by Bill Bailey
At the first meeting only three representatives of seagoing unions were present. Here, we met many of those trying hard to put this together. Union people like myself just sat there with eyes and ears open and mouths shut. A week later we had another meeting where a progress report was made, and we were told that the project was going to bring a high level of entertainment to the merchant seamen. Stars of stage and screen were supporters of the canteen. So fast was the work progressing that the building had been obtained, a stage, screen, bar, and tables were already in place and a date was set for its opening. One of the geniuses behind the establishment of the canteen asked me to be on a greeting committee to take Mrs. Roosevelt by the hand as she exited her car and escort her into the canteen where she would be greeted by the crowd and cut the ribbon to officially open the canteen.
The idea almost blew my mind. I had visions of tripping and falling flat on my face in front of her or forgetting her name when we met. The reason I had been chosen over others was because I had done the most among seagoing union representatives to promote and support the project.
The day of the opening the police were on the scene. Crowd-control fences were set up in the street and the area cleared of cars and trucks. Ten minutes before Mrs. Roosevelt's car was to arrive, in popped Joe Curran, president of the National Maritime Union.
Curran was considered a progressive union official, outspoken and dead-set against the gangsterism and bureaucracy that some unions were noted for. A tall man with a strong voice, he was also a character who loved the glare of publicity on center stage. He knew how to handle himself with anti-union forces and always landed on his feet in debates. There were those in the Communist Party that used to say that Joe was cheating the Party of dues by not joining. After all, he was always carrying out the "Party line," at least as far as its trade union policies were concerned, they claimed.
When Mrs. Roosevelt's car pulled up to the door, Joe had already decided what his job was going to be. He consulted no one, but dashed out to meet her while a barrage of photo flashbulbs followed their every movement into the canteen. the first thing Joe said to her was, "My dear lady, when is your husband going to open up a second front in Europe?"
I could detect that many of those that put on this super opening did not find Curran and his remarks a highlight of the day, but there was nothing they could do about this at the moment.
Mrs. Roosevelt smiled and came into the building, shook hands with most of the committee and was handed a pair of scissors. She talked about the brave merchant mariners out there in the ocean laying their lives on the line, delivering the men and material to win the war.She made a few remarks about the goodness of the people who worked so hard to create the canteen for the seamen and thanked them warmly. Then she snipped the tape. The canteen was now open. Mrs. Roosevelt departed as gracefully as she arrived.
There was never a doubt where actors and actresses stood in their support of the war. Places were set up where seamen could go to pick up tickets for any stage play in the city. Blocks of tickets were set aside for seamen and members of the armed forces, all free. Aside from the cultural lift that seamen were now getting by new doors opening to them, with the canteen they also had a fascinating place to go for a dance and for other facets of life they had long been denied. Some seamen I knew took in a play every night of the week until they shipped out. The union halls always echoed with the talk of the shows one had seen the night before.
Chapter VI: The War Years in New York, Part Two
There was no question about it, the convoys going across the Atlantic, no matter how protected they may have been, were getting pounded by the German submarines operating in wolfpack fashion. Ships were disappearing in large numbers. The brunt of most of these attacks fell on the convoys going to Russia, but the convoys going to England weren't faring much better. The wolfpacks left their mark there, too. One morning I got a call from the Russian consulate. "Mr. Bailey, we would like you to come to our office this morning. We would like to have a talk with you."
I had no idea what this was about. Why would the Russians, of all people, want to see me? I would soon find out. I was cordially greeted and asked to take a seat by a middle-aged, almost bald man. His suit, gray with pencil stripes, did not do anything to perk up his appearance. It was too big in some places and too short in others. The cuffs on his pants almost flopped over his shoes. His bass voice directed me to the chair at his desk. In spite of his poor dress, the man came on friendly, with a smile that made me feel at ease.
In my own fashion I quickly scanned the large office, looking for something familiar. There were pictures everywhere on the four walls. Some faces I recognized and others I didn't. The two most dominant ones were a large oil painting of Stalin, with that wiry smile on his mustached face and there was that large delightful picture of Lenin, with a small cap lying on his head, his shirt collar open and his hands in his pockets, wearing that happy, disarming smile on his face.
Another painting drew my attention. It was that of Maxim Gorky, perhaps Russia's best storyteller. Here he was with a delightful, tousle-haired two-year-old boy sitting on his lap. Both looked into each others' face in a moment of sheer joy.
There were more pictures of people and cities and places I knew nothing about. But the two I searched for were those two rascals who had laid much of the foundation in their writings of what the new society would be like, Karl Marx and Frederick Engels. I found them framed and facing each other in a far corner of the rich mahogany-paneled office
The man went to a drawer of a cabinet, pulled out a folder and placed it on the desk in front of me. The folder contained about ten long envelopes all neatly tied together with a rubber band. He said, "Each envelope bears the name of a vessel," and he reached in and pulled out the contents of one envelope. To my amazement, they were checks. "And these are checks made out to each member of the crew. In this case, these checks are for men in your engine room department."
