The Kid from Hoboken

by Bill Bailey

  Footpad John, Frenchy and the Pope grabbed a cab and set out to find you. They were ready to slap you up if you offered any resistance. Somewhere along the line they must have missed you, since they went up to the last gin mill you were seen in. They had a few beers, then started back. You had arrived and been on board for about five minutes when they showed up. They were still in doubt about what to do to further delay the ship, but when we told them you were aboard and in your bunk, everything else fell into place."

  "Well, I'm glad it turned out the way it did," I said. "I owe them a word of thanks. But why the hell are they so mad at me?"

  "You should be able to get the picture, but if you need to have it spelled out, then here it is: we have a good union gang here. We're mighty proud of our achievements. We don't like to get involved in personal stuff, you know, in something not connected with union activities. The guys know you're a good union man and have been through the mill like the rest of us. But they also know you're a Communist, and Communists aren't supposed to get all screwed up on booze so you lose your perspective. You put us all where the shipowners could crack down on us heavy. You know they're waiting for us to make mistakes. That's why the guys are pissed."

  I didn't have the gall to come up with an argument against my friend's explanation. I felt bad about the predicament I had created for the men and fully appreciated what the crew had done for me. Without their warm feeling toward me and their sense of solidarity, I would have been in the local Panama jail waiting for deportation home as a workaway. There was only one thing to do, and I started immediately. I went from man to man for the next two days, apologizing for my behavior. Every one of them was wonderfully understanding and kind. I would never forget that incident.

  Gregory Cullen was not to forget it either. Every day, news leaked down from the bridge about what Cullen had in store for the crew when we reached San Francisco. He made it known that every man was to be fired upon arrival and, furthermore, if our conduct was not maintained on a high standard, many of the men would be logged several days' pay.

  About three days before arrival in San Pedro, we held our ship's meeting. For two hours the men blasted the conditions, or lack of conditions, on board. Our sleeping quarters were below the standard prescribed by the union. There was poor ventilation, not enough fans. The wash rooms needed repairs. Everything, from mattresses to eating utensils, needed replacing. It had been over two years since the 1934 maritime strike had been won, and still the shipowners were dragging their feet in correcting grievances. The crew was determined to wait no longer.

  A three-man committee was elected to draw up the demands and present them to the captain. I was elected, along with the ship's delegate and Frenchy Prefontaine, the deck engineer. We worked late into the night drawing them up and typing them in presentable form. After listing our demands, we carefully worded the last sentence, which read, "We know that the company will do everything possible to get these conditions remedied prior to setting the date and hour for the next departure so there will be no delay in sailing." Word was sent to the captain that we wished to consult with him on a matter of "grave importance to the well-being of the vessel."

  Word came back: "Provided the committee is properly-attired in clothing the standards of which pay tribute to the best traditions of the American Merchant Marine, the master will give the committee an audience from 2-2:30 p.m. Attire shall consist of clean-pressed blue dungarees; a blue shirt, pressed and open at the collar; black oxford dress shoes and white socks. Men are to be neatly-shaved and their hair groomed. It would be appreciated if the men wore the company slip-over jacket with the company insignia on the back. There will be no smoking in the master's presence. Men will reach the master's office via working companionway and stay clear of all passenger quarters. It is expected that the men will arrive on time."

  The bastard would have the last word. We decided to comply with the requests, although there were some who considered it an insult that we had to press our clothes. At two we were outside his door. He was ready for us. His steward escorted us to chairs. In the office were the chief engineer, the chief mate, the chief steward and the ship's purser with a notebook in his hand.

  The captain's office was spacious, as captain's offices were on most large passenger liners. The bulkheads were loaded with neatly-framed documents from diplomats thanking him for this or that favor. Resting on his desk were several photos, two of Count Ciano, with "to my dear friend" splashed across them. One photo showed him riding a white horse, with the Count nearby on a black horse. Some of his documents had fancy ribbons attached to them. But the picture that struck me the most was one of Mussolini in his steel helmet, with some Italian words written across the bottom.

  This Mussolini-, fascist-loving character allowed us a few moments to glance around his treasury, then abruptly looked at his watch. "I have other appointments to attend to; I suggest you tell us what this request for a meeting is all about."

  "Our living conditions are deplorable," said the delegate, wasting no time in coming to the point. He handed the captain the list of demands. "We are giving you an advance set of these requests so you can get them into the hands of your representatives in San Francisco."

  The captain read the list out loud. When he reached the last sentence he drew himself upright in his chair. "Are you telling us you intend to strike this vessel if all these requests, as you call them, are not met?"

  "We don't know, captain," said the delegate. "But you know how difficult it is to get a crew to sail a ship under these conditions."

  "Difficult?" said the captain, his voice rising. "I know a lot of naval reserve men who would give their right eyes to sail this ship under present conditions, and furthermore . . . "

  He was cut off by the mate who faced him and said in a conciliatory tone, "Of course we will see that the company representatives get this list." It was obvious that he was preventing a long diatribe against unions from the captain.

