1968: Year of the Rat
http://www.counterpunch.org/phillips06072008.html
By JAMES T. PHILLIPS
June 7 / 8, 2008
The first automobile I owned was a 1959 Triumph TR-3. It sat low to
the ground, and featured sloped doors, bug-eyed headlights and a
tachometer mounted on the dashboard. The car wasn't old, but it was
all beat up. The canvas top was missing, the bucket seats were
ripped, and the brakes weren't very good. The TR-3 was painted bright
yellow and, when I stomped on the accelerator, looked like a
lightning bolt streaking down the highway. I loved driving that car,
but burned out the engine in less than six months. I was more careful
and considerate with my second sports car, a red 1963 Triumph TR-4
that I bought in February of 1968. I was twenty years old, shared an
apartment with my new girlfriend, worked as a disc jockey doing live
rock and roll shows on weekend nights and, whether performing in bed,
onstage, or in the driver's seat of my car, I thought I was cool.
As the Year of Revolutions played out around the globe, I would learn
that I was just a dreamer, a boy who wanted to be - in no particular
order - Alan Freed, James Dean and Sterling Moss. Freed was America's
top disc jockey, Dean was the epitome of cool, and Moss was the best
race car driver of his generation. I was a kid who listened to the
Beatles playing Revolution #9, but thought only about revolutions per
minute. When I was onstage, I introduced records and rock bands. I
talked about music. The only slogan of the era that I knew and
understood was Make Love, Not War. I was living an undisturbed, easy
life in the fast lane. I didn't pay any attention to the political
landscape of America when I cranked up the motor (and radio) of my
Triumph and drove all over the Maryland countryside. Yet, like when I
raced my car at night along narrow roads in crazy abandon, 1968 would
be an exhilarating wild ride through the darkness.
On the day I picked up my '63 TR-4 from the dealer, I filled the gas
tank and headed southwest out of Baltimore, intending to take a short
drive on Route 40 to Patapsco State Park. Six-hundred miles later,
not far from the city of Knoxville, I began to understand that I was
also enjoying a free ride, living a life without any hazards other
than sharp curves, inconvenient stop signs, and un-plugged
microphones. In my world, images of dead or wounded soldiers were
only characters from the movies, and small photographs in newspapers
and magazines.
A few miles outside of Baltimore, I noticed a hitchhiker standing on
the shoulder of the road. I skidded to a stop and offered him a ride.
He was about my age, neatly dressed, wore his hair in a crew cut, and
walked with a limp as he approached my car. Joe was a traveling
soldier, and he paid for the lift by teaching me about Tet. I don't
remember if Joe fought at Hue before the North Vietnamese offensive
began, or if the friends he left behind were dying there as we
traveled south, but I do remember that he lived in Tennessee, a land
where, for Joe, rolling hills would soon replace rolling thunder. I
drove him home on a cold winter day in 1968. Joe limped because he
left a leg in Vietnam, but his sense humor and dignity had stayed
with him. I laughed out loud, and listened in stunned silence, as Joe
told me stories about his participation in the Vietnam War.
Like most Americans, I learned about the war by watching evening news
broadcasts on the three television networks, and glancing at
newspaper headlines. Although I was a prime candidate for the draft -
teenager, working class, uninformed, willing - what little interest I
had concerning the war had ended in 1966 after spending three days at
the Fort Holabird induction center. On the morning after I attended a
Rolling Stones concert at the Baltimore Civic Center, I was one of
dozens of young men from my neighborhood ordered by the Selective
Service to bend over, grab ankles, and cough on cue. I was tested,
questioned, and showed enough balls to prove I had the courage to
kill. But, I failed my physical. The United States Armed Forces
didn't want me. Three military doctors, one at a time, looked me in
the eye and confirmed that I was indeed blind in the other. I was free to go.
I dropped Joe off near his home, then headed back home knowing that I
wanted to learn more and, even though I wasn't able to kill gooks in
the jungles of Vietnam, I wanted to do something that would make a
difference. The hours I spent listening to Joe had opened my eye to
what was happening in Vietnam. He was a proud soldier, told me so,
and convinced me to support the troops. One the trip back to
Baltimore, I thought about Joe and his stories. But, the feeling of
brotherhood burned out quicker than the engine of my first car. I
continued on with my life. My career as a disc jockey was at its
peak, my girlfriend wanted to be a wife (and a mother), and I was
taking corners at sixty miles per hour on dirt roads. Not much
changed after my trip to Tennessee with Joe. I was still blind in my
left eye, but my vision had improved: I began thinking about what I
was seeing on the evening news.
