by Bill Bailey
On the other side of the Golden Gate Bridge, I called up the woman interested in my apartment. I supplied her with the name and telephone number of the landlady. Three months later I found out what had happened: the landlady was happy to have her as a tenant. But when the new tenant submitted a list of improvements that had to be made to make the place livable, such as better wiring, plumbing, heating, water and drainage systems, the landlady politely told her that the last person to live there was a Mr. Bailey who never complained about anything. When there was something wrong he took care of it without bothering the owners, and that's the way it's supposed to be.
The new tenant had a boyfriend who was a building inspector. She gave him a nudge and within a few days the owner received a notice in the mail that the building was condemned. Listed was a series of items that had to be taken care of before anyone would be allowed to live on the premises. The cost of improvements was so high that she decided to raze the building to its foundation and build another two-story structure. The place remained vacant for months on end because of the high rent she put on the place.
It took me two days to make it to Eureka. The car was old and needed some loving care, like playing nursemaid to a leaky radiator. But we made it in one piece, and that I considered an accomplishment. The many hours to get there just gave me the time I needed to think some more about the future of the country, the world, and, yes, myself.
Eureka, a lumber town with a lovely little port, was a stopover for tourists, campers and backpackers. The main highway went right through the middle of town, leading you through the giant redwoods on the way to Portland and Seattle. Lumber and fish were its main exports to the rest of the country. Foreign ships, most of them Japanese vessels, took out shiploads of logs to their finishing mills to eventually return to America in the form of beautiful paneling. American vessels that came into Eureka took away finished cut lumber for the ports in the East.
I contacted the president of the little local of longshoremen. He read the letter, then told me that work was not in abundance in the port, but when a ship did come in, he would see that I got some work. That was fair enough for me. An ad in the paper steered me to a two-story house not too far away from the union hall. A bed and a small kitchen would take care of my immediate needs and the price was right--about$20 per month. The landlady did not live on the premises, and that, too, was okay with me.
Eureka was the size town where one could walk from end to end in 20 minutes. It had a number of restaurants and a few fish grottoes near the front, one movie house, a half dozen hotels, and a number of grocery stores. The third day there, a ship came in. True to the president's word, I was dispatched into one of five gangs of men assigned to the vessel. It was no easy job. Conditions were not on a par with those of the longshoremen in San Francisco and other major ports. Coffee breaks here were far between if they existed at all. Here, the loads of lumber came into the hold and all hands did their part to stow it quickly and with precision.
While there were rules to in the one contract that covered the entire coast for all longshoremen, this little port didn't enforce them. There were no stewards on the job to enforce the contract. In fact, most of the longshoremen working in the port were about 75 percent casuals who worked whenever the opportunity offered them work, be it in the lumber mills, felling trees, or in construction. The other 25 percent of the workforce were gang bosses, winch drivers and jitney drivers, all native in the area, who made their living, good or bad, from working the ships. Since this group was not down in the hold working cargo, there was the tendency to forget the hard work their fellow workers were engaged in. Thus many of the rules and safety features of the contract slid by.
I worked the ship for three days a nine hours per day. I would come home feeling like someone who had been beaten on all parts of his body, it ached so much. Each day on the job I would learn something new that made the work a little easier. I was also learning something about the men I worked with and what most of them wanted to get out of life.
I attended my first union meeting of the local. I was sent into a state of shock as I sat on the sidelines. Since I had no voice or vote, I just sat there. The best part of the meeting was taken up with some of the gang bosses complaining about the poor work output of their gang. A few of the gang bosses demanded that the union dispatcher be more selective in the casuals used to fill some of the gangs. There was no doubt that this local needed a lot of help in getting it in line with the rest of the locals up and down the Coast. I had my work cut out for me, that was for sure.
I was in Eureka when two friends came up from San Francisco to visit me--Frank Madigan, a screened-out sailor from the Sailors' Union of the Pacific and a Spanish Civil War vet, and Helge Swanson, a member of the Firemen's Union and also a screened-out victim. They were two of the three people I had told where I was. They too needed work, and here was a possibility for them to get some. Since they were low on money, it was decided that they would sleep on my floor. Until they amassed enough money for a place of their own, they would make themselves at home in my room and make sure the landlady didn't learn about it.
