New Mood

The mood of the nation and the House was reflected in the mood of labor. It registered with seismographic sensitivity in Pittsburgh, where the C.I.O.'s Big Three had gathered.

The United Electrical Workers' Jirn Matles arrived, brandishing a contract from Westinghouse, with the same 15-c- raise U.E. had gotten from General Motors five days before. Walter Reuther arrived, with a similar offer from G.M., but still holding out for 23 1/2-c-.

It all depended on Phil Murray's steelworkers. They had been tied up in negotiations since January, had extended the deadline once--until April 30. Now time was running out. Both Murray and Reuther were obviously piqued that management had stolen their thunder by dealing first with the Red-wired electrical workers. But the Big Three meeting broke up with no word of results. Walter Reuther went back to Detroit, still breathing intransigence.

Phil Murray was conferring feverishly. There was a closed-doors conference with U.S. Steel Vice President John A. Stephens, an all-night session with Stephens and other U.S. Steel negotiators. Rumors of a settlement drifted out at the same time that "No Contract, No Work" stickers appeared on steelworkers' cars.

Then Phil Murray made his announcement. Steel had settled for slightly more than 15-c-. Murray had given up his demands for a union shop and the annual wage, had promised not to press his portal-to-portal pay suits; U.S. Steel "hoped" to hold the price line.

With the announcement, the whole labor picture changed. G.M. promptly signed with 3,000 rubber workers in Dayton at the magical new 15-c- figure. At the least, it meant that Walter Reuther would be hard put to it to avoid accepting about the same terms at G.M., at Chrysler, and at Ford. At most it meant that the U.S. could look forward to a season of real labor peace.

Signs of Peace. There were already other signs that peace was at hand. In Manhattan last week, 50,000 Western Union employees tore up their 25-c- demands, accepted a 5-c- "downpayment" raise. The oldest dispute in the nation was finally settled: on the Toledo, Peoria & Western Railroad, which had suffered more than five years of wrangling, Government seizure and bloodshed, culminating in the murder of President George McNear Jr. (TIME, March 24).

The one visible road block was the telephone strike. Even that strike seemed to be crumbling around the edges. A.T. & T. claimed it was handling four-fifths of the normal number of local calls, that long-distance service was up to 35%. Telephone workers were beginning to straggle back in many places: twelve in Kosciusko, Miss.; 1,500 Commercial Telephone Workers Union members in New Jersey, pending arbitration and a constitutional test of the state's drastic new anti-strike law (TIME, April 21); so many in the South that Southern Bell had removed emergency restrictions from long-distance calls.

The N.F.T.W., which had started without sufficient strength, money or appreciation of the company's ability to keep the phones going, was desperately sending up trial balloons. It would be glad to take a $6-a-week wage boost and arbitrate everything else. Picket-line tension grew. In Detroit two strikers were injured and 22 arrested after a battle with police and nonstrikers reporting for work. In Milwaukee, one fun-loving picket paraded tauntingly in a baby buggy as a miserly "Ma Bell" (see cut).

At week's end, somewhat heartened by financial aid from the C.I.O. and A.F.L., N.F.T.W. President Joseph Beirne appealed to the White House for settlement help. He admitted to newsmen: "If we don't settle by Monday, our people will still be out on strike, but some of them may want to go back to work."

A.T. & T. was still holding tight. But equipment was suffering from lack of maintenance. As much as anything, it had been waiting to see which way steel would jump. Now it had its cue.

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