of new names of naïve callers who been asking for advice on setting up their own militia units around the country.
Once I learned the score, I retrieved all the machine guns and dropped out of the Militia of Montana. Interestingly, the FBI and ATF left me strictly alone, maybe hoping I’d start up again somewhere else. I did meet a character from Arkansas named Roger Moore, who was complaining that he’d had much of his weapon collection ripped off by a couple of guys, who turned out to be Tim McVeigh and Terry Nichols. He was offering to sell some machine guns, and I said I’d buy whatever he had. Trochmann apparently warned him to steer clear of me and he took off suddenly. We now know from David Hoffman’s excellent book, The Oklahoma City Bombing and the Politics of Terror, that Roger Moore was working for the CIA. A couple of years ago a British writer, Andrew Gumble, interviewed me for a book he’s writing about the ill-fated militia/patriot movement. It is his position that McVeigh and Nichols were run by Roger Moore, despite Nichols' recent assertion that they were run by the FBI’s Larry Potts.
On April 19, 1995 the militia movement that I had started came to an ugly end with the massacre at Oklahoma City. The more that Bill and Hillary Clinton tried to shut it down, the bigger it got. Even though it was nothing more than a belligerent state of mind, it was totally unexpected by the government. What I had done was create the biggest, fastest-growing armed movement in American history. I was unable to guide it in the direction I’d intended, to destroy the Council on Foreign Relations and its clones. Still, it was an indication of the masculine potential of this country and it was very disturbing to the CIA and the Jewish establishment.
For example, the former director of Central Intelligence, William Colby, wrote to his friend and colleague, Nebraska attorney John DeCamp, that the militia movement was far more dangerous to the government than the anti-war movement of the ‘60s because it was made up of society’s average, successful citizens. Colby said that the militia movement would have to be dealt with, justly or otherwise. DeCamp had been Colby’s associate in the CIA’s assassination program in Vietnam known as the Phoenix Program.
The Oklahoma City massacre was the death blow to the militia movement and turned it into a dirty word literally overnight. I was cowboying in the Bitterroot Valley of Montana, riding colts and breaking horses to ride, when the FBI showed up at my place near Hamilton a year and a half later. I’d invested in a tire disposal business but had been ripped off by a shyster in New York, along with others. The others had reported him to the FBI and put me on the victim list as well, much to my displeasure.
One day, my wife looked out the window and said, “I think the FBI’s here.” I was as usual wearing a .45 under my coat and I went outside to see the two agents. One of them held up a badge. “FBI. You JB Campbell?”
“You have a business called ‘Eco-Tire?’”
“We’ve had some complaints about it.”
“About my business? I don’t think so.” Confused, the agent referred to his clipboard. “Eco-Systems?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
They said I was on the victim list. I held up my hand, probably causing the shooter in the trees to tighten on his trigger. “Are you going to get me my money back?”
“Uh, probably not.”
“Then I don’t need to talk to you.”
They dissembled and said I could help them understand what happened. How the scam went down. “Okay, ask me a question.”
They said it was cold out here and could we go inside? I sighed. FBI in my house. But I let them sit at the dining room table and ask me questions about the scam. The older agent hadn’t identified himself and the younger one, doing most of the talking, started to stammer. FBI agent stammering? Then the older one spoke up and he stammered, too. Two FBI agents stammering? We were about fifty feet from a half-dozen machine guns, which they no doubt suspected. Finally, I stood up, indicating I was done. They made their way to the door and I escorted them back to the gate.
The older one turned around and said, “Joe, here, could have handled this. I came along because I read your book and wanted to meet you.”
“You read my book.”
“The New American Man?”
“What was your name?”
“Yep.” This was the agent who was running the Trochmanns. “We know that you started the militia, though some in the Bureau don’t agree.”
“What the hell do they know?”
“I don’t know if it would do any good, but I’m thinking maybe we could start a dialog…”
“You know, maybe just talk back and forth. Might do some good.”
“If I talk to you, I’d have to have full disclosure.”
“No, we couldn’t do that.”
“Yeah, me either.”
“Well, that was a pretty scary book.”
“Well, you guys are some stone killers. You killed those people in Idaho, then you killed all those people in Texas and I know damn well you blew up Oklahoma City last year.”
“I understand the problem. I’m interested in solutions.”
“Read my book. That’s the solution.”
He tried to tell me that we just needed to vote good people into office. I told him to read Votescam, which would make him join the militia. “Who programs the computers that count the votes?” That at least made him a little uncomfortable.
Houck got onto dangerous ground when he said, “You’ve got children. So do I. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to them.” He’d just seen mine up close.
“We certainly wouldn’t.” They got in their white Bronco and left. And that was the end of my attempts to overthrow the US government by force and violence, at least for a few years. The subsequent loss of my children a few months later was a heavy blow that could not be overcome by me.
