Steel Part 1

Steel.

by Charles Rumford Walker.

Foreword

In the summer of 1919, a few weeks before the Great Steel Strike, I bought some second-hand clothes and went to work on an open-hearth furnace near Pittsburgh to learn the steel business. I was a graduate of Yale, and a few weeks before had resigned a commission as first-lieutenant in the regular army. Clean-up man in the pit was my first job, which I held until I pa.s.sed to third-helper on the open-hearth. Later I worked in the cast-house, became a member of the stove-gang, and at length achieved the semi-skilled job of hot-blast man on the blast-furnace. I acquired the current Anglo-Hunky language and knew speedily the grind and the camaraderie of American steel-making. In these chapters I have put down what I saw, felt, and thought as a steel-worker in 1919.

Steel is perhaps the basic industry of America. In a sense it is the industry that props our complex industrial civilization, since it supplies the steel frame, the steel rail, the steel tool without which locomotives and skysc.r.a.pers would be impossible. And in America it contains the largest known combination of management and capital, the United States Steel Corporation. Some appreciation of these things I had when I went to work in the steel business. It was clear that steel had become something of a barometer not only for American business but for American labor. I was keenly interested to know what would happen, and believed that basic industries like steel and coal were cast for leading roles either in the breaking-up or the making-over of society.

The book is written from a diary of notes put down in the evenings when I was working on day s.h.i.+fts of ten hours. Alternate weeks, I worked the fourteen-hour night s.h.i.+ft, and spent my time off eating or asleep.

The book is a narrative--heat, fatigue, rough-house, pay, as they came in an uncharted wave throughout the twenty-four hours.

But it is in a sense raw material, I believe, that suggests the beginnings of several studies both human and economic. Mr. Walter Lippmann has recently pointed out that men do not act in accordance with the facts and forces of the world as it is, but in accordance with the "picture" of it they have in their heads.[1] Nowhere does the form and pressure of the real world differ more sharply from the picture in men's heads than among different social and racial groups in industry. Nor is anywhere the accuracy of the picture of more importance. An open-hearth furnace helper, working the twelve-hour day, and a Boston broker, owning fifty shares of Steel Preferred, hold, as a rule, strikingly different pictures of the same forces and conditions. But what is of greater importance is that director, manager, foreman, by reason of training, interest, or tradition, are often quite as unable to guess at the picture in the worker's head, and hence to understand his actions, as the more distant stockholder.

Perhaps a technique may some day arise which will supply the executives of industry not only with the facts about employees in their varied racial and social groups but supply the facts with _due emphasis_ and in _three dimensions_ so that the controller of power may be able to see them as descriptive of men of like mind with himself. The conclusion most burned into my consciousness was the lack of such knowledge or understanding in the steel industry and the imperative need of securing it, in order to escape continual industrial war, and perhaps disaster.

There are certain inferences, I think, like the above, that can be made from this record. But no thesis has been introduced and no argument developed. I have recorded the impressions of a complex environment, putting into words sight, sound, feeling, and thought. The book may be read as a story of men and machines and a personal adventure among them no less than as a study of conditions and a system.

C. R. W.

FOOTNOTE:

[1] _Public Opinion_: Harcourt, Brace and Company, 1922.

STEEL

I

CAMP EUSTIS--BOUTON, PENNSYLVANIA

A small torrent of khaki swept on to the ferryboat that was taking troops to the special train for Camp Merritt. They stood all over her deck, in uncomfortably small areas; there seemed to be no room for the pack, which perhaps you were expected to swallow. Faces were a little pale from seasickness, but carried a uniformly radiant expression, which proceeded from a lively antic.i.p.ation of civilian happiness. The conversation was ejaculatory, and included slapping and digging and squeezing your neighbor. Men were saying over and over again: "This is about the last li'l war they'll ketch me for."

I succeeded in getting beside the civilian pilot.

"What's happening in America?" I asked.

"Oh," he said, "it's a mess over here. There ain't any jobs, and labor is raisin' h.e.l.l. Everybody that hez a job strikes." He looked out over the water at a tug hurrying past. "I don't know what we're comin' out at. Russia, mebbe."

In the spring of the year Camp Eustis was an island of concrete roads and wooden barracks salvaged from an encroaching sea of mud. Its site had been selected at an immense distance from any village, or even any collection of human dwellings, for particular reasons. It was to contain the longest artillery range in the United States.

After wallowing in bog road through Virginian forest, one came with a shock of relief to a wide, raised, concrete roadbed, which pa.s.sed newly built warehouses and, after an eighth of a mile, curved into the centre of the camp.

It was like any one of the score of mushroom military centres that grew up on American soil in the years from 1917 to 1919, except that there was an unusual abundance of heavy guns. They covered field upon field, opposite the ordnance warehouses, and their yellow and green camouflage looked absurdly showy in the spring suns.h.i.+ne. Mornings, there was apt to be a captive balloon or two afloat from the balloon school, against blue sky and white clouds; and the landscape held several gaunt observation towers, constructed of steel girders and rising from the forest to a height of seventy-five or eighty feet.

The camp was crowded with returning overseas units, awaiting demobilization and praying earnestly for it day by day, as men pray for pardon.

In a few weeks I should be out of this, going to work somewhere, wearing cits. What a variety of moods the world had split into, from the enormous tension that relaxed on the eleventh of November.

