Document text
pt10,4A-1_t_e,- 1 5
Forms to be Filled out for Each Intervie
FORM A.
Circumstavces of Intervi'Av
STATE New York
NAME OF WORKER Wayne Walden
ADDRESS
DATE
SUBJECT
FOLKLORE
NEW YORK
51 Bank S., New York City
November 7, 1938
REMINISCENCES OF A REBEL CONSCIENTIOUS OBJECTOR
1. Date and time of inter,!lew November 3, 1938
2. Place of interview
3. Name and address of informani, John Turner
This informant does not wish his name to be used
4. Name and address of person, if any, wie put you in
touch with informant.
5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you
6. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.
See previous interviews Oct. 17 and 27th.
(Use as many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each
bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)
STATE
NAME
New York
OF WAXER
ADDRESS
DATE
SUAJECT
FORN.
Personal history of nformat
WAYNE WALDEN
51 Bank Street, NYC
ilovember 7, 1938
REMINISCENCES OF A REBEL: CONSCIENTIOUS OBJECTOR
1. Ancestry
Of Scotch -Irish descent
2. Place and date of birth
3. Family.
4. Places livee.
FOLKLORE
NE v" YORK
Mr. Turner did not care to give age, place and
date of birth, or other personal information
as he does not wish his name to be used
Apparently has none.
5. Education, with Jes
6. 03cupations and accomplichmentF, with ciaLeF.
7. Special skiJls and interests
8. Community and religious ac
0. Description of informant A well-built, apparently healthy individ-
ual, in his late sixties. Pleasant, agree-
able. Great sense of humor --though cynical
upon occasions.
10. Other Points gained in interview
FOLKLORE
FORM C
N2'' YORK
YORK
Text of Interview kUneditefl)
STATE New York
NAME OF W02,KER Wayne Walden
lommEss 51 Bank S. New York City
DATE November 7, 1938
SUBJECT REMINISCENCES OF A REBEL CONSCIENTIOUS OBJECTOR
My informant was a conscientious objector during the period
of the War dnd declined to give me his name. "It's hard enought to
hunt a job, as it is", he explained, "without making it still more
difficult by naming myself as one who opposed the war." "Nearly
everyone now agrees with what we C. Ots said at the time; nearly
every sane person now admits that the war was everything we predicted
it would be; nearly everybody laments the loss of life and ruination
Lthe war left in it's wake-Athey all now know that it was one hell of
a big blunder, but they all still denounce and ridicule us for not
going crazy too when they did. We still are an unhonored lot.
Unlike those who marched uncritically and abjectly into the slaughter,
our stand, Ls C. Ols, was such that we as yet cannot also strut,
brag and swagger as heroes. Of course, as things turned out, a
long depression, with the "heroes" favored on jobs and civil service,
we may have been foolish not to have gone crazy along with all the
rest. But we, despite what they say, were certainly no cowards.
The joy -ride over to France, with the cheers of the business elements
and the flattering attention from the ladles, even though after a
training spell we were thrown into the trenches, was more alluring than
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the abuse and misunderstanding, the starvation and rotting away in
solitary cells, that many of us knew awaited us as objectors. Dont
kid yourself, nor let anyone else kid you, about the C. O's being
afraid of fighting; it took a damned sight more guts to resist the
national hysteria than to fall in line with it. "And at that, there
were times when we had no more assurance of emerging alive from the
jails and penitentiaries than were the more glorified and subserviant
guys in the trenches. After all, our refusing to be fed as fodder
to the bloody war, was a financial saving to Uncle Sam. When, with
his pants down, and dizzy with the clamorous demands upon him in the
heart of the depression, we, at least, didn't bother him for a bonusl"
The following reminiscences are of actual happenings, says
my informant, and none of them have heretofore been collected or
published. If acceptable for inclusion in the folk -lore, but necessary
to have assurance of the truth of them, the teller of these tales
will furnish proof of their authenticity, so far as is possible.
"In Chicago, during the excitement attending the daily
expectation of the United States entering the war, I was arrested on
suspicion of being instrumental in opposing the preparations. The
jailor, pausing before my cell, rather politely asked 'What are you
in for?' I answered that I really didn't know, but that it was
probably because they feared I would prevent the war. 'You mean
to say that you're agin it? 'he queried. 'I'm not particularly
hankering for it', I replied. 'Why in the hell ain't you the asked,"
don't you know that the Kaiser, or Germany anyhow, has been tryint
to get a hold of this country for over 400 years?"
