Saturday, August 22, 2026

Sneak Preview--Austrian Drone Balloons Bomb Venice in First Assault by Air


This probably fanciful depiction of the balloon bombing of Venice show bombs carried by multiple balloons exploding over the city raining shrapnel down on the population.

On August 22, 1849 a British newspaper carried a somewhat garbled account of an unusual attack on Venice.

It fell to—and on—the unlucky people of Venice to be the first targets of bombs dropped from the air in war.  It was on July 15, 1849 and the lovely old city of canals was under siege by the Austrians who were upset that romantic rebels had proclaimed the Republic of St. Marks to establish independence from Hapsburg dominance.  The proud old city, once a world power on its own that nearly dominated the Mediterranean and challenged the mighty Ottomans, was defiantly holding out against a tightening noose in the vain hope that other Italian cities and principalities would rally to her side.  But few of the dynastic houses of Europe had sympathy for any republic after the wave of uprisings and rebellions that swept the continent the year before.

Of course, lighter than air military aviation was not entirely new.  It took the French less than ten years from the time the Montgolfier Brothers elaborate hot air balloon first carried passengers over Paris for the edification and entertainment of King Louis XVI in November 1783 and Jacques Charles and the Robert brothers demonstrated a hydrogen balloon a couple of weeks later for them to deploy balloons for military purposes.  Jean-Marie-Joseph Coutelle, Captain of the Aerostatic Corps successfully flew an observation balloon in Flanders during the War of the First Coalition in 1792.  The intelligence gathered from the flight was credited with the French victory in the Battle of Fleurus.

But despite other successful operations, Napoleon Bonaparte dismantled the Corps. If he had not, he might have learned of his enemy’s movements at Waterloo and history may have taken a very different turn.

In the years since the end of the Napoleonic Wars there was tepid interest in ballooning for observation, but no other nation developed an operational unit.  Some dreamed of using balloons to drop bombs, but the problems of unreliable craft at the mercy of the winds made such applications untenable.

                 Austrian inventor and artillery officer Franz von Uchatius.

Enter Franz von Uchatius an extremely clever Austrian engineer and artillery officer.  In his career he developed stronger alloys for cannon, worked on smokeless powder, and in order to lecture students on ballistics developed a type of animation projector in 1853.   Uchatius was 38 years old and a senior artillery commander when he began to apply his singular analytic mind and perhaps even more important computational skills to solving the vexing problem of guidance and control. 

First, he discovered that the wind in Venice blew reliably from the sea about 90% of the time.  That meant balloons carrying bombs would have to be launched from ships offshore.  That, in turn, ruled out using balloons large enough to carry a human crew from the limited deck space of a ship.  He would have to use small, unmanned balloons.  That led to the problem of how to release the bombs when they got over the target.  And frankly, we don’t know exactly how he did it.  No detailed notes or drawings have survived.  We have only a couple of paragraphs after the surrender of the city on August 22 in the British Morning Chronicle:

The Soldaten Freund publishes a letter from the artillery officer Uchatius, who first proposed to subdue Venice by ballooning. From this it appears that the operations were suspended for want of a proper vessel exclusively adapted for this mode of warfare, as it became evident, after a few experiments had been made, that, as the wind blows nine times out of ten from the sea, the balloon inflation must be conducted on board ship; and this was the case on July the 15th, the occasion alluded to in a former letter, when two balloons armed with shrapnels ascended from the deck of the Volcano war steamer, and attained a distance of 3,500 fathoms in the direction of Venice; and exactly at the moment calculated upon, i.e., at the expiration of twenty-three minutes, the explosion took place. The captain of the English brig Frolic, and other persons then at Venice, testify to the extreme terror and the morale effect produced on the inhabitants.

A stop was put to further exhibitions of this kind by the necessity of the Vulcan going into docks to undergo repairs, which the writer regrets the more, as the currents of wind were for a long time favourable to his schemes. One thing is established beyond all doubt (he adds), viz., that bombs and other projectiles can be thrown from balloons at a distance of 5,000 fathoms, always provided the wind be favourable.

