J. Swift, this is better than "One Life To Live". (Jeff Pomerantz, a star on that soap, is an OT clam and used to joke about what an inappropriate name that was for scientologists to act in.)



More, please????

Very nice posts J.Swift!!
I very much looking forward to your next postings!

As the Commanding Officer of USS PC-815 from 21 APR 43 to 07 JUL 43, a period of only 79 days, Ron found himself disgraced and his naval career in shambles.

During his 79 days as CO of this US Naval vessel, Ron had managed only to depth charge a magnetic undersea deposit off the Oregon coast and fire upon the hapless goats on a deserted Mexican island, hardly the heroic stuff of medals and best-selling books as Hubbard hoped to have emerged with from WWII.

Hubbard insisted over and over to anyone who would listen that he had sunk two Japanese submarines off the coast of Oregon. Of the seven US Navy commanders present on scene, only Hubbard claimed that the two subs were there. The other six Navy commanders who were summoned to help Hubbard disagreed with him and saw no oil, wreckage, bodies, or any other evidence that would corroborate Hubbard's claims. Six Navy commanders and an Admiral said there never were any subs and that Hubbard had made a mistake. Hubbard disagreed with the world and said, essentially, what was true for him was the Truth and that everyone else, including an American admiral who had proven the year before that he knew more about Naval combat than the best of Japan's admirals, were all wrong.



Hubbard had demanded recognition for himself, his crew, and his ship and Admiral Fletcher said no. Hubbard could not argue with a man of Fletcher's stature. Worse, Hubbard was forced to admit in writing that his men had overeacted and machine-gunned a floating log thinking that it was a Japanese submarine that had surfaced in the dark.

Fletcher had given Hubbard the benefit of the doubt by concluding that the young lieutenant had made an honest mistake and had erred in the defense of America. It was no shame for Hubbard to have taken the actions he did given the remote possibility that enemy subs could have been operating in the area and that Hubbard had sonar reads that seemed to indicate submarines.

Accordingly, Admiral Fletcher allowed Hubbard to keep his command of the USS PC-815, this although Fletcher's formal report stated that there were no Japanese submarines in the area. No wreckage, bodies, or debris was found during the battle. There was simply no evidence that any subs were in the area.

&&&&

Hubbard was emotionally distressed and physically exhausted following the 68 hour battle in which he had almost no sleep and returned to port. He was the butt of Navy jokes from San Diego to Anchorage as he piloted the sleek PC 815 into the harbor:


ref:http://www.xs4all.nl/~kspaink/cos/warhero/pc-815.htm

Hubbard was ordered to take the USS PC-815 down to San Diego to finish its shakedown cruise and get fitted with more gear. The rest was history. When the Mexican government lodged a formal proetst over Hubbard's shelling of an island in Mexican waters, Fletcher ordered Admiral Braysted to relieve Hubbard of his command and transfer him out of Fletcher's command for being, shall we say, a loose cannon?

Hubbard's actions off of Oregon and in Mexican waters had embarassed Admiral Braystead in front of the great Frank Jack Fletcher. It is an unforgiveable sin in the military to embarass a senior flag officer. Admiral Braystead summoned Hubbard to the flag office and, after thoroughly dressing down Ron for ten minutes in front of God and his assembled command staff, Braystead glared at Hubbard and declared, "Hubbard, you need a psychiatrist."

That insult cut Ron to the core, for 1943 was the era when all men were supposed to be strong and quiet and rugged and handsome just like John Wayne:



In 1943, any man who needed a psychiatrist was crazy, insane, weak, and maybe even a secret homosexual. Hubbard was none of that and was rather quite a hero and an adventurer, or at least he considered himself to be so. In fact, he considered himself to be a man's man and felt himself to be more like John Wayne than any man in Admiral Braystead's office. He wished he could punch Braystead in his fat mouth and knock him to the floor for this humiliating episode.

Hubbard was dismissed by Braystead and ordered to set in the waiting room of the Admiral's office. Ron heard Braystead give his adjuant the order to, "Offload this guy."

"Where do I offload a problem like Hubbard?" The adjudant asked.

Braystead tersely replied, "I don't know. Find some Navy school somewhere but keep him the hell out of the war and out of the front lines where he can't embarass the Navy. And definitely keep him off Fletcher's lines. Got it?"

"Loud and clear, Admiral!"

Hubbard's ulcer flared up when he heard those words. He realized that he had blown his second and last chance to command a US Navy fighting ship.

