YORK, Pa. — Beyond the hum and squeal of the great machines, the factory was all at once a meeting place and a holding pen, a spot where the workers could feel at home and a place where each day they gave up their freedom. It was the Church of the Steady Paycheck and the Curse of the Monumental Boredom. It was food on the table and shoes for the kids. It was also that steady ache in the shoulders and a deep regret in the gut: Where had all the years disappeared?
At Caterpillar, most factory workers were well into their third decade with the company, close to the payoff of a full pension; "30 and out" was the inspirational thought that lifted many people out of bed each morning. In the sour air of 1992, the idea of retirement had never seemed more appealing.
Workers were laboring under an imposed contract, humbled after a 163-day strike. Caterpillar, the giant manufacturer of earthmoving equipment, had brought the United Auto Workers to its knees by threatening to hire permanent replacements. Against that bludgeon, the strike was only a saber made of tin, and unions all across America were in search of alternative tactics.
The UAW decided to try something known as an "in-plant campaign," a way to strike that was not quite a strike, guerrilla war instead of a frontal assault. It asked workers to slow things down and screw them up--go a little brain dead. Maybe Cat would be ready to bargain after it realized who really controlled the shop floor.
The campaign's main element was "work-to-rule." Workers were supposed to wait for orders, correct no mistakes, follow every cockamamie company rule to the letter. If parts were getting low, let them run out. If a machine was unplugged, call a repairman. If the boss said to work round-the-clock, go stand by the clock.
This continuation of the struggle was pure adrenaline for about 5 or 10% of the rank-and-file. They were gung-ho union and saw work in terms of we-they, us-them, the put-upon workers against the pinheads in white shirts.
Gary Romans, who worked on a crew that made tractor undercarriages, thought "a cancer of anti-unionism" was spreading across America. He was happy to allow his line to follow any obvious error on a mistaken work order: "If the company wants to treat me like horse flesh, then that's how I'll act."
Blaine Arendt ran a machine complex as big as a basketball court, making lift arms for the buckets on tractors. "Ordinarily, I know what to do, but instead I waited for my boss," he said with pride. "Sometimes it took a long time to find him. And if a fuse needed replacing, that took a long time too."
But most workers thought the union's new strategy was impractical or too risky or just plain silly. It might work, if everyone did it. But that was never going to happen. A pattern of fouling up would sooner or later get a worker into trouble. How was the UAW going to protect him then?
Ed Brandon was pro-union all the way. He operated a furnace and could burn your ear off complaining about the damned company. "But it's in my nature to run quality," he said. "I'm not going to purposely ruin a pile of iron."
Certainly, everyone goofed off a little. For some people, it was the only way to stay sane. They stole minutes after a lunch break or wandered off to gab or simply sat in the can. No one at Caterpillar was there to set any production records. Other folks may have careers or callings; they had jobs.
In fact, that beaten-down attitude was the big problem with work-to-rule. It took too much effort. Most people put their mind on automatic pilot when they got to work and did their job by rote. It would demand more exertion to do things wrong than to do them right. Time would pass more slowly.
The entire in-plant campaign might have fizzled out over time except for another part of it: the wearing of anti-Caterpillar T-shirts and buttons.
This bit of theater had the bosses fuming. They began to go after people.
And that, finally, would bring the workers back together.
Firebrand Unionism
A union's strength rests in its numbers, the pooled destiny of its members. But unlike a company, the union has little power to make people do things. It cannot fire them or dock their pay. It cannot even force them to attend a meeting. In a labor dispute, home field advantage always goes to management.
The UAW workers at Caterpillar were used to the concept of a strike; it was stop or go, on or off. But an in-plant campaign was a more complicated idea. It required people to be active instead of passive, to volunteer in a militia.
For advice, the UAW turned to two labor professors who put on seminars for the leaders of the locals. In-plant campaigns were no silver bullet, the men warned. A "culture of solidarity" was needed, and that was a rare thing these days. Unions seldom asked much of their people except the paying of dues.
