On the second day in Seville, at about two in the morning, I heard a skirmish taking place in the alleyway outside my fo'c's'le. By the time I hopped out of my bed and got into the alleyway, Big John had knocked down Trader Horn twice and was preparing to drag him on deck and toss him over the side. I doubt if any person other than myself could have had a restraining effect on Big John. "I'll kill the rotten bastard," John kept repeating as I raced for the doorway to block the exit. "Get out of my way, my good friend Bill. I want to drown this rat. He is no good to this world. Stand away." As much as I disliked Trader Horn, surely this was not the way to handle him. After some pleading on my part, Big John left Trader Horn lying on the deck, turned around and went to his room. Outside of a swollen lip and a few fingernail marks around his throat, Trader Horn showed little damage. The next morning he woke up feeling no pain. He couldn't remember what had happened the night before, so he said.
Two days later I found out what happened. Big John had been asleep in his bunk. Trader Horn came back aboard stewed to the gills and worked his way aft. Before getting to his room he had to pass the water tender's room which was Big John's sleeping quarters. He stopped, opened the door, walked in and put on the light. He walked over to the Russian's bunk, lowered his head and shouted, "You no-good Russian bastard! May you drown in your cabbage soup." Big John awoke shocked to see the man he disliked most standing within inches of him and hurling insults. He pushed Trader Horn out of the room into the alleyway and belted him. Trader Horn fell to the deck and remained motionless. The Russian figured that he was dead, but Trader Horn moved an eyelid. So the Russian decided to choke him to death. Since that was taking too long, he decided to throw him over the side and be done with it. That's when I stepped in.
I took a look at my status on board. Suppose something would have happened to Trader Horn, the big Red-baiter and ex-spy. Who would be blamed? Naturally it would be me, since the entire crew knew that Trader Horn and I never agreed on one single issue. It would have been difficult to convince the authorities that the number one Bolshevik on board didn't throw the sonofabitch over the side in the middle of the night. No, I had to protect myself, and the best way was by protecting Trader Horn, who by now was convinced that Big John and the Number One Communist were conspiring against him.
The return trip across the Atlantic was uneventful. As it was on most ships on the home leg of the voyage, the pace was more relaxed and less charged with expectations. There were two men that I concentrated my efforts on, my two buddies with whom I spent much of my time ashore. The questions of politics had become serious and our discussions longer. They wanted to help change the world but they were afraid that the discipline of the Communist Party would be too tough. I assured them that discipline was a necessary part of any serious organization that aimed to change society. Communist discipline was a discipline based on conviction. The more you were convinced, the greater the discipline. It was necessary, because without it there would be no worthwhile revolutionary organization among the workers. Revolutions are serious things. They can't be turned on and off like a faucet at someone's whim. There had been dozens of other politically-motivated organizations aimed at drastically changing the system, but because they lacked discipline they could never enter the mainstream of American thought to any substantial degree. They would wither and fade from the scene. Discipline meant giving account of yourself. It meant attending meetings, rallies and demonstrations, paying dues and answering for one's errors. In the final analysis, it meant contributing in every possible way to reach the final aim: that of changing the ownership of the means of production from the hands of the few, the capitalists, into the hands of the many, the working class, of changing a society whose mode of production was based on anarchy to a society planned down to the last pair of shoestrings, where guns and weapons of destruction would be a thing of the past and the adage of turning swords into plowshares a reality, where men could really call themselves brothers and to allow a person to go hungry would be considered a criminal act. To make changes toward these goals called for organization, discipline and conviction. At times many seemingly-insurmountable odds had to be faced. No time for summer soldiers. No one wanted violence, but there might be times when you couldn't run from it either.
The day before we reached New York, my two shipmates agreed to join. I would have something to show for my trip to the Mediterranean.
