and then go away from here-you just do your duty
and leave."
He looks at me thoughtfully and then grins: "A
swell idea-we do our duty and then get the hell
out of here
I"
He tells a few other firemen, and they like the
idea. In fact, wrenches, hoses, and other equipment
they couldn't find is suddenly right there.
I take the wrench out of my back pocket and hand
it to a little short fireman who is puffing and sweat-
ing around me. He takes the wrench and says: "Now
where could it a' been all this time?"
The slow motion experts come to life, and in two
minutes they have the fire out. A couple of city cops
try to take charge as soon as the firemen drive away,
but we chase them off.
Then we do a good job on that truck.
About three hundred of us pick her up, like a
swarm of ants shoving a crust of bread along a side-
walk, and then we push her right through the railing
of the bridge down into the creek. Some bright kid
has taken the gas tank cap off, so that when she falls
in the creek the gas pours out and surrounds her.
Then, a shower of lighted matches hit the creek at
the same time and up she goes in flames.
All this time, there's not a sign of the company
thugs. The wounded have been picked up by cars
and the ambulance. The streets are filling up again.
A good sign. It'll take more than bullets to beat us
in this strike.
Wednesday,
Midnight.
Since Monday morning, the thugs have attacked
our picket lines twenty-one times. Each new attack
brings us more wounded, but we fight them off each
time. The company is getting tired, and the attacks
become less and less frequent. There's a rumor
around town tonight that there are a lot of strikers
with rifles, covering every gate of the plant, ready
to let them have a dose of their own medicine. We've
got the streets blocked off with barricades made of
rocks, chains, and barrels. The whole territory
around the mills is jammed with mass picket lines.
The other mills are out with us now; the two big
Republic mills walked out to a man, midnight Mon-
day, after they shot us up. Even the wives and chil-
dren are on the picket lines. No one dares try to
keep the women off, because they fight like savages
once aroused. A man hasn't got near the courage of
a woman-at
least, some of the women I've seen in
action in this strike. They've threatened to take the
first thug they catch, march him through town with-
out a stitch of clothing on, and then give him a beat-
ing that he'll never forget. So the thugs have been
pretty scarce in showing themselves since the women
got into action. If you've ever seen a crowd of women
"woman-handle" a man like I've seen in a few
strikes, you'll know what I mean.
PARTISAN
REVIEW
CROSS-COUNTRY
Wood
I HAD made arrangements to stay for some time in a lum-
ber camp near Tacoma.
Driving about sixty miles away
from Tacoma,
I arrived at the company town at dusk: a
large office building and company store, little houses for the
married men, larger homes for the purchasing agent and the
superintendent,
and a long row of bunk houses for the single
men. The purchasing agent was hungry, and he drove me
toward the office, went inside, and brought me a check for
tomorrow's breakfast,
yelled once or twice: "Bull cook!"
got no answer, told me: "You'll find the bull cook some-
where around, and tell him to give you a bed for the night";
and then the purchasing agent went home to supper. It was
getting dark, I walked up and down the porch and smoked
cigarettes. I had no idea what a bull cook was, but I yelled
the words: "Bull cook!" just like the purchasing agent.
A little fat man appeared. He wore a skull cap on his
head, and he asked me what the hell I wanted. I wanted
to know if he were the bull cook, and he said: "God damn
.
f"
It, yes.
I showed him the check and demanded a bed. He took me
toward the bunkhouses and opened one door, 'and said, "You
sleep in that bed. Nobody's using it tonight."
The bull cook disappeared.
It was night now, and he
hadn't even shown me where the wash room was. There
were some old newspapers lying in the corner. I took off my
clothes and got into bed and read the old newspapers to for-
get my hunger. Then I tried to sleep.
It was dark yet when the whistle blew and I was told to
wait for Number 4. I went out to the track and saw logging
trains go by, and then an engine came with a sign, Number 4.
I got into the caboose with three other men, and we started
for the camps in the mountains. We rode over narrow trestle
bridges, past logged-off, burned-off land, and we turned past
a spot where I was told a year before an engine had fallen
and killed its crew and still lay, red now with rust, past logs
that had rolled off the cars and rotted black in the ditches, up
to Siding 8. I was to live at Camp 2. It was about twelve rail-
road cars, with the wheels blocked, off on a spur. There was
the time-keeper's-they called him "time-killer's"-car,
the
mess car, ten bunk cars, and off to one side, the car with cur-
tains in the windows where the waitresses lived. In each
bunk car, there were six tiers of bunks and a large table, and
a lot of old papers on the table, and two benches and a sink.
I was given a bunk, and then I climbed into the engine
cab of a logging train and rode within a mile of where the
operations were. Then I was told to walk, and I was glad it
was down-hill, because there were no roads in the mountains,
nothing but the railroad bed, and the stones were sharp, and
I wore city shoes.
The city shoes were the worst part of the stay, because I
could scarcely walk in the woods with them on. I stumbled
on the stones, and then I tried to walk on the ties, and every-
where I heard axes hitting into wood and was certain I had
now arrived and would see men working around a curve.
Finally I saw the smoking top of the giant skidder. I saw a
section gang working on the grade.
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