I sort of snapped out of it with the 9/11 attack. A writer in Phoenix, Brian Quig, persuaded me to become involved again. He was an investigator into the massacre in Oklahoma five years earlier. I approached my good friend Louis Beam and said that we needed to talk with Andreas Strassmeir in Berlin. Louis had known the German because Strassmeir had penetrated the white separatist movement through Louis’ attorney, Kirk Lyons. Lyons had naively allowed the CIA/FBI operative, Dave Holloway, to be the manager of his activist law office in Houston.
Holloway in turn had arranged for Strassmeir to live at the federal Christian Identity encampment known as Elohim City in Muldrow, Oklahoma. Elohim City was run by an FBI informant named Robert Millar and was frequented by various bank robbers and fugitives.
Quig arranged for a wealthy movement supporter in Chicago, Alex Magnus, to finance our investigation of Strassmeir, but shortly after the agreement Magnus developed stomach cancer and was dead in a few weeks. However, at Quig’s invitation, I went down to Phoenix and met Dr. Robbi, who had been investigating 9/11. Quig took us to Kingman, where Tim McVeigh had lived before driving to infamy at Oklahoma City, and introduced us to McVeigh’s former roommate, Mike Gadbaw.
The story of Robbi’s and my attempts to help Mike is told in “Manchurian Shooters” elsewhere on this website. Suffice it to say it nearly got both of us killed. Brian Quig was himself murdered in the aftermath of this misadventure.
It was also during this period that Robbi and I were married in Carmel and living in Las Vegas, where I was engaged in the landmine vehicle described in “Psychological Armor.” I had become quite noisy about ending Jewish Rule and this led to a couple of nasty things, namely three attempts to kill me and the cancellation of the vehicle program by the army, which had by January, 2004 been approved for purchase by Tank Automotive Command. This was the culmination of twenty-three years’ work on the invention and refinement of the design. It was cancelled because the army had finally investigated me and discovered what I had written about Israel and the Jews.
But this came later. A few weeks before Robbi and I were to go to Carmel to our wedding in 2003, our vehicles were vandalized. Out of a thousand parked cars at the apartment complex on Flamingo near the Strip, only my truck and her Jeep were hit, and they weren’t parked near each other. A copy of Ostravsky’s By Way of Deception, describing Mossad treachery, was left in the bed of my truck.
Robbi had had much experience with Jews in her life, including American Jews, Austrian Jews and Israeli Jews. She had several times warned me that a group of six Israelis was apparently watching me closely whenever we were at the pool. She said to watch out for them, but I didn’t know what I could do other than that. A couple of times they tried to intimidate us in the parking lot but it’s difficult to do this to someone who always carries a .45 automatic. I also couldn’t imagine why it would take six Jews to kill me but I was not familiar with the Israeli method until the assassination by committee done in Abu Dhabi years later.
The next day I became quite ill. Something had attacked my kidneys. Robbi, who was a doctor of internal medicine, quickly put me on antibiotics and nutritional supplements. Mysteriously, a severe burn developed on my dick. The burn spread alarmingly but I couldn’t concentrate on it due to the main illness. We made it to Carmel for the wedding but I was still not well and wouldn’t recover until after about six weeks from its onset. My kidneys were better but the burn remained quite severe and disfiguring.
The US Army was coming to meet us in October and the day before their arrival my partner and I got in my truck to drive over to where the prototype was kept, to see to some last-minute details. I’d arranged for dummy chain guns from the actual manufacturer in Canada and we had to install them on their special mounts. As I got behind the wheel, I put my hands on it. It was covered in thick grease! All I could do was wipe my hands and the wheel with a shop rag and we went about our business.
The meeting with the army went well but after they left I again came down with the debilitating kidney disease, followed by a reappearance of the severe and painful burn. The eventual effect of this attack, the scar tissue, removed a couple of inches and I must admit that I miss them.
During my second convalescence I told Robbi that I was apparently poisoned, no doubt by the Jews who she’d warned me about. She said she was thinking the same thing but didn’t want to say it.
In January, the director of the army’s Tank Automotive Command came to Vegas for a big meeting with us, with Michelin which was going to supply a forty-three inch version of their new one-piece Tweel, a nearly indestructible tire/wheel combination, with Harry Reid’s military attaché, with the manufacturers of the armor and air suspension and hybrid-electric motors and so forth. The director admitted that the vehicle’s design had required the re-writing of the landmine protection specification for Future Combat Systems, which itself was eventually abandoned.
TACOM was buying the vehicle and would be putting up millions of dollars to complete the experimental prototype. My partner and I flew to Washington and met with Reid’s people, the army and the State Department. And then it all collapsed. Reid’s legal counsel eventually told us that my comments about Israel had made it impossible to go forward.
A few weeks later, Robbi and I got in the truck, now parked right next to the guard’s shack, to find the steering wheel again coated in grease. I had by now been wiping door handles, steering wheel and gear shift lever with alcohol routinely. I did so again and we drove to the Las Vegas Police Department and made a report, only to be ignored after naming the Israelis as the suspects.
I’ve since been told by a CIA operative that the Mossad routinely uses a combination of petroleum jelly, DMSO and datura to kill people. All assassinations have to be signed off by the Mossad chief, who in my case was Meir Dagan.