During the spring and summer of 1968, all hell broke loose in the
United States. The body count, however, was much less in America than
it was in Vietnam. Lyndon Johnson was wounded, felled by a failed
foreign policy. Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert Kennedy were
killed by lone assassins (or, perhaps, nefarious conspirators
employed by the Mafia, the military, the Cubans, or the CIA).
Thousands of protesters were gathering in the streets of America,
where they fought against racism, the war, the police, and public
opinion. A diverse crowd, the protesters included Students for a
Democratic Society, the Black Panthers, Yippies, and individuals with
personal agendas. The mobs of anti-protesters manning the barricades
included the FBI, the media, union workers, and the police. The
closest I got to the action was when I'd get stuck in traffic in
downtown Baltimore during a protest demonstration, and was forced to
listen to the drive-by shouting of grid locked, frustrated drivers.
My girlfriend and I decided to get married at the end of August, not
long after I performed at three different shows on one night. I'd
been a disc jockey since the age of fifteen, turned professional when
I was sixteen and, for four years, worked at hundreds of venues in
and around Baltimore. It was a good career, and I thought I was ready
to add a wife to my life. In 1968, an eighteen year old could join
the army and kill for his country (and drink beer, legally, in the
nation's capital). But, to get married at the age of twenty, I needed
a permission slip signed by a parent. With that coveted document in
hand, my girlfriend and I drove (slowly and safely, in her VW Beetle)
to northern Virginia, got married in a court house, then continued on
to our honeymoon destination, Williamsburg. My new wife and I booked
a hotel room, ate dinner at a faux-colonial restaurant, toured the
town, returned to our room, turned on the television, and tumbled
into bed. We didn't get much sleep that night, though. It was August
28, and Walter Cronkite was reporting on the news out of Chicago.
My wife and I watched, along with the whole world, as ranks of
Chicago policemen, swinging black batons, cut swaths through
scattering crowds of antiwar demonstrators in a downtown park. The
fear and panic of the fleeing people was palpable when their agonized
faces flashed across the television screen. Bloodied young men and
women were dragged by their hair to waiting police vans, then tossed
violently inside the vehicles. A few angry protesters fought back.
They were beaten to the ground, handcuffed, and then whacked a few
more times. The Democratic National Convention was a bust. Inside the
convention hall, reporters were assaulted and knocked to the floor as
they tried to report on the turmoil. The American people would also
get a good thrashing when convention delegates nominated Hubert
Horatio Humphrey as their presidential candidate. The Chicago police
riot lasted for days, directed by Mayor Richard Daley wielding his
middle finger like a police truncheon. I was entranced as I listened
to Walter Cronkite describe what I was seeing. The CBS anchorman was
in a television studio in New York City, and I was in a hotel room in
Williamsburg, but we were both able to observe - live - scenes of
brute force. The newsman would soon speak out against violence and
the Vietnam War. I would act out a role.
In Baltimore, the police were led by Commissioner Donald Pomerleau, a
former Marine and tough administrator. As hot and humid weather
settled over the city during the summer of 1968, Pomerleau worried
about riots and out-of-control demonstrations. To keep things cool,
Pomerleau initiated a few covert operations designed to infiltrate
the peace movement. The Baltimore City Police Department had already
de-fanged the Black Panther Party by using informants, and Pomerleau
wanted to do the same to the leadership of peace organizations
operating in the city. The Commissioner was aware of the acts of
civil disobedience perpetrated by the Baltimore Four in 1967, and the
Catonsville Nine on May 17 (in a small town near Baltimore), and he
responded by approving plans to spy on peace activists and
organizers. He had enough trouble dealing with scorched buildings and
hot tempers ignited in the aftermath of the King and Kennedy
killings. Pomerleau didn't want draft records burned or bloodied in
City Hall Plaza. Efforts were made to recruit new agents and, a few
weeks after the city of Chicago exploded in violence, I met with two
police officers in a dimly-lit corner tavern filled with off-duty
cops slugging back bottles of Natty Boh, a brand of beer favored by
Baltimore's sports fans, steelworkers and policemen.