&&&&&

July 8 would twice prove to be a disastrous day in Hubbard's life. On July 8, 1943, Hubbard lost command of the USS PC-815 and was ordered to temporary duty stateside pushing papers for the Navy's Eleventh District. While other men fought a blistering war with the Japanese and Germans and received glory, Hubbard's naval career and dreams of military glory officially died on July 8, 1943. Hubbard would go into a sort of hiding following this day of ignominy. In his hiding he would discover what he thought were stunning secrets about the universe. Like the Japanese submarines, though, these secrets would prove to be elusive and yet nevertheless threatening and possibly deadly to Hubbard if he did not fight to find and destroy them using weapons and tactics he had not yet dreamed of.

Hubbard began to develop a host of physical and emotional problems following his drubbing by Admiral Braystead.

&&&&&

Life had been easy for Ron in the 1930's as a fiction writer among other fiction writers. Ron could drink and spin tall tales of adventures and the other writers accepted it all uncritically and chalked up Ron's talented confabulations to his superb imagination.

The US Navy, however, was not a jovial drinking and bullshit club for civilian fiction writers and instead severly rebuked Hubbard for his wreckless and egotistical behavior. It was all a major reality check for Hubbard and his ego:

"I have sent a message to the CinC Asiatic as of this morning stating that I wish you to be removed from Brisbane, stating that you are making a nuisance of yourself."

"This officer is not satisfactory for independent duty assignment. He is garrulous and tries to give impressions of his importance. He also seems to think that he has unusual ability in most lines. These characteristics indicate that he will require close supervision for satisfactory performance of any intelligence duty."

"LIEUT. (JG) L.R. HUBBARD IVS USNR ORDERED RETURN US VIA [USS] CHAUMONT AND REPORT TO COM 12 [the 12th Naval District, San Francisco]. HE IS UNSATISFACTORY FOR ANY AVAILABLE ASSIGNMENT HERE."

"LT L RON HUBBARD IS IN COMMAND OF YP 422 COMPLETING CONVERSION AND FITTING OUT AT BOSTON. IN THE OPINION OF THE COMMANDANT HE IS NOT TEMPERAMENTALLY FITTED FOR INDEPENDENT COMMAND. IT IS THEREFORE URGENTLY REQUESTED THAT HE BE DETACHED AND THAT ORDER FOR RELIEF BE EXPEDITED IN VIEW OF EXPECTED EARLY DEPARTURE OF VESSEL. BELIEVE HUBBARD CAPABLE OF USEFUL SERVICE IF ORDERED TO OTHER DUTY UNDER IMMEDIATE SUPERVISION OF A MORE SENIOR OFFICER."


In the US Navy, L. Ron Hubbard was not Colt Winchester Remington or any of his other fictional personas. He was not surrounded by his bemused fellow writers who chuckled at his stories and winked at his false bravado. In the US Navy, Hubbard was a man out of his league both personally and professionally.

That he had master's papers to operate ships did not make him a commander of men or an officer in the finest traditions of the US Navy. There was a huge gap between steering and navigating a ship and having control of one's mind and emotions in a military setting where life and death hung in the balance and often depended upon the commander. Hubbard could handle a ship alright, but he was careless with its crew and indiscriminate in his use of the powerful weapons of war. Indeed, he had a shown a willingness to shoot at anything he found suspicious the first chance he got to pull the trigger.

Hubbard's tendency towards indiscriminate acts of force that first manifested itself in the US Navy would characterize his actions for the rest of his life -- as would his tendency to lash out at people who criticized him for his flagrant disregard of the rules and his gratitious use of force to destroy the many nebulous threats against him.

Hubbard's behavior in the US Navy while in command of the PC 815 foreshadowed the manner in which he would someday run his private navy where he was the Admiral and those who dared question him would find themselves thrown overboard, locked in the chain locker, or declared to be Hubbard's enemy and Fair Gamed in what would be Hubbard's vicious and dirty personal world war against his real and imagined enemies.

&&&&&

While at Princeton for a Naval School, Ron developed severe pains in his back and neck and was sent to Walter Reed Medical Hospital for a few days.

The overworked doctors at the Walter Reed Medical Hospital seldom if ever read the personnel reports of their patients. All they had time to do was to look at the medical chart and scribble in notes. A young doctor had accepted without question Lt. Hubbard's claim that he had been injured while escaping from the Japanese in Java during a secret intelliegence gathering mission to the island following the attack on Pearl Harbor. Impressed by Lt. Hubbard's heroism and suffering, the doctor gave Ron the morphine he had requested for "extreme pain in the back and neck."