The port started to get lucky, as at least five ships were scheduled to arrive in the next five weeks and load out with full loads. That meant lots of work. In addition to that, two Japanese ships were due to arrive and take out full loads of logs.
While I was not a full-book member of the local, I did carry a certain amount of weight with some of the old-timers. The president, whenever he would introduce me to anyone, would preface the introduction by saying that I was a close and dear friend of both Harry Bridges and Jerry Bulke. Soon I was being asked questions about the contract and work rules. How would I handle this question or that problem? I was asked to sit in on their labor relations meeting and give an opinion, which I did. At the next labor relations meeting I sat on, I was asked to represent the local and was introduced by the president of the local to the employer representative as a steady and full-fledged member of the committee.
An accident on one of the log loading ships gave me the opportunity to make some good changes for the welfare of the men. A hold man got a broken leg when a log rolled over him. He was hoisted out to the deck, and for the next 45 minutes he lay on a stretcher, waiting for the ambulance to come to get him. This was an opportunity to insist that from now on blankets be made part of the emergency medical kit, so the injured person would not lie out in the cold waiting for an ambulance to show. There was also the matter of setting up a direct telephone line from the place of employment right to the hospital, instead of routing the call to three different places before the ambulance is sent.
I interested the local in putting a local bulletin once a week, a two-page mimeographed sheet dealing with local matters--especially safety--and insisting upon letting the employers know we intended to make them live up to the contract. As we moved in this direction, the rank and file responded. They had the bulletin to quote the work and safety rules. They carried it with them on the job, and whenever a beef came up, you could see someone out there with it in their hand, insisting that it was equal to the Bible. Slowly but surely the union meetings started to change. No longer was any gang boss taking the floor and squawking about the lack of character or muscles of the men dispatched to the hold gangs.
Chapter XXII: The Do-Gooders
By now Swanson and Madigan had moved into their own quarters. It had been tough for a while. But by sharing the same stew pot and adding a little more water here and there, we managed to survive living on a shoestring in Eureka. Our time together was always spent figuring ways to advance the union's best interest, and that meant making life on the job a little easier for the working stiff.
One of the main weaknesses of the local was the fact it had so few full-book members. Those few ran everything, while the vast majority of the workforce were just common soldiers with no voice or vote at the union meetings. Decisions were made for them, not by them.
We pressed to h
ave the union and the employers agree to increase the port's workforce. It took a few months, but we were able to convince the employers and some of the conservative elements in the union that it was to our advantage to open the books and take in at 50-some men who over the years managed to stick close to the waterfront for their employment. These men had been the steady, loyal guys that were always there when the union needed men.
Jerry Bulke came up from San Francisco and sat in on the labor relations meeting that week and helped to finalize the decision to open the books. It was nice seeing Jerry again. After the meeting that would help change the local's position on many things, we had dinner together and discussed the upcoming convention of the union in Long Beach.
For the next two weeks, we went over work records and helped men with their applications for registration. Since I had been one of the more fortunate ones who became a full-fledged member a few months earlier, I was called on to help steer the procedure along the lines best suited for the men and the union. Once the list was approved by the joint committee of employers and the union, the next step was to get them accepted as full-book members. This would take a month or two, but in the end we got the old-time full-book members to agree to accept the new registrants. Even in this procedure, the local fell back on its old method of passing around a "pill box" for approval or disapproval of each new candidate for membership. The master-at-arms went to each old member with a box that contained white balls and black balls. To approve a new member, you took a white ball out of one side of the box and put it in another side of the box. To disapprove, you put a black ball in. Then they were counted by the chairman. In this manner, no one was supposed to see how you voted. It was really an outmoded balloting procedure, unfair and undemocratic. A black ball could doom your livelihood by ending your chances for membership in the union. In the reorganization of the local, this practice would have to go, and it did.