Chapter XIV: Ripping the Swastika off the Bremen
The next three weeks were spent running up and down the eastern seaboard discharging and loading before the next trip across. Ninety percent of the crew had been fired, including my brother the "Fandango Dancer." He didn't mind one bit; he had a good payoff. Three days before sailing to Europe for the second trip, I decided to get off. The trip had cost me 20 pounds in weight and many hours of sleep. The engineers tried to talk me into another trip. "We gotta have at least one guy around conscientious enough to show up for work in a foreign port," the second engineer said.
I finally received a letter from Pele. "When the hell are you coming to Chicago?" she wrote. "Soon, I hope." I would write and tell her to expect me in a week or two. I'd take a bus up.
The struggle against fascism was intensifying. With every threatening speech made by Hitler, the American Left retaliated with bigger anti-Nazi rallies and demonstrations. The American League Against War and Fascism was growing. Leaflets, pamphlets and books against the repressive fascist system multiplied by the thousands. Pressure by the people for the White House to take a firmer stand against this menacing reality increased.
A small group of us gathered at the New York City pier of the SS America, which was taking on passengers and preparing to sail for Hamburg. The pamphlet I was passing out showed a beautiful picture of a German castle on the Rhine, and the caption read, "Welcome to the new Germany." Inside, there was a drawing of a Nazi storm trooper leaning over a body on the ground and one of a Nazi concentration camp. It was a powerful piece of literature, and those passengers who read it before boarding soon lost their gay smiles. But Nazism or not, thousands of Americans continued to book passages and pay fares on the many ships that departed weekly for Germany.
On board the United States Line's newest sleek passenger ship running from New York to Hamburg, the Manhattan, was a seaman named Lawrence Simpson. Simpson was one of us, though he wasn't an outspoken Red. His function on board the Manhattan, outside of his regular duties as able-bodied seaman, was to transport anti-fascist literature from the United States to the handful of anti-Nazis still operating around the waterfront area of Hamburg. This was to be his fifth crossing. In the past he had been able to get bundles of literature safely into the hands of those opposing Hitler with no hindrances.
The Manhattan employed several hundred crew members. Most in the steward's department were German and pro-Hitler. Simpson had to be especially careful because he knew the activities of the crew were being reported to the German authorities. On this trip, he had planted his bundles of literature in what he thought was a safe place. But in his locker amid some papers he had several anti-Nazi stickers. When the Manhattan heaved to at the mouth of the Elbe at Cuxhaven to allow the pilot to board, several storm troopers boarded. They moved directly to Simpson's quarters. At his locker, they used a crowbar to smash away the lock and found the half dozen stickers. When Simpson protested, he was smashed across the face with a billy club. The American mate stood by and said nothing. When the Manhattan docked at Hamburg, Simpson was dragged ashore, arrested and thrown into solitary confinement.
The news of Simpson's arrest and beating shocked us profoundly. No longer was this just a matter of Simpson's own safety, but also the safety of the underground anti-Nazis. If Simpson talked under torture, dozens of underground fighters might be seized. Everyone knew that the life of a Communist or an anti-Nazi wasn't worth two cents in Germany. Brutality and torture were the stock in trade for the storm troopers; they were experts in making the strongest of their foes reveal thei
r innermost secrets.
The New York Times carried a story from Germany about the boarding of the Manhattan and the seizure of Simpson. It contained a statement from the police that Simpson was the leader of an underground group on the Manhattan committed to undermining the authority of the German government. It further stated that the American consulate was trying to interview Simpson, who faced no fewer than ten years in prison. Simpson had been transferred to the notorious Moatbit prison, the same prison where Ernst Thaelmann, the secretary of the German Communist Party, was being held. The news story ended with the comment that so far no statements had been forthcoming from the American State Department.
I felt terrible. I was more than emotionally involved. Simpson was a seaman. He was one of us. There had to be some way to retaliate. What about those goddamn officers on board the Manhattan who allowed the storm troopers aboard and stood by doing nothing while they kicked Simpson to the deck?
