by Bill Bailey
Bridges was a rank-and-file Australian longshoreman who had the guts, integrity and know-how to win the confidence of the men he worked with. They named him their strike chairman--to the dismay of the employers, who wanted nothing to do with him. While the men were manning the picket lines, Joe Ryan was busy working out a phony contract with the employers to break the strike and send the men back to work. At a mass meeting he presented the contract to the rank and file and told them they should "get back to work." The reply of the men was curt: "Shove it." Ryan and his contract were rejected and the strike continued. Having lost the battle, Ryan left town and let the cops, strikebreakers, and eventually the National Guard, to try to do the job.
Strikebreaking became a lucrative but somewhat dangerous occupation. Despite the danger, a sizable group of strikebreakers was recruited to man the ships and work the cargo. The group included students from the University of California. From a psychological point of view, it was necessary that the shipowners move as many ships as possible away from the docks and out to sea. They figured that if the strikers could see the ships moving out, it would demoralize them into giving up and returning to work. One such ship, manned by strikebreakers, pulled out of San Pedro and headed for the East Coast. Her name was the Felix Taussig, a freighter belonging to the McCormick SS Company. Word had gotten to us from San Pedro strike headquarters that she was heading our way. We were prepared for the arrival. We drew up several plans, all with the purpose of keeping the ship tied snugly against the dock.
The first plan was to convince the present crew to get off the vessel. Second, we sent some of our best people to the office of the McCormick shipping master. They would hang around "hoping" for work. We sent enough men to man the ship three days before the expected arrival. Luck was with us; there were only half a dozen of McCormick's faithful standing by.
When the Felix Taussig arrived, we had a hundred pickets to greet her. Also present was a large contingent of Baltimore cops. The crew could see us from the deck of the ship. We set up a soapbox, and for the next hour speaker after speaker mounted it and called for unity with the West Coast strikers. They asked the crew to lay down their tools and leave the ship. But all that day not a single crew member dared leave the vessel. Later in the afternoon, when most of the pickets were gone, a friendly longshoreman was approached and asked to get a message to one or more of the crew members. The message was that we would like a parley and would guarantee their safety.
Two of the crew stepped ashore. Five of us met them. Big Jack Kennedy, one of our organizers, opened the discussion. He was polite and diplomatic. "Look, fellows," he said calmly, "we know you didn't mean to take the ship out of San Pedro through picket lines. We know the shipowners lied to you about the strike. We're willing to forget all that, providing you guys clear off the ship."
"What guarantee do you give us that we won't be rolled or worked over if we get off?" asked the more articulate of the two.
"I will personally guarantee that not one man here in Baltimore will lay a hand on you or your money. You can join us here as brothers or you can return to where you came from. It makes no difference to us, just as long as you leave the ship."
"Okay, I'll leave the ship, and I'll talk to the rest of the men and see what they want to do. I can't say that all of them will leave, but I'll give them the message." The crew members standing on deck watched their representatives climb the gangway.
An hour went by and nothing happened. After three hours we detected activity on deck; then a mass of men and baggage came streaming down the gangway. We had won this beef!
What a great feeling to be able to convince men to take right action! We met the two men we had talked to earlier. They were leading the crew ashore. "We're afraid to stay in Baltimore, despite your assurances, so we're all getting out of here. Can we get that much help from you?"
Our small group assured them of our support. A few ran toward Lower Broadway to gather as many taxis as possible. Within 15 minutes the men were off to the railroad station, bound for destinations unknown.
Two men--one a sailor, the other an oiler refused to get off, as did the officers. We knew that the ship was crewless; she wasn't going anywhere, not in that condition. We now had the task of keeping the ship here. How we did that was of no importance, just so long as it stayed. With no crew aboard, the officers themselves managed to keep up the steam pressure. The ship just sat there, quiet.
The shipping master had gotten the word. He would have to supply a full crew, less two men. He could not be choosey. He dare not spend useless time checking each man's record. The captain needed men now, and it was up to the shipping master to immediately supply the crew. We were lucky. Most of the jobs were assigned to our troops. Five of the jobs went to out-and-out company men, men who stayed clear of unions. Word had gotten to us that the men were on their way to the pier. It was logical that we remove the few pickets we had at the pier to allow the men to pass. As we did so, we watched from a distance as the cops checked over the cabs, then waved them on. What we did not count on was that the skipper would order the gangway pulled up once the last man was aboard, preventing the rest of the cargo from being discharged and putting the ship to sea. The last thing any of our men wanted was to be aboard a struck ship at sea. When they heard the word to man their stations and prepare to get under way, there was a mass exodus to the gangway. This came as a surprise to the captain--and to us. The five company men stayed aboard, raising the total number of crew members to seven. Seven was too many.
