Bill Bailey

by The Kid from Hoboken- An Autobiography (epub)

  I was delegated to spend the daylight hours working with the engineer. He wanted someone who could stay sober for a few hours in a French port. I was the victim. I did my sightseeing during the night. I made contact with a French Communist whose English was as bad as my French. We managed to communicate our feelings of international solidarity while the rest of the crew was getting themselves plastered with French brandy and enamored of French whores. Our stay in France was much too short.

  One of Spain's prettiest port cities, Barcelona seemed to be in some sort of upheaval as we stepped ashore. Soldiers walked around in pairs with rifles and fixed bayonets. They sauntered along the Rambalas to remind people that more than three persons congregating constituted a crime. Democracy was being challenged all over Spain. Miners were striking in the north and clashed with the police and troops who were dispatched to break their strike.

  Barcelona, the capital of Catalonia, the cradle and center of the anarchist movement in Spain, seethed with undercurrents of discontent with the news that the strike of their brothers in the north had been broken. King Alfonse had been forced to abdicate back in 1931, but the current Second Republic found it difficult to grope its way into the 20th century. The large landowners and industrialists, the military and the Catholic Church were forever exerting pressure on the new republic. While these groups gave lip service to the republic's efforts to improve the conditions of the poor, they conspired in the background to seek international support in bringing death to the republic.

  Apart from the country's political problems, Barcelona was a vibrant city, full of life and action. The cafes and the dance-hall honkey-tonks that could be found along both sides of the Rambalas teemed with action. The proverbial "sailor's paradise" of wine, women and song was epitomized in this port city.

  One day brother John unintentionally became the focal point of the crew's solidarity on an issue not political, but rather related to a confrontation with the officers. At the time such an action was unheard of. When we had entered Barcelona's harbor, a tugboat met us and commenced the slow process of easing us alongside the long wharf. Only the sailors assigned to tying up the ship and the men on watch below were busy. The rest of the crew, the day workers, busied themselves, preparing to be the first ashore. Someone located a bottle of French brandy, and within minutes the men in the "black gang" started the "Battle of Barcelona." There were no fresh water showers in those days. You washed from a bucket. You used the fresh water rationed to you sparingly. It didn't take long for the brandy to produce its effects. Everyone wanted to bathe at the same time, and someone threw a bucket of soapy water at someone else. This started a round of moving soaped-up bodies attempting to escape snapping towels or onslaughts of pails of soap suds. John, whom I suspected started all of this, was trying to avoid a bucket of suds when his foot slipped on the soapy deck, sending him skidding into the bulkhead. One of his toes rammed tight under a small pipe close to the deck. There was a scream of pain, and the gaiety came to a sudden stop as John was carried to his bunk. The captain was notified. Within minutes a doctor arrived on board. He diagnosed a badly-bruised toe and ordered John to stay off his feet for the next week, preferably in his bunk. The gang said goodnight to him and took off for a night on the town. They left him propped up in his bunk with the remains of the French brandy. I left to go ashore at about eight, stopping to see if he needed anything. He was finishing off the bottle.

  The Gambias Bar was the seamen's hangout in Barcelona. It was a huge bar with at least a hundred tables spread around over a big dance floor. A live orchestra banged out any tunes that came to mind. Since almost everyone in the place was half gassed-up, no one was ever sure if the musicians were in tune with each other. Waiters worked like beavers, moving through the mass of men and women to keep the tables supplied with drinks. At about midnight, as I made my way back to the ship, I stopped off at the Gambias for another drink. A great commotion was taking place in the middle of the cafe. Through the heavy mist of smoke I thought I could see someone dancing on a table. The someone resembled John. I dismissed the thought that it could be him; he was back in his bunk, incapacitated. But I should have known better. When I approached the table, I could see--there was John, dancing on the table with some gal, doing the Spanish Fandango to the cheers of everyone in the joint. His big toe, wrapped in bandages, seemed to have no effect on his dancing.