After reading the Times story I had dinner with my buddy Robbie. We discussed the case and what could be done to get Simpson out of the hands of the Nazis. "He can't reveal the names of his contacts since they were never given to him. It was part of the plan. Of course the Nazis will put the heat on him for the names, but remember this: what you don't know they can't beat out of you. Simpson was given only a code word for a contact. That's all he knows, and it isn't much for the Nazis to go on. By now that underground group has scattered, the way they should. Larry knew that the Manhattan was loaded with Hitlerites. He was told several times to be extra careful. He volunteered for the assignment, and he did deliver a lot of stuff over there. But damn it, you have to remember that these are perilous times. Don't remember names--get that into your own head right now--or addresses. Never have anything in writing with names or addresses; that's a must for survival."
I always remembered this advice and it would prove to be useful in the coming years. But right now I was interested in doing something for Simpson. But what? "I'll discuss it with the district leadership uptown and see what we can come up with," Robbie said assuringly.
Days went by without any decision coming down from the district leadership. Why the hell were they taking so long? Another item appeared in the Times. The American consulate reported that they had talked with Simpson. He was in good health and awaiting trial. Apart from some bruises received when he "fell out of his bunk," he was in good shape. Simpson's father, who lived in Washington state and was anxious about his son's welfare, had written the State Department. So far no action had been taken. The State Department was maintaining a "wait and see" attitude. More time passed and still no decision from the district. I grew furious with the leadership who seemed to be sitting on their asses and doing nothing. Second thoughts about the "great" leadership of our Party were beginning to assail me.
Hitler had stepped up his attacks on Jews. Now they were denied access to public beaches. The week before they had been denied access to public swimming pools. Catholics were coming under attack. They were accused of refusing to spout the Nazi line at holy mass. The storm troopers were arresting priests and accusing them of harboring Communists. The concentration camps were loaded with trade unionists. The Nazis were having a field day.
On July 25 word got down to the seamen's section from the district. All seamen were to gather at the French Workers' Club uptown the following day to discuss plans for a demonstration at the pier of the North German Lloyd. There the SS Bremen was berthed, preparing to sail for Germany the same night. We would try to get as many people aboard as possible. As soon as the "all ashore" whistle would blow, our people would form a corridor to the bow. One or two guys were to rush up and grab the swastika, dash back through the line and bring it ashore. the demonstrators would pour gasoline on it and burn it. That was the plan.
"Who the hell worked out a plan like that?" I asked, astonished.
"Some lunkhead who never saw a ship before, I suppose," someone else replied.
On July 26 we dressed in our best clothes, as per instructions. I looked good in my new suit and Panama hat which I had purchased two weeks earlier. Three of us--Pat Gavin, a burly Irish seaman, Blair and myself--headed for the French Workers' Club. Since we were early, we stopped at a restaurant near the Club for a sandwich. "The plan sounds stupid," I said to Blair.
"No one who knows ships would ever dare propose such an unthinkable plan," he said. "Just think for a moment what they're asking us to do. We may be lucky just to get aboard, let alone walk to shore with their swastika."
"I suppose," chimed in Pat, "that they want us to fold it neatly before we take it ashore. Sounds like we're getting into another fiasco."
At the Club we were joined by many others, some we knew and some we were meeting for the first time. No one had any control of who walked into the building or sat down in the small meeting hall. Everyone, including the dozen or two women, was nicely-dressed.
A member of the district leadership addressed the gathering of some 50 people. "This is the way we'll play it," he said. "Ten of our maritime comrades will be stationed on the main deck. When the "all ashore" whistle blows, ten minutes before they pull in the gangway, two women will handcuff themselves to the mast. Then the seamen will make a rush for the bow, haul down the swastika, race back to the gangway and get off the ship. The crew will be diverted from the flag by the shouting of the handcuffed women. There should be no problems. Once off the ship the flag will be handed to the chairman of the demonstration and burned in front of the crowd. Comrade Burney will pass out a dime to each comrade who will board the ship; that's the cost to board as a visitor. Remember, appear to be going aboard to see someone off. Act cautiously. If there are no questions, let's get down to the ship." Before we had a chance to question some parts of the strategy, the crowd was on its way to the ship.