We do not know the size of the balloons or the weight of the explosives delivered.  Most importantly we do not know what kind of timer was used to either drop the bombs or detonate in the air, only that the device had to be adjustable to precise calculations of wind speed at the time of launch from the deck of a ship that had to maneuver to be in an ideal position

Secondary accounts supposedly based on observations in Venice claim that as many 200 balloons were launched in two separate operations.   That would indicate small balloons and grenade size bombs.  But it would seem to be at odds with the account authored by Uchatius in the British press.  However, some historians believe that the account in the Chronicle was garbled and referred to two sorties of swarms of small balloons, not just two single balloons.

That would also mean that the little balloons could not carry enough explosives to do much damage to buildings and property.  Instead, the use of shrapnel meant the bombs were anti-personnel weapons designed to indiscriminately kill and maim the civilian population of the city.  It was terror bombing pure and simple.

We can also credit Uchatius with the first use of drones in combat.

However terrified the Venetians were of the appearance of death from the sky, it was not enough to break their will.  The balloon bombs had no effect on the outcome of the siege.  But shortly the Austrians brought up massive heavy artillery and began pounding the city, which was already suffering from starvation and cholera epidemics, with more than a thousand rounds a day.  The old city had no ultimate choice but to surrender.


Inflating a Union Army Balloon during the Civil War.  Photo by Mathew Brady.

The aerial bombardment was quickly forgotten.  Neither Austria nor any other European power followed up with development.  The next military use of balloons was by the Union as artillery observation platforms in the American Civil War.  During the Franco-Prussian War and Siege of Paris in 1870 they were also used by the French to ferry personnel, messages, and supplies over enemy lines.

The first aerial bombardment from heavier than aircraft was launched by the Italians in 1911 in the Italo-Turkish War, essentially hand dropping grenades.  A year later in the First Baltic War the Bulgarians developed the first modern aerial bomb with improved aerodynamics, X-shaped tail stabilizers, and an impact detonator as well as an aircraft specifically designed as a bomber.  On October 16, 1912, they dropped two of those bombs on the Turkish railway station of Karağaç.  The Bulgarians sold plans for their bomb to the Germans which used them throughout World War I.

As for Venice, it once again came under Austrian bombing on May 24, 1915 when Italy switched to the Allies in the Great War.


The United States has become the world leader in the use of attack drones and used them extensively in lieu of boots on the ground.  It has also supplied drones and support technology to allies and surrogates.  Both sides have relied heavily on drones of various sizes and configuration in the War in Ukraine.  Russian frequently deploy them to civilian targets while Ukraine has used them with great effect in selective attacks on key facilities including bridges, highways, Black Sea naval forces and in largely symbolic raids around Moscow itself.  This collage shows a fixed wing Ukranian drone and an attack in the Black Sea.

Since those first bombs fell relatively ineffectively on Venice, untold millions of tons of explosives have wrecked death and destruction from the air all around the world.

 

Friday, August 21, 2026

Walking the Walk and Compassion for Campers Update for August 21 2026

Look for new opportunities for action, education, community, and solidarity in and around McHenry County here every week.  

                                                            Walking the Walk 


Rapid Response Training.  The McHenry Co. Rapid Response Team will be conducting Rapid Response Team (RRT) training on Tuesday, August 26, from 7 to 9 pm at the First Congregational Church of Crystal Lake, 461 Pierson Street, Crystal Lake. RRT (and KYR) training is required for those considering joining the McHenry Co. RRT. Community members that attend on Tuesday will also need to show proof of completion of KYR training to be considered for admission to the team. Registration is strongly recommended at http://bit.ly/47fD0Xh.

