The Daily Worker Newspaper, July 3, 1926, Page 10

ee eee —— ht, =r m4 Eccleston Square. +e + By T. J. O'FLAHERTY. HERE were two British govern- ments sitting in London on the morning of May 4, when the first line of defense of the army of labor was thrown into the struggle to defend the miners, in what developed to be the _ Breatest general strike in human his- tory from the point of view of forces arrayed, one against the other, tho it ended in a debacle hardly without parallel in the records of the labor movement of any country. At Downing street the executive committee of the capitalist class, which was solidly behind the coal owners sat- and acted with vigor. They had no illusions about the chal- lenge to the government involved in the general strike, tho being quite well aware that the leaders of the General Council had no more ambition to overthrow the government than had the prince of Wales, who had returned from a Continental watering place to do his duty at the home front as his good friends on the capitalist press told us. He flew home in an airplane and was not heard of any more until after the strike was over, when the papers announced that he had to go grouse hunting in Scotland in order to recuperate after his arduous toil dur- ing the crisis. Eccleston Square was the seat of the industrial government which did not realize it was a government. Neither did it want to. Here was quartered the high command of the labor forces, with Ernest Bevin, th “Dockers’ K. C.” general in command. The statue of Lord Nelson, in Tra- falgar Square, looked down on a group of buildings in which were housed a‘ worried a set of British officials as ever presided over the destinies of the empire. Not since the Spanish ar- mada threatened the “tight little isle” in the days of the “Virgin Queen” were there so many evil forebodings floating thru the air of Whitehall. All the capitalist papers, with the exception of the Daily Mail and a few others, were on the streets screeching like deceived prostitutes. Yet they knew what they were talking about. There was no division here. Most of them had words of praise for J. H. Thomas, Pictures showed Mr. Thomas shed- ding tears all over the town. He was their man. Motorcycles with message-bearers dashed out of Whitehall to all parts of the country. The government knew it was at war, and it did not know how long it would be able to depend on the telegraph. Similar sights could be witnessed at Here is an excerpt from an announcement that appeared on May 3 in the Daily Herald: “The T. U. C. appeals to all friends and supporters who have motor cars to place them and their own services at the disposal of the Movement in order to maintain a complete chain of communication between district and district.” This also looked as if the T. U. C. knew it was at war. There were plenty of motorcycles, with engines running and riders in the saddle, waiting at all trade union headquarters. They also rushed madly to all parts of England, Scotland and Wales with dispatches. The govern- ment dared not interfere. As a matter of fact, the government was as weak as a cat during the first days of the strike. The legend “By Permission of the T. U. ©.” carried more weight in many parts of Eng- land than “On His Majesty’s Service,” ee HE Welsh chambermaid in the ho- tel where I stayed was humming a song as she worked. I suspected the language was Welsh, and so it was. Being curious, I inquired what it was all about, and she told me that the song was in praise of the prince of Wales. Her three brothers and father were on strike and she was certain they would fight to win. “What do they do when they are on strike?” I asked. “They go out on the hills and kill sheep,” she replied. “Sure, they won't be hungry as long as there is anything to eat.” “But what about the prince? Surely he has no interest in the miners.” “Oh, yes, he loves them. You know I went down to Hyde Park last Sunday to hear him speak. I often’go there to hear the Red Flag and the Welsh singers. There ig a lot of singing in Hyde Park, There is Irish singing there, too, but the Welsh always beat the Irish singing.” “Did the pringe speak last Sunday?” “No,” she replied, rather sorrow- fully, : “That’s that,” said I to myself, as went out to see what I could see. Every conceivable kind of vehicle was in the streets. The congestion vas almost perfect. The taxi drivers vere not yet out, but a pair of cornless feet was the quickest means of loco- motion, I went into a barber shop on Fleet street for a shave. This was on the first day of the strike. A jovial fellow bearing all the scars of a journalist (mostly on his nose) entered and re- marked to the barber: “Well, I see that you are not on strike yet!” “Not yet,” replied the barber. “But who knows? Next week, perhaps you may be walking around with a pair of whiskers that would make any one of the Smith Brothers turn green with envy. Are you going to fight for your king and country this time?” ” “Like hell I am. I did that once and once was enough. I am for labor No longer heedful horn, scorn To the Ruling Class of England. By HENRY GEORGE WEISS. © you have need to plot and plan, My lords and ladies gay, Against the common working man Who dares to speak today, Against the common working man Who has a thing to say. Respectful of his lord, He stands and looks you in the face And damns you with a word, He stands and looks you in the face And buckles on a sword. Such insolence must not be borne, My lords and ladies gay; Come blow the trumpet, wind the And loose the pack away, The pack of cringing hounds you Yet urge upon your