I was even more confused about just what this was all about. What really was I called up here for? What was with these checks?
"I suppose I should have explained to you sooner. Well, my country is very thankful for all the sacrifices the American seamen have been making to get the aid to us to carry on the war against the Nazis. We are an appreciative people. We have decided that a small token of our thanks is in order. The checks here are made out to each crew member of an American vessel that has reached the shores of our motherland. It is a bonus of one month's pay for every brave sailor who risked his life in the cause of peace. I ask that you distribute these checks to your members who you know. Every month we will deliver to you, as well as other union representatives, checks for other ship's crews that reach our shores."
I thanked the consulate in behalf of our union and our members who would be the recipients of the checks, then offered a few words about the ultimate outcome in this united front war against the enemy of all the people, fascism.
My job now was to hunt down the men listed and give them this big hunk of surprise. So far the Russian government was the only one at that stage of history to give a special monetary bonus to foreign seamen. It was indeed a nice thing to do, and when I raised it in my report to the membership at our weekly meeting, the gathering burst into applause.
Chapter VII: The Problem Characters
It was never a joy to see some of our members come in after a tough trip of delivering the goods, get paid off, then go on a binge and end up two days later with empty pockets and a big hangover. They would come into the hall looking done in and sort of sheepish and try to take out the next ship. I would ask myself, is this all there is in life--a job, a payoff, a drunken binge, then a repeat of the same? Where do the fun and enjoyment begin? Maybe his next ship will not make it. Surely the brother deserves something better than what he has been getting.
As I looked into the faces of these men I began to see an image of myself, the way I was a few years earlier and the way I could have
been now, had it not been for the Communist Party making me take a good look at myself and setting me on the track to make something of myself. "If you don't care for yourself, then try at least to care for your class. You are somebody, somebody important in the class struggle. Go out there and do with your fellow worker what we have done with you. That much you owe your class. Help them, rescue them from the tight hold the lumpen proletariat has on their throats and brains."
As I got to know a few of the "problem" characters and their weaknesses better I conceived a plan that could offer them something better than what they were used to. It required a little talking to get their approval, but in the end they agreed. When they paid off the vessel, I would take their money and go to the bank nearest the union hall, deposit it in their name, and give them enough money for things like room rent, clothes, and food. I would hold the book and make them come to see me in the event they needed more money. It was a pain in the ass, but it gave me a chance to keep tabs on them and try to exert a little fatherly advice in between binges. In most cases it worked well, and many times I held back on giving them money for boozing up.
Sometimes I would see them come staggering down the street looking for me and their bank book. Most bar owners did not like my approach to the problem. When they saw the money was not coming in fast enough, they refused credit. That suited me fine. Some of the bar keepers were agitating against me because of what I was doing to their business. "That so-and-so port agent who acts like their father! The nerve of that guy!" Hearing that, I knew I was doing the right thing.
Another method I used on a few of these characters was to see if I could prod them to take a trip home to visit the family. Life becomes so uncertain during wartime that perhaps the next ship would be his last. Why not see as much of the family as possible? A seaman, after a couple of months at sea, was entitled to at least 30 days ashore before the draft board got after him. Then it was ship out or get drafted. So this way he could easily spend a week with his family and he would be privy to certain priorities in transportation. It worked well.
Another scheme of mine was to get some of the lonesome characters into places like a Turkish bath for some relaxation after time at sea. I would also hunt down some places in the country like a spa or an inn where they could go for rest and relaxation for a week to enjoy nice surroundings and good food. On the surface, these things looked like they occupied a lot of my time, but they didn't. Most was accomplished by phone. Many good things developed from this small touch of care that was so important to some people. A few of the characters met some nice women who added a new dimension and meaning to their lives. New vistas that they never thought existed opened for them.
Many seamen had no living relatives at all. In case of their death the government gave a check for $5,000 to anyone designated by the seaman at the time of signing on for the voyage. A number of the seamen asked if it was okay if they designated me as their beneficiary. I turned this proposal down flat. No way would I allow myself to be the recipient of such an offer. Politely I thanked them and told them to leave it to some charitable organization. Seamen under such circumstances were wide open to be taken by every whore or shady barmaid. And I knew a few union officials that found no objection in encouraging their members to sign over their benefits to them.
We had a fireman in the union nicknamed "Deafy" Gannon. He had no hearing aid, and when you talked to him you had to shout your head off. While on board ship his sleeping quarters were located right below the five-inch cannon. While asleep one day, his ship's lookout spotted a submarine, and the emergency alarm brought the gun crew to their battle stations. Every gun on the ship fired at the submarine and the cannon fired a shot at least every minute and a half. Some 15 shots were fired. Each shot sent vibrations and quivers throughout the ship. They never hit the submarine, but scared it off. When Deafy awoke two hours after all the action died down, he complained to anyone within earshot that "a man can't get a decent sleep on board ship anymore because these young seamen are always banging shut the steel bulkhead doors and making all sorts of racket," and he wished the hell these young punks would be quieter.