Ron returned to his hospital room, pulled the curtains shut around his bed, and took two tablet of morphine from the bottle of twenty.



In a few minutes, the morphene hit his bloodstream and relaxed his entire body and mind. The images of Admiral Braystead and of all of the other senior officers disappeared from Hubbard's mind along with the disgrace of their cruel written reports.

The morphene soothed Hubbard as he lay in his hospital bed. Reaching into the small nightstand next to the bed, he pulled out a small book hidden in his shaving kit and began to read:

"'Do what thou will,' shall be the whole of the law."


"I will do as I will," Hubbard said to himself as he quietly whispered an incantation to close the pentagram around him he had made in his mind. He then summoned demons to do his will and show him the secrets of the universe and take vengeance on the jealous, petty, and inferior men who had derailed his glorious military career and denied him recognition as the hero who had sunk two enemy submarines.

Ron drifted off into an agonizing morphene dream of a faraway place. He had had this dream over and over for several months. The dream always began the same way: A volcano, a giant explosion, and the screams of countless people dying.



Hubbard was certain that it was from his past life on the island of Krakatoa in Java when the volcano erupted in 1883 in a violent explosion, destroying the entire island and killing 36,417 people.

Ron also saw a chain back to another life in Pompeii in 79 A.D. when that volcano erupted and killed 4,000 people and buried much of the island.

Ron would relive his deaths in Krakatoa and Pompeii over and over in what would turn into over two years of dreams fueled by US Navy-supplied painkillers prescribed for his various injuries.

The explosions were vivid and tremendous. The screams were real. Then Ron saw the souls of the countless dead rising from the volcanos into a dirty sky.

In this dream at Walter Reed Medical Hospital, Ron had the same dream but this time an evil being appeared above the clouds of souls and began to trap these souls. In the dream, Ron knew he had summoned a demon and that an archdemon had indeed come. This was a good sign for Ron as it meant he had secretly perfected his summoning skills such that he could now make archdemons obey his will.

In this dream, the archdemon said to Hubbard, "The power is more than the volcanos. The explosions are more than the volcanos! I trapped everyone with a power greater than the volcanos! I will show it all to you in the next five years. You will know it all by the end of 1948! My great power will be seen again in two years! You will see my great power of old anew in two years! My power will explode again and then you will know that I am returning to earth and thou Hubbard, thou will serve me!

"Then two years after my power is shown, I will cause my loyal soldiers to appear to the peoples of earth! They will see my silent, hidden soldiers reappear in bright and mysterious glory and thou Hubbard, thou will serve me!"

"I will serve you," Hubbard replied in the dream. "I will serve you."

"And I will glorify you and make you a prince of the power of the air," said the archdemon.

"Give me your name!" Hubbard insisted, this his right as the magician.

"Nay! My name you cannot know now, but I will send my servant to you three years hence and he will tell you my name! Remember: Two, three, and four years shall pass with my sign given in each year and all you need will be shown to you. Then thou will serve me as a prince of the power of the air!"

With that the archdemon vanished and the dream ended with Hubbard covered in sweat, screaming profanities, and being restrained by large male orderlies. "Lieutenant Hubbard! Are you okay? You were having a nightmare!" the head nurse said to him.

&&&&&

In the 1930's Ron had purchased and studied a reprint of "Eulis" - a 19th century book on Sex Magick by Paschal Beverly Randolph, a master of black magick. Ever since that time he knew that black magic was somehow his future and so he had began a secret study of the black arts with secret practitioners known only to each other. Hubbard lived a part of his daily life in this closed and secret world and liked it.



This dream of a strange being, of an archdemon prophesying to him while he was in a morphene dream in Walter Reed, convinced Hubbard of what he had also always known: He was a chosen one for a new age of man.

All Ron had to know was to bide his time and wait for 1945, 1946, and 1947 for the prophecies of his dream to be fulfilled.

These would be the worst years of Hubbard's life as the archdemon threw him into hellish personal circumstances to test his worthiness and resolve.

&&&&&

Bill and I were strolling along the Left Bank recounting what Madame had told us about Jack Parsons, Volni Matheson, and her late husband Arnaud.

"Makes you wonder how the hell Ron ever fit into any of that," I said.

Bill took a drag from his Marlboro and looked at me like I was a stupid wog. I knew the look.

"Damn psychics!" he retorted. "What does she know?"

"I don't know," I answered, "But we'll find out more when we go back tomorrow."

Bill was silent and looked ahead blankly as we walked and he smoked.