Another time, two city and one government detectives
raided my room. Having made a thorough search of my belongings,
and apparently ready to leave, satisfied that nothing then warranted
my arrest, one of the bulls spied the title of the book I was reading.
It was Dostoievsky's "Crime and Punishment." 'UH huhl Crime and
punishment, huh? Makin' a real study of it, huh? Readin' up all
about it, huh? COMB onl I was turned loose the following day.
Possibly someone more learned, informed them that the book was not
a treatise on how to commit crime and escape punishment.
A friend of mine, a Scotchman by the name of Mackay, was
standing before a store window, trying to decide what shirt to buy.
A buxom woman approached him and said: 'Young man, you look physically
fit. Why aren't you in the trenches?' 'Madame' he returned, did
you ever see me walk?( Nol somewhat pityingly, thinking perhaps he
was already a cripple, 'No I haven't seen you walk.' 'Then just
watch me madame', said Mac, as he walked swiftly away from her.
Some of the fellows, on visiting us in the can, tried to
bring us in some literature. Some of it was Wobbly papers and similar
matter, but most was as innocent of subversive ideas as the Literary
Digest. The jailor, however, confiscated the entire bundle. Looking
it over, and seeing Emma Goldman's "Mother Earth" most radical of
them all he said, "Here, you can take in this farm book."
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A Pacifist strikes out.
Mac, too was a conscientious objector and a pacifist.
And somehow or other he managed to have kept out of jail. I guess
his arguments (like when he walked away from the irate woman) took
the form of "direct action" more than they did of gentle suasion.
Anyhow, not knowing what else to do with ourslevess Mac and I went
into a show. This was out in Seattle where, like everywhere else,
Patriotism, or SOMB cheap exhibition of it, would pull applause for
a ham actor when nothing else would. Then, of course, when a guy
fluttered the flag, or the orchestra came to his aid with the national
anthem, you had to stand up like everyone did. Sometimes there was
so much standing up and sitting down, standing up and sitting down,
that a fellow felt like greasing his joints with an oil can. Both
of us had been tossed out of another place, for refusing to jump up,
and lucky to have gotten out whole. It was a dangerous stunt not to
imitate the rest, and many a poor rebel got beat all to hell by a
mob for not conforming. Well, sure enough, the damned thing happened.
The first thing we knew everybody was standing up while we were still
sitting down. A scissorbill right in back of us started to raise a
rumpus. He started in to prod us and bellow for us to stand up.
Mac did stand up, but in arising he shot a swift jolt into the chin
of the bloke trying to excite trouble. The clout knocked the guy
off his pins, so that he tumbled back in his seat. 'What's tha
matter, what's the matter', a lady wanted to know. 'Why', said Mac,
'that guy wouldn't stand upl So the bourgeoie lady also swipes the
yap over the conk with her umbrella; and a couple of ushers trounces
the dizzy scissorbill out of the place before a patriotic mob could
have at him.
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The soapboxer ended his talk with: "The workers produce it
all, why shouldn't they demand even some of the luXuries?" "And that's
right", shouted a wobblie, "Come on, Fellow -workers, let's take a
walk on Fifth Avenue. Nothin's too good for the working class."
A SCOWL FOR SMILING NATURE
This hasn't anything to do with my self. I recall it as
a story, supposed to be true, told by, or of, Elizabeth Gurley Flynn.
In the old days, when she was an organizer for the wobblies and speaking
for them around the country, she encountered one fellow -worker, a Swede,
who for seriousness was hard to beat. The edish fellow -worker
occupied a seat with Gurley on the train. For hours they had sat
together, neither of them saying a word, she reading a book, and he,
in lugubrious contemplation of a wage slave's existance. Having put
down the book and fbr a time been gazi
out upon the scenery, as the
train sped through a particularly beautiful section of Oregon, Gurley
at last turned to her companion. Said she: It's certainly a pretty
country around heres isn't it? "Aw", said the Swede, "who the hell
can enjoy anything under this rotten capitalist system."
Somewhere I heard this: "Are we men, or are we mice," asked
the orator on the soapbox. And from his gathering a mighty answer
arose. "We are," they thundered.