Working in the port of Eureka had its advantages. Since ships' arrivals were infrequent, they were posted on the bulletin board in the union hall, and from this you got a fairly good bearing on when to be on hand for the next ship. This permitted me to take off for a few days and drive down to San Francisco, work on the Black Gang News and pick up some loose ends. By now my whereabouts were fairly well-known.
I had been about five months in Eureka when I got a call to drop in and see the dispatcher. "Old Man Hazard," one of the founders of the local and a decent guy, took me up the street to a local coffee shop. "Bill," he said, "two FBI agents were around early today. They tell me that I have a notorious Communist working here named Bill Bailey."
"Oh?" I replied. "So?"
"Well," continued Hazard, "one of the guys went on with the story that you were prevented from working as a fireman on ships because they were convinced you were going to blow one up at sea in protest against the Korean War. He said you are extremely dangerous and bear watching. The other guy said I should call them as soon as someone noticed something suspicious that you were doing. They wanted to know what I intended to do about you."
"Well, Hap, what did you tell them you were going to do?"
A smile crossed his weather-beaten face. "I told them that what I was intending to do was to inform you that they were here checking on you and for them to get their asses off the union property, because you were a member of this union and the union position is that we are opposed to screening and we have not forgotten what the FBI tried to do to our union by harassing our president, Harry Bridges. After I told them that, one of the agents looked at me and pointed a finger in my face and said, `Maybe we better investigate you, too.' They left here mad as wet hens. What did you do to the FBI that made them so mad?"
"I think they got peeved because I sneaked out of San Francisco without telling them where I was going or leaving an address for them. Thanks, Hap, for being in my corner."
"And thank you, Bill, for being in our corner," said Hap.
Convention time was close at hand. Since Eureka was considered a small local, the membership was entitled to send only one member to the convention. For the past five conventions (which were held once every two years), the president of the local always chose to go. However, this time he asked me to run for the job, and I agreed. I was elected without opposition and drove down to Long Beach for the week-long convention and caucus. Among many of the outstanding things that took place at this convention was one little episode created by Harry Bridges. It came at a time when people throughout the world were paying their respects to Winston Churchill for the job he had done as Prime Minister in the destruction of the Hitler fascist empire.
Harry read off a resolution that applauded Churchill. But before he read it, he made a few comments: "I look around at the faces and people in this convention and I recognize a lot of them as men who helped build this union from the ground up. I note that many are Irish We know that the Irish have been fighting against the British empire for ages, struggling for England to right the wrongs and to get the hell out of Ireland, which I agree with 100 percent. I know that to pin a medal on any British statesman will not ride by quietly while an Irishman fighting for freedom is close by. However, I am asking that we follow in the footsteps of the anti-fascist and peace-loving people of the world and pay our respects to Churchill for a job well done."
I was sitting between two outspoken Irishmen, Jack Hogan, a longshoreman of Local 10 in San Francisco, and Marty Callihan, president of Local 10. Scattered throughout the huge auditorium were other members of the Celtic race who, had it not been for Harry, might have taken the Churchill resolution and blown enough holes in it to have it withdrawn.
The convention was a success from a trade union point of view. It came out strongly for strengthening the worldwide peace movement, to support political action in our own country, for solidarity with the working class fighting for its liberation throughout the world, and to improve contracts in our own industry. After seven days, our delegates departed for their home ports. Before I left, Harry spent an hour with me, explaining in some detail what he determined was important for me and the few progressive elements in the port to accomplish. The main thing, thought Harry, was a strong fight against any manifestations of Jim Crowism. Eureka, like a few other small ports, had no blacks in its membership and they were doing nothing to reverse the situation. If a "traveling" black worker from one of the big ports came through Eureka and decided to work a few days, he found much to be discouraged about. Harry wanted that attitude to change and for the port to conform to the true principles of the union--no discrimination in any shape or form. This I promised to get busy on right away.
And so I did. In the report I made to the local membership, I stressed the position on discrimination and urged the port to show the rest of the union that it understood what discrimination can do to a union--that it could ultimately be the force that could destroy the union and its effectiveness.
