Down at ground level, men were called in one by one to be shown by their foremen the reports the foremen had written out about them, before they were sent on to the Python. The men’s eyes were infallibly caught by the new metal board on which were posted their names on coloured magnetized blocks that could be moved anywhere on the board. Or taken off. There didn’t seem to be much of a pattern to the reports, except that men over thirty-five all did badly. These little things seemed to be accepted as the price of progress. On the cracker, new air-blowers, pressure valves and a certain electricity supply were keeping the process going steadily just as the company had hoped three years before.
Six months went by, a year, eighteen months of constant twenty-four-hour-a-day production. The prisoners kept their heads down, hoping these technical changes would benefit them.
Someone scratched the words Unknown Industrial Prisoner in the concrete near the base of the gasoline-splitting column. The concrete was swept and kept clean by an unknown hand. Later a bronze plate appeared with the three words engraved on it; the plate had four legs brazed to its underside and was cemented into four holes in the concrete. No one was game to show ignorance by asking who did it, or initiative and dig it out.
Gradually, on the cracker, the supervisors supervised and no prisoner was able to get his head down on night shift. The much older plants, without the attention given by management to the cracker, still retained sleeping rights, but had to be more careful. Bubbles started to work, and surprised everyone. Bomber Command stopped his Gotchas, and men moved about in less fear for the safety of their genitals. He could no longer be persuaded to show his dirty black and white photographs, but dozens of new men were being recruited, mostly ex-Navy, and little bundles of even more exotic photographs—in colour—began to be circulated.
One day, six months after the start-up, a Sydney newspaper printed a tiny paragraph showing a yearly profit figure for Puroil Australia. It wasn’t much, only three million dollars. The Humdinger tore it out and pasted it on a notice board at the cracker. It lasted half an hour. Bomber Command personally scraped it off.
A year after the start-up—that is, after a year of continuous running—two morning papers published a yearly profit figure for Puroil’s Australian operations. They’d got it from their London offices; the figures weren’t available in Australia. Seven and three-quarter million dollars. This time the prisoners got a supply of cuttings and glued them up as fast as the foremen and supervisors tore them off. The financial editors of both papers made peculiar remarks about the company’s heavy depreciation figures and large provision for tax.
At the same time the Actor, in the role as Education Officer, was delivering prepared speeches to the lower reaches of management, hammering home the point that Clearwater was still losing money and radical new changes were about to take place in staff policy. No one was game to ask what the word loss meant—and the Actor wouldn’t have known—but it meant that although the cracker was nearly paid for and making an increasing profit, some of the items of cost such as maintenance and wages were higher than the company wished. If they had been lower, the profit figure on paper would have been higher. Therefore there was a loss of profit.
Down on the cleared clay flats, for months heavy trucks had been delivering thousands of tons of beach sand, graders spread it out into rectangular plots of three to five acres, just the size of the dozens of new plants.
On the cracker the great compressor struggled on. Every day for eighteen months vibration readings were taken and heads were scratched, but it held together. The cracker was going so well the company applied to the Department of Labour and Industry for a deferment of their regular pressure-vessel inspection. An inspection meant a shutdown and a shutdown meant an interruption to production.
During this idyllic eighteen months there were eleven fires. One was funny. The Gypsy Fiddler was standing sunning himself not far from a slurry pump with leaking seals. Maintenance had been under pressure to fix them, there had been no asbestos seals, only teflon, so teflon was used. They leaked white vapour. Fifty yards away, the Samurai saw the vapours change to blue, then flash. He charged forward past the Fiddler, grabbed a dry powder extinguisher and put the fire out. When the Fiddler turned and saw what had been happening behind him, he fainted in terror. He said it was his blood pressure and begged the Samurai not to report him.