  The captain took the hint. "Yes, Mr. Warner is correct. We will see that they are acted upon when we arrive in San Pedro. If you have nothing to add, the meeting is over. You men are excused. Be sure to return to your quarters the same way you came here."

  We heard later that the captain was beside himself after we left. "There's nothing I'd love more than to lead a hundred naval reserve men up this gangway to roust every one of these union Reds not only off the ship, but off the waterfront as well. It's high time that we act like Americans and put a stop to unions before they eat us up. Mussolini has the right idea."

  Our stay in San Pedro was short. There was just enough time to allow some passengers to disembark and some mail to be discharged. And there was time enough to allow us to mail a copy of our demands to union headquarters in San Francisco. On the way up the coast, we did not wait for the list to be posted to find out who the ones to be fired were. Most of the crew started packing their belongings, list or no list.

  In the middle of the night, the list mysteriously appeared on the bulletin board. With typical brevity it read, "The following members of the ship's personnel may sign on for another voyage." Five names were on the list--to the dismay of those five members who, embarrassed, scratched them off.

  As we edged alongside the dock in San Francisco, we could see a lot of activity. While it was usual to see some people meeting their friends, the number we saw was larger than usual. When we lowered the gangway, many of those on the dock came rushing up. It was then that we could tell that they were workmen from different crafts rushing aboard to put into action the demands we had raised. Within minutes hammers and saws were at work as workers tried to complete all improvements in time for the next sailing date. While most of us were not to enjoy the fruits of our action, a lot of other seamen had a more comfortable trip when the President Garfield put out to sea.

  Chapter XVIII: The 1936 Pacific Coast Maritime Strike

  The San Francisco waterfront was alive with activity. Longshoremen were working day and n
ight shifts as the employers stepped up the pace to get as much cargo moving as fast as possible and their ships out to sea. Negotiations between them and the workers were to start, and the employers knew that a strike was looming, one that would tie up the entire West Coast from Alaska to Mexico.

  There was no doubt about it: the shipowners were bursting at the seams in their desire to take on the unions and once and for all bust them. In July they had informed the unions that they were dissatisfied with the existing contracts and did not want to renew them. Here it was August 20 and negotiations were getting nowhere, because the shipowners kept telling the unions that they wanted to go back and restore the pre-1934 strike conditions. They insisted that the unions give up control of the hiring halls and that the longshoremen give up the six-hour day they had won in that strike.

  While the shipowners pressed on with their "to hell with unions" attitude, the sea-going unions were demanding the eight-hour day aboard ships with paid overtime and also many other long-sought conditions and improvements. The shipowners' reply was that the whole matter be resubmitted to arbitration and, in the interim, the pre-1934 conditions be re-imposed. Earl King, speaking for the Firemen, told the shipowners to "go to hell."

  It was nice to be back in San Francisco. I got myself a room in a cheap Embarcadero hotel, stowed my gear and went to the union hall to register and pay some dues. King, secretary of the Marine Firemen's Union, met me as I entered the hall. "Just the guy I wanted to see," he said. "When you get squared away with your book, let's go out and have some coffee. I want to talk to you."

  King was one of the most honest and progressive union leaders on the West Coast. He was a big, roly-poly, soft-hearted guy who had worked his way up the union ranks. He managed to involve the rank and file in every action of the union.

  "You know," he said to me in the waterfront restaurant, "we're about to get shafted by the shipowners. Negotiations ain't going nowhere. These bastards are hell-bent on locking us out. Up to now they haven't been able to bust up the unity we built on this coast. they think a long strike will split us apart. If things continue this way, we'll set up a strike committee and you better get on it."

  "Why me?" I asked. "What about all the old-timers? Shouldn't they be on it?"

  "Of course," he said. "But we want some young guys on it that have a lot of spunk and energy. Don't worry; the old-timers will be in the background shoring you up. Don't worry about them. Right now I want you to stick around and help with the union paper, the Black Gang News. It's only a mimeographed sheet, but it has a lot of potential. There are still a few weak cracks in our armor, and we don't have much time before the employers come down on us hard. We better get ourselves in ship-shape to meet them. There's too much at stake. You have your job cut out. I'm going to have you work with the guy that's editing the paper now, so you can get a grasp on things. How about starting in the morning?"

  I agreed.

  King kept me abreast of what went on daily. It was my job to help write the news for the union paper. Aside, he told me what was going on behind the scenes and why the shipowners were taking this hard-nosed attitude toward the unions. First of all, the shipowners had assessed all their members with a tonnage tax since 1934. That money was put into a fund to "take on the unions." It now amounted to well over $200 million. They were well-prepared. The Firemen's bank account amounted to less than $2,000.

