THE BROCKHOEFT REPORT ---- Feedback Box:

Vol I, No. V December 1993 Federal Prison, Ashland

As has already been mentioned, TBR (The Brockhoeft Report) is a response to requests from old friends for a written account of my fight against abortion. I just wanted to remind you of that, because it is embarrassing to submit this fifth issue and the one which will immediately follow, so the requests are being used as an excuse for what these two issues contain.

These issues offer a detailed account of exactly what happened on the last weekend of 1985, when I carried out my first two assaults against enemy targets, against Martin Haskell's and Planned Parenthood's abortuaries.

No, I'm not the least bit ashamed of having done these things, but only of telling about it. The embarrassment lies in the appearance of egotism in casting the limelight on my own cotton-picking self. Only for this reason are you reminded that these two issues are no more than what has been asked for.

I shudder at the possibility that the effect of this story will be lost for some reader who gets the impression I'm bragging about these things and am all puffed up with pride over my past record. I have been careful to describe these events in the most matter-of-fact, and least boastful, tone possible. If some haughtiness has leaked through my pen, please forgive and overlook it.

A related concern nags me much more, because misunderstanding here could cause a baby's life not to be saved: that my story of how I fortified my commitment to do what I did might seem to belittle the life-saving work of other activists, such as picketers, sidewalk counselors, blockaders, crisis pregnancy counselors, etc.

When you seriously consider that an abortionist actually tortures a baby human being to death, it should be obvious that there is no wrong way to save that child's life! If you save his or her life that's all I care about; I don't care how you did it. I take my hat off to you. I heartily applaud the fine work of all my friends engaged in these other tactics. They work!

A few years ago, while I was in the federal prison in Atlanta, I heard a blockader was scoffing at the picketers and saying these friends of mine were sort of "pro- choice". The blockader's line of reasoning was that, due to the "simplistic" nature of the picketers' form of pro- test, the pregnant women still could choose to enter the abortuary, whereas the blockader, by physically blocking the door, was denying the woman that choice.

By his reasoning, I should have looked "down" on him from the superior position of a bomber; but I looked at him from the position of a picketer, which I had been, shoulder to shoulder with the sisters and brothers he looked down on.

It goes without saying, of course, that neither do I find fault with my brothers and sisters engaged in blockade tactics. Extremely few of them would have the audacity to look down on us who picket. If I tried to classify who my top ten closest friends are I'm sure I'd discover that seven or eight of them have participated in blockades, including Shelley Shannon.

I don't mean to be too hard on our smug friend. He's saving lives, too. I take my hat off to him, too. He's my brother, too, as is anyone who heeds the command of our Lord to "do justice" and to "rescue those being led away to death". I don't even fault him, entirely, for every aspect of his attitude, but reprove him only for that part that makes him feel.

THE BROCKHOEFT REPORT

-- Vol. I, No. 5 -- February, 1994 Federal Prison, Ashland --

[Ed: NEW READERS -- This is Chapter 5 of a book by John Brockhoeft, who is serving time for burning abortuaries. If you have not seen chapters 1-4, please write or call the P&A (phone and address on back page) and new subscribers will be sent a copy free. You really need to read the introductory chapters in order to begin to understand John Brockhoeft.]

ABC News "Nightline": "Some people call you a terrorist."

BROCKHOEFT: "One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter."

It was mentioned in the last issue that "Nightline" was coming to interview me to use footage for a future broadcast involving a debate on the use of force against abortion. The interview took place 12/3/93. The show was aired 12/8/93.

The actual broadcast began thus:

TED KOPPEL: "First, protests, then arson, and finally, murder."

JOHN BROCKHOEFT: "It's not murder, it's justifiable homicide."

PAUL HILL: "Whatever force is justified in the defense of a born child is also justified in the defense of an unborn child."

They interviewed me at the prison here for an hour but used no more than a minute of it. You may be wondering what went on that was not aired. Here are a few examples.

NIGHTLINE CORRESPONDENT CHRIS BURY: "Has your position evolved at all during your years in prison?"