Now what the hell were we to do? A quick meeting was called. In the discussion we focused on the seven men aboard. Would the captain dare to take the ship out with it so undermanned? We thought not. We felt he would try to secure the rest of the crew somehow. We were wrong. While we were still trying to come up with a practical perspective, one of the pickets came charging into the meeting to tell us that the Felix Taussig had eased away from the pier and was now heading down the river toward the open sea. The bastard got away, just like the Mundixie. She would pick up the additional men needed somewhere down the river. We phoned the MWIU branches in New York and New Orleans and warned them.
It was a blow to our port's prestige to have this ship slip from our fingers. We sent a letter of regret to the San Pedro strikers and told them what had happened. Meanwhile, the West Coast strike was taking on new dimensions. Cops were beating the pickets, raiding their union halls, destroying offices and arresting strikers and sympathizers by the dozens. Scabs working on the piers were being tracked down by the strikers and clobbered. Soon it became dangerous for a scab to be out of the confines of the police-guarded piers. Scabs were fed and housed aboard special ships set up for just that purpose. Every day efforts were being made up and down the coast to open the ports, but in most cases scabs trying to enter the piers under police protection were repelled and driven away. It took brave men to man those lines under such a brutal onslaught. I felt happy in the realization that my class, the working class, was getting itself organized and was now engaging the state structure in its daily battles.
I was called before our waterfront Party group. Kennedy laid it out for me: "We have nothing working for us in Norfolk. We have a Party office there but no one working in maritime. Now that the West Coast is out on strike it's important for us to have someone working among seamen down there. We want you to go to Norfolk as secretary of the MWIU, to set up a branch there. It won't be easy for you at first; there's a lot of territory to cover, including Newport News. There's an ILA local of coal trimmers there. The guys are fairly good and you can work with them around the coal colliers. We have a Party section organizer there, but he doesn't know much about seamen or longshoremen or even ships, so don't expect much from him. Once you get your feet on the ground, start getting out some bulletins and propaganda."
I hesitated, wondering if this honor was something far over my head and capabilities. I was assured by the others that we all had to learn sometime, and the experience in
Norfolk would be the best schooling I could hope for. I agreed to do my best and suggested that they not expect too much from me.
Chapter XI: Organize in Norfolk
The next day I left for Norfolk with a ten-dollar bill tucked deep in my pocket, a few belongings in a shopping bag and a stomach full of butterflies. I found the Party office deep in the heart of the ghetto, in a ramshackle building that should have been razed to the ground long before. I met the Party section organizer, a guy named Joe Kline, a stocky, partially-bald man pounding away slowly on a typewriter. He peered through thick glasses as he tried to find the right keys on the old machine.
After introductions, Kline asked me many questions about my experiences, about things in Baltimore and about the West Coast strike. I asked when I would meet the rest of the comrades. He replied that there were none, but there were a lot of sympathizers, most of them small Jewish shopkeepers who were spread out in the ghetto.
Since Kline had a little office plus a large room that could hold 25 people, it was decided that I would use his office. He had a key made for me. It was also agreed that he would give me five dollars a week and write the Baltimore office to ask for two dollars more weekly, so I would have seven dollars a week total to live on. As it turned out, Baltimore decided against sending the two dollars, so I had to make it on five, which was not easy. I couldn't afford to rent a room, so I prepared to sleep on the floor.
My first evening there I went out and bought myself some bread, milk and baloney. I placed the food on the floor of my new quarters and went into the office to gather some papers to read while eating. When I stepped back into the room I was shocked to see six big gray rats chewing away on my supper. By the time I returned with a broom to chase them away, most of my supper had either been eaten or carried away. I got rid of the rest of the food, then sat in the far corner with the lights on all night, the broom snugly in my arms. The screaming and fighting of the rats echoed in the walls and ceiling and below the floor. The next day I found the hole beneath the sink where they found entry. I got myself as many glass bottles as I could, smashed them into small pieces and poured the pieces down around the hole. As the days went by I made it a practice to bring back a bottle each day to add to the hole.
It didn't take long to locate all the places where the seamen hung out: the bars, restaurants and cat houses. Most of my visits to ships centered on the coal colliers that converged on Norfolk and Newport News from all the eastern seaports. Since there was an MWIU branch in those ports which paid a lot of attention to the colliers, most of these coal-transporting ships were in pretty fair condition. Many good men were on these ships and bought the union papers from me.They even sneaked me into the mess room now and then for a meal.
There was one big pier that handled all the cargo. The large freighters from all parts of the world used this pier. The only drawback was that to get into it you had to pass through the main gate, which was constantly guarded. You also had to show a ship's pass to the guard. But I was a Communist with a sacred duty to perform; I couldn't let an obstacle like a guard at the gate prevent me from doing my duty. A wire fence surrounded the large compound. I scouted it thoroughly and found the right spot. Unobserved, I pulled up and bent part of the fence so I could crawl underneath it. With a bundle of literature strapped tightly to my waist, I crawled under the fence going in and coming out every time a ship pulled into those piers.
There were no lectures, no social events. Norfolk was culturally starved, and with no money I could not even take in a cheap movie or have a good meal in a decent restaurant. I washed out what clothes I had at Party headquarters and hung them out to dry. Lots of cheap restaurants could be found in the whorehouse area where I could get a bowl of beans for a dime. My diet consisted mostly of beans, donuts and catfish. I looked forward to those times when a special ship came in and I was offered a good meal.
