My Struggle - part 3

by Eustace Mullins

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President Lopez Portillo addressing the Mexican National Congress in September 1982, called the world credit boom of the 70's a financial pestilence akin to the Black Death which swept Europe in the 14nth century.

"As in mediaeval times, it flattens country after country. It is transmitted by rats and it yields unemployment and misery, industrial bankruptcy and enrichment by speculation. The remedy prescribed by faith healers is forced inactivity and depriving the patient of food."

The Nation on December 11, 1982:

"The blame for all this lies at the door of the Federal Reserve System working as usual on behalf of the international banking system."

August, 1976 study from the House Committee on Banking, Currency and Housing

Federal Reserve directors are apparently representatives of a small elite group which dominates much of the economic life of this nation.

My Struggle - Autobiographical Reminiscences of Freedom Fighter Eustace Mullins

By Eustace Mullins

Evans, who never once looked at me in the eye, jerked open the bottom drawer of his desk, where I glimpsed a half empty bottle of Country Gentleman bourbon. He looked longingly at it, turned to me, and said, ‘Well, that’s all.’

I later learned from a fellow employee at API, that the actual mechanism of my dismissal was handled through Jacob Blaustein, president of the American Oil Company, and a member of the board of API. Also, serving as president of the American Jewish Committee, whose agent ‘Charles Smith’ ran the day to day operations at Common Cause. He had only to say ‘Fire him,’ and it was done. For some months, Lyrl Clark Van Hyning, publisher of ‘Women’s Voice,’ had been featuring my articles, among them ‘Close the Public Schools’ and ‘Satan vs. Christ.’ The publisher obliterated my name as author on the ‘Satan vs. Christ’ article, and distributed many thousands of reprints through Common Sense. Some of his subscribers had learned of my plight, even tho he refused to tell them about it, and not knowing where to get in touch with me, had sent him checks made out to me. Not one of these was ever forwarded to me. I hitchhiked to Chicago, and got a job writing for a hotel trade paper ‘Institutions Magazine.’ This turned out to be the only job I ever held from which the FBI did not have me fired. After a few months there, I was offered a much better paying job with the Chicago Motor Club, the ‘Middle Western Affiliate’ of the American Automobile Association, and I resigned from ‘Institutions.’ Some years later, forgetting about the Institutions position, I told an audience at my alma mater, Washington and Lee University, that the FBI had fired me from every job I had ever held.

At the Chicago Motor Club, I became editor of Motor News, with a circulation of 250,000. During the next two years, I willingly took on additional duties as editor of the ‘Industrial Editors News Service,’ public relations counselor, and special events organizer. I had been at the club two years and one week with a drawer full of memoranda from my superior, James E. Bulger, praising my work, and thanking me for my new programs, when one sultry August afternoon, two well dressed men strode by Bulger’s secretary, and went into his office and closed the door. His secretary who was a close friend, turned to me and said, ‘I wonder what that’s all about?—– ‘I never saw them before.’ I replied.

The men stayed with Bulger for about an hour, and I could hear them arguing with him, but their voices were kept low. Finally, he buzzed for his secretary. She went in, and came back out immediately, and handed me a folded note. I opened it and read, ‘You are allowed five minutes to get your things and get out of the office.’—– ‘What’s going on?’—she asked me. I saw the tears were streaming down her face. I showed her the note. ‘I know what’s in it,’ she said, ‘but what’s going on? Mr. Bulger is sick, we’ve got to help him—those men–.’ She turned and ran to the restroom.

I put some personal memoranda into an envelope and left the office. That evening, Bulger’s secretary called me at home. She told me that the two men were FBI agents and that when they demanded I be fired, Bulger flatly refused. This was understandable as I was doing the work of four people. They then threatened him for nearly an hour. He had had five heart attacks in the past several years, and he began to writhe with pain. He begged them to let him call his doctor. ‘Certainly,’ said one of the, ‘as soon as you fire Mullins.’ He then wrote the note. After I left the office, the FBI agents accompanied Bulger to the doctor, and then took him to his home, after warning him not to tell me or to give me my job back.

Being fired from the Chicago Motor Club was the greatest shock of my life. Certainly this was the goal of the FBI harassment. At the age of thirty-five, I had been one of the most active public relations counselors in Chicago, lunching at the best restaurants with the city’s leading executives. Now I was on the street with no prospects. Even so, I supposed that with my contacts, I would be able to get another public relations job. In the next few weeks, I was surprised that after each interview, I heard nothing more about a job. Friends at the Motor Club then told me that because of pressure from the Club’s Jewish members, Bulger was telling everyone who inquired about references that I was a notorious criminal who was wanted in several states. He never put this into writing, giving out the slander on the phone, after instructions from the Jew who was the Club’s legal counsel. Since I was fired from the Chicago Motor Club in August, 1958, I have never again been able to get a professional job.