  Like me, the first assistant engineer was also making his way back to the ship and stopped in for a nightcap. His eyes popped out as he saw John who, feeling no pain, stopped for a moment to gulp down a drink from a friendly donor, then continued his madcap dancing. The engineer left, and I departed soon after, leaving John and his buddies to continue celebrating.

  The next morning I was up and ready for work as usual while the rest of the gang was moving about the fo'c's'le like zombies. John remained stretched out in his bunk, sound asleep. At precisely eight, another oiler and I were ready for work. The first assistant engineer started to fume. He got hold of the mate and proceeded back aft to the fo'c's'le. He made the mistake of entering the fo'c's'le and stood over John's bunk, nudging him awake. "Get your ass out of that bunk and get to work below," he shouted. Some crew members quickly reacted. "He's an injured man," said one. "The doctors gave him orders to lay off for a week."

  "The hell with doctor's orders. I saw him dancing his fool ass off in the gin mill. If he can stand on a table to dance, he can stand in the engine room and do his dancing there with a swab in his hand."

  The reaction was quick in coming. One fireman threw an empty bucket at the engineer. Another threw a shoe. The mate quickly departed, leaving the engineer to take an avalanche of profanity and threats. He quickly realized he was in hostile territory and backed out the door. John, of course, returned to his stupor, not realizing for a moment that he almost caused a minor mutiny. But a ship and its crew, unlike in any other industry, have a fast way of mending the errors of the previous days. Things were quickly put back in order and life went on as if nothing had ever happened. The ship must sail.

  Our next port was Tarragona down the coast, just a short sail from Barcelona. Since the crew was in the process of sobering up from their stay in Barcelona, very few went ashore. But I did. Tarragona was a very small port, with dock space for one or two ships. The town itself had been one of the Roman towns built along the Mediterranean shore. Ruins of the Roman period were everywhere, with high columns and arches still evident. As a sailor's seaport it was a flop, with only a few wine cafes about. But the people were kind and easy-going. Never once did I hear a hostile word directed at me.

  Further down the coast was the port of Alicante, still within the influence of Catalonia province. It was larger than Tarragona. I saw a few hammer and sickle emblems, but mostly anarchist union signs of the Confederacion Nacional del Trabajo (CNT) and the Federacion Anarquista Iberia (FAI). Since this was anarchist territory it wasn't surprising. I knew very little Spanish and could not converse the way I would have liked to. Finding English-speaking people was difficult. But seamen and longshoremen have a knack of making themselves understood in a limited way, and I was able to talk with some people. When I returned to the ship, I found Brother John up and around and back to his old self, joking and wisecracking with the crew.

  Valencia, a city about half the size of Barcelona, was quite beautiful, though it lacked the hilly back country of Barcelona. During the three days we spent there, I was ashore every day exploring the city. I was awed by its stately buildings. Like its sister city Barcelona, it was full of life. Here, too, slogans and posters pasted all over the walls extolled the republic. Hammers and sickles and clenched fists seemed to be everywhere. "Unidad" was the slogan most in evidence. The more I saw of this country and its people, the more I began to love it. Valencia was truly a working-class city, with light industry spread throughout. As in other ports, the kindness of the people impressed me most. I enjoyed eating in working-class restaurants and felt completely at home. Our three da
ys in Valencia passed quickly. We had finished loading our cargo of fine Spanish wines and eased out of the harbor, away from the orange-blossom-scented air.

  We worked our way down the coast, passing Cape Palos, and pulled into Malaga, another splendid city in the Andalusia province. It was a warm Sunday morning when we tied up. Once the engines were secured, the men not on watch were free to go ashore. Most of us had never seen a bullfight, and the excitement grew when we learned that this Sunday the bull ring was open. A few of us piled into a cab and headed for the Plaza de Toros and front-row seats. For the next two hours we watched the smooth maneuvering of the matadores and picadores who taunted, stuck, stabbed and inflicted every known insult upon the bull before finally putting it out of its misery. The animal did not stand a chance. Whenever he had his adversary in a position where he could do him harm, ten men would dash from behind the barricades to distract him. My sympathies were fully on the side of the bull. Weak-kneed from the loss of blood which poured from his wounds, he fell many times from exhaustion. It became the humane thing to finish him off. The animal then had an ear sliced off to be presented to the killer and was dragged around the ring and out the door it had charged through only minutes before, full of life.

