The truck pulls halfway down Eleventh Street
and without warning stops. We don't expect this
~we think they are trying to drive away from the
picket-lines. The big doors of the back of the truck
fling open ...
and about thirty thugs, armed with
sawed-off shot-guns, revolvers, tear-gas guns, jump
out, line up facing the crowd quicker than you can
think. At a signal from their leader, they begin
to blast away right and left. The sudden bellow of
the guns is sickening. Gas blinds us.
A tall, skinny picket in greasy overalls beside me
suddenly paws his neck as though it's itchy, yawns
wearily, and slides to the ground. Then he turns
over on his back and starts screaming at the sky. I
try to lift him up, but the crowd is stampeding in our
direction. I go under a wave of running feet. I leave
the skinny guy where he is, stagger to my feet, and
start running. I taste blood in my mouth and wonder
if I'm shot. People are crouching behind ash cans
on the sidewalks. Others, in little squirming knots,
are jammed into doorways and store entrances.
Everybody is looking for cover. The air hums with
the moan of invisible slugs of the shot-guns. A few
seconds apart comes a deathly whisper close over
our heads-rifle bullets. I reach a corner and turn,
half running, half falling.
From the distance, the street up near the mill gate
looks as though it's covered with dirty bundles. We
count-there's fourteen of them, either dead or
wounded. There's no sign of the thugs-the big gate
is closed once again. The figures lying on the street
remind me of a mess of flies that have been swatted
off a wall. Most of them lie motionless. One of them
rolls over, tries to rise, halts uncertainly, and then
gradually sinks back to the asphalt. Another sudden-
ly stirs, like a man awakening in a hurry, rises, and
lurches down the street toward us. We keep watch-
ing from where we are, not daring to venture out
into the street again, even at this distance. Behind
that gate are smoking guns commanding the sweep
of the street, still hot from recent firing.
The crowd is muttering, and people are beginning
to talk again. Some of the conversation:
"Saw Mike get his face bashed in, then ....
"
"Couldn't get away in time ....
"
"Lousy rats didn't give us a chance ....
"
I see the armored truck standing empty a block
up the street. Others have discovered it. A brick
comes hurtling out of an alley-way near by, crashes
through the windshield of the truck. It stands there
like a guilty monster suddenly helpless to escape. In
the fighting the driver and its thug cargo deserted it.
The crowd is becoming mass-conscious of its pres-
ence. It stands for everything we hate intensely at
this moment-the company, the gun-thugs, the blood,
the sight of those torn human bundles up near
the mill. If we can't reach our fallen, we can reach
22
the truck. Somebody says aloud what we are all
thinking: "Get that goddamned truck."
A shout goes up. "The truck. Get it
I"
A young
Polack steel worker, oily with sweat, shirt hanging
in shreds, leads the way. He runs openly into the
street, shouting. Another picket runs out of a door-
way. No shots from the gate. We become bolder.
Some of us run to the truck, others walk hesitantly.
All eyes are toward the gate up the street. No shots
yet. A few more run toward the truck. Then we
flood out into the streets, from alleys, from side-
streets, from behind stoops and ash-cans. Weare
astounded to see so many still alive.
A police ambulance swerves around a corner,
slams on screeching bra~es at the sight of the crowd
around the armored truck. Someone points up the
street toward the wounded-the ambulance conti-
nues in that direction. We turn our attention back
to the truck. A few of the strikers have gotten into
the seat and are furiously swearing because they
can't get the motor started. Others are clambering
on the roof, trying to rip off the thin sheet-iron that
gave protection to the company gunmen against our
hail of bricks, only a few moments ago. Then a high,
thin voice suddenly organizes the crowd.
"Set fire to it!"
"Get some gas outa the tank ...
sprinkle it on
the seat
I"
A hundred hands try to get to the gas tank at the
same time. In a moment we start to push into each
other, in our haste to get away-the truck is on fire.
But we no sooner get her burning, when the sound of
the fire-engines echoes, off in the distance. There's
always a company stool in a crowd
j
and this one
loses no time in phoning the alarm. It doesn't take
the firemen long to get to the truck, and it makes
us all mad, because she is just beginning to burn
nicely. But the firemen, for some particular reason,
don't seem to be in a hurry. When they learn that
this truck was used to shoot down fourteen of us in
cold blood, they sort of lose interest in putting
the fire out. They become experts in slow mo-
tion and getting in each other's way and in get-
ting ,the hose all tangled up. We stand around
and help by losing their fire-plug wrenches for
them; but they don't seem to mind. In fact, I have
one in my back pocket, and I swear I saw one of
the fire lads eyeing me swipe it
j
but all he says is:
"And now where the hell could that wrench be?"
By this time we all know that the firemen don't
want to put the blaze out-and a few of them go
around the crowd muttering, "It's a fine howdy'do,
callin' union firemen out on a job like this!'" It's
true: these boys are prganized, and they don't like
the idea of union men squirting union water on com-
pany scab property.
So I go over to one of the lads and say, "Listen,
why don't you guys just put this fire out in a hurry
JUNE,
1936