McHenry County League of Women Voters hold a series of Candidate Forums for races in the General Election. The non-partisan group invites all candidates regardless of their party affiliation.  This time hear directly from candidates for County Clerk, County Treasurer & Regional Superintendent of Schools. Learn about the candidates, their qualifications and priorities … and submit your own questions.  Can’t make it in person? Watch live on the Facebook pageTuesday, August 25, at the Luecht Auditorium of McHenry County College. 

Compassion for Campers


Our distributions are usually held on the first and third Fridays of the month from 10 am to 2 pm at the new McHenry County Resource Center (MCHC) at the McHenry County Mental Health Board offices, 620 Dakota Street in Crystal Lake.   Our next C4C distribution will be today, Friday, August 21 and then on Friday, September 4 

With at least a temporary home base, C4C can resume accepting donations of supplies including clean used sleeping bags and tents in their bags or cases, tarps and other basic camping gear, rain gear, and especially mosquito and tick repellents and sunscreen.  Contact Sue Rekenthaler at tomatos@mc.net or Patrick Murfin at pmurfin@sbcglobal.net for more information.

Financial support is critical to fulfilling our mission. The best thing you can do is offer your critically needed financial support. Money donations are always welcome at     https://tinyurl.com/3bz96axe.   Look for updates here.  Email compassionforcampers@treeoflifeuu.org .





 


The First Jew in the Colonies Claimed his Place by Volunteering in the Nieuw-Amsterdam Night Watch

 


A Dutch view of New Amsterdam nine years after it was conquered by the English and renamed New York.   Note the militia drilling.
On August 22, 1654 Jacob Barsimson became the first known Jew to take up residence in what is now the United States.  Barsimson disembarked a ship from The Netherlands that day in Nieuw-Amsterdam (New Amsterdam), the capital of the colony of New Netherlands.  The city was still a raw frontier trading post huddled next to the protective parapets of a fort for protection from both the local natives and the voracious English. 
Barsimson, an Ashkenazi, was sent as an emissary by wealthy Dutch Jews to check out the suitability of the North American colony for settlement by Jews being persecuted in earlier attempts to establish New World footholds in Brazil and the West Indies. 

A map shows early Jewish migration routes and settlements in the New World including Sephardi Portuguese Jews from The Netherlands at Recife, Brazil and Dutch Caribbean Islands like Curauo.
The Dutch Republic was a place of refuge for all sorts of religious dissenters and outcasts once it had finally thrown out the Hapsburgs and with them the Inquisition.  During the same years the Netherlands was harboring Unitarian refugees from Poland and other persecuted minorities.  Of course, no one in Europe was more persecuted than the Jews.
A sizable community, mostly from Portugal where the Inquisition was still going strong, had established itself in Amsterdam and was prospering.  But Jews had prospered here and there in Europe before and the tides of prejudice rose against them time and time again.  The merchants of Amsterdam were looking for escape routes for themselves, as much as for their cousins in Brazil.
Despite being less than welcomed by Governor Peter Stuyvesant, Barsimson saw promise in the new city.  On October 22 he was on hand to welcome the first group of 23 settlers from Recife, Brazil.  Together they started the first Jewish community in North America, four years before the founding of another enclave at Newport, Rhode Island.
Others joined them along with some from the Dutch sugar islands in the Caribbean.  Stuyvesant became increasingly alarmed by the influx and imposed harsh restrictions on their occupations and trade opportunities.


Barsimson frequently got the best of his nemesis Governor Peter Stuyvesant  by going over his head to the Governors of the Dutch West India Company.
Barsimson, the acknowledged leader of the community, found himself in an ongoing game with the governor to secure rights and privileges for his people.  Jews were barred from most trades, shop keeping, public office, conducting religious services, and participation in the militia.  When Stuyvesant turned down a simple request to allow Jewish burials on the grounds that it was “premature”—no Jews had yet died—Barsimson appealed over his head to the directors of the West India Company which controlled New Amsterdam and in which several wealthy Jews were large investors.  The company ordered their governor to reverse his decision.
It was a pattern Barsimson would repeat.  He shrewdly observed that among the many restrictions placed on Jews was service in the militia and taking their turns at arms guarding the walls for the fort.  He understood that the rights of citizenship were tied to the responsibility to defend the colony.  Despite the continued threat of Indian attack and the growing menace from the English and from a new Swedish colony established in what is now Delaware by former New Amsterdam governor Peter Minuet, Stuyvesant refused the appeal for Barsimson and another Jew, Asser Levy for the right to take their turn at guard duty.  Once again, an appeal was made to the Company and once again the Governor was overruled.