Geographically the training-camp was two thousand miles from the devastations of Europe; and from the new forces that were destroying or renewing civilization, how many more? It seemed like the aftermath of an exciting play that had just been acted; waiting here was like staying to put away properties, and dismiss the actors. It occurred to me that the camp was at least ten thousand miles from America.

There was one consolation in this interminable lingering amid the spring muds and rains of Virginia. Duties were light, and there were a hundred and fifty cavalry horses in the stables, needing exercise. Sometimes we went out on the drill-ground and were taught tricks by an old cavalry officer; or hurdles were set up and we practised jumping our horses. The roads were deeply gutted by spring rains and the pressure of heavy trucks, but there were wood-trails good to explore, and interesting objectives like Williamstown or Yorktown. I fell into doing my thinking in the saddle.

Naturally I wondered about my new job--my civilian job. It was not just an ordinary change from one breadwinning place to another. It was a new job in a world never convertible quite to the one that had kindled the war. It was impossible not to feel that the civilized structure had shaken and disintegrated a bit, or to escape the sense of great powers released. I was unable to decide whether the powers were cast for a role of great destruction or of great renewal.

Even in Eustis we received newspapers. The urge and groan of those powers naturally worked into phrases now and then, and even into special tightly worded formulae. I remember newspaper e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns, professorial dissertations, orators' exaggerations: "Capital and labor--Labor in its place--The proletariat--A new order"--and so forth. I felt confused and distrustful in the face of phrases and of the implied doctrines, old and new.

Besides the business of demobilizing the national army, the remaining regular officers and non-coms went into the school of fire, and practised observation of shots over a beautiful relief map of the "Chemin-des-Dames." This was the most warlike thing we did and continued for several months.

One day I took a walk beside the ordnance warehouses, and looked over at the rows of guns stretching for a quarter of a mile beside railroad tracks. In a short time I would be turning my back on these complicated engines. I was even sorry about it, a little; I had spent so much sweat and brain learning about their crankinesses.

In that civil life to follow, I began to see that I wanted two things: 1, a job to give me a living; 2, a chance to discover and build under the new social and economic conditions.

I was twenty-five, a college graduate, a first-lieutenant in the army.

In the civilian world into which I was about to jump, most of my connections were with the university I had recently left, few or none in the business world. Why not enlist, then, in one of the basic industries, coal, oil, or steel? I liked steel--it was the basic American industry, and technically and economically it interested me.

Why not enlist in steel? Get a laborer's job? Learn the business? And, besides, the chemical forces of change, I meditated, were at work at the _bottom_ of society--

The next day I sent in the resignation of my commission in the regular army of the United States.

Outside the car window, ore piles were visible, black stacks and sooty sheet-iron mills, coal dumps and jagged cuts in the hills against greenness and the meadows and mountains beyond. There were farms, here and there, but they seemed to have been let in by sufferance amid the primary apparatus of the steel-makers.

What an amazingly primary thing steel had become in the civilization we called modern! Steel was the basic industry of America; but, more than that, it was, in a sense, the b.u.t.tress, the essential frame, rather, of present-day life. It made rails, surgical instruments, the girders of skysc.r.a.pers, the tools which cut, bored, and filed all the other tools that made, in their turn, the material basis of our living. It was interesting to think that it contained America's biggest "trust," the greatest example of integration, of financial, of managerial combination, anywhere to be found. Steel was critical in America's future, wasn't it--critical for business, critical for labor?

I met a salesman on the train, who was about to go into business for himself. "I intend to start out on a new tack," he said.

He told me briefly his life-story, and how things were forcing him to start a new enterprise, alone. He was very much excited by the idea. He was going to quit his employer, having been with him twenty-nine years.

"I'm getting a new job myself," I said; "I've just got out of the army."

We both fell into silence, and thought of our own separate futures.

What were a young man's chances in American business to-day? I thought of a book I had just been reading called, "The Age of Big Business." In it was the story of the first captains who saw a vision of immense material development, and with the utmost vigor and hardihood pushed on and marked the leading trails. But apparently the affair had been too roughly done, the structure too crudely wrought: machinery jarred, broke, threatened to bring life down in a rusty heap. "No, you are wrong," I fancied the business leader saying; "it is the agitator who, by dwelling on imaginary ills, has stirred up the ma.s.ses of mankind."

I gazed out of the window at the black mills as we pa.s.sed them. I was about to learn the steel business. I knew perfectly well that the men who built this basic structure were as hardy and intelligent--no less and no more so, I hazarded--as this new generation of mine. But the job--difficult technical job though it was--appeared too simple in their eyes. "Build up business, and society will take care of itself," they had said. A partial breakdown, a partial revolution had resulted.

Perhaps a thoroughgoing revolution threatened. I didn't know.

I knew there was no "solution." There was nothing so neat as that for this multiform condition. But an _adjustment_, a _working arrangement_ would be found out, somehow, by my generation. I expected to discover no specific--no formula with ribbons--after working at the bottom of the mill. I did expect to learn something of the practical technique of making steel, and alongside it,--despite, or perhaps because of, an outsider's fresh vision,--some sense of the forces getting ready at the bottom of things to make or break society. Both kinds of education were certainly up to my generation.