The worst fire occurred when part of the plant was bypassed so that a quick cleaning job could be done and some repairs welded. Several bundles of heater tubes were isolated and one of the foreman-pleasing prisoners, the Western Salesman, insisted the operation was depressured and gas free. Everyone wanted to believe it, so the tubes were opened while a welder was working below. Hydrocarbons under pressure spewed out and down as far as the welding torch, ignited, and the whole thing flashed while eight men were on the tube landing. Four went over the side, three climbed higher but were burned, and one was set alight while they watched. He was in hospital six months and even after he was on his feet had to go back for twelve months for more skin grafts. One of his hands was a claw.
There were several more small fires at intervals of about a month, half of them in wet weather when the drains filled and hydrocarbons floated on the water. The refinery siren could be heard ten miles away and began to worry residents of nearby suburbs who complained querulously about possible danger to themselves. It was reasonable in the circumstances that an order should be conveyed by word of mouth—it was never put in writing—that no future fires were to be notified to the company fire station. The firemen would blow the siren automatically and this was undesirable. Instead, the foreman on the job was to take charge, use the portable foam and powder dispensers and only make a fire report if it looked like getting out of hand. Anything was preferable to bad public relations.
Thieving hadn’t stopped. Stealing from each other was so frequent that gradually all the men on shift equipped their lockers with U-bolts and padlocks. Men walked out with bags so heavy they could hardly carry them. Whole welding sets, oxygen cylinders, stocks and dies, hammers, wrenches, gauges, blowtorches, grease-guns.
Several were caught and in amusing ceremonies removed in the charge of plainclothes police. One arrest attracted so much attention—two men had been taking metal scrap meant for the scrap merchant—that all classes of prisoners watched police chase them over fences, buildings, plant structures, through workshops and excavations, before they were caught and kept on the ground by a few judicious short kicks to the body. Just as, two hundred years before at Tyburn, pickpockets plied their trade in the crowds watching pickpockets hang, two others, while justice was seen to be done, helped themselves to a truckload of wooden crates covered with expenditure symbols such as 6A/352/1/16/7/02/9/0/001. They hijacked the truck and drove down to a cluster of spare construction huts near Eel wharf where they could look at their finds and hide them till they got transport. One man’s share was a hundred thousand flyscreens; the other got two thousand white safety hats decorated with the Puroil emblem. They hid the screens, to get them later. The safety hats they took to the water’s edge. Standing side by side, cursing and laughing, they pitched them into the river one by one. The tide took them out into the bay, all two thousand of them. White petals bobbing on the waves.
On the other hand, those who had little accidents began to cover them up. Several vigorous fitters who pinched fingers or barked knuckles began to be called accident-prone—their foremen said so in monthly reports—so the rest took the hint. Many twisted backs and sprains were masked by days off in bed with flu: doctors’ certificates were easy to come by if you picked your doctor.
THE SPOTTED TROUT The Trout had to go, too. They cut the training officer out of Personnel; might as well get rid of the PRO. Admin had to do its bit to economize.
‘What’s this?’ The Whispering Baritone had the Spotted Trout on the mat. His fingers stabbed irritably at a yellow expense sheet.
‘Scotch, of course.’
‘Whisky?’
‘It’s the only Scotch I know.’ Here was a man who couldn’t make an engagement presentation of a cheap vase to an office girl without stammering, blushing, sweating and probably dropping the blasted thing—telling him how to do a PR job.
‘It’s not good enough.’ He was red and flushed and the thin, flaking fingers trembled. ‘Too high. We can’t sanction these expenses.’ He used the company ‘we’ and loved it.
‘Damn it, man! I must entertain. That’s why I’m employed! I have people in—I must give them a drink. Do you want me to invite only teetotallers?’ He knew the Baritone was one and mentally curled a purple lip.
‘These expenses must be reduced. You’ll buy cheaper drink and less of it.’ Firmness.
‘Oh for god’s sake!’ shouted the Spotted Trout. His face took on its purple round cheeks and neck, shading to mauve under the roots of his hairs which stood up singly like tall trees in a thinning forest. ‘How cheap can we get? This is a great company not a tinpot Parents and Citizens Club. I can’t give decent people Australian whisky. If the drinks are cheap, what do they think of our products?’