"You are going back tomorrow, aren't you?" I quizzed him.

"Yeah, I'm going back tomorrow," he said.

We were both very interested in learning how a German rocket scientist had something to do with the origins of Scientology.

.

Fascinating novelization, but my theory is that Hubbard was inspired by the 1950 eruption of Mauna Loa, which was noted as


The eruption was widely broadcast in color in TV and print media, and probably also inspired Mt. Doom in J.R.R.Tolkein's Lord of the Rings, written in 1954 and 1955.

L. Ron Hubbard, a patient at Walter Reed Medical Hospital, donned his dress uniform, borrowed a friend's car, and headed out for a night of drinking in the waterfront bars of Norfolk that were populated mainly by sailors, longshoremen, and prostitutes. Hubbard looked at himself in the mirror, splashed some cheap cologne on his face, and slipped a condom into his wallet. Thinking for a moment that he had just been paid that day, he slipped in a second condom. Thinking again that the testosterone he was being given lowered his libido, he removed the second condom. But as he was given to magical thinking, he slipped the second condom back into his wallet reasoning that booze would offset any testosterone deficiencies.

Hubbard was no stranger to strong drink and boasted that he could drink anyone under the table and often did. Ron was that rare drunk who could drink a fifth of scotch and still appear to be clearheaded and write adventure stories. He fancied himself to be Hemingwayesque in this regard, this although his pulp fiction was not even remotely close to the work of the Old Man, the great Hemingway.

Ron was very upset about what had happened with his command because he wanted to be like Ernest Hemingway. He saw himself after WWII in a bar in Cuba drinking and trading stories with the Old Man himself. That was his fantasy: To run with Hemingway in Pamploma and to smoke cigars and drink with Ernest in Africa during a big game hunt, and, like Ernest, to be lionized by the world's press as a man's man and a Nobel Prize writer:




But Admiral Braystead and all of the other officers in the Navy had suppressed Ron.

Suppressive: That was the exact word Ron thought to himself as he walked out to get into the car. Ron was a writer and by God he knew how to pick the right word for any situation or person. In addition to being a bastard, Ron decided that Braystead was also a Suppressive who had impeded and destroyed Ron's career as a commander of fighting ships, a destiny for which Ron felt he had been born.

As Ron thought about it more, he realized that the word "Suppressive" described all of the people who had ever worked to undermine him in his entire life. He vowed to deal with these Suppressives in his own way and at his own time. He vowed to obtain the magickal power he needed to cause them great vexation and suffering for what they had done to him. It all hurt too much and reminded him of the great abuse he had suffered as a child. The neglect, the criticisms, the beatings with the leather strap by his father when he failed: It all ran together into anger and despair. Is it no wonder that Ron had escaped into fiction for his entire life? And was it also no wonder that he failed, that he sabotaged himself when he confronted real life?

All of the pain was why Ron preferred to live life from behind his typewriter where he was in absolute control and could create the realities he wanted, needed, and most importantly, he could control to the nth degree as the Creator and God. In his writing and stories, Ron got to say who would live and die or who would rise and fall -- and there was no one sitting in judgment over Ron. He was omnipotent when he sat down at his typewriter and he knew that his power to write, to create, would be a large part of his freedom.

As Ron drove through the dirty mean streets of post-war Norfolk, he saw how his entire life had been suppressed, first by his angry, abusive parents and then by his teachers at George Washington University who had given him D's and F's and ignored his enormous potential. It was their fault. A little work on their part and he could have gotten A's and completed his degree in Civil Engineering.

From Ron's extensive reading of Freud -- whom he read feverishly in search for the cure of his many neuroses -- he knew that his past, especially his sexual past with his gulit over his masturbation and his sexual failings with women, had locked him into a prison. Ron knew that he needed some powerful way to tear down his past:



Sigmund Freud towered over Ron's thinking. Ron wished he could have Freud's great clarity of mind and the power to vaporize people's pasts. Ron had Freud envy and modeled himself after Freud, even to the point of being able to quote Freud extensively and analyze his friends to their great astonishment. Yet everytime Ron got close to the incidents in his own past that kept him trapped, these incidents quickly disappeared from him just the Japanese subs had done when they were tantalizingly close to his depth charges and guns. Like his past pain, the enemy subs had escaped under the black waters of night. Ron knew he had to find a way to break the chains of his past and get rid of all the Suppressives in his life.

Ron knew he needed to be free. But how?