Pat Gavin was no Johnnie-come-lately to the struggle for human rights. As a youngster in Ireland, he fought on the side of the Irish Republican Army for Ireland's freedom from England's Black and Tans. Since his first days in the States he had allied himself with the revolutionary struggle of the people. He was always a good man to have at your side in the event of trouble. He walked with me and Blair to the pier.
The three of us had come to the conclusion that if by chance we were arrested, it would be less effective if we said we were Communists. Instead, if we said we were Catholics demonstrating against Hitler's terrorism of the German Catholics and other religious groups, it would be stronger and more effective. Since that was our plan, we cleaned out our pockets of all identification and bought some prayer beads, crucifixes and medals of various saints. As seamen we knew the halyard ropes attached to the swastika were strong; we would need something to cut them. A few razor blades would do. On the Upper West Side, for two blocks on either side of the pier, people in cars looked for parking space as hundreds of people made their way to the ship. The Bremen stood motionless alongside the pier. Her bow jutted up, looming over the street. Large, powerful floodlights in various parts of the ship directed their beams to one spot: the jackstaff which held the Nazi swastika. It fluttered brazenly in the summer breeze. It seemed as if all New York could look out their windows and see this flag lit up like a house on fire.
Some vendors had taken up positions at the gate of the pier to sell souvenirs such as little Nazi flags, buttons, pictures of the Bremen, postcards, etc. Pat bought himself a little Nazi button and pinned it to his coat. Blair and I bought little flags depicting a German castle with the word "Vaterland." It would be good camouflage. We pretended to be slightly drunk, waved our banners and made our way to the crowded deck. Things took on a new perspective as we viewed our task from this vantage point. The bow and the swastika seemed miles away. It would be impossible to carry out the original plan. Those who made it were fools with no conception of the deck of the ship. Crew members were lounging around the forward deck. There were three or four sea-breakers that would have to be hurdled. They were at least three feet high and ran the width of the forwa
rd deck. If this were not enough, the jackstaff was on top of a seven-foot rise on the bowsprit. It would take time to hurdle the sea-breakers and climb the bowsprit. The "planners" in their ivory tower were foolish to assume that once the action started the crew would be sympathetic to our cause and do nothing.
We began to recognize some of the faces in the crowd that moved in the short space near the gangway. Our watches read 9:20. In ten minutes the whistle would be heard. Bellhops and stewards would circulate in the passageways and along the deck saying loudly, "All ashore that's going ashore." This was the agreed-upon signal for some of us to reach the bow. We moved closer to another small group that stood at the railing. It was obvious to all of us aboard that the plan could not work. There was not a chance. We had to agree on something else and put it into effect in the next ten minutes. The demonstrators on the dock were growing in numbers and becoming louder. Within an hour their ranks had swelled from a few hundred to a few thousand, and more were coming. Banners and placards by the hundreds were on display: "Free Ernst Thaelmann. Free Lawrence Simpson. Down with Anti-Semitism. Unite Against War and Fascism." The roar of the crowd attracted the crew members who had been lolling on the forward deck. They all shifted to the starboard or offshore side to better see the demonstrators. That helped us adopt a new plan quickly. Some ten or fifteen of our seamen were on board. At the sound of the whistle, Bill Howe, George Blackwell and Ed Drolette were to work their way up the starboard deck to the bow. This would distract any crew members on the forward deck to move to the starboard side. Our small group on the port side would then try to make it to the bow unhindered. We took our positions, moving closer to the rail, knowing only seconds remained.
The sharp blast of the whistle was met by a loud roar of the demonstrators on the dock. The summon to disembark could be heard on the loudspeakers. Our men on the starboard side started to move forward. When "Low-Life" McCormick, who stood next to me and Blair, moved out of our group and toward the bow, he was quickly grabbed by an officer. "Sir," the officer said, "you're going the wrong way. The gangway is this direction." McCormick quickly brought up a right-hand punch that knocked the officer flat on his back in view of the crowd now pressing toward the gangway to get ashore. Women screamed, and the captain, looking down on the scene from the bridge, shouted orders to stop our men who were now racing toward the bow.
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