  Except for the San Francisco News, newspapers were blasting away daily with scare stories of the impending disaster the unions intended to "let loose on the people." The Red bogeyman was being revitalized in their stories and "Communist conspiracies" were being "uncovered" daily. The waterfront, according to these scare stories, was rife with "insidious plots."

  The man the shipowners hated most in Washington, President Franklin D. Roosevelt, referred to as "that Red in the White House," was coming up for reelection. The employers hoped that Alf Landon, a Republican candidate, would beat Roosevelt. The employers were also counting on rifts in the ranks of labor like the one Harry Lundeberg, head of the Sailors' Union, was creating. Lundeberg and Harry Bridges were feuding over policy; the employers intended to widen this rift and take advantage of it.

  The present contract was due to expire on September 30. At this point, with only 33 days of negotiations left, anything could happen. On August 27 I was working on a story for the paper. At the far end was King's office. he was hard at work preparing some data for a negotiating session in the afternoon. I looked up and saw five uniformed officers charging through the main office and into King's office. They were not ordinary cops but gold-braid lieutenants, captains and an inspector. I could not hear what was being said, but King came out of the office handcuffed and was hauled off to jail. It was a shock that rocked the waterfront.

  The afternoon papers carried the headlines: "Union Leader Arrested in Murder Conspiracy." The article told of a ship's chief engineer who was stabbed to death on board the SS Point Lobos while it was tied up in Alameda. The killers got away. All of this had taken place some five months earlier. The police had tracked down and arrested one of the killers in Texas. He was supposed to have confessed and named not only Earl King, but Ernest Ramsay, a minor official, and Frank Connor, a ship's delegate. The papers played up the story as the murder of an anti-union engineer by a union goon squad.

  Those familiar with the three men knew that they were incapable of such an act. If the employers figured on their arrest as being an instrument to divide the ranks, they were mistaken. The ranks became welded closer than they had ever been. Our union membership was convinced down to the last man that the shipowners had something to do with this plot to remove our able progressive leader in the middle of negotiations and a strike-threatening situation.

  When word went out that King had been arrested, all the Communists in the Marine Firemen's Union met to map a strategy for the upcoming meeting of union agents. Late into the night we discussed the roster of union agents that were to attend that important meeting. About 15 of us attended. There were some brilliant men among this small group of Communists who had earned their spurs in the past struggles of the labor movement. We knew the union officials who were to attend this meeting and we had a good background of their work.

  After a seemingly endless discussion, we agreed to throw our support behind John Ferguson who we know had a fine record of leading the Firemen's Union and who was a close buddy of King. King himself had proposed from jail that Ferguson take charge. The rest of the agents, though fine men, lacked either the ability or the charisma to keep the ranks together. An emergency call went out to all union branches on the West Coast to meet in San Francisco within two days to designate the replacement. The meeting was a big one. Every fireman came off the ships in port to attend. The hall was jammed. It was impossible to move around in the meeting hall a half hour before the meeting began. No one gave that any thought, since we were all concentrating on the long-term program of keeping the union together.

  After all the facts of the arrest were made known to the union membership and a report was giving on the progress of contract negotiations, a motion was made to throw the floor open for nominations for a replacement to fill out King's term, a period of three months. Two nominees accepted, John Ferguson of Portland and Barney O'Sullivan of San Pedro. O'Sullivan had attached himself to a small group of right-wingers in San Pedro who were constantly critical of the militant policies emanating from union headquarters in San Francisco. Many of these right-wingers were connected with the American Legion and had made it quite clear that "Red-hot militants" were not welcome in that port. It was a foregone conclusion that O'Sullivan would not be able to divorce himself from this group if he were elected to lead the Firemen's Union in the militant path that King had chosen.

  Ferguson won better than five to one. It was a great victory. Ferguson would continue the policies of King. When King was informed of the outcome he was elated. Ferguson was no Johnnie-come-lately. He was a seasoned Scottish-Irish seaman who
had spent years stoking the coal-burning boilers on ships around the world. He had weathered some turbulent fighting for human rights in the forecastle. Above all, he was willing to take on the shipowners in the battles which loomed ahead.

  If he had any major weaknesses, they were not apparent--although he did like to visit the racetracks and bet on the bangtails, and he enjoyed the taste of good Irish whiskey. Lots of members loved the same things. He was willing to work with anyone who was willing to fight the shipowners and that included Communists. Since that was the common denominator, I found myself working closely with Ferguson and learned much from the man.

  Meanwhile, negotiations continued with the shipowners becoming more confident. To them it was just a matter of playing out the time until the contracts expired. On the 23rd of September, in the midst of negotiations, the shipowners informed the unions that on September 30 they would no longer accept ships' crew replacements from the union halls. They would only accept them from the pier heads. That was all the rank and file needed to hear. They were ready then and there to walk off the ships, but their desires and feelings were quelled for the moment.