Reaching into his jacket pocket for a Kool, he found none. That was no good. Ron needed Kools. When Ron drank, which was frequently, he liked to chain-smoke Kools and tell stories about himself. Even when he was not drinking, Ron liked to smoke and tell stories about himself. L. Ron Hubbard was what Ron liked to talk about most and Kools were Ron's favorite cigarette. In fact, Kool cigarettes were the only thing Ron liked in life besides booze and talking about himself.

So it was that the need for a few packs of Kool cigarettes led Ron into a most unusual liquor store that fateful night. The store even had a sign outside hanging under a bare light bulb that was intended lure Ron in:




&&&&&


"I'll take a carton of Kools and a fifth of Jack Daniels," Ron said to the old Chinese man working behind the counter:



The old man wore Ray Bans sunglasses and so Ron could not see the eyes of the old man. Ron did not like Orientals and had in fact recorded years before in his diary that, "The problem with China is that there are too many Chinks," as his sage smartass young American assessment of an ancient land and peoples.

The old man knew what Ron had written years ago and did not care one whit. In fact the old man had encouraged Ron to write the sentence to more deeply impress the fact of Ron's sense of superiority over all other human beings into Ron's young mind. You see, the old Chinese man was the archdemon, was Ron's case worker and had been since Ron's birth. In this moment, the archdemon had assumed a bodily form he knew that Ron would look down upon.

If Ron had been more aware, he would have seen that this was all a trap. Ron was in store for a surprise and would never make it to the bar that night for the demons had plans for him.

As the old Chinaman went to get the fifth of Jack Daniels, Ron looked behind the counter and suddenly spied a very small strange painting hanging in between the shelves of liquor:



The image exploded into Ron's psyche like a volcano erupting. He felt dizzy and disoriented, as if he were a red hot particle of lava freewheeling through the sky during the explosion of Pompeii. The liquor store suddenly expanded out to infinity and he was freewheeling into an enormous ocean of insanity like the lava running down to the sea. He had seen this ocean in his mind and dreams and had long feared that his brightness would drown in this insanity as it engulfed him in its utter blackness.



.

This is brilliant stuff, Swifty. You are a deft and talented writer. I hope you will consider developing these ideas into more than a simple entertainment for us Clambakers.

"La Cosa Nostra," the old Chinese man whispered to Hubbard as he recovered from his swoon in one the many rooms in the secret underground chamber far beneath Mr. Chen's row of stores and shops.

Mr. Chen, who appeared to be a poor old shopkeeper, owned the entire block of nondescript stores and apartments and was in fact quite wealthy, but one would never know it judging by appearances. The only thing that attracted attention was his liquor store, a classic '40's roadside store that sold booze and cigarettes:



Mr. Chen also secrelty sold girly magazines and risque French postcards, but one had to know the secret code words to use in order get these lurid and most scandalous publications in 1943:



Had the local Ladies Baptist Association ever discovered that Mr. Chen was the source of smut in their community, they would have run him out of town. Fortunately, the local Baptist men kept it a secret.

*****

Ron had passed out and fallen into an Abyss that had long been waiting to reclaim him from a past life. After he had passed out, the shadowy figures who had been in hiding when Ron walked into the liquor store had emerged and carried Ron down into the chamber through a secret door that was seamlessly blended into the many rows of shelves in Mr. Chen's store.

Mr. Chen's Dark Chamber, as it was called, was infamous in the East Coast underworld for its many uses: It was an opium den, a gangster hideout, a brothel, a place to hide things, and, it even had a seance room where occult initiations took place. The initiations occurred there because the chamber had originally been a secret temple used by the 19th century mystyic Samuel Mac Gregor Mathers of the Golden Dawn:



The old factory atop the secret chamber had been razed following a fire in 1939. Mr. Chen, an immigrant, bought the land and built his liquor store and several nondescript retail shops in its place. The secret underground chamber remained secret. How Mr. Chen knew of the underground chamber was not important, nor was the fact that he may have started the fire in the old factory as a way to help the previous owner, who was on the verge of bankruptcy, get a generous insurance settlement. A handshake deal specified that the old owner would sell Mr. Chen the land at a bargain and that cetain occultists would have exclusive and unrestricted use of certain rooms in perpetuity. Mr. Chen had kept his agreement and prospered.