One time a ship's delegate complained to me about a man in the engine room who should be removed from the ship; the men thought he was losing his marbles. I boarded the ship and found out that the fireman in question wore his "zoot suit" 24 hours a day. The suit was a head-to-toe rubber suit designed for the eventuality that one had to abandon ship. You got into it and pulled up the zipper, enclosing yourself in the rubberized suit with only your face showing. It kept you afloat and protected against the harshness of the sea. Your body heat was contained. The trouble with such comprehensive lifesaving gear was that it took too darn long to put it on in a life-and-death emergency. If and when a torpedo hit, time was too short to go to one's room, pull out the suit, put it on, and sally forth to the lifeboat.
What we had here was a man who so feared being subjected to an enemy attack that he judged his life as dependent on this rubber suit. He wore it in the engine room on watch, he wore it in the messroom while eating, and he wore it while sleeping. The men complained that he was creating a demoralized atmosphere among them. Besides, they said, he never took it off to bathe and he stank terribly. Wearing it in the boiling hot engine room was making him sick and he was beginning to show it in his actions and mannerisms. Thus, since everyone thought him crazy, he must be crazy, and he must be removed from the ship.
I found it a delicate situation. Just because he wore his zoot suit 24 hours a day didn't qualify him as a coward, because he was still standing his watches and answering the bell. I tried to reason with him and reach a compromise that would satisfy all hands. We ended it by claiming he was sick and obtaining a hospital form from the captain. Such a form got him off the ship for a vacation as well as a medical checkup, and everyone was happy. Of course, he thought he got the best of the deal by having a certificate that would guarantee him some extra time ashore. And the rest of the crew thought they got the best of the deal by getting him off the ship.
Chapter VIII: Wagons West
One morning I opened the office, collected the mail, and found a letter from headquarters telling me that in two weeks nominations would be open in all branches for officials for the coming year. I had been on the job for a year. With all the excitement and long hours and responsibilities, it felt like only six months. There were times when the job was exhausting me. The best break I had during the year was a week's vacation on Fire Island, and even that, while restful, was not too satisfying. I could use a month's vacation, but wars aren't won by taking long vacations. I consulted a few Party people about the coming nominations. "Yes, by all means, run for another term," they advised. With a bit of reluctance on my part, I was nominated for the same job. A couple of weeks later the race was on. While I had opposition for the job, it was an easy victory. So I continued right on doing the same things I had done yesterday and the days before that--keeping the ships moving with the hope that what we were all doing was quickening the pace that would bring the defeat of Hitlerism and the end of fascism.
As weeks became months I began to realize that many an old buddy would never return from his trip. Word often reached my office that an attack had been made on a convoy, along with a list of some of the vessels that went down. Sometimes the names of the men missing were given. After hearing this news I would feel remorseful and somewhat guilty. Here I was in a safe job that required getting up in the morning, dashing off to the union hall, and ascertaining the number of men that were needed that day to fill in with replacements and new ships. I might be settling a few minor beefs on some of the ships, but I never was in any danger unless I was hit by a taxicab while crossing the street. I began to feel more and more that everybody was making sacrifices in the war except me. I should be out there, too, dodging torpedoes and delivering the goods instead of going through the war safe and sound ashore. I began to yearn more and more for the confines of the engine room. Anyone cou
ld sit behind a desk and do what I was doing, I figured.
As an anti-fascist, an 18-month veteran of the Spanish Civil War and a Communist, how the hell could I tell anyone that I sat on my ass in a safe office while encouraging others to go out there and give their all to destroy Hitler and his master-race ideology? No, I couldn't handle it anymore. I found it hard saying goodbye to some of the younger kids I was shipping out. I began to look at them as if it were the last time I would see them.
A small notice in one of the newspapers helped to push me along on the idea of shoving off. It was an ad asking for someone willing to drive a car to the West Coast. They would be given sufficient gas ration stamps to get them there. After making an inquiry, I discovered the "Smiling Irishman" did have good reliable cars for reliable people to drive to Los Angeles. So I did two things: filed an application with the Maritime Commission to attend their engineering school in Alameda and proved my reliability to the "Smiling Irishman" for a car to drive West.
I found two seamen with homes on the West Coast, one from the National Maritime Union and the other a Marine Fireman, who wanted to share the ride with me to Los Angeles. I sent word to headquarters in San Francisco that I was resigning my port agent position. There was no problem with that since the New York branch had a dispatcher and a business agent who were capable of filling any gap I might leave. Some government maritime officials had heard that I was resigning. I got two phone calls from Washington telling me how important I was to the general overall effort to win the war and urging me to stay on the job and keep the ships moving. I ignored both calls.