BROCKHOEFT: "No, because there is only one degree of absolutism. I was an absolutist when I came in, and I still am. I will never compromise with the life of an innocent child, nor moderate my position, until the day medical science discovers a way for an abortionist to kill a baby moderately, not absolutely. Those prolifers who condemned the shootings are seeking a level of moderation and compromise which they know is irrational and unjustifiable. They pretend to seek a "balance" which they know doesn't even exist. There is no such thing as balance with the abortion issue, because there is no middle ground, no compromise, between life and death."

BURY: "Do you feel any remorse for the bombings?"

BROCKHOEFT: "Only tell me this from your heart: how much remorse should a man feel for having fought for his country, for having used force to defend the lives of his people, the lives of American babies? If you will answer me that, from your heart, I promise I will deliver all the remorse which you demand."

BURY: "Would you do it again?"

BROCKHOEFT: "When I am released I won't be able to get involved in any more covert operations. They know who I am now, and they'll be watching every move I make and listening to every word." (Note: my agenda will involve activities that can be carried out openly, because they are legal. It is the only thing that has any chance of succeeding. It is something no one has yet tried.)

At another point (but I don't remember what the question was): "Common sense dictates to us all a couple of very self-evident truths. First, that everybody in the whole world believes in the use of force, insofar as the question is not whether the use of force is ever justified, but at what point? And secondly, everybody knows these little babies are human beings; the same as the rest of us. They are so clearly distinguishable as humans that, even after being mutilated, not only can you distinguish between an arm and a leg, but you can even tell the right arm from the left arm. So anything that applies to innocent human beings, in general, applies equally to them, including that point at which they deserve to have their very lives defended by the use of force."

* * *

JUST BEFORE THE FIREBOMBINGS

As mentioned in issue #3 of this journal, the realization that my campaign against abortion would eventually include the destruction of those satanic altars where children are sacrificed came of a sudden on that hot, summer afternoon in 1984. Also noted was that, seeing a bombing was not for the spur of the moment, I could not wait that long to start doing anything. Until the night came when force was exerted, some lesser intensity action against this abomination had to be pursued. Simply to sit at home every day while babies were killed was out of the question.

So I began picketing and sidewalk counseling. This brought mixed feelings. Surely it was better than nothing. But was it as much as I "would have others to do unto" me?

I often tried to imagine what I looked like to the Lord and what I would look like to someone who was about to be tortured and mutilated to death and to whom I was responding by carrying a sign and passing out literature.

When I looked at myself through the other guy's eyes it was a pitiful sight.

I know that I was using this mental device to judge only myself and not my fellow picketers. I was not applying this standard to my friends. Furthermore, I wasn't even really using it so much to judge myself as to encourage myself. It was mainly nothing more than a psychological coping device to help me overcome the fear of doing what I had already determined to do. I never looked at the other picketers that way, only myself.

I never deemed myself the least superior to my friends, my fellow-activists. We grew very close and fond. I enjoyed fellowship with them all the time, not just when we demonstrated together at the abortuaries. I went with them to all the prolife picnics, banquets, rallies, etc. We stayed in close contact throughout the week, and every Sunday night we had supper together.

I really want you to understand.

If the thing the abortionists are going to do to little babies tomorrow was going to be done to me, I would care only that you save my life. I wouldn't care how you did it. If you saved my life by picketing or sidewalk counseling or blocking the door, I'd just be so grateful you saved my life I wouldn't give any thought to how you did it! I would not confront you and say: "Hey, what's the matter with you? You saved my life the wrong way!"

No, I'd just be so thankful I wouldn't know how to express it, and all I'd be able to do is throw my arms around you.

Thinking about it is making me cry, I'll be honest with you. I've been locked up, and helpless, for almost six years now. That baby you saved yesterday--I love that baby. So I have to be just as grateful for your saving his or her life as if it were my own. And I am. Please, for God's sake, never stop doing what you're doing.

I just received the new issue of Life Advocate, our movement's finest source of news and commentary. I always read "From the Publisher" first. I wish I could write like Andrew Burnett, saying so much in such a small space. Then I wouldn't have to bore my readers with infinite redundancies, taking them around the mulberry bush fifty times to make a point. Mr. Burnett expressed his "gnawing concern" that, in proclaiming the justice of the use of force, we might, unintentionally, seem to belittle the faithful and vitally important work of our fellow-laborers in the movement.