Jim and Ed were detectives. Ed was a dapper dresser. He was tall,
thin, and looked sharp in the lightweight windbreaker that he wore
when working undercover. I never saw Ed in a uniform, but I always
noticed the large bulge under his left armpit. Ed wore a size .38
Special. Jim was a rumpled and overweight mess. We sat at the bar,
toasted the Baltimore Colts and Johnny Unitas, then talked about
sports, women, and beer. The conversation turned to the recent
demonstrations against the war. I told them about Joe, the road trip
to Tennessee, and the increasing concern I felt for my peers, in
Vietnam and Baltimore. I mentioned the television coverage of the
trouble in Chicago and, ignoring the flashing red lights in the rear
view mirror of my mind, blurted out a really silly and presumptuous
comment: "I wish I could do something to help." Jim and Ed exchanged
glances. Like a spider to the fly, I was being recruited by two of
Baltimore's Finest. It was a fateful meeting, an encounter that
entangled me in a web of deceit, crime, and punishment. We continued
to drink and talk, and I was drunk and disordered when I finally
agreed to work as an undercover police agent. I wanted to do
something. I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to be James Bond.
I thought I was cool.
During the months following my first meeting with Jim and Ed, I lied
and spied my way into a minor position of responsibility in one of
Baltimore's most active peace and justice organizations. I was more
mole than rat. I participated in many covert actions during the
autumn of 1968, but my role in the peace movement was insignificant
and limited (and fraudulent). I attended demonstrations, marches and
meetings, and sat in on planning sessions - listening and learning -
when leaders of the peace and justice group gathered to discuss peace
and justice. My police handlers, however, were pleased with my work.
It didn't matter that I often produced paltry results, Jim and Ed
believed all was going well until I discovered a bomb plot that blew
up in our faces.
* * *
I approached the house on Howard Street through the alley. It was
nighttime, dark, and difficult to see. I crept up to the back
entrance, hesitated, then opened the door and entered the home of a
peace group responsible for many protest actions in the city of
Baltimore. The kitchen lights were off. I flicked on my flashlight.
Stacks of paper were spread out on the kitchen counter. I was looking
for one particular pile of documents. Earlier in the day, while
snooping around in the house on Howard Street, I had noticed the
mimeographed sheets of paper, and realized I'd uncovered something
important. But, there were other people hanging around in the
kitchen. I didn't want to raise suspicions by stealing a copy in
broad daylight, so I waited for the night.
I could hear muffled voices coming from the front of the house.
Members of the group were holding a meeting, but they had no idea
that I was also in attendance. I moved silently. Jim and Ed were in
an unmarked police car, parked a block away, but close enough to keep
the house under surveillance. It didn't take long to find the pile of
documents. I grabbed a copy, stuck it in my coat pocket and headed
for the door. I left the building, walked down the alleyway, turned a
corner, and waited in the shadows until the police car stopped in
front of me. The entire operation lasted less than three minutes. I
got into the car. Ed and I held on tightly when Jim stepped hard on
the gas pedal. We sped off, out of the alley, onto the streets of
Baltimore, on our way to police headquarters. Thrilled with the
success of our mission, we shared grins and handshakes. I gave the
document to Ed. It was filled with chemical symbols, written
instructions, diagrams and mathematical equations. The document was
titled The PBJ Bomb. Ed stopped smiling as he skimmed the contents.
He told Jim to go faster. I wasn't oblivious to the implications of
what we had stolen, and I could see that Ed was upset, but there was
only one thought on my mind as Jim maneuvered the car around large
potholes and slow pedestrians: I should be driving.
After arriving at police headquarters, I sat in the car while Jim and
Ed took the PBJ Bomb document inside the building. I didn't have to
wait very long, though. My partners returned in less than an hour.
They got in the car, and we drove off, heading out of the city. Ed
was smiling again. He told me that the document caused quite a
commotion within the Baltimore City Police Department. Bombs were
being detonated all over the world in 1968, so it wasn't difficult to
believe that one or two could be planted in Baltimore, especially if
the bomber obtained, from their local peace organization, printed
instructions on how to make an improvised explosive device. I had
stolen only one copy of the PBJ Bomb document, from a stack at least
six inches in height. The pile of papers that I discovered was a
weapon of mass dissemination, and an immediate response to any
potential attack was being organized. The information in the document
was being examined and analyzed. The upper echelons of the police
department were pleased that we had uncovered the PBJ Bomb plot and,
for our good work, we were given the rest of the night off. We drove
to a bar near Jim's home and settled in for a night of drinking,
back-patting and self-congratulations. In the morning, we learned the
truth, and suffered the consequences.
The document was a hoax. The leadership of the peace group believed
they were being targeted by the police, and decided to find out the
truth by ferreting out the mole. Someone was feeding the beast by
passing on information to the police, so the leaders decided to
change the diet by creating a recipe, using scientific terms, on how
to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. They titled their
concoction the PBJ Bomb.
