Bill Bailey

by The Kid from Hoboken- An Autobiography (epub)

  You feel your back is against the wall, and you must continue the fight to get back into the union in some manner, to continue to warn the rank and file that their union is heading downhill under the present set of conditions. So, how to strike back?

  At our seamen's branch of the Party we discussed all the angles of fighting back, and when all the debating was over, we at least agreed upon one course of action--to put out a rank-and-file newspaper. We called it the Black Gang News. The BGN was first published by the Marine Firemen's Union during the 1936-37 strike and had been the news source for our membership.

  Now that we had agreed to put out a paper, we had to find the money for printing and distribution. It would not be easy, but we did manage to get some longshore union officials, sympathetic to our predicament, to make monthly donations from their paychecks. Within weeks our first edition appeared. We solved our distribution problem by mailing the paper to delegates on our contract ships as they arrived in different ports. It meant a lot of research, a lot of folding and stuffing and addressing. Our contacts with the longshoremen also helped to get the paper on board ships and into the crews' mess rooms.

  With our few friendly contacts within the union who attended the union meetings, we got a good idea what was going on. From what we learned from different ships' crews, we also had a fair appraisal of the major beefs aboard ships. Each issue of the paper had lots of up-to-date information. This was baffling to the officialdom who thought they had rid the union of the Left. Now and then we received a few dollars in the mail with no name or address on the envelope. In the official union paper, the officials had to admit the paper's existence by blasting it and threatening those who read it. This was a sign that the paper was bothering them.

  There was the matter of trying to make a living. I was cued in by a friend who told me I could get some work through the Machinists' Union. This local did most of the minor ship repair work along the front. I applied, was given temporary status after a day's work, and told to show up the following week for initiation into the union. In that one week, someone got the word out to the FBI and the FBI got word to the Machinists' Union. When I appeared before the investigating committee, I could feel a chill. It was cut and dried. "Do you have a Coast Guard clearance certificate?" I was asked by the chairman of the committee. "No," I replied, "I don't have a Coast Guard clearance."

  "Well, in that case, we cannot clear you for work or for membership."

  "I know half the membership working in this union," I replied, "and many of them are ex-Marine Firemen who I sailed with. I know they don't have Coast Guard clearance passes, yet they work every day and are members of the Machinists' Union. How come they don't have to have a Coast Guard clearance pass, but I do?"

  "What they have or don't have is not the point. The point is that you don't have a clearance, and no clearance, no work. We would advise you to get a Coast Guard clearance, and when you do, return here and we'll reopen your case."

  Well, that took care of the AFL Machinists' Union. However, across the Bay in Oakland, the CIO Machinists' Union, a rival union that was attempting to increase the scope of its jurisdiction among marine machinists, heard of my case. Within two days I got a phone call inviting me to Oakland to join their union. Of course, their idea was to give me an opportunity to assist them in their organizing, which was surely okay by me.

  I was initiated and given my book, and true to their word the secretary gave me an assignment slip to a local shipyard for a night job. There was no problem walking into the shipyard and past the guard at the gate. Assignments were handed out by the foreman on the job. "You, Bailey, will work on the destroyer escort on the blocks," he said.

  "That destroyer?" I asked, making sure I received his message correctly.

  "Yep. There's a bilge suction valve in the lower forepeak. Take your toolbox down there and give it a good overhauling. That should keep you busy for a while."

  I greeted the sailor sentry at the top of the gangway as I moved slowly up the flush deck with my toolbox, passing some big guns along the way. As I passed the sailor, who returned my greeting, I took a few seconds to mull over the position I was in. What would happen if this sailor was told that a Communist with a toolbox had just passed him on his way to the inner chambers of the bow? Just a short time ago I was barred from even sailing on so much as a ferry boat plying between San Francisco and Oakland. Now this "dangerous radical" was right on board the country's defense mechanism, passing under the big deck guns to get to the bow. Somebody, I concluded, goofed.

  At the forepeak was a small manhole which I undogged and opened. A ladder extended from the underlip of the deck, straight down some 25 feet, leaving just enough room for one person to work among crossing beams, frames and ribs. I could see the four-inch valve about six inches from the bottom of the keel. I lowered my toolbox and climbed down the ladder. I worked four hours on the valve, reseating and repacking it. All the time I was down there in that little sharp bow of the ship, not one single soul put his head into that hatch to see what I was doing or if I was dead or alive.

  For five more days I would walk through that gate and get the nod of approval from the gate guard, be assigned a new job on each occasion and get the approval of my foreman that my work was okay. The weekend came and passed, and at the beginning of the second week, as I was going out the gate, I was told: "Mr. Bailey, I must inform you that unless you have a Coast Guard clearance by tomorrow, you will not be allowed to pass through this gate."

  I figured it took someone a week to get a handle on my new job and get me fired, because when I checked later with 15 men I worked with, I learned that only two of them had the Coast Guard pass.

