After receiving the supply of Smith’s magazine, I distributed them in the day rooms to see who would read them.  The next day, I toured the day rooms to see if anyone was reading them, and perhaps, to strike up a conversation.  Every issue had disappeared.  Not once did I see a copy while I remained on the base.  Apparently, I had been followed, and the papers picked up as fast as I had left them.  During my remaining years of military service, I encountered no one with strong political views.  My own opinions were those of any young man of the period, hardly committed to any strong ideology.  After the war, I enrolled at Washington and Lee University, intending to study law.  After two years, I decided I should go to art school, and enrolled at the Institute of Contemporary Arts in Washington, D.C.  The school had the usual mongrel types in its student body and a number of ardent Communists on the staff.  But it attracted many of the leading writers as speakers.  Like others among the ten million veterans, my main concern was in getting on with my career, and I had little concern with politics.

Over night my lack of concern changed.  One of the teachers at the Institute had been visiting Ezra Pound.  He suggested I accompany him one afternoon, an offer which rather disturbed me.  I thought it unlikely that the man who had edited T. S. Eliot and Ernest Hemingway would be interested in talking to me.  But I went along.  The moment I entered the gloom of the insane ward, my former complaisance vanished, never to return.  I suddenly realized that a great writer had been punished by being confined in a madhouse, solely for his political views.  In an instant, Pound filled the ideological gap in my life.  Never again would I remain silent in the face of injustice.

Pound apparently considered me a kindred spirit, and offered to give me ‘my own day.’  That is, an afternoon to visit him alone each week.  I accepted.  And by the time the next week rolled around, he was waiting for me with food, assignments for research, and errands to run.  Shortly afterwards, he brought up the Federal Reserve System, which I had never heard of.  From that day, my work was cut out for me.  His concern for his country had been aptly expressed by Charles Dickens in his American Notes, written a century earlier:-----------------------------------------------

   “I do fear that the heaviest blow ever dealt at liberty, will be dealt by this country, in the failure of its example to the earth.”

The loss of liberty in America, which is occurring before our eyes, means the autocracy will be enthroned throughout the world, and that the freedom which was ours at our birth will never be known by future generations.  Olga Ivinskaya, a Russian writer, writes of her years in a Soviet prison camp:------------------------------

   “Sanagian (a fellow inmate) had put down the story of her life in her awkward, uneven handwriting.  She came from a working class family and her father---long since dead---had taken part in the Revolution in 1917, for this she heaped curses on his memory.”

In the usual hogwash about aristocrats, we never stop to think that it was the working people of Russia, not aristocrats, who were enslaved by the Communist Revolution.  Similarly, in this country, it is the Jewish intellectuals, bankers, and industrialists who are in the forefront of the battle to enslave all Americans and take away their freedom forever.  Should we allow this, future generations in the concentration camps will begin their days not with prayers, but with curses on our memory.

I soon began to visit Ezra Pound every day, a routine which I kept up for three years.  During this time, I was thoroughly grounded in every aspect of the International Communist conspiracy.  Pound said to me:----------------------------------

   “I am telling you things I didn’t know until I was fifty.  You are twenty-five, which means you are getting an extra twenty-five years to do something about it.”

When I went to New York, bankers on Wall Street told me:-- “I was here during the crash, but I didn’t know what was going on until I read your book.”  I explained that I had had the benefit of Pound’s experience, and his access to much information in Europe which had already been banned in the United States.

To support myself while writing the history of the Federal Reserve System, I obtained a job at the Library of Congress as a stack attendant.  This was the same job J. Edgar Hoover had held for several years while he completed his law studies at George Washington University night school.  A few weeks later, because I had done advanced photographic studies at the Institute, I was promoted to the Photography Department.  In the next several months, I received two more promotions, as I had studied with one of the finest Japanese photographers.  During these months, I was able to see Pound only on weekends, and he suggested I send some of my writings to ‘The Social Creditor,’ a small weekly published in England.  I sent them some articles, which they printed, sending me enthusiastic comments.  On day, while going into the National Press Club for my daily luncheon with George Stimpson, a man was handing out copies of ‘Common Sense’ at the front door.  I showed it to Pound, an issue containing the Hermann Goering Testament.  He suggested I send them articles, and they printed some excerpts from the Federal Reserve research.

One afternoon, a Jew came to the Library of Congress, asking for me.  I was called out of the darkroom to see a Jew who was a caricature out of ‘Der Sturmer.’  He immediately began to cross question me, saying he had been sent from ‘Common Sense,’ and he asked, ‘Who is giving you your material? Where is this information coming from?’  Now wishing to involve Pound, who always faced the possibility of having his daily visitors turned away and being held incommunicado, I explained that I was doing research at the Library of Congress.  It was obvious that he didn’t believe me.  A gawky small town boy could hardly be privy to the machinations of the worlds most powerful and secretive bankers.