‘That’s not your concern. I want these expenses down.’
‘It can’t be done. There’s not an ounce of padding in it. I’ve been absolutely above board. The amount I’m allowed is ludicrous. What are you running here? A five dollar brothel?’ His own honesty hurt him.
‘I’ll teach you to shout at me. Get out. I’ll have your cheque posted.’
‘What? Are you sacking me?’
‘Obviously.’ The Whispering Baritone felt easier. He had the whip hand. His fingers no longer trembled.
‘The Colonel was right! You are a refugee from a male whore-shop! No wonder the company’s going to pot if they keep poofters like you!’ He stamped out.
He drove out savagely past the guards at the gate and didn’t slow down for inspection. Damn the company to hell! He took out his anger on the car. He didn’t really believe he was sacked. He found out the following day when he tried to get into his office.
They gave the PR job to the Actor. Something to do in his spare time. The very next week he sent a story and glossy prints to the local rag about the most recent construction at the refinery, including a mention of several new stacks over three hundred feet high to take away noxious gases like sulphur-dioxide. That did it. He was six weeks in print trying to explain away the noxious gases.
REPLACEABLE PARTS After eighteen months the prisoners remembered a new industrial agreement was due to be drawn up and in order to give themselves a better bargaining advantage began to canvass the members of other trades; the engineering unions, transport men. It seemed a good idea, a combination of all unions on the job. Men smiled at each other and raised their voices a little to foremen: if they got a combined shop they might get a decent rise in the new agreement. All they needed was a good, honest leader, a man who would take the kick if things went wrong, a man who wanted the best for his mates but was not greedy for himself.
There was no such man.
Then from over the sea a decision came and the Australians were confronted with the future. This time there was no Wandering Jew to cry on their shoulders. Every prisoner got a circular letter about reorganization, changing conditions, Clearwater’s future, surplus numbers, different standards of skill, and redundancy. Some got two letters: the second was an invitation to discuss with Personnel a suitable date for separation. There would be a cash settlement. Most were over forty. They had two weeks to decide whether to take a lump sum and go, or hang on and take a chance. All but one went. Those over fifty got an early pension, suitably reduced. The retiring age had dropped ten years.
At the same time, it was made known by word of mouth that anyone else who wished could march up to Personnel and ask what his price was. If there was a price on your head it meant you were next on the list to go. If there was no price, a note was made of the fact that you had inquired and were probably not anxious to stay. Labour was given fourteen days to take advantage of the golden handshake; after that it was the greasy boot.
The first week ninety-seven men were paid off, operators and fitters. Those active in the combined shop negotiations went, those active in the Union, those over forty, their names recorded on an unofficial honour roll in the reactor lift cage as Killed in Action. After the golden handshake, those left didn’t work any harder: they simply weren’t so open about bludging. Cunning was rewarded, and youth.
The Congo Kid was ropable. He went up to Personnel, asking how much they’d pay him to go. He wasn’t on the list. He went higher, he went to his Section Head, he went to the Python. The answer was no.
Congo banged the table of his Section Head. ‘You are fools! This is a stupid decision! In my frame of mind I could easily put a tank over or blow up a pressure vessel!’
‘Now, now. Don’t talk like that. The company wants you,’ said the man gently. He had no discretion in the matter; the prisoners’ reports had been sent to Melbourne for processing and lists of throwouts had come back.
‘Why should you want me? I’ve had 149 sickies this year!’
‘You’re worth a lot to us. You’re young.’
‘Worth a lot? I’ve been stuck on the gasoline treaters four years. How can I be worth anything?’
‘You have the potential the company wants.’
‘I tell you I don’t even do the work I’m paid for! I do nothing all shift so I’ll be able to do a double shift on overtime and even then I do it on my back!’
‘The company needs you.’ Congo couldn’t break down his defence. There was no golden handshake for the Congo Kid.
