The Pinch Begins

Nowhere in the U.S., for love or money, could a motorist buy a new tire this week. Wartime rationing had begun.

The days of profusion were over. No longer would the U.S. be a cornucopia land with store counters piled high with merchandise, its storehouses bulging, its salesmen struggling for a share of the consumer's dollar. Not again, till the Axis was beaten, could the U.S. citizen buy anything & everything for which he had the money or credit.

In Washington the old argument of guns v. butter collapsed like a ten-year-old inner tube. The tire ban proved how swiftly the Government could and would take away from Peter civilian to give to armed forces Paul.

The Office of Price Administration's J. Kenneth Galbraith got the idea at 4:35 one afternoon, worked out details in 40 minutes, had an order signed by Priorities Chief Donald Nelson at 7:30.

Through the night Galbraith and his staff worked to make the order effective: they notified 200,000 tire retailers, sent telegrams to every governor and to mayors demanding police enforcement. By next morning the ban was airtight and puncture-proof--to remain until a rationing system which will insure enough rubber for the Army and Navy can be worked out.

The Government also acted, faster than ever before, to protect metal stocks. Automobile quotas, already skimpy, were cut still deeper: to about one-third of last year's level this month, one-fourth next month.

New restrictions were clamped on washing machines (large companies cut to 60% of last year's average), juke boxes (to one-fourth by February), "one-armed bandits" (no slot machines at all after January).

The pinch had begun, and it would really hurt before it eased up. But so far it was only a pinch on luxuries; the U.S. still had sufficient food and clothing.

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