  I questioned this horrible game. How could it be a sport when the bull stood little or no chance of surviving? In the end it was doomed. Once in that arena it would never live to see the sun again. Since I liked animals, I could not bear to see them baited, teased, tortured and killed. How could such a warm and generous people go directly from church into the bull ring and enjoy the slaughter? It was my first and last visit to a bull ring. I could never reconcile myself to the existence of such a "sport." All sorts of arguments have since been offered me about what the bullfight means to the Spaniard and his culture, but I still could no more enjoy it than I could enjoy watching Christians thrown to the lions.

  Malaga had more to offer than the Plaza de Toros. Wine shops were everywhere. Huge barrels rested on their sides; you brought your own bottle or jug and had it filled. The city was clean despite the large number of burros; the cobblestones in the streets scrubbed and polished. I had nothing but time on my hands until eight the next morning. I walked toward the edge of the city, my eyes taking in everything. Now that I knew a few words in Spanish to get me around, I had a little more confidence. Trying to order something to eat was still difficult, however. The menu baffled me. If someone sitting near me was eating something that appeared appetizing, I merely told the waiter with a nod, "Mismo."

  I studied the bus line that ran down the main street and out of town. The fare was less than a nickel, and the bus wasn't worth much more. But the windows were down and it felt good to get out of the heat. I figured that if I didn't like what I saw at the end of the line, I could always stay on the bus and return safely. But when the little exhaust-spewing bus pulled out of the city and onto a dusty dirt road, laboring its way inland to another little town, I knew I had to get off and walk around. It was the last stop anyway.

  Compared to the city I had just left behind, this little town was peacefully rural. Clean, like most Spanish cities and villages, it was surrounded by grape orchards as far as the eye could see, with olive trees in between shading the vines. The village inhabitants were peasants whose old little mule carts stood beside their stone houses. An occasional burro rested beside a cart, swirling its tail to shoo away flies. The people's faces, bleached by the sun, showed the years of their hard labor. They were friendly and smiled and nodded their heads. The houses they lived in, whitewashed stone with no electricity or water, reminded me of some small villages in Ireland. The water had to be hauled from a well in the square.

  By chance I saw a sign on a door that read, "Partido Socialista." I walked into the storefront room about ten feet by ten feet. Three people were talking around a table loaded with literature. They stopped when I walked in. Wanting to show that I was a friend, I raised my fist in the international revolutionary salute and said "camaradas." They smiled and beckoned me to sit. Words poured out of them, none of which I could understand. "Americano," I said.

  One quickly spoke to the others, "Ah, Estados Unidos, Americano, bueno."

  "Uh, Americano marinero, vapor," was the next gem I came forth with.

  "Si, si, marinero," said another.

  I felt I was getting something through to them. "Communist, American," I said. Their faces broke into big smiles, and with a warmth for which the Spanish are noted, they extended their hands, each trying to tell me his name. "Mi vapor barco in Malaga," I said.

  "Si, Malaga. Muy bueno," said one. "Muy grande," said another. There was a quick exchange of words between them, then one took off. The other continued talking to me as if I could understand Spanish. The only words I recognized were "comunista" and "socialista." After what seemed like only a few minutes, the person who had left returned with a friend, a young man of 20 who appeared better-dressed than the others.

  "You speak English?" he asked with a bit of difficulty. I felt good now that someone was on the scene who spoke English, even if it wasn't perfect. For the next hour I talked to these four men. The fact that I was an American Communist and not an American socialist did not trouble them. They treated me as one of their own.