The underground rooms, if one knew about them, commanded the magnificent sum of $100 per hour for their use. Plenty of shady moguls, crooked politicians, and other lowlifes paid to use the rooms as they were said to possess extraordinary spiritual powers that would keep a person from being caught by the law, their spouse, and even private detectives. That the local constable recieved a generous envelope of cash and a case of whisky each month from Mr. Chen helped the magickal spell and it seemed that the authorities never once snooped around Mr. Chen's block of property. Local lowlifes who spoke in murmurs amongst themselves in dark bars told stories of nosy gumshoes suddenly fleeing the area around Mr. Chen's liquor store in abject terror. Something lurking in the alleys, stairs, and streets did not like intrusion and kept strangers away, even on dark moonlit nights in the neighborhood:




*****

When the words "La Cosa Nostra" were uttered, Ron reflexively answered, "Si." It all come back instantly when he heard the words.

Ron had been Don Giovanni, the famous Sicilian Don who had helped to form the modern Mafia in Palermo around 1840. A wealthy and powerful criminal, Don Giovanni had made money in the slave trade and used that money to buy a great estate in Palermo before the modern nation of Italy was founded.

Don Giovanni did not take to the law kindly and rather considered that he was a law unto himself and could use whatever means he considered necessary to get what he wanted -- even black magick when it suited him. Indeed, it was Don Giovanni who had introduced many occult touches to the Mafia. Don Giovanni once secretly told his Capo that he had learned these occult secrets in another life at the Temple of Apollo when he lived in Pompeii, the land where he died in the first volcano.



"It was long ago, but I remember it," Don Giovannia said to his Capo as he inhaled snuff one afternoon. A 19th century gentleman's custom, the taking of snuff, or cocaine, always provided a boost in the afternoon after the midday nap. It did for Don Giovanni as it would later do for Sigmund Freud and other sophisticated Europeans and Slavs living in countries such as Bulgaria, Greece, Yugoslavia, and Albania.

Don Giovanni was a slave merchant, a criminal, a black magican, and a faithful Catholic. For him, life was good. By 1890 he had reached his 70th year and he was the virtual ruler of Palermo. Life was good as he sat in the patio and looked at the ocean and drank wine from grapes grown in his vineyards:




Don Giovanni felt that life belonged only to the strong and those who were tilling to take whatever they damn well pleased. Don Giovanni had been doing this for his entire life and it had worked.

*****

There was another powerful person in 1890 who shared Don Giovanni's sentiments that life belonged only to the to strong and those willing to take whatever they needed and wanted.

This person was Queen Victoria of England:




Don Giovanni had made the very bad mistake of angering Queen Victoria and she was not amused. Don Giovanni had taken something which belonged to Her Royal Highness Queen Victoria, and now the Queen intended to take it back and punish Don Giovanni by taking everything he owned and driving him into exile to some faraway place in the world where he would never be seen again or upset the Queen. Even now, the Queen's men were on the way to take Don Giovanni. The Don's Capo and the Capo's soldiers would be no match for the Queen's best men.

It was to be the beginning of a long fight between Don Giovanni and the British Crown with its fabled bankers who smoked fine Cuban cigars, drank 25 year old scotch, and played viciously when it came to money.

*****

The old man sat on the same bench the next day smoking and waiting.



It was like this for him now: Waiting and waiting for his care packages to be delivered. He had once been so mighty that he seemed to have shaken the world. Now, he was just a nobody who had to depend upon an angry young man for subsistence. Yet there was nothing the old man could do except sit and wait, his promised resurrection having come and gone.




.

Madame de Volange sat in privacy in her wine cellar and read the secret diary her husband had kept in WWII. Dr. Arnaud de Volange had been a top German rocket expert in WWII and had reported directly to Werner Von Braun.

Like so many other leading German scientists who were not able to escape from Germany before the invasion of Poland in 1938, Dr. de Volange had been forced by the Nazis to work on their rockets under threat of great violence. Had he refused, the SS would have murdered his family and then hanged him. It was this way for many German scientists in WWII. They would either work for Hitler or see their families murdered in front of their eyes and then be sent to the gallows.

The secret diary began with an entry from April 12, 1945:

“I walked the factory floor today on an inspection of the V2 production lines. The curved aluminum hull plates of of the V2's shone dull under the incandescent factory lights. The war is lost and yet we are still insanely making weapons that will kill innocent men, women, and children hundreds of miles away. I know the suffering and death that the V2 causes in England. This troubles me deeply as does the war. The war will end soon. My only hope is that my family and I are captured by the Americans and not the Russians.