From the other side of the world came a solution to the maintenance problem. Ideally, Operations should have had its own maintenance staff, but there was a great gulf fixed between Operations and Engineering divisions, and Engineering had won all the battles they’d ever fought. The solution was staring them in the face all the time—make the operators do their own maintenance.
Management, master of the situation, announced this plan to the prisoners as part of the new industrial agreement. The operators were to get a substantial increase if they agreed to carry a kit of tools. A skeleton staff of qualified fitters would stay, more or less as instructors and to do the jobs their five-year apprenticeship qualified them for. The operating prisoners would do the day-to-day jobs, the foremen would decide what was too difficult or dangerous. The few remaining fitters would work alone, no longer would they have assistance to carry their tools. It was the Puroil European idea. In a few years only fitters and instrument mechanics would be taken on as operators.
The promised increase in wages was not specified. Instead, the planned amount was multiplied by four then put round as a rumour. This was, after all, the procedure used by the Union when they used to fight for an increase in the days before they got too weak, before their future was in hock to the hire-purchase companies. The days had come again when prisoners wanted to cower into corners at the approach of executives. As if the days of a thousand lashes had returned.
Half-heartedly they listened as their Union representatives reported their meetings with the company, nodded their heads in disgust as the delegates urged them to accept the company offer. When the State Secretary of the Union came out to address them, urging them to accept, one man asked, ‘Why should we?’
‘What else can we do?’ he asked.
‘We thought you might tell us,’ said the man.
‘I’m here to take instructions from you.’ He knew they didn’t know what to do, he wanted them weak.
‘What about Arbitration?’ asked a voice.
‘No. The company states frankly it doesn’t want to damage the cordial relations it has built up over the years, but it won’t budge an inch. Take the money and the retrospective payments. Arbitration could leave you worse off and it might take a year to get a hearing.’
His eyes were sharp, he wanted to squash this talk. The predatory Union was still waiti
ng to catch him in court, to claim half his members. He had to look after himself first.
They had come from the country and all over the suburbs to huddle together in the warmth of industry, and now their security was gone. Five years before, any of them could look forward to retiring at sixty: now they would be lucky to last till forty-five.
To encourage the rest, the company called up two dozen men this time for interviews for an unspecified number of foremen’s jobs. The Western Salesman was jubilant. ‘I’m one!’ he shouted joyfully.
‘Thought you were,’ said Humdinger sourly. ‘He looks like one, doesn’t he?’ No one answered. Instead several rushed off to make tea for the Salesman.
The operating manning figures settled out at fifty-five fewer than before. It was no use ringing newspapers now. Another war had started, no one wanted to know about semi-skilled labour. Dozens of young prisoners, usually straight out of the Navy, newly married and up to their necks in hire-purchase, were being taken on before the oldies left. Hire-purchase prisoners will do work a free man won’t touch. Besides they had no tradition of operators never doing tradesmen’s work, they were used to working with tools and used to obeying orders without thought or question. As long as there was more money to be had they were with the new proposals. The older men sounded like old women, and they told them so. It was a time of change, wasn’t it? What was so good about preserving the same old conditions?
The training officer, brought in from the Navy, was outed. Puroil had no further plans for training prisoners. The company no longer wanted to pay them to keep off the streets. Let someone else bother.
In the meantime they had two weeks’ grace to go up to Personnel to see if they were useless enough to get a redundancy payment or valuable enough to get nothing. After the deadline they were on their own. In various notices, signed and unsigned, the company warned them against going to Arbitration. The only reason the company didn’t sack them on the spot was to keep the refinery running till the government inspection could be put off no longer. The new agreement was timed to coincide with the shutdown. If the men rejected it, the shutdown would be prolonged, and if there was a stoppage, they could stay out as long as they liked. That was the threat. Not one could last more than a week. Outside the gates men were walking the streets looking for prisons to take refuge in.
The Unknown Industrial Prisoner Page 41