After several weeks, I realized it as unlikely that I would get any work in Chicago. I began work on a book about Friedrich Nietzsche, and while doing research at the Newberry Library, I found a great deal of material on Ezra Pound’s career. I wrote him suggesting that I do his biography. He immediately replied that he had been waiting for me to do this, and that I was to be his only authorized biographer. I then asked Henry Regnery if he could give me an advance on this book. He replied that he could not (he owned the largest window shade factory in the world, a bank, and other holdings, worth eighty million dollars.) But he suggested that H. L. Hunt needed someone to edit a book. I called Hunt and he agreed to pay me a hundred dollars a week. I said that I couldn’t live on that, in fact, I was living on thirty-five dollars a week—–and he said that I could live in his home. At that time, Hunt’s income was ten million dollars a week, and he had accumulated a fortune of three billion dollars.

I arrived at Hunt’s home in Dallas with one battered suitcase and an old Plymouth, purchased a year before for one hundred dollars, with the entire front end smashed in. We immediately established complete rapport, as he had lived for years out of a suitcase, traveling in the back-country picking up the oil leases which were the basis of his fortune. I resided in their guest room, which had always bee occupied by Senator Joseph McCarthy when he came to Dallas, and Hunt and I settled down to work on the book ‘Alpaca.’ After several months of intensive work, it was completed, and I became restless. By this time, Hunt has installed me in an office next to his own, and whenever someone called him, he would say, ‘Why don’t you check with Mullins on that?’ I realized he was only using me for a buffer, but it was a flattering situation for a penniless writer to be referred to as the confidential assistant of the world’s richest man. However, I remained a penniless writer, and he remained the world’s richest man. I began to realize I should be getting back to work on the Pound biography, and one afternoon, I told him I had to return to Chicago. He was completely surprised, and I saw that he was hurt and disappointed by my decision. Nevertheless, I have always thought of him with affection and admiration, and he seemed well disposed toward me on later occasions when I talked to him in Dallas and in New York.

Although I knew nothing of it at the time, my association with H. L. Hunt had driven the Jews into a furious campaign of ‘harassment’ against my parents. The conspirators were terrified that he might finance my publications or a political organization, although at the time, I had nothing to which he might donate money. I knew that my father had had a serious coronary attack in 1956, but I was not told until years later that the attack had been brought on by a series of vicious interrogations by Army Counter Intelligence Corps agents. My mother later told me they were determined to make him reveal the names of persons financially supporting my travels and writings. Since no one had ever given me a cent, there was nothing he could tell them, but they refused to believe him. Knowing he had Wednesday afternoons off from the store in which he worked, two agents waited for him in his car. They forced him into the car, drove him to the top of a nearby mountain, and interrogated him for several hours, telling him they were going to throw him off the mountain. At one point, he tried to escape from the car. They knocked him unconscious, drove him back to the store, and left him in the parked car. He finally came to, and drove home. The next day, he had a severe coronary attack, from which he never completely recovered.

My parents did not dare tell me these details, out of a desire to protect me, as they knew I would kill someone for these atrocities. Nevertheless, I knew they had been interrogated and I wrote to the Secretary of Defense. I received an answer, admitting that he had been interrogated, and giving the names of the two men who had interrogated him. Some weeks later, I tried to contact these men in Washington. I was told they had been sent on a mission to Guam, and that the plane had crashed with all aboard being killed. The letter with the men’s names has since disappeared from my files.

While I was with H. L. Hunt in Dallas, the FBI began to visit my parents. Their telephone was tapped, and they received harassing telephone calls during the night. The harassment and brutality of this campaign was intended solely to provoke me into some drastic action. I come from mountain people, and we never forget an injury, even if it takes fifty years to wreak our revenge. My temper remained under control only because my parents refused to let me know what was happening to them, and the ADL-FBI provocation failed. Their campaign was intensified, and one evening in 1961, my father, whose heart conditions had steadily gotten worse during this harassment, received a telephone call from a known FBI provocateur, ‘We’ve just sent out a national alert to pick ‘him’ up.’

My father dropped the phone, ‘they finally got Clarence’ he said, as he collapsed. He was taken to the hospital where he died of massive heart failure. More than three years went by before my mother told me what had happened. Of course, there had never been an alert, as I have never been arrested by anyone.

In ‘My Life in Christ,’ I openly accused Lyndon Johnson, who was then President, of murdering my father, although he had only been acting for Herbert Lehman, who then supported his Presidential ambitions. The only response was that during Johnson’s Presidency, every copy of this book that I mailed out—-was destroyed by the Post Office,—until I began insuring each copy.

My Struggle, published in Christian Vanguard, June, July and August 1978

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