by Mick Lowe
© Mick Lowe 2014
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
ISBN 978-1-77186-012-3 pbk; 978-1-77186-017-8 epub; 978-1-77186-018-5 pdf; 978-1-77186-019-2 mobi/kindle
Cover painting, “Hardrock,” back cover illustration “The Siege of the Mine Mill Local 598 Hall” by Oryst Sawchuk
Cover by Folio infographie
All illustrations by Oryst Sawchuk
Book design and epub by Folio infographie
Legal Deposit, 2nd quarter 2014
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For Anita, through it all,
-Still my Sky.
-Still your Slim.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: The Raids is a work of fiction, based on actual events that occurred in my adopted hometown, Sudbury, Ontario, at the height of the Cold War, well within the living memory of many mature Sudburians …
The author anticipates the reader will inevitably be tempted to ask: “Did this really happen?” To which the author will reply “This is a work of fiction, and besides, you’re asking the wrong question, rather than the right one: ‘Could this actually have happened?’”
To which the author replies, “Emphatically, yes.”
Although I have taken liberties with time—compressing many actual events of the raids, which lasted for half a decade in the 1960s, into a single year.
No one actually died during the Steel raids—or, rather, no such murders were ever reported during this turbulent time. However …
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
“Freakin’ hard rock miners, I swear—fix a watch with an axe and a wedge.”
Rick Briggs, President
Mine Mill Local 598
1984-1995
“Eisenhower, though, combined the mind-set of a warrior with a sober understanding of the devastation full-scale war brings. That led him to covert action. With the Dulles brothers as his right and left arms, he led the United States into a secret global conflict that raged throughout his presidency.
“In the secrecy-shrouded 1950s and for long afterward, the scope of this unseen war remained obscure. Truths about it have emerged slowly, episodically in isolated pieces over the course of decades. Woven back together in their original sequence, they tell an illuminating tale.”
-Stephen Kinzer, The Brothers: John Foster Dulles, Allen Dulles, and their Secret World War (2013)
Part one
Jake, Ascending
1
Jake, Ascending
Dayshift, Garson Mine
Sudbury, Ontario, Canada
Monday, May 6, 1963
6 AM
What they neglected to tell him before that first shift was that you weren’t lowered into the mine; you were dropped.
The only inkling of the bullet-like descent of the cage, packed with its human cargo, plummeting down the greased shaft guides, was the build-up of pressure on Jake’s eardrums. The miners were packed so tightly, in fact, that there was no room for Jake and his forty-five or so compatriots to carry their lunch boxes. Instead, each man simply placed his lunch box between his boots on the splintered wooden floor of the cage.
The air was redolent of excessive aftershave and explosive Cold War tension. When the cage was between levels it was deceptively quiet, with little indication of the colossal forces at play around their peaceful, gently rocking world: the cage rocketing downward toward the molten centre of the earth at a hundred feet per second, suspended from a tightly wound, heavily greased wire rope thousands of feet long unspooling with unimaginable rapidity. Only when the cage passed a level—its bright lights and promise of life appearing and disappearing in the blink of an eye—was there a sense of the speed of their descent.
“He’s a fuckin’ Commie,” Jake heard from someone standing in front of him.
“Câlice!” The French invective was hurled from the back of the cage.
“Oh, and Thibault’s Red, too.”
“Tabernac!” again from the rear.
There wasn’t enough room to swing a cat, much less a punch, which was a good thing, too, Jake reflected, as the cage glided to a halt. With a rapid insouciance born of countless repetitions the cage tender yanked on his bell cord a few times, raised the scissors gate and swung out the heavy steel gate, the signal at once reaching the hoistman on surface nearly a half-mile above just after he braked the cage to a stop, the heavy car bobbing slightly as the wire rope slackened and tightened to absorb the strain.
“Twenty-two hundred, gentlemen,” announced the tender with a wry, courtly formality.
They crowded out onto the level, still tightly bunched, like a school of fish. Instinctively Jake glanced down before he stepped out of the cage. Its floor was nearly flush with the deck. This was a wizardry that would come to profoundly impress Jake: how the hoistman, sitting in his easy chair in his silent, dimly lit little antechamber adjacent to the shaft house and equipped only with a few manual levers, foot pedals and a giant circular glass-enclosed dial, could so unerringly calibrate the forces of gravity and momentum over a distance of a half-mile through solid rock.
He stepped out onto the level.
And then a half-dozen novel sensations washed over Jake in a rush: the hollow loud metallic clang as the tender pulled the heavy gate shut, the ear-splitting ring of the hoist signal bells, the underground smells of a working hard rock mine—the damp most of all, suffused with the hint of sulphur overpowered by the acrid reek of ammonia.
Jake was surprised how light it was—not bright, certainly, but here at the loading station there were a half-dozen bulbs glowing inside protective steel frames. The walls had been sprayed with some kind of reflective coating. Off in the distance down the main haulage drift a string of lights burned bravely in a losing battle against the all enveloping dark. The world ended abruptly past the last one.