Meanwhile, on the West Coast, two men were shot down by the police when the employers made another effort to break the strike. The waterfront in San Francisco was splattered with workers' blood. A general strike had been called. The strike had reached its zenith. It would be won or lost in the next few days. Newspapers were running stories that the Communists were preparing to take over local government. The Red bogeyman became a daily feature in the papers. Communists were being singled out, arrested and beaten by the police. Vigilantes were organized and they raided the homes of known radicals, even beating women in their homes. Despite every obstacle thrown in their path, the Communists and striking seamen and longshoremen stayed together. I felt tormented, knowing that in another part of the country the great struggle was taking place, and I was in a somewhat safe position. I felt that no matter what I was doing, it wasn't enough. I developed guilt feelings. I felt frustrated. I felt mad at my fellow workers who were riding the ships up and down the coast, doing next to nothing to help their West Coast fellow workers. I managed to raise a few dollars to ship off to the West Coast. I sold more union papers and discovered that the East Coast seamen did accept the literature more readily than they did before the strike. But all this did not soothe my belief that the best solution would be for the East Coast seamen to "hit the bricks" in a united seamen's strike. I hid my feeling of disgust when I talked to seamen and found myself rationalizing why East Coast seamen would not revolt. I plodded on daily despite my feelings, because I knew that sooner or later they would revolt, and every day's work would bring the day of reckoning closer.
I will always remember one day. It was by far the best day of my entire stay in Norfolk. Two ships had come into the big pier. One belonged to the American France Line, the other was a Luckenbach ship. They were tied up end to end at the same dock. I boarded the American France ship first, went into the mess room and laid some literature on the table. Some crew members picked it up immediately and started to read it. The boatswain asked, "You belong to the MWIU?"
"Yes," I replied, not knowing whether I would be invited to leave or face an argument.
"Good," he said. "I wanna join up."
"Me, too," said another seaman.
I had all the necessary papers, application forms and membership books out on the table within seconds. As I started writing, other crew members came into the room and got one behind the other. I scribbled out their names and placed dues stamps in their books. I had signed up the entire crew. I learned later that one guy, the boatswain, was the best-liked guy on the ship, admired by the crew. He was a Bostonian from a family with a union background. All during the trip he told the crew that unionism was their best salvation. He was determined that at the first port they came to with an MWIU office, he was joining up. When I came aboard the stage had been set. All I did was sign up a willing crew.
If I needed a jolt to lift my spirits, this was it. I was walking on a cloud. I collected initiation fees and dues and money for the Marine Workers' Voice. In addition the crew made a substantial donation to the West Coast strikers and a five dollar donation to me, personally. (I turned this over to the MWIU, since I thought it was wrong to profit personally.)
Since I had literature left over, I decided to visit the Luckenbach ship. To my surprise I met someone in the crew who I had met earlier on a coal collier, Red Corrigan. "Glad you came aboard," he said. "A few of us want to join up."
Out came the books and applications. Nine members signed up. Red had laid the ground work in the short time he had been aboard. What a beautiful day! Back at my office I made all the preparations to send in the names and money to the head office in New York. I also requested more membership books.
News from the West Coast was inspiring. The ranks were holding solid. Fewer and fewer ships were sneaking out of ports. The strikers had tightened up many of the loose ends. The public was supporting the strike more since the shooting and murdering of the two pickets. There was a general strike of all labor in San Francisco which shut the city down tight as a drum. The ruling class had seen what labor could accomplish. In spite of all the terror an
d the jailing and wounding of strikers the strike was holding together. Employers started to talk of negotiations.
A small tattoo shop in Norfolk drew most of its business from the men from the Navy base and our merchant seamen. A large display of tattoo drawings decorated the four walls. A sign on the wall read: "If you don't see what you want, make up your own and we'll duplicate it." Since I was proud to be a Communist, I saw nothing wrong in advertising my Party affiliation or my politics. I was proud of what I was trying to accomplish. I sketched on paper a crude hammer and sickle with the inscription below: "United Forever." "Can you duplicate this?" I asked the tattooist.
"If you can draw it, I can duplicate it. Sit down," he said. He dipped the electrical needle into the ink. Some guy walked in and watched as the tattooist completed the sketch on my forearm by giving the background a blend of red, making it look as if the hammer and sickle were floating in the air with a red sunset in the background. "Hey," remarked the observer, "so you belong to the Woodworkers' Union?"
A week later a dear friend showed up in the port. Harry Hynes was in on a freighter for a two-day stopover. I had great admiration for this man. In addition to being a devoted Communist, he was a compassionate person. His first words were, "When did you last have a good meal?" We went to the best steakhouse in Norfolk, then to a movie, my first since being in Norfolk.
"How much are you getting to subsist on?" he asked.
"Five dollars a week," I replied.
"What rooming house are you staying in?"
