Steady, Comrades

London was engaged last week in a war of attrition with itself. Inside Abbey Lodge, the Duchess of Bedford apartments and other big blocks of swank lodgings were encamped hundreds of squatters who refused to come out. Squads of alert bobbies prevented food, clothing and reinforcements from going in. The Government had ordered water and electricity turned off. Lice, cold, dirt, lack of bedding and food reduced the squatters to a pale, disheveled, begrimed group.

Last week about a thousand people had gathered before Abbey Lodge, a large modern block of flats requisitioned by the Air Ministry. Gradually a swelling chant of "Bedding for the squatters--bedding for the squatters--" rose, reached a frightening crescendo and fell again. From the squatters, whose morale still held, came the answering chant, "We'll stick it--we'll stick it." A poorly dressed woman wiped her eyes, smiled and said: "Ah, bless 'em, poor devils, I reckon they deserve medals for this." On the outskirts of the crowd a middleaged, middle-class man stood watching. "Poor devils," he said. "Pity they can't see how they're being used by the Reds."

Squat Down Tactic. The squatters' supporters suddenly staged a squat down, sitting nine deep on the main thoroughfare in front of the apartments, blocking traffic. Some sat under the wheels of a large red London bus, waving their fists up at the driver. Six mounted policemen came up the road. "Fascists, fascists, fascists," the squatters yelled. The horses, six abreast, ploughed through the crowd up to the squat downs. Defeated, inflamed and humiliated, they scrambled backwards. One or two aimed blows at the horses' heads. Some tried pushing cigarets into horseflesh. For a moment there was a whiff of burnt hair. The horses did not flinch. The bus slowly ground its way through, followed by lesser vehicles. A man sat down again in the road, yelling: "Come on, you yellow-livered bastards, sit down!" But no one joined him.

"A Fine Job." By now a Communist loudspeaker van had arrived. With astute awareness that the rioting would give the Government a solid peg to hang the Communists on, the loudspeaker pleaded in fatherly tone: "Comrades, you've done a fine job . . . but remember, your anger should be directed against the owners of this building, not the police. . . . Now, come along. ... Go home in an orderly, disciplined way, worthy of the dignity of the working man." Through the crowd went three or four Communists, saying soothingly: "Now steady, comrades, steady, keep your heads." Finally the demonstrators began to break up.

From the squatters still gathered around the ground floor windows, and now were silhouettes against flickering candles, came cheerful cries: "Good night, George," "Give my love to Ernie," "Tell Mum I'm all right."

Behind the Squatters. On the political forces behind London's war, TIME'S London Bureau chief, John Osborne, reported:

This is a simon-pure Communist campaign run from the top. The statements and tactics of Communist Leader Harry Pollitt, the Daily Worker and others make this clear enough.

Communists, knowing that the Government would have to oppose squatting, and thus be in the embarrassing position of Socialists protecting private property--and "luxury" property at that--are pointing every maneuver to draw Government penalties upon helpless, individual, deluded squatters, who constitute the finest martyr material in recent history. The Government, equally aware of this tactic, is sweating to keep the heat off the little folks and turn it on the Communists who conceived and executed the campaign. But that, in turn, lays the Government open to charges of political reprisal for political purposes--a dangerous position to take in this country where fair play is still precious. We know that the Cabinet meant every word when it threatened to bring conspiracy charges against Communist leaders of all ranks, but it is still highly nervous about the possible results of such a move.

Ever So Public. Communists or no Communists, this could not have occurred if the sum total of war experience, topping a long process of social, economic and ordinary human evolution, had not worked fundamental changes in Britain's mass mentality. Forget Communists versus Socialists. Think of some thousands of little Britons who were born to (and never expected anything better than) life in one or two slummy rooms, suddenly forgetting all their ingrained attitudes toward their "place," property and their "betters," and taking what in ordinary course they would never have had.

A West End cinema rocked with uneasy laughter night before last when a bedraggled woman squatter babbled into a newsreel microphone that she and her old man had been living in one room in South Kensington, that another couple had just moved in with them, and that: "It was ever so public." Better-off Britons, who see such newsreels and read about squatters, have that uneasy feeling that they had when wartime evacuations suddenly washed to the surface thousands of children with lice in their hair.

Now Britain is dedicated to decent homes and delousing for all. But, for a Government also dedicated to respect for individual property and other rights, while striving to provide the good life in a time of national strain, the problem is how to keep pace with a long-patient people who are suddenly losing their patience. Of course the few London squatters are an infinitesimal fraction of Britain's millions. But they are an index fraction.

This is one of the few really smart and effective performances ever put on by British Communists. In occasional local victories, they have always been unnatural, un-British political fauna, consciously out of place, and therefore negligible. If this business somehow signals a change of climate wherein British Communists at last find a home and a purpose, then something really has happened to Britain.

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