It is not the Lord's will for all, or even most, of our people to exert the use of force. It couldn't be, or there wouldn't be enough targets to go around, now, since the movement has grown so much in the past few years. But it is the Lord's will for each of us to remain faithful to that work to which he has called us as individuals. I thank God for the massive influx of new picketers, counselors, and blockaders we have seen recently.

We still need more, of course; and they are coming; but please remember that in order to maintain sustained growth it will be necessary not only to get more members but also for you veterans to remain steadfast and not drop out.

There's another thing you should remember as you read of these fires. These events took place in 1985. In 1985 there wasn't any prolife activist movement in Cincinnati! So what was I supposed to do with no significant help as a demonstrator? The weekend before the fires, Saturday December 21, there were only 6 or 7 other picketers besides me. In the previous year I never saw over fifteen activists at one time and that many, very seldom, and even then only in fair weather. Though few in number, you still had to give them credit, of course, for what they were doing, but all I'm saying is, you call that a movement?

But I cannot overemphasize the vital importance of maintaining a visible presence at the abortuaries. You must be seen by the public, media, "government", and the uncommitted church. Please, for God's sake, never stop what you're doing. Please keep up the good work.

So please understand that the story that follows does not contradict what I have just said. What follows is the story of how I prepared myself for what I was about to do. It is not inconsistent with my respect and gratitude, which I have now and had then, for those who risk less but whose commitment is as great.

* * *

A lot is said among our people about identifying with the baby. This is a good thing, but if carried to an extreme it is ineffective. A baby is absolutely helpless. We are not. So identifying with the babies' helplessness should not be used as an excuse for doing very little, or nothing. Also, the baby does not know, in advance, that he or she will be killed, and so cannot, beforehand, feel the horror and despair. We do know, and should be horrified. So in examining myself I had to pretend I was an adult about to be unjustly tortured to death within a few hours or a day. I know that, without any anesthesia, my arm will be torn out of the socket and off my body, and my head will be crushed until fragments of my skull cave inward and cut into my brain.

Knowing this, I look out the window of my cell on death row and see this guy carrying a sign and passing out literature. He's doing it because they are going to kill me. So as I look out at this protester I think to myself: "Doesn't he love me any more than that? That's not very much, is it? Is that what he would want me to do unto him if the shoe were on the other foot, and he was the one being killed, and I was out there? That wouldn't be it, would it?"

The fellow I was looking at was me. That's what I looked like. I knew I wasn't doing unto others as I'd want them to do unto me. I knew that the Lord knew I was thinking these things, so I had to do it. Knowing how absolute was my determination to take this decisive action, I was able to console myself and use the lesser intensity responses as an excuse from guilt for quite a while. "I'm really going to do it, but in the meanwhile I'll do this."

Week after week, month after month, babies were killed, and I kept saying: "I'm really going to do it." I meant it, too, and knew I meant it. I knew that I actually would exert force against them.

But, eventually, this fact had to be faced: a man can play this game with himself, indefinitely, while remaining sincere. So if he just keeps telling himself, "I'm really going to do it", and even though he is sincere, at what point does his sincerity start becoming irrelevant? How long? After one year, two years, or what? As that last weekend of 1985 had been drawing near I had been becoming more and more aware that sincerity which has become irrelevant is little better than insincerity. There was mounting internal pressure to push myself.

That earlier issue explained how the resolution to destroy abortuaries was made when babies were no longer regarded as mere statistics, but recognized as specific individuals. It was further noted that "courage" (fear working in reverse) began to be gathered by imagining that I was a preborn baby going through the agony and horror of an abortion. This helped, but it was still not enough to overcome the final hurdle of fear.

Even though I recognized each and every preborn child as a specific individual, there was still a slight degree of abstraction in my thinking, because I'd been imagining the pain and terror that just any baby would feel. So I had been able to keep saying: "I'm really going to do it, but I don't have to do it this weekend, because, after all, the babies who will, otherwise, be killed this week after next are just as precious as these who will be killed this coming week!"

In other words, the baby in whose place I had been imagining myself to be was both "real" and "imaginary" at the same time. I had been telling myself: "I'm really going to do it," until I was ashamed and could no longer use it as an excuse for postponing the mission. So, in order to gather the last measure of "courage" needed to carry out the act, it was necessary to stop thinking in terms of just any baby (a baby who could be partly "imaginary") and focus on an entirely real, particular baby who was going to be killed on Monday morning -- less than twenty-four hours away.