A team of FBI agents was now sent to the Library of Congress to question everyone who had worked with me.  Senator Herbert Lehman, of the Lehman Brothers Banking house, and National Chairman of the Anti-Defamation League, had sent a demand to Luther Evans, Librarian of Congress, that I be fired because of an article I had written for the Social Creditor.  The demand, written on ADL stationery, had been drawn up by the ADL operator, Edelstein, and signed by Lehman without reading it, as he accepted anything which Edelstein brought to him.  The article exposed the fact that one Katz, Marshall Plan Administrator, presided over the most of the Marshall Plan material to Communist countries, instead of sending it to the non-Communist countries for which Congress had designated it.  To honor Marshall for his service to the Communist countries and their cause, the plan to continue aid to the Communist countries surreptitiously had been drawn up and named for him.  At the end of World War II, Lend Lease Aid to Russia and other Communist countries ended.  Dean Acheson, Secretary of State, an unregistered agent for nine Communist countries through his law firm of Covington, Burling, and Acheson, (one of whose partners was Donald Hiss, brother to Alger Hiss) had tried to force a four billion loan to the new Communist regime of Poland.   When Patriots in Congress turned this down, the Marshall Plan was formulated.  Ostensibly earmarked for Greece, Italy, and other non-Communist countries, most of the Marshall Plan material was either distributed directly to Communist organizers in those countries, who used the aid as the basis for building up the Communist Party, or trans-shipped directly through those countries to Yugoslavia, and on to Poland and Russia.  It was Tito’s attempt to keep much of this material, particularly heavy trucks, which caused the break between him and Stalin.  However, neither of them dared to publicly argue the point, as it would have exposed the fact that Marshall Plan Aid was going to the Communists.

Although I as yet knew nothing of the ADL order that I be fired, I had had a previous contact with Senator Lehman.  Pound had noticed an advertisement in the Washington Post that Lehman would be speaking at Howard University on behalf of ‘home rule,’ a plan to wrest control of the District of Columbia from a group of White businessmen and turn it over to the Negroes.  Howard University was the Communist training school for Ralph Bunche and many other Negro Marxists.  Through the dogged influence of Eleanor Roosevelt, it was the only college in the United States whose entire budget was provided by the Federal Government.  Pound mentioned that Lehman, a typical Jewish degenerate, had a nervous tic, and suggested it would be amusing to see it in action.

When Dave Horton and I arrived at the Howard University auditorium, we found a group of Negroes, eight or ten, the entire audience for the August Senator.  Rather put out by the poor attendance, Lehman, a short squat ole clothes dealer type, made a short speech about home rule and opened the floor to questions.  Immediately, Horton and I were on our feet.  “Would Lehman Brothers consider the District of Columbia a safe investment?”---asked Horton.  “Will you support Alger Hiss as the first mayor of Washington?”---I asked.  Lehman, a rather stupid Jew, was completely bewildered by our questions.  We continued to fire questions at him, as his aides, two young city College Jews, shook their fists at us.  The famed Lehman tic now made its appearance.  It was not merely a tic of the eye, the entire left side of his face was twitching steadily and violently.  The audience of Negroes was glaring at us, muttering, ‘Shame,’ as Lehman’s aides rushed him away.

I LATER LEARNED THAT IN THE FOYER OF THE LEHMAN MANSION IN NEW YORK, A SPLENDID FOURTEENTH CENTURY STATUE OF THE VIRGIN MARY, LOOTED FROM ONE OF THE GREAT CATHEDRALS OF EUROPE, STOOD NEAR THE DOOR.  FOR THE TITILLATION OF VISITORS, A CIGARETTE WAS PLACED DANGLING FROM HER MOUTH.

A few days after our Howard University evening, I was handed a letter of dismissal from the Library of Congress.  The FBI interrogations had turned up nothing which could be used against me, and had caused considerable angry comment among the employees.  The letter stated I was being dismissed because I had written an article for the Social Creditor.  I was given the option of making a personal appeal to the Librarian, which I did.  In Evans office, he asked me, ‘Did you write this article?’

‘Yes,’ I replied.  ‘Can you show me one false statement in it?’

‘I’m not competent to do that.’ said Evans. ‘This is not out of my hands.  Your dismissal stands.’

‘But I am not a member of any political group.’ I protested.  ‘I’ve never voted in my life.  You have many staff members who are activist members of militant racial organizations.  You have two staff members who do nothing but go through the stacks writing numbers bets all day.  Why am I being singled out?’

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 trad 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 fact.  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.

  (Was to be continued)