Although my methods were amateurish and crude - Inspector Clouseau as
spy - the leaders didn't realize that I was the culprit they were
trying to uncover, and their attempt to learn the identity of the
mole failed. Yet, the PBJ Bomb ploy was successful. I fell into the
trap when I stole the document and gave it to Jim and Ed. The police
were ensnared when they spent a long, sweaty night worrying about an
assault that would arrive, if at all, hidden in the lunch boxes of
children. Jim, Ed and I felt stupid, but were consoled by the fact
that we did our job. It wasn't our fault that the peace leaders were
smarter. I worked covertly, and didn't have to face the humiliation
unless I looked in a mirror. Jim and Ed, though, had to confront the
anger of their superiors and the jokes of their colleagues. I would
continue working for the Baltimore City Police Department, but I
stayed away from the Howard Street house, and faded away from Jim and
Ed. The PBJ Bomb was fake, but our relationship took a direct hit.
Eventually, as the winter of 1968 approached, the incident was
forgotten. Richard Nixon was elected as the thirty-seventh president,
and the activities of peace activists and police spies, like the
bombing of Vietnam, escalated.
I had started working with Jim and Ed in September of 1968. Spying
for the police so dominated my life during the following five months,
I didn't realize that I was ignoring my wife, and my career as a disc
jockey. My wife and my audiences drifted away. Nor was I paying
attention when I lost traction on a curve and crashed my Triumph into
a tree, crumpling the front end of the vehicle, ending my nighttime
jaunts on the back roads of Maryland. I didn't even notice that I was
absorbing the message of peace and justice. There was no epiphany
when I realized I was on the wrong side of the barricade separating
the American people. It was more of a gradual dawning, like when the
morning sky slowly lightens, bringing on a new day. I crossed over
the unseen barrier in Washington D.C., during the days of
demonstrations accompanying the inauguration of Richard Nixon. I was
on my final assignment working as a spy. Jim and Ed remained in
Baltimore. I was standing outside the tent where Phil Ochs was
singing his songs and, although I don't remember the lyrics, the
music seeped into my soul. I knew that it was time to quit working
with the police. I stopped being a mole, and turned into a rat.
I had nothing more to say to the police, but I wanted to talk to the
people who were part of the peace organization. I asked for a meeting
with the leadership. I told them I had something important to
communicate. I returned to the Howard Street house one last time, and
was confronted by a dozen activists sitting at a large table, waiting
for me to speak. I knew most of the people. I had worked with a few
of them during protest demonstrations, and recognized others,
including a member of the Catonsville Nine. For a young dreamer
waking from a nightmare, it was a formidable group. I was blunt and
forthright, though, admitting that I had been spying on them for the
Baltimore City Police Department. They let me continue, and I talked
about what I had done to subvert their cause. I explained the tactics
used by the police. I named names, places, and events of importance.
I was open and honest for the first time in five months. When I
finished, I looked at the people sitting around the table, expecting
to be yelled at, cursed, demeaned and, possibly, laughed at by those
who knew details about the PBJ Bomb. Instead, their reaction, as a
group, was brilliant, instructive, and deserved: silence, followed by
all of them getting up from the table and walking out of the meeting.
I left the room alone, and scurried out of the building.
A few weeks later, I was arrested by a cop in Baltimore County. I
only mouthed off during a traffic violation, but the charge against
me was a felony. I was facing jail time, but an appearance in court
on my behalf by Jim and Ed kept me out of the slammer. When we talked
to the judge, my former police partners didn't know that their spy
had ratted them out. I wasn't sure, however, if other cops had
learned about my confession from more adept (and loyal) police spies.
I started looking over my shoulder. I avoided looking in mirrors. I
stayed at home while my wife worked, listening to Jimi Hendrix and
the Doors on an old hi-fidelity phonograph player. I played the music
very loud. When the paranoia struck deep, I moved my family to a
farming community north of Baltimore, needing to distance myself from
what I perceived as police harassment, and the uncomfortable
knowledge of having participated in spying against the peace
movement. I continued living with my wife (and baby daughter, born
nine months after the Chicago police riot) in a tiny mobile home
parked in the woods, surrounded by cornfields. My career was dead,
and the carcass of my Triumph sat rusting in the yard. It was a sad,
dismal time and, when my wife decided to leave and return to the city
of Baltimore, I was left behind. I was cool with it, though. I walked
to the highway that passed near our home and, like the soldier from
Tennessee, stuck out my thumb and disappeared into America.
--
James T. Phillips is a freelance reporter who has covered wars in
Iraq, Bosnia, Croatia, Macedonia and Kosovo. His is a contributor to
Imperial Crusades, edited by Cockburn and St. Clair. He can be
contacted at jamestphillips@yahoo.com.
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