As I stood in the cold wind among those seven dead babies on the sidewalk across from Planned Parenthood on Saturday, December 28, '85, I had to tell myself: "Here is reality. A particular baby is scheduled to be killed, right here, on Monday morning. I have to love that baby, that particular individual, that neighbor, as myself. In my heart I have to become that baby. So it is no longer that baby will be killed, but I! How can I still be too afraid to destroy this building? I can no longer say: 'I'm really going to do it, but maybe next weekend,' because if I don't do it now, then by next weekend it will be too late! I'll already be dead!"

No, I had to do it right away. I had to, or I would die. I had superimposed myself onto that one, certain, real baby. He was real. He really existed. He was alive, still alive, somewhere in the Cincinnati area. In my heart I became him. I was about to be killed, horribly, so, without question, I had every right to fight for my life, didn't I? While I was superimposing the desperation of the baby's circumstances onto myself I remembered that I must not also assume his helplessness.

If it was still the baby who was about to be killed he wouldn't be able to fight for his life. I could fight for my own life, and I would fight for his. Moreover, if I was, indeed, helpless, like him, that's what I'd want others to do unto me. I wouldn't want others merely to protest my death, but to fight for my life. And passive "resistance" wouldn't be good enough for me. That's not fighting. No, I would want someone to fight for my life. So I had to do it for him.

* * *

SURVEILLANCE OF THE TARGETED BUILDINGS

Until now references to the firebombings of 12/30/85 have focused mainly on the Planned Parenthood (P.P.) target, and little mention has been made of the second one, which lay a quarter mile away. None of us were aware of his invention -- the D&X abortion. All I knew was that babies were killed in his facility who were in their seventh month of development or older. I'm just like everybody else. Deep down I know it is irrational to be more horrified by the slaughter of a baby in the seventh month of pregnancy than of one in the first few months, but I couldn't help it. Knowing that Haskell was killing children so far along towards their respective birthdays did increase my eagerness to attack his torture chamber. Only years later did we hear of his own description of his own war crimes.

Yes, this is the same infamous Martin Haskell, war criminal, who pioneered the D&X procedure. (Please see the reprinted articles in this issue from the Feb., '93 issue of Life Advocate concerning abortionist Haskell and his innovation. Also note article on George Tiller.)

A few weeks before the fires I was invited to accompany two fellow anti-abortionists to Hassle's site on an intelligence gathering mission. Mike and Tracy wanted to examine the dumpster behind his building. Very often our people have found babies' bodies thrown in such dumpsters where their flesh might be eaten by cats or rats. We've always, then, recovered the corpses and, broken-hearted, tried to give them a decent burial. Another advantage of going through the dumpsters is to retrieve memos and various other paperwork which may offer insights into the killing staff's workings. But I agreed to tag along with Mike and Tracy for another reason.

While they were preoccupied with the dumpster and paying no attention to me, I slipped over to the building and cast the eye of a saboteur on it, looking for the weakest point in its exterior -- a point through which an explosive device or flammable liquids could be introduced.

I found it right away. It was on the left side (facing from the rear parking lot) of the two-story building. There was an apartment building on the structure's right side, fairly close by, but on the left there was a wide open space (maybe 70 feet or more) between the abortuary and the next closest building. So I went to that side first; and there it was, a basement window. It was just one of those simple basement windows that opens by swinging inward from the top, with a narrow metal frame and two panes of glass separated by a narrow, vertical, steel strip. The area around the window was partially obscured by shrubbery. There was no obvious security tape on the glass, no readily apparent burglar alarm.

This, then, was where I would strike when I returned some night. "I'm really going to do it." I did not know, at that time, how soon that night was approaching. Making a mental note of the window's exact location, I unobtrusively rejoined Mike and Tracy, who were finishing their examination. We left shortly thereafter.

A few weeks later I began a detailed planning of the assaults as I was driving home from the December 28 demonstration described in issue #1. I had to strike on that weekend, but I had never yet done a surveillance of the P.P. target. It was necessary to go there late that night to find the weakest point in its perimeter.