Even as he was taking his bearings, Jake became aware of a slender older man of medium height standing facing the shaft.
“You young McCool?” the face behind the question broke into a ready, welcoming smile above an outstretched hand. “I knew your dad. We were stewards together at Stobie. Big Bill was a good union man. I’m Bob Jesperson, your new partner.”
Jake accepted the proffered hand. The grip was firm, but not bone-crushing.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Jesperson.”
The older man waved the formality aside.
“Please, let’s make it Bob.”
Jake studied the older man, found a friendly face and clear blue eyes just visible behind a pair of eyeglasses surrounded by the safety glasses wh
ich were a mandatory piece of protective equipment for everyone in the mine. Jesperson turned to face the haulage drift before looking up at Jake, who stood a good head taller than the older man.
“Ever been underground before?”
Jake shook his head.
Jesperson turned his back to the shaft and pointed down the tunnel, which was the only exit from the loading station.
“Haulage drift. Main drift. Muck’s trammed out on those rails you see there”—for the first time Jake noticed the narrow gauge rails on the floor of the drift—“to be hoisted to surface.”
Jake nodded. Jesperson motioned for him to follow and set off down the drift.
II
Was, Jake thought, as he trudged along behind Bob. His dad was a good union man, fairly worshipping at the altar of the Great, Almighty Mine Mill, until the disastrous strike of ’58 had nearly ruined the family, and the seemingly impregnable Local 598 along with it. The bargaining agent for all of International Nickel’s eighteen thousand production and maintenance workers in the Sudbury Basin, Local 598 was larger than many whole unions, a true trade union colossus.
Oh, it had all started well enough that fall in 1958, with a breezy confidence borne of hubris and inexperience. For the first fifteen years of its existence the big Local had negotiated a series of one-year agreements without ever striking, which had fostered prosperity, yes, but also false confidence as to the impacts of their actions: the winter alone would bring the company to its knees, with water lines in the surface plants freezing and bursting, and furnace linings cracking in the unaccustomed cold.
But the long post-war boom was finally, unimaginably, drawing to a close, and a mild recession was beginning. Demand for nickel slackened accordingly, and the world price was buoyed, paradoxically, only by their own strike.
As Christmas approached, bleak reality set in. Mine Mill, which had earlier been expelled from the AFL-CIO for its left-wing leanings, was unable to turn to other unions for financial support, with the singular exception of Jimmy Hoffa’s Teamsters, which had also been expelled from the American house of labour years earlier. When a delegation of Sudbury strike leaders appealed to the Teamsters for support Hoffa himself greeted them warmly, pledging one million dollars in strike support on the spot. It was a generous enough gesture—one that would be all but unrecorded in history, but amongst eighteen thousand workers a million bucks didn’t last long. Strike pay, minimal though it had been, was reduced to a trickle, and then dried up entirely. The strikers’ wives, faced with the prospect of a Christmas without presents for their children, began to waver in their support of their husbands’ cause, a hesitation that was quickly exploited by a right-wing mayor who organized a mass pre-Christmas, anti-strike wives’ rally in the city’s largest hockey arena.
The water lines in the plants did not freeze. Furnace linings did not crack. Instead, the company itself simply dug in, content to save millions in wages while selling stockpiled nickel at a slightly elevated world price.
Family savings dwindled and cupboards became bare just as the cold weather and holidays loomed. The McCools were no exception. Instead, they became gleaners. It was a humiliating act of desperation Jake would never forget: Big Bill, proud Mine Miller and highly paid, highly skilled hard rock miner, piled his whole family into their old black Chevy sedan for the trip to a farmer’s field out in the Valley—the farmer was a union sympathizer who opened his fields to strikers—to dig up any unharvested potatoes they could pry out of the frozen ground. They unearthed the spuds with shovels and spades at first, before sinking to their knees to claw their quarry out of the frozen, unyielding earth with their bare hands and with fingers numbed by the cold.
Jake’s mom did what she could, improvising dozens of new ways to cook potatoes, but there was no way to disguise the bitter taste of defeat that accompanied every meal that terrible winter. Still Big Bill, long a strong union man, clung stubbornly to his pride, exhorting his fellow strikers to greater resolve out on the picket lines. But at home, behind closed doors, the strain was almost more than any of them could bear.
And for what?
Jake still wondered as he trailed down the drift behind Bob Jesperson. The strike ended, finally, when the union had been forced to settle for the same offer it had rejected before the strike began, before the hardship, the near starvation, the barren Christmas. Even Jake’s dad, proud Mine Miller though he’d been, had to admit it was a terrible defeat.
Shortly after the strike ended Big Bill McCool quietly slipped into the Union Hall and surrendered his steward’s badge.