“The cold gray skies of Germany are as desolate as my soul. Each day brings more bad news of German soldiers slaughtered and battles lost as the Reich collapses and the Russians encircle Berlin. Hitler stokes the funeral pyre of this once great nation with his own fury of hatred. Never in the world has such a hatred as Hitler’s been known. Never has such sadism reigned supreme. Why did Providence allow the assassination attempt on Hitler's life to fail? This has only made him more insane and violent with each passing day.

“That I have been forced to design and build weapons for Hitler is the great shame of my life as a scientist and as a man. A braver man would kill himself. However, I cannot leave my wife and children alone to fend for themselves when Germany collapses soon. Herr Speer told me that Germany has less than four weeks left.

"With each VS that crashes down upon England and kills and incinerates innocents as they scream out to God for mercy, Germany only incurs more wrath for herself before God and man. There are already Allied preparations for War Crimes Trials. Herr Dr. Von Braun assures us that he has plans to bargain our secret rocket technology to the Americans for our freedom and immunity. Last week we moved several large lorries of documents to a secret location in preparations for Herr Dr. Von Braun's negotiations with the Americans. Reichsführer-SSHimmler knows of these planned negotiations and has approved. The Reichsführer-SS is in secret contact with the Americans and he hopes that he will rule Germany after Hitler's government collapses.

"I am of the mind that the Allies will not find it acceptable to have any Nazi rule. I am certain of God's justice: Reichsführer-SS Himmler will be hanged by the Allies in the War Crimes trials -- unless Hitler discovers his secret peace negotiations in which case Himmler will be tortured and executed. It matters not to me so long as Hitler and Himmler are killed as soon as possible and the war ends. Himmler is a monster as are all of the people who embrace the nightmare of the Nazis.



"The occult rituals that have been performed by Himmler and the SS since 1939 are now increasing. Himmler himself is seeking Satanic power to help Germany and Hitler. It is insane. To compound matters, Himmler demands from me now an improved Tesla Psychcometer with a 1000+ kilometer range in order to influence Churchill to accept Count Bernadotte's offer that Himmler make a separate peace with the Allies. I have remonstrated that this is not possible as the Allied bombers have destroyed the 100 meter Tesla towers in Nuremberg in their preparation to capture the city.



"Himmler promises to build new Tesla towers but I do not see how this is possible given the shortages of steel. Himmler says that he will compel Speer to make the steel available. Speer is still protected by Hitler and so I do not know if the steel will be forthcoming. The real question is if Hitler has been convinced by the new Tesla psychometer experiments. Herr Hitler is still angry that we lost Hess to the initial Tesla psychometer experiments. This is why I was transferred to the rocket program and out of the SS Tesla Psychometer project. Himmler keeps me on the Tesla program only because I am the only classically trained alchemist on Technical Staff. Thank God my father trained me as an alcemist or Hitler would have had me executed when Hess landed in England!

"Even if Himmler can build the new Tesla Towers, the Luftwaffe lost air superiority long ago. The Allies would destroy the towers before they were completed:



"Germany will collapse soon from the Allied bombing and the Allied invasion. I hope the end comes sooner than later so I can return to my family."

The next day's entry read:

“The Jewish and Slavic slaves here at the Peennemunde complex are starving and dying each day down in the tunnels. I too am a slave here like the rest. I am fed a bowl of porridge and brown bread each day. I hide my bread and give it to the Jews who work on the V2 fuel. They need more nutrition as do all of the workers. I cannot allow the Gestapo to see me feeding my workers.

"The Gestapo is always present with their machine pistols and torture should any member of the Technical Staff or any slave laborers who attempt escape. Herr Hitler has ordered this to be so. One wrong look from any us at the Gestapo and one of their uneducated sadists will come down on us with a wooden club. Worse, any act deemed treasonous will result in a blindfold and a pistol shot to the head.

“So much for the Uberman, the Superman of Hitler’s deadly racial calculus; the war is all but lost and yet we are still made to work night and day. The stupid Gestapo thugs who guard us argue against racial superiority; they are indeed rather common hoodlums and murderers as are their superiors who hide in their secret bases. Any superiority the Nazis assume over us is born only of violence and the fact that they are able to imprison us by force. How in God’s name did we Germans ever allow an Antichrist to arise in our own land and imprison and kill us? It is because we wanted to believe the lies of the Antichrist Hitler. That is how it happened. We believed his promises of freedom and unlimited potential. We never saw the evil in which his promises were hidden.�

The entry for the next day read:

“This morning I again surveyed the neat rows of rocket hulls and admired the precision and order of their metalwork. My calculations were used to ensure that the V2 could travel at such speeds and altitudes as man has never seen. The aluminum skin of the V2 has to expand and contract under a demanding flight regimen. Each rivet has to be put in place by hand and carefully fitted to a standard higher than that of any fighter aircraft. Such technical beauty used in war is immoral. When the war is over I will work for peaceful purposes only.