Whereas I had discovered Haskell's weak point right away, it was not so at Planned Parenthood. After parking my car on a side street I casually approached the building. The urban guerilla engaged in surveillance work must approach his prospective target carefully. He has to strike a balance between being alert, on the one hand, and not appearing suspicious, on the other. No matter how nervous he is, he can't be glancing furtively all around and appearing to walk in a slinking, stealthful manner. This would attract attention, and the city has eyes, even late at night. So I casually glanced behind me only once or twice as I walked in a purposeful manner toward the satanic altar.

As at the Haskell site, there was an apartment building next to the abortuary. In both cases the apartments were corner buildings where two streets intersect. The building next to P.P. had a narrow, concrete walk leading from the public sidewalk to the front door. This same walkway then made a 90E turn and continued along the left half of the building's face to its left, front corner. There it made another turn and continued along that side to a side entrance and beyond. It ended at the rear corner, at the top of a brief flight of stairs leading down to the residents' rear parking lot. The side of the apartment building where the side entrance was located was the side that faced P.P., next door.

I went along the apartments' walkway, acting as if I were going in to visit someone (Planned Parenthood was closed at night, so there would be no apparent reason for anyone to be seen approaching it). Continuing along the little walkway, I came to the side door. And so, standing alongside the apartment's outer wall, I turned to behold P.P.'s structure, about fifty feet away.

How ugly and fearsome it looked in the dim light! It looked like a haunted house! And yet, really, I knew this was subjective. It was only because I knew the unspeakable wickedness practiced inside by day. Otherwise, I could see, it was a beautiful building. It was an ancient and huge elaborate, stone mansion, which had long ago served as a residence for some wealthy, socialite family. Long ago, children had lived and laughed and played within. Christmas presents had been joyfully given and received by a family who lived here. A husband and wife loved one another within. I wondered how long it had been since its inner walls had heard the sound of laughter.

Yes, it was an elaborately built, stone mansion, three stories tall. Its four-sided roof was capped with a square, level, widow's walk kind of patio. It was beautiful, externally, but that didn't matter. Its old- fashioned, tall windows seemed as eyes peering out in hatred and fear. As I studied it from this short distance, I was filled with loathing.

"You're mine, now, you foul, foul thing. You're mine, and I will destroy you. Your inner walls have seen too much innocent blood. Your inner chamber, your unholy of unholies, has seen too many living nightmares by day. Your bowels have swallowed up too many children. But you will devour no more. No, because you are now mine, you foul, foul thing, and when I return at this time tomorrow night I will destroy you. To the glory of the LORD my God I will tear down this high place."

The middle part of the front of the building projected out further than the other two thirds, forming an "L" on either side. Within that 90E formed on the right, front of the structure there was a thick, horizontal, concrete slab attached to both sides of the angle, sticking out to form a patio whose surface was about three and a half feet above the front yard. So underneath the patio was a crawl space.

Neither car nor pedestrian was moving along Auburn Avenue at that late hour. Since there is no unsuspicious- looking way to walk directly up to an abortuary's wall, at night, it no longer made any sense to try to appear casual. So I rushed from the apartments to P.P., the dried, fallen leaves crunching beneath my boots. I met the building's right wall at a point just beyond the patio's crawl space and hurried along it to the right, rear corner since there was no apparent vulnerable point along that side. The windows were too high.

The ground sloped downward from the front to the rear, so, whereas the front door was at street level, the back door led into the basement. This back door had a 2'x3' window formed by a single pane of glass, so, if it were shattered, great shards of glass would fall to the concrete, making a loud and conspicuous sound. Also, if I used this point, while I stood outside pouring gasoline in through the broken glass, some would flow underneath the door, and I'd be standing in a pool of the accelerant. It was far from ideal but could possibly be used of nothing better were found. Then, of course, I would not have been suicidal but would have stepped out of the pool, and far enough away before striking the match, so that the gas on the soles of my shoes would not ignite. It would have been very embarrassing to flee the scene with my feet in blazes.

I considered that the door might have a hidden security alarm attached but, nevertheless, decided to try the knob, gently, thinking that if the killers had made a mistake and left it unlocked I would go at once for some gas and torch the place immediately. It would be far more effective if I could actually enter the building and pour some gas here and there, in this room and that, leaving trails of the accelerant between each pool. The door was locked.

