They have a saying in eastern Kentucky-- "Wait 'till the bushes grow green." It is a password, an admonition, and a desperate expression of hope among coal miners fighting for a lost propsperity. For in summer, when the bushes are green, a man can hide with a rifle, and in the rolling hills of Kentucky, a rifle has often had a persuasive effect on coal operators.

Trapped by circumstances they only dimly understand, the miners take a very simple view of their situation One grizzled old miner put it this way at a meeting of strikers: "I'll tell you something boys, and I'm gonna tell you the truth now. There will be blood coming from the mines--not coal--unless we get a union contract. And if you try to get by my picket line you're gonna smell copper and lead, copper and lead."

Last fall roving bands of pickets, protesting starvation wages and the failure of operators to contribute to the United Mine Workers welfare fund, forced most of the mines in eastern Kentucky to close. For three months a state of war existed between the operators and the miners. Then winter, a disastrous flood, and a series of apparent agreements forced a temporary truce. The hills are turning green again, however; prepartions for a renewed struggle are proceding rapidly.

There are no picket lines in eastern Kentucky today. The miners have agreed to suspend open protests until the National Labor Relations Board rules on an injunction request by the mine operators this Monday. But the tension continues. Every week several mines are blown up, and just recently a coal operator's home in Hazard, Ky., was dynamited.

Rumors spread quickly and are embellished extensively in these small coal towns, adding to the atmosphere of distrust and fear. A new man in town is immediately suspected. For instance, during my visit I was widely thought to be a Communist, a Teamster organizer, a management spy, and a conspirator with the strikers.

Perhaps because of these rumors, or maybe because someone thought I knew too much, a sniper took a few rifle shots at me on a moonless night last week. Rolling into a ditch, I crawled to the safety of a tree. The incident was a good warning, and a powerful indication of the seriousness of the situation and the bitterness of the struggle.

Industry Depression

No amount of dynamiting and shooting, however, can win the battle. The striking miners feel oppressed by rich, selfish operators, but the operators, while not poor, are faced with a diminishing market for their coal. A dozen years ago eastern Kentucky enjoyed reasonable prosperity. Now, with heavy competition from oil and the large, highly mechanized coal mines, the operators of the small mines are squeezed; the Kentucky miners have been forced into poverty by the depression in the industry.

In 1950 John L. Lewis and the United Mine Workers, realizing that automation in the mines would be the only way to allow coal to compete with other fuels, signed the National Bituminous Coal Agreement with the large coal producers. The agreement permitted the mine owners to mechinize, but at the same time attempted to force them to share the difficulties which the transition period caused the miners. A minimum wage of $24.25 for an eight hour shift and a 40 cents per ton royalty payment to the union welfare fund were essential parts of the contract.

Owners of large northern mines with wide coal seams who had sufficient capital, found it relatively easy to install heavy machinery and pay their miners the union scale. In eastern Kentucky, however, where the coal rarely comes in veins more than two and a half feet wide, the immediate need for machinery was not clear. Finding it impossible to agree to the United Mine Worker's terms, most of the operators of the rail mines (mines which deliver coal directly to a railroad loading station or tipple) sub-leased their coal rights to smaller operators, often union miners. These men set up small, one-tunnel mines producing from 50-150 tons per day of coal and employing usually no more than a dozen men. Coal was taken by truck from the mine to the railroad loading tipple, which was normally owned by the man who leased the rights to the mine.

Sweetheart Agreement

Working with little or no equipment, the truck mines soon found that they could not pay union wages and still compete with the mechanized mines. While these operators usually signed a UMW contract, the union consented to a "sweetheart agreement," that essentially allowed the operator to pay what he could for wages as long as he paid the 40 cents per ton royalty. But as the market and price for coal dropped, the "sweetheart agreements" turned sour. Deterioration in wages was accepted by the men as long as they retained their welfare benefits. About two years ago, however, the smaller operators began defaulting on their royalty payments.

By last fall practically no truck mine was contributing to the welfare fund and the fund suddenly revoked the welfare cards of all miners working in non-royalty-paying mines. Loss of the cards meant the end of free hospital care, an extremely important benefit for miners. The UMW's Miners Memorial Hospital Association had built four modern hospitals in eastern Kentucky which provided free care for the miners and their families. Access to these hospitals was forbidden to men without the cards. Shortly after withdrawing the welfare cards the fund announced that it was closing the hospitals as of July 1, 1963.

These actions provided the catalyst that released all the accumulated bitterness of the past decade in violent protest. Deciding the union had let them down, the men organized a wildcat strike against both the UMW and the operators. Bands of pickets descended on mines throughout the territory demanding that the men working inside join the fight. Most came willingly, but others, thinking that nothing could be done, were convinced only by threats of violence. Picketers were shot, mines dynamited, homes blown-up, and cold fear swept Floyd and Perry counties.

One truck mine operator in Floyd County described the closing of his mine: "They all came up the gulch, about 200 of them, yelling about how they were going to blow up the mine if I didn't shut down." As the picketers approached, he took his rifle and climbed on top of a hill looking over the valley and told the men to stop where they were. "The next man that takes a step," he shouted, "well right there you'll find him." His men, worried about personal attacks, walked off the job the next day, however.