A 20th Century illustration of Barsimson on night watch on the walls of New Amsterdam.
Barsimson and other Jews proudly took their turns on the walls and in Militia musters, thus securing the rights of citizenship in 1655.
In 1658 the Governor drew charges against Barsimson and had him summoned to court.  The Jewish leader refused to attend because he had been summoned on the Sabbath.  The court, in a curt slap in the face to the Governor ruled that, “though defendant is absent, yet no default is entered against him, as he was summoned on his Sabbath.”  It was the earliest court case in any colony establishing any level of religious acceptance for Jews.


Asser Levy was Barsimson’s close friend and associate and with him won the right to stand guard.  He would go on to purchase an estate near Albany and become the first Jew to own land in the colony.  He was Barsimson’s frequent partner in lawsuits to secure and expand Jewish rights.

When New Amsterdam fell to the British in 1664, the thriving community of Ashkenazi and Sephardic Jews retained full citizenship in the newly named colony of New York.

Thursday, August 20, 2026

In My Chicago Summer of '68 Winding Up and After--Part X of a Murfin Memoir



The National Guard rolled out their barbed wire cage Jeeps to block marcher on Michigan Avenue on Thursday.  I was not there to see it. 

Note—I bail out before the final confrontations, head home, discover the fate of someone I sent into harm’s way, and get on with my life.

I doubt I got any sleep after getting back from the Battle of Michigan Avenue.   I ran across the street Thursday morning to get copies of all the papers from the boxes on the corner and started making breakfast. 

More than half of our charges were missing.  Some had enough of adventure and wisely gone home.  Others left sleeping bags and personal stuff leading us to suspect they were either in jail or in the hospital.  In those long ago days before cell phones and Twitter there was not good way to check their whereabouts.   Hell, we didn’t even know the real names of most of the kids.

By mid-morning a couple of them had staggered in.  Plans were being made for the last big event—one last stab at a big march down Michigan Avenue to the Amphitheater.  Everyone knew it was doomed to failure and would end badly.  And frankly, I didn’t have the stomach for it.  I told the SDSers that it looked like there were enough of them to wind things down at the Movement Center.  I was going home.


After his campaign offices in the Conrad Hilton were raided by club welding police early Wednesday morning Eugene McCarthy crossed Michigan Avenue into Grant Park where he spoke to a mixed crowd of battle-weary demonstrators, convention delegates, campaign staffers, and the press.  He was greeted warmly even by the most hardened leftists.  It took some courage.  Word was that the Police would try to stop his appearance by any means necessary.  Broad daylight, too many cameras, and his sudden and unexpected foray from the hotel probably saved his ass.

That afternoon Gene McCarthy came over from the Conrad Hilton to address the crowd in Grant Park.  Some of his Delegates and former Robert Kennedy Delegates tried to lead a march but were no more successful that Yippies or Mobe organizers.  Dick Gregory instead invited everyone over to his South Side home not far from the International Amphitheater for a barbeque.  He told everyone to stay on the sidewalks and headed south on Michigan.  As the crowd stirred someone bumped into the French writer Gene Genet who declared, “A Black has told me to march.  I must follow him!” 

They got as far south as 18th Street where they were met by the National Guard which had barbed wire cages mounted on the fronts of Jeeps and plenty of tear gas.  It was the last major confrontation of the week.  And I missed the whole damn thing.  Not at all sorry I missed it, but I felt like a deserter.