III
The strike’s outcome cast a long shadow over the big Local’s leadership. Blood was in the water, and the union’s monthly membership meetings, always lively affairs, became downright fractious. In the wake of Mine Mill’s expulsion from the AFL-CIO the United Steelworkers of America became the officially sanctioned industrial union in Mine Mill’s historic jurisdiction, and the Pittsburgh-based Steelworkers had quickly begun to swell their own ranks by gobbling up, one by one, Mine Mill Locals in the States.
There were growing suspicions that Steel had now set its sights on the biggest prize of all—Local 598. Those fears were confirmed when Steel organizers began to sign Steelworkers’ membership cards on the job, launching an all-out raid on the big Local. The insurgents were led by vocal opponents of the progressive leaders who had so badly bungled the strike, and the pro-Steel forces soon gained traction. The conflict quickly surged beyond the Union Hall to engulf the entire community. The city was split right down the middle: either you were a Mine Miller, and a suspected Commie dupe, or pro-Steel, and a McCarthyite tool of Washington and the CIA. There was no middle ground, nowhere to hide. On Sundays Roman Catholic priests inveighed from their pulpits against the Mine Mill, warning their flocks about the perils of godless Communism. There were Mine Mill bars, and Steelworker bars. Extremes played out in public, and among the innocents. In the schoolyards Steel kids ganged up on Mine Mill kids and vice versa. Fistfights between factions and, on bad days, full-on riots became commonplace. Global Cold War escalated into a heated local civil war on the streets of Sudbury.
Personally, Jake could care less. He had little use for unions, anyway. Oh, he conceded that they had probably been necessary when they were first organized, in the Dirty Thirties when everyone was out of work, and young men his age had been forced to hop freights, riding the rods all over Canada to seek employment. But this was the sixties; times had changed.
IV
They had long since passed the last light bulb in the drift, and Bob slowed his pace before turning to face Jake.
“Turn off your lamp,” he ordered Jake.
Bob extinguished his own cap lamp, the battery-powered bulb clipped to his hard hat that was now his only source of illumination.
Jake followed suit, and quickly found himself enveloped in a total darkness he could never have imagined. There was no hint of light. No gleam, no glimmer, no shadow. It was as if the sun had never shone, and in this place never would. Instinctively, Jake waved his hand just in front of his nose. Nothing. He was disembodied. The effect was almost dizzying, and not altogether pleasant. The darkness was absolute, the new, all-pervading normal. Impenetrable. Eternal.
Point taken in a trice.
“Okay,” Bob said simply before switching his lamp back on. Jake quickly followed suit, heartily grateful even for the dim yellow beams that barely pierced the dusty, mote-filled gloom.
They resumed their trek through the drift, Jesperson once again in the lead. It was hard going, even though the floor was nearly level. The cross-ties for the tram tracks were awkwardly spaced, either slightly more or slightly less than a grown man’s step. The rails were inviting and fairly flat, but so greasy from the all-pervasive mine damp as to present yet another hazard. Nor was venturing off the rail bed an option—the ballasted right-of-way fell off sharply on either side to a ditch where brackish water had collected.
Jake fou
nd it a struggle to keep pace with his new partner, who forged ahead with the nonchalance of a man out for a casual, if brisk, Sunday stroll.
Even though he was only nineteen, Jake was surprised, and more than a little irritated, at the exertion he felt in keeping up to the much older man. Why, he was even working up a sweat, and felt slightly winded! Much of it, Jake rationalized, stemmed from his unfamiliar attire.
Heavy, ill-fitting miner’s boots—steel-toed and steel-shanked—cumbersome thick webbed safety belt, heavy battery strapped to heavy belt, rubberized cable from battery to cap lamp, all combined to weigh him down, to hamper his movement so that even the simplest motion demanded extra effort.
Jake felt sheepish, and more than a little alarmed, at this revelation of his own vulnerability. For as long as he could remember he’d always been the biggest, toughest kid on the block. He’d inherited his father’s frame, if not—yet—his bulk, which meant he now packed more than two hundred pounds of lean muscle onto a frame well over six feet. But his very size had made him the target of every would-be schoolyard bully in every class. The inevitable confrontations invariably ended in blood and tears—though rarely Jake’s own. Possessor of a dangerous, quick temper, Jake loved a good scrap, even though it usually meant being hauled to the principal’s office despite what had been, to him, self-evident acts of self-defence.
Hockey had been a salvation. Jake loved the speed of the game, the violence of the corners. He developed into a serviceable defenceman with a surprisingly wicked point shot which made him a staple penalty killer. And he never minded dropping the gloves, either. Here at last was a place where he could surrender to the red eye of his temper without hindrance. In fact, his coach and teammates and the crowd—especially the crowd—went crazy when Jake pummeled his opponent nearly senseless and blood began to spatter on the ice. Besides being a safe outlet for his temper, Jake’s on-ice abilities had also helped him stay in school, transforming him into a hero, at least for the first two years of high school.