  Chapter XIX: Pacific Gas and Electric Company

  Someone told me that the Pacific Gas and Electric company needed men in the boiler room and generating units in their San Francisco plant. I visited their employment office and with hat in hand applied for a job. "And what experience do you have around boilers or generators?" I was asked. Expecting this question, I had brought along my engineering certificate. I laid it on the desk. The interviewer was surprised and smiled. "Mr. Bailey," he said, "you're really overqualified for a fireman's job. You should be applying for a stationary engineer's job, but no engineer's jobs are open. With your experience, we're happy to have you aboard in one of our plants. Are you ready to go to work tomorrow morning?" he asked as he handed me back my license. After a few more words about the routine and possible benefits, I was on my way out the door with an assignment slip to my new job in the morning.

  I kept my mouth shut to my friends about the job. When I left the house to drive to work, I managed to take a different route each day. The job itself was an easy-paced, no-pressure job, with no one leaning over my shoulder while I worked. The plant engineer on the watch was the boss. Once he knew that I knew my way around and showed some responsibility to my job, that was the last I would see of him for the watch. The engineers respected me, because they had gotten the word that I had an engineer's ticket.

  Days flowed into weeks, and before long I was counting my third month at the plant, which was located just a few miles from my North Beach neighborhood. In most jobs, someone in authority is always trying to get the best of the personnel to work on their watch. So it was at this plant. I was happy with the shift I was on, however I had left my phone number with the engineers on the other watches and gave them permission to call me in the event that someone did not show up and they needed a fill-in. At least once a week I would get a call, sometimes at odd hours of the morning. That in itself was a sign of my dependability. There were times when I cursed myself for being so liberal with my time, especially when, because of lack of sleep, I walked around like a zombie.

  Around the fourth month, I wondered about the FBI's efficiency. Surely the FBI and the cabal of right-wingers weren't ready to forgive me and let me go on working. Of course, I was careful; still, if an effort were made, I could be detected.

  One day I w
as asked to take some wrenches to another building within the giant complex. It was a section whose working crew did not come into contact with the crew in my plant. As fate would have it, I ran smack into an old member of the Marine Firemen's Union and a fierce right-winger. This guy was one of those smiling, happy-go-lucky, disarming characters who greet you like a long-lost twin brother, with hugs and back slaps. "So, you're working in the boiler room?" he said. "How nice to hear that you're a member of the family."

  Two days later, I was on the job about an hour when the booming voice came over the loudspeakers. "Mr. Bailey is wanted in the superintendent's office on the third floor, now."

  I heard my watch mate call me. "Hey, Mr. Dependable, they're on to you. Looks like a big promotion. Good luck." As I worked my way toward the stairway several other guys wished me well, including one of the engineers who jokingly said I was about to take over his job.

  I had no idea why I was being called, but I soon found myself being caught up in the glee and good feelings of the men I worked with who all thought that I was being rewarded for my attention to the job. When I stepped into the large mahogany-paneled office, I found three men waiting, all with their backs turned to me.

  "My name is Bailey. I was told to come to this office." I stood there mute. No one said a word. Then one of the men said, "You going to tell him?"

  "No, you tell him," the other guy said.

  "Okay, then. I'll tell him," he replied abruptly. Then he turned to face me. "Mr. Bailey, we feel lucky to have been informed that you, as a leading West Coast-Communist, were preparing to blow up this plant. Yes, we were lucky to discover this plot in time."

  I was shocked, almost frozen still. In the first few seconds I thought it was some sort of joke someone was pulling, that they were all going to break out laughing and offer me some new job, but that moment passed as I watched him stutter and look uncomfortable.

  "Sir," I said, breaking into his next line of thought, "will you be so kind as to put that in writing?"

  "No, I won't. There will be no writing!" he shouted. "I have called the security guard to escort you off these premises. You have five minutes to empty your locker and leave the grounds. Your wages will be mailed to you. I will notify the FBI that we have taken care of the matter."

  The security guard walked over to me and gently placed his hand on my arm. From the look on his face I detected he did not relish the job he was asked to do. Since I knew he was uncomfortable, I did not want to make it harder on him. I walked out the door with him close behind me. When we entered the main floor, the work crew saw me coming. "Here comes the new vice-president of PG&E!" one of the guys shouted. "Hey, Bill, put in a good word for me, will ya?" said another. I was oblivious to the friendly words of warmth that were showered on me, and I was in no frame of mind to respond to them as we walked quickly to my locker, removed my gloves, a shirt, an old pair of shoes, and two fried-egg sandwiches, my lunch for that day.

  The guard stood a few feet from me and watched me clean out the locker, allowing me the dignity of not being manhandled. I walked out of the plant with a heavy heart, in silence. I got into my car and drove off, with the guard still in view in the rear mirror.

  I fumed inside as the car headed home. I thought of the guy responsible, that back-slapping character I ran into. He most likely raced to his right-wing buddies in the union, and they in turn called the FBI. I could almost hear the FBI thanking the ultra-conservative officials in the union for spotting me. I tried to make the best of a bum situation by telling myself how lucky I was to get so many weeks of work at PG&E without being fired sooner. But that rationalization did not put out the fire within me.