I moved along the remainder of the rear wall without hesitation, because the only other openings were windows which were all too high. They would have required a ladder. Since I was going to attack two abortion chambers at once, the multiple strike would have to be carried out with a swiftness which would preclude the lugging around of a cumbersome ladder.

As I reached the far, rear corner I paused to consider a matter. There, at that corner, was a line I had to decide whether I wanted to cross. It was the line separating darkness from light. Up to that point my movement around half the building had been shrouded in relative darkness. But there was a very bright security light mounted on that side of the building which lay around the corner; and I was standing right at that threshold, still within the sharp edge of the shadow. I occurred to my mind that there might be a movement-sensitive security camera monitoring that side, hence, such a bright light. I had to give it a little thought.

"What's the matter with you? Why do you fear? Does not the Lord your God watch your every step? Are not His holy eyes on you this very moment? Shall He see you turn back in fear? Will you let Him see you retreat in unfaithfulness? Why do you fear? Only he whose works are evil is afraid of the light! Since the basement door's window is not good enough, and since you have not yet found this place's right vulnerable spot, what difference does it make if there is a camera? Remember! -- it is no longer that baby who is about to die, but you! What do you have to lose? If you are discovered by a camera, so what? At least then, since you will be ordered to serve years in prison, at least your life will be spared, and you will live! But if the destruction of this place is postponed, even one more week, it will be too late! Because in the meantime you will die! Trust the Lord your God with all your heart; step into the light and you will live! You will not walk alone."

(Note: at this point I should clarify something. All my friends know, and I know, that I am not now, nor have I ever been, a lunatic. I have never been out of touch with reality. Yet, I know that the preceding paragraph has a crazy-sounding tone to it. So for the sake of any reader who may still be somewhat suspicious of my mental state, let me explain something. As I stood there, still within the edge of darkness, my mind was not fluctuating back and forth between fantasy and reality. I did not, even for one micro-second, actually believe [by way of natural reality] that it was I who was going to be killed. All the while that I was pretending as though I was in that baby's place, I was fully conscious of the pretentious nature of my thought pattern. Only, in order to actually love him as myself, and to overcome the dread of my mission, and to be able to act exactly as if it were my own life for which I was fighting...I had to deliberately engage in this pretense, while remaining fully conscious of the situation's natural reality. It was a very good thing, for the sake of that one, particular baby, that my mind was firmly made up to act exactly as if it were my own life for which I was fighting. For when I returned the following night there arose a circumstance which was so complicating and terrifying that, otherwise, it would have been madness not to postpone the mission unless I was completely focused on that one baby for whom time would run out with a postponement of even six hours.)

And, so, with head ducked, I stepped forward into truth and was bathed in brilliant light. I wasted no time moving since all the windows were too high. On that side there was a little wing of the building sticking out which included a window facing toward the rear (toward me). I could not resist the urge to raise my head and glance into that window for the glistening, polished lens of a camera. There was none.

Then I was beyond the glaring light, around the corner, and at the front door. All was dark inside, except for a desk light. What kind of appointments were made at that desk? Gently, at first, I tried the knob, and then a little firmer. It was locked.

It was stressful to be there right in front of the building, exposed to any passerby on the street; so with quickened pace I hurried along the front, not seeing any appropriate place on that side, and arrived back at the place where my search had begun. I'd been all around the building and not found the right spot. Standing there by the concrete slab patio, suddenly, on an impulse, I bent over to look at the crawl space beneath. There it was!

Quickly stepping down into this recessed area (the ground under the patio was a couple feet lower than the front yard), I crawled over to where the slab met the front wall (about eight feet).

At that spot there was a large, rectangular opening which had once housed a window, but the glass was gone. It its place was a piece of plywood cut to the opening's size and shape. Only a few, thin, brad nails held the wood in place. The effects of weather had loosened these inadequate fasteners and had even caused them to work outward so that I could easily pull them out with my fingers. Also, to support the wood, someone had stacked five loose bricks on the outer window sill. There were two, one on top of the other, and to their left the other three were stacked haphazardly. Since they were not stacked neatly I stared at them for several seconds to memorize their haphazard manner, so I would be able to replace them just as they had been.

Having put them aside, I removed the plywood. On the other side there was what appeared to be paper, flush with the inner surface of the wall on all four sides. All I could see was the back of this paper. It was as though a careless wallpaper hanger had just papered right over the window. That was the first thing I thought of, and suspected nothing else. I gently pressed the back of this "wallpaper" with my finger, and it bellied inward. No problem. Upon my return the following evening I'd be able to punch right through that paper and enter the building.