prey. For you must kill and kill and kill, Wipe out the red with red, Of blood and slaughter have your fill, And trample on the dead, And drive back to the mine and mill The slave who raised his head. O you have need to plot and plan, Who boast your blood is blue, Against the common working man Who dares to challenge you, Yet hearken, as you plot and plan Yet hearken! as you plot and plan in this scrap. The holding up of the Daily Mail was the best thing that was ever done in this country.” It was not difficult to run into that kind of sentiment around town, par- ticularly where workers of any cate- gory of labor congregated. There was a different atmosphere on the Strand and the nearer one got to Whitehall the tougher it got. This is where the building that houses the Morning Post plant is located. The Post is the leading organ of British fascism and it was this plant that the government “commandeered” in order to be in a position to issue the “Brit- ish Gazette.” It was rumored that the Daily Mail people were quite angry with the government because the Car- melite House plant was not selected. The Post got considerable advertis- ing out of the use of its plant and no foie ‘Honis"in tash bestdes, Winston Churchill came as near be- ing a dictator during the strike as he and his chief aids would publicly ad- mit. He wrote the articles in the Ga- zette, signed “By a Cabinet Minister.” Churchill is extremely unpopular in England with most sections of the pop ulation, the fascists alone, perhaps, ex- cepted. But he is aggressive and an extreme labor hater. He was the man to give the trade unions the “whiff of grape shot.” And he was perfectly ready to draw blood. Churchill drove up to the triangu- of his place, New Days in Old England ‘ The Big Battle Opens. lar Post building about midnight on May 3. About five hundred scowling trade unionists were watching the clumsy efforts of a few dozen scabs trying to unload print paper off a truck. Little by little the hum of con- versation increased. Most of the on- lookers were printers. Police were stationed at short distances from each other around the square. I spoke to a little man at my side and made an un- complimentary remark on the skill of the blacklegs. A policeman cocked his ear and walked over to an inspector who stood in the middle of the square, The latter immediately called his force together and gave them orders to dis- perse the crowd. On the following evening I accom- panied.Charles Ashleigh to a printers’ meeting somewhere around Fleet street, and the first person I laid eyes on was the worker I accosted on the previous evening. He was a member of Natsopa, the organization that stopped the Daily Mail. * * = 1B paregae the Bank of England, right in the heart of the city a boy was selling the British Worker. No- body particularly cared what kind of a paper it was, but they grabbed it. It was not the most fertile ground to drop the labor seed on, but the news- boy did not care as long as he was getting the coppers. ee | typical burlesque stage English- man emerged from one of the count- ing houses and dashed for the news- boy. “Paper,” he asked. He was handed a British Worker. Gazing at it rather abstractedly, he passed the penny to the newsboy with a slow mo- tion movement. When he recovered his senses he muttered audibly. “By George! A labor paper.” Yes, the sa- cred precincts of the city was being invaded by the proletariat. On the Stran& opposite Charing Cross Station a plump lady was sam- pling the wares of a mushroom news- boy (his boyhood days were only a memory), He had quite a collection of sheets issued by enterprising mer- chants. A very effective method of advertising. All the news, if such it may be termed, was from the British Broadcasting Company, a government monopoly, and the most lying institu- tion that ever used the air. I asked the old news vendor for a copy of the British Gazette. He went to hunt for a copy. “Stirring days,” I remarked to the lady. “The country is pretty well tied up.” She burst into fury. “These labor leaders should be shot,” she said. “The government shoul call out the Grenadier Guards and give the cattle a lesson.” “Don’t you think the government broke off negotiations rather precipi- tately?” I observed. The lady grew purple. “Negotiate with that rabble!” she snorted. Then some more sugges- tions as to the use of gunpowder. “They must be taught to know their place,” was her parting shot. A newsboy in front of the postoffice at Trafalgar Square did not have a copy of the British Gazette, but he promised to have a copy for me about 12 noon. When I returned he handed me a British Worker. I asked for a Chicago Tribune, Paris edition. This was the third day of the strike. Noth- ing doing. Scotland Yard would not allow him to carry the Trib. Why? On the previous day he was shout- ing his wares, and a Tory M. P. who was passing by thought the contents of the paper as heralded by the young lad was favorable to the workers, Lloyd George said something in behalf of the miners and blamed the govern- ment for breaking ~off negotiations. “Free speech” did not work in Eng- land any more. The M. P. called a bobby and asked him to arrest the newsboy on the ground that he was inciting the public. The constable looked at the paper and said that the stories justified the lad, so he could not arrest him. The Tory was far from satisfied, so he went down to Scotland Yard and returned with an inspector. The latter warned the newsboy to be careful in the future and told him that he could not secure any more Tribunes until the strike was over, He kept his word,