The Battle of Phoenix

The early morning after Thanksgiving in Phoenix, Ariz., sounded like the old days.

Negro soldiers in a small cafe were celebrating with a final course of whiskey, gin and beer. From somewhere a beer bottle landed on a girl's head. A knife-brandishing soldier charged the Negro Military Policeman who stepped in. When the M.P. shot at the concrete floor the bullet ricocheted into the soldier's leg. M.P.s efficiently rounded up 150 soldiers, began loading them into a bus. Then a single shot turned the row into a riot. Negro Soldiers and M.P.s, a few white officers and men and some city cops joined in. Chunky Arizona Republic Reporter Gene McLain had part of his shoe sole shot off. Bullets smashed windowpanes, whined off the pavement. There was a general running to cover. A private was left dead in the street; half a dozen men were wounded.

The area was in a state of siege. No one dared expose himself to the crossfire of Garands and pistols. One civilian, driving by, was killed. Six more soldiers and civilians were wounded. Toward morning the M.P.s were reinforced by soldiers in armored scout cars. All next day the armored cars patroled the area. Two hundred Negro soldiers were arrested. Then quiet.

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