A week after that report, a young black longshoreman came to town from another port and wanted to stick around in Eureka for the next two weeks. There was no problem finding a partner to work with him. After a few days, when the men saw that he carried his own weight on the job, he had no problems. There never was another case of discrimination in that local. Today it includes African Americans, Native Americans, a Chinese American, a Japanese American, and an Alaskan Indian.
A year and a half passed; our local grew. The men who were one-time drifters were now full-book members of the union. Their attitudes had changed. They were more interested in what went on about them. Our labor relations improved. The employers no longer took us for granted. More ships entered the port. Jobs were longer and paychecks are bigger.
I was homesick for San Francisco. I had a girlfriend there, Betty. She helped with the typing of the Black Gang News. She wanted me to spend more time down there, and she was in no mood to differ with. I worked on a plan to make it possible for me to transfer from Eureka to San Francisco as my home port. I took out a "traveling" card and head
south. I talked to members of the local executive board about transferring from Eureka to San Francisco. They saw no problem and within two weeks the transfer was made.
Chapter XXIII: Amen
Russian tanks rolled down the streets of Budapest. Instead of meeting crowds of people showering them with confetti and flowers in comradely greeting, the tanks and their occupants were being showered with rocks, pieces of debris, and an occasional Molotov cocktail. It was not a pretty sight to stand back and watch tanks and armor produced by socialists in another socialist country being used against socialists in a neighboring country. It was downright disgraceful and painful, and I was furious. I repeated to myself, "The whole goddamned world is watching this, you stupid bastards. Is this socialism at work?" Why, oh why was this happening?
The wrath of the demonstrators was directed against the government, and in principle the Communist Party, that ruled Hungary. They had every reason to show their scorn. The Communist Party rulers were so rotten, so despotic in their actions in suppressing the slightest criticism of their rule, that there was no other way for the people to show their pent-up frustrations. If provocation for the fierce demonstration was needed, it sure was provided by the leadership of the Communist Party.
I remembered myself being furious many times before, but I always managed to turn my head the other way. I was furious when Browder wrote his stupid book Teheran and After but I turned my head on that and said, "This too will pass." I was furious when the Party leadership sent out word to all the Party people in the trade unions that it was important to stand up in their various trade union membership meetings and declare themselves members of the Communist Party. I turned my head on that one, too, and said, "Oh, well, some of us will pay for that stupid blunder." I was furious when the Party was gloating about some Trotskyists being rounded up and jailed during the war and charged with conspiracy under the Smith Act. Oh, how the Party cheered the government on! But only a few years later the government would be doing the same to the leadership in our Party as we screamed our heads off that it was harassment. Well, I turned my head on that one, too, and bit my lip in shame for being so docile. I was still more furious when the Party started to go underground in a fashion that should have been ridiculed from the start, since it took on the form of a Laurel and Hardy scenario. I was convinced that the FBI men had so entrenched themselves within the ranks of the Party that they had a fairly good idea where the underground leadership was hiding, anyway. But I turned my head on that fiasco, too, and was boiling mad about the news that some leaders had jumped bail in the East and, after a short time of enjoying their freedom, were finally caught by the FBI in, of all places, the Sierras. They were dressed in clothing more fitting for the atmosphere of Palm Beach than the rugged Sierra Nevada mountains and their pockets were stacked with dollars, big ones--while I and my screened-out seamen were out begging for nickels and dimes to put out a trade union paper which we hoped would be an instrument to save their asses as well as our own. I was bitter, but I turned my head on that one, too, and maybe a lot of other things. But I sensed a long time ago that the Party had lost its zip and its integrity. Its growth had ceased. We were now feeding off what was left of us and that was a big letdown from when we were at our peak in numbers. After each major blunder, I felt the desire to get the hell out of the Party. Its effectiveness was gone. But it was never in my nature to fold under attack. The FBI and enemies of the Party had been hoping that once their attack on the Party took place, most members would run for cover and quit the movement. I did not intend to be one of them. I would not fold while the Party was under attack. I would not bring joy to the FBI by standing on the sidelines and applauding the chaos they helped cause within the Party.