  "You are the first American to come to this village. We are happy to see you and make friends. Do the American people know how we got rid of our king? What do they think of our new government? How are things in Barcelona? How big is the American Communist Party?" The questions went on and on. A bottle was brought out and we sipped wine and toasted my health and the new republic. Occasionally I would get in a question or two. From the interpreter's answers, I gathered that this little peasant village of campesinos was pro-Socialist but that they were still upset with the new government. The government had promised to redistribute the land after taking power, but up until now many obstacles had been created to prevent this. The people were unhappy with the delay; sooner or later things would come to a head.

  It was getting late. I was afraid I might miss the bus and be left behind. I motioned that I had to leave, explaining that I had to return to my barco. We shook hands all around and shared a final drink of wine. This small group assured me that the revolution, which the Spanish people had started, would go on until won. I promised to return for another visit on the next trip. As I rode back on the bus, I felt elated about my friends, proud that I knew people who, against great odds, had dumped their king and were now trying to put the pieces together to form a better society for themselves. Little did I realize that only a couple of years later I would return to join them in defending their new republic against a fascist rebellion with a machine gun in my hand.

  In Seville, the company agent came aboard with customs officials. In his briefcase he carried some cash for a draw and some mail. I expected a letter from my girlfriend, Pele. She said she would write often, but no letter. Damn that woman. Why couldn't she write like she promised? She knew how I valued her letters. She was probably surrounded by a bunch of boyfriends pawing her. That's the trouble with a beautiful woman, everybody was out with their fish hooks trying to grab her. Or maybe she was sick or hurt. After all, those gangsters in Chicago worked with the employers by going around and beating up on union organizers. She could be hurt and not want to say anything about it. Maybe she wasn't receiving my letters. I mailed a letter from every port. She couldn't be that busy. "Skipper's putting out a draw," the cook said. "Better go topside and get it before he closes up the safe."

  Seville was overwhelming. Its churches were magnificent, tall steeples rising high in the sky over the beautiful, warm Andalusian city. It was a seafarer's port, with lots of nightclubs, restaurants and beautiful women. I took my customary walk, taking hours to go from one end of the city to another, delighted with the people I met. They were friendly and cheerful.

  I looked for several things on my walks, especially the way of life of the people and the children. I found no children harassing strangers
on the streets, offering to take them home to sleep with their sisters like children did in the poverty-stricken cities of the Orient. As in other parts of Spain, the people seemed to be managing. They didn't look well-off economically, but neither did they seem to be starving. They walked proudly with keen eyes, and one could feel their newly-found self-confidence.

  Much political activity could be sensed in this region. Away from the main business street and off in the working-class residential streets, walls were covered with slogans and posters. Hammers and sickles were very much in evidence. I was angry that I couldn't speak the language well enough to be able to carry on a conversation. I could feel important things going on around me, but I couldn't put my finger on it.

  The crew celebrated the first night in any port as if they had been at sea for ten years. Nightclubs were crowded with people, but the saloons were the places I liked best. On one side was the bar, on the other was the lunch counter. Between the two were tables and chairs. In Seville you were entitled to a plate of cooked shrimp in the shell with every beer or drink. If you preferred you could have a double-handful of peanuts; if there were other cooked meats, you could have them, too. It was just like the Hoboken free lunch counters in the old clam-broth houses on River Street--only with more goodies and more class.

  Socially, I had been going ashore with one or two buddies to sit and drink or take in a nightclub. I discussed Marxism most of the time, which did not result in my buddies' being convinced of its validity. Still, they thought that it was more pleasant to be with me than with most of the other guys aboard ship. If for no other reason it was because we didn't end up in fist fights or by being carried back to the ship by police, dead drunk. They knew that I had to stay alert and not do anything that might bring me or my beliefs into ill repute. Once we had our fill of drinks a taxi took us back to the ship to be ready for work the next morning.