With the plywood and nails back in place, I resisted the temptation to stack the bricks nice and neat, but put them back in the same disarray as they had been. Peering out of the crawl space, and seeing no traffic or pedestrians, I crept out of the crawl space and onto the front yard.

That part of the yard had no grass, only bare earth. The grass had died, and a sugar maple a few feet away was dying. It was as though life was totally alien to such a deadly place. A large, dead, tree limb, eight or ten feet long, had fallen. The more slender end, of course, had a bunch of fine twig-branches. I'd made a little mistake upon leaving my house that night for this reconnaissance mission. I'd worn my Vietnam jungle boots. The soles have a deep and distinctive tread, easily recognizable. Once you've seen such a footprint you never forget it. Moreover I'd shown up at this place so many times during the day wearing these same boots and observed by P.P.'s deathscorts. In the dim light no footprints could be seen, but to be on the safe side I took the dead limb by the large end and used its twig offshoots to brush and whisk over the bare soil where my boots had been.

Gently laying the branch aside I returned to my car and headed south toward the Ohio River and my old Kentucky home beyond.

The discovery of the former window beneath the crawl space was wonderful for two reasons. The one already mentioned is that being able to actually enter the building and spread the gas around would make the assault much more effective. The second matter had to do with the timing involved in attacking two targets in the same night. In order to minimize the chances of being captured I would want to torch the second target as quickly as possible after the first was set ablaze. For the sake of evasiveness it would be desirable to reach the second site within minutes and then to spend no more than two minutes there. Since I now expected to go inside P.P., I would be unobserved while preparing that target. Therefore I could take as much time as necessary at that site before climbing back out the window and flipping in a flaring match. All the time spent before that very moment would be irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was the shortness of the time between when the first fire actually ignited, and when the second flared up, and I retreated south of the river.

* * *

In concluding this episode of the story I beg your forgiveness for the frivolity with which attention has been paid to details. My editor and publisher, Mr. Dave Leach, understands that he has broad discretionary power to cut out parts which he considers too trivial. The manuscript I submitted to him for this issue might actually have been longer than what you now see in print. So if this was too short, send him some hate mail and ten dollars. If it was too long, send him some hate mail and ten bucks. If you'd rather not hear any more at all, send him ten bucks and ask him to remove you from the mailing list.

If you will forgive the minuteness and bear with me, in the next issue I'll describe the actual assaults on these targets, including the sensation of being engulfed in an explosive fireball, stepping back, and hearing Satan roar in protest at my audacity. As you've come to expect, I'll give every detail. Of course I'll describe that terrifying circumstance which arose and has already been alluded to. Thanks for reading. Until the next, I'm still...

...Yours-in-Christ, Johnny

[Ed: Aaarrghh! 22 hours I spend reading this thing, (I do my typing and reading simultaneously, to save time), on the edge of my seat the whole 22 hours worrying how this is going to come out, only to find out you're going to MAKE ME WAIT ANOTHER MONTH TO FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENS???!!

[I know, John, you sent me the next issue along with this one. But I'm so far behind getting this issue ready that I can't take time to go through it this week. I'm going to have to wait, just like our readers. Aaarrghh!

[In case you're wondering, I didn't cut anything. Other than turning in a few worn out was's for some fresh new were's, and respelling a maximum of two words, and moving around a few ideas to incorporate the corrections which arrived two days before printing, every jot and tittle has been preserved. Brockhoeft's handwriting is virtually flawless.] INTRO (From page 2) superior to my other friends.

As far as what his attitude says about enhanced confrontationalism in the battle against abortion, I fully agree. I can even relate to his smartaleckness, because I'm a smart aleck, too. Smart-aleckness is not nice. It's impolite. But abortion is a war crime, and during a time of war, when your nation's enemies (whether foreign or domestic) are killing your people, a bunch of warm, fuzzy politeness is not necessarily appropriate nor traditionally Christian. So I don't fault the guy for being naturally smart-alecky at a time like this, only I'd encourage him to speak a little more kindly to our friends.

Chapter 6, The Brockhoeft Report

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