  While the rage was subsiding, I still had to hustle the rent and pork chops, as well as think about the next issue of the Black Gang News. There were a few small jobs that cropped up that eased the situation. Some Italian shoemaker, an old friend, bought a house and needed the inside painted. I took on the job and pressed into service another screened-out seaman. After a week of slapping paint around we picked up enough to take care of rent money and continue the old habit of eating. Other jobs, like cleaning out someone's backyard and hauling the junk off to city dumps, kept me in shape and saved me from tightening my belt another notch.

  The political situation in the country was getting no better, and the Party was still in disarray from the arrest of the leadership. The trials and the constant drives to get money for defense drained a lot of our energy.

  The rank-and-file members of the Party got an order one day to practice a "dry run" at disappearing. The goal was to disappear without leaving the slightest hint of where we would be. I thought the whole idea stunk. Who the hell were we trying to fool? Certainly not the FBI. Hell, all they had to do was consult one of their informers within the Party and we could be picked up any time. Besides, I was opposed to running out and going into the so-called underground. I was prepared to go to jail for principles. I would work like hell in jail as I did on the outside to convince people that our cause was a just one. No, I thought that going underground was a waste of time. I could understand disappearing to a refuge if it was a matter of life and death, if it was a situation where you were threatened with being killed or seriously maimed. But not if the danger entailed only a possible jail sentence. No, I said, I will not partake in the disappearing act. I will hold my ground, and the nuts in the Party who made the decision can go to hell.

  That night I kept all the lights on in the house. I opened the windows for some air, played Madam Butterfly on my record player and laid back, thrilled by the voice of Renata Tebaldi as she sang of pain inflicted by an officer of the American Navy. The cad!

  Chapter XX: The UnAmericans

  A week later, there was a knock at my door. "Well, if it isn't Bill Bailey! How are you, Bill?" I looked the guy over quickly for a point of recognition, but I could not come up with anything. He had a smiling face and was shabbily-dressed; he had the face and appearance of a man who had done a little hard work in his time. I figured it could be some maritime worker I had met, but before I had the chance to reply, he handed me a folded sheet of paper. "This may interest you," he said. Before I had a chance to open the paper, he turned and left.

  The paper read:

  "By the authority of the House of Representatives of the Congress of the United States of America.

  TO: Frank O. Bell, U.S. Marshall

  You are hereby commanded to summon Bill Bailey to appear before the Committee on UnAmerican Activities or a duly-authorized subcommittee thereof of the House of Representatives of the United States of which the Honorable Harold H. Velde is Chairman, in their chambers in the city of San Francisco at 10 a.m. on December 1, 1953."

  The consensus was that HUAC was in town to do a hatchet job on the trade unions, especially the International Longshoremen's and Warehousemen's Union. A number of ILWU members were subpoenaed to appear before the Committee. The newspapers were playing up to the Committee with manufactured stories of plots, intrigues and conspiracies.

  There were rumors of a cat-and-mouse game of secret witnesses who would be conjured up to testify for the Committee. Who were they? The Committee was not saying, but others said they would create rumbles in the ranks of the Left and possibly expose some government agents working undercover within the ranks of the Party. These kinds of newsbreaks in the newspapers and on the radio were to keep the attention of the public on the Committee and their minds on the "insidious behavior" of the Left and the "conspiracy" that the Committee had come to town to expose.

  Three days before I was to make my appearance before the Committee, a meeting was initiated by the Party to practice a "run through" of the hearing Prior to this meeting, I got out my history book on the Constitution and the Bill of Rights and ran through it several times. I felt that if I had to rely on the Constitution and its Rights, I better know them.

  The meeting of "victims" was interesting; there were several attorneys present who outlined how the Committee mi
ght proceed and how easy it could be for the unwary victim to get ensnared in its traps. They told us which questions should be answered and which should not, as well as what to cite as a refusal to answer a question. In addition, an attorney was assigned to defend each of us. I found myself comfortable and at ease with Doby Brin Walker, an able and dedicated attorney.

  I suggested that I might write out a statement to read. "Why not," said one of the attorneys, "although I know there will be attempts to prevent anyone from reading a statement. But go ahead, draw one up."

  That night I worked hard on what I wanted to say at the hearing: The witch-hunt technique of the Committee members involved their drumming up hysteria, labeling anyone who disagreed with them as traitors to the government; they were causing people to lose their jobs and even get ousted from their homes by unfriendly landlords. I accused the Committee of being anti-union and out to discredit unions. I ended up by telling them I would not be a cooperative witness to their un-American scheme of putting on a floor show for big business.

  I had listened in on some of the hearings conducted by Joe McCarthy, and I watched as some of the "unfriendly witnesses" tried to take on McCarthy and his stable of "friendly witnesses." I concluded that our side was fighting a losing battle, because no matter how ardently we fought McCarthy at the hearings, his side prevailed. Our side ended up being escorted out of the hearing chambers by police. To leave them with a blank stage would be a lot better than trying to argue intellectually with a pack of publicity-hungry politicians. I would not deliberately prolong my stay on the stand. I'd say my piece and get the hell away.

  On hearing day, there was much excitement around City Hall. Walking slowly through the marble rotunda and up the steps with my statement in my pocket, my mind was geared to doing the best I could not to make a fool of myself and come away from it all with some sort of respectability as a man of my class.