“The new world of electronics has given us radio and radar to guide our fighter aerocraft and mighty rockets into war. What a strange thing it is, this matter of invisible waves propagating death, violence, and data across invisible space. I grew up as a simple boy on a farm in Austria. From gathering straw in the fields and riding in horse drawn carriages as a simple boy, I am now sending screaming V2 rockets up into the virgin space of earth. That this should all happen in one lifetime is a curse. I would go back to Old Europe, to a bygone world if I had the power of time travel. If the Tesla towers had not been destroyed I would have had a chance to test my theories in this regard.

In another entry, Dr. de Volange began by asking:

“Who am I?

“I am a man who controls radio waves and rocket engines. I control the sleek V2 rockets. I was proud of the science and technology at first. Indeed, what scientist would not be proud to help invent something as majestic as the world’s first production rocket? Our German rockets are so far ahead of anything else being done in the field of rocketry that we are easily ten years ahead of the British and Americans. We could conceivably destroy London and New York with the next generations of our rockets if we can hold on.

“But to what purpose? For Germany, for the Motherland. As bad as this war is, Germany should overthrow Hitler, and then sue for peace. We cannot lose if it means having to once again endure the poverty of another Versailles Treaty. Forget Hitler and his madness: I am only functioning in order to save Germany from a crushing defeat that will drive us into an everlasting poverty and a new Dark Age for the Motherland. That the V2’s will kill thousands upon thousands of innocents is the only way to achieve some political settlement for Germany. I do not like the killing and am resigned to my judgment at the Bar of Divine Justice, but I cannot allow Germany’s daughters to be taken captive and raped by the Russians and her sons to be made the slaves of Moscow’s Communists.

"Goebbels is now in charge of the defense of Berlin and he insanely has teenage boys, our only hope for a new Germany, on bicycles with panzerfausts fighting the endless waves of Russian T34 tanks.



"It is a crime to have boys and old men thrown into the slaughter. I wish the little Doctor Goebbels would inspire Germany by riding into battle on a bicycle with a Panzerfaust as he seems so determined to make our teenage sons do. These Nazis are so quick to spill the blood of everyone except themselves. Hitler has been in bunker for some weeks and has not been seen in public.

The next day’s entry read:

“As to the Japanese and Russians: They were not advanced at all in our eyes. What the Japanese have that is good is of German design. What the Russians lack they made up for in numerical superiority. Stalin tolerates the slaughter of millions of his own soldiers in order to overwhelm any obstacle in his path. Even 1,000 of the best Tiger tanks in the world could not outgun the 1,000,000 Russian soldiers in their path. The barrels of the Tigers would overheat and burn up as the Mongol hordes destroyed them. So although the Tigers would cause a Russian bloodbath, the Russians can afford such carnage. Life for Stalin, like Hitler, means nothing and even Stalin himself has said, “A single death is a tragedy; a million deaths a statistic.�

*****

Madame de Volange cried for some time to think of what Arnaud had endured to keep her and their children alive during WWII. Poor Arnaud had been so conflicted. He hated Hitler and yet he did not want Germany to suffer a crushing defeat and be divided up the Allies.

Madame de Volange sipped her tea and calmed herself. She put aside Arnaud’s secret diary and opened a folder jacket marked “Spitzen- Still Psychometer Überstehen.� This was what had started it all for her and Arnaud. Their lives were never the same after Heinrich Himmler had personally handed this folder to Arnaud in January, 1939.

She pulled the cover page from the jacket. It was marked with these words:


Secret to the Reichsführer-SS

The Tesla Psychometer and Electronically Induced Trance States at a Distance

Thank you J. Swift. I loved the visuals too, especially Don Giovanni’s view of Palermo, which was so calming and relaxing. I’m enjoying this immensely. I’m looking forward to the next chapter.

Swift, who are your sources for all this so-called information?

Great read!! I especially like all the posts in between. You have spun a damn good yarn, Swift.

I imagine someone whose looking for ideas to make a film about L. Ron would like your ideas. You should copyright this stuff.

updated previous post.

Swift is just a hack science fiction movie writer comedian who copies my stuff I email him. He gets all his content and writing skills from me and then takes credit for it.

Give me some credit here, atleast a little Mr. Swift.





http://www.boycottMI3.com

Good stuff here, Mr. Swift.