By mid-afternoon I climbed on the L at Diversy, made connection to the Skokie Swift at Howard and was home before dinner. I never saw Amy Kesseleman, my companion for much of the events in Grant Park and in front of the Hilton, again.

My mom in Skokie wouldn’t speak to me.  I had violated the admonition she gave me every time I left the house since I was 12—“Don’t disgrace the family.”  When Dad got home from work I handed him his World War II utility belt, canteen, and ammo pouch/first aid kit.  There were still a couple of his purloined, now blood soaked, handkerchiefs inside.  “It saw some action again,” I told him.  The old combat medical officer just nodded.  We never spoke of it again.


Network cameras zeroed in on Mayor Richard A. Daley's enraged face as delegates denounced the ongoing police violence.

That night we silently watched coverage from the Convention in the living room.  There was chaos inside the arena, too.  Vice President Humphrey, McCarthy, and George McGovern, the fall-back choice of many of the Kennedy delegates, were placed in nominations to mixed cheers, jeers, and boos.  Delegates and journalists were accosted and arrested on the floor.  America became familiar with Mayor Richard Daley’s rage filled face.  Humphrey, the grand old liberal icon won the hollow nomination and tried to make the best of it in his acceptance speech.  But the Democratic Party was shattered.  He could never shake the long shadow of LBJ’s war or Daley’s police goon rampages.

I had already made reservation to fly to Ohio on Friday to spend some time with Jon Gordon, my best high school buddy at Antioch College in Yellow Springs.  I boarded the plane at O’Hare in pretty much the same uniform as I had worn all week—plaid shirt, red neckerchief, denim jacket, and soiled white Stetson, this time with the wadded-up newspaper padding removed. 

Down the aisle and a few seats ahead I recognized a familiar face—SDS honcho Carl Oglesby.  One arm was encumbered in a very heavy cast.  Before takeoff, I ambled up the aisle and asked him what had happened.  It took him a moment to connect me with the kid he met in the bar late Sunday night.  Then the light went on.  “Oh, yeah, remember how you told us it was quiet back in Old Town?  It wasn’t,” he said.

That fall, I returned to Shimer College in Mount Carroll.  I had stories to tell.  Helped keep me in pot and cheap beer at Poffenberger’s tavern.  It turned out to be my last semester there.

In December I came home and went back to work in the air-conditioning plant for six weeks. I raised enough money to get a very cheap apartment on Howe Street west of Old Town.  I started school at Columbia College as a creative writing major.  The major domo of the writing department was John Schultz who was working on his book about the convention, No One Was Killed.

In June I decided to join the IWW.  I had been thinking about it since encountering the old timers at headquarters.  To my astonishment the first Chicago Branch meeting I attended had almost a hundred members in attendance—most of them young.  I was in on the ground floor of a mini-renaissance of the old radical union.  By August I was coordinating IWW participation in the People’s Park project at Armitage and Halstead.  I spent the next ten or so years of my life with the IWW as an organizer, soap boxer, agitator, local officer, editor, and even my own term as General Secretary Treasurer sitting at Big Bill Haywood’s  desk.


This classic issue of the Seed was on the streets for the opening of the Chicago 8--soon to be Chicago 7--trial in September 1969 and so, again, was I. 

When the Feds put Hoffman, Rubin, Davis, Dellinger, Bobby Seale, and sacrificial lambs John Froines, and Lee Weiner on trial charged conspiracy and inciting to riot, I joined by old Shimer friends Bill Delaney and Sally MacMurraugh  on  a march from Lincoln Park to the Federal Building that turned into a kind of running battle with police.  My experience staying upwind of tear gas paid off.


The original Chicago Conspiracy 8 defendants--From top left Yippies Jerry Rubin and Abbie Hoffman, Tom Hayden and Rennie Davis of SDS, Black Panther Bobby Seale,  low profile rank-and-filers Lee Weiner and John Froines, and Dave Dellinger of the New Mobe.  After trying to represent himself Seale was bound to a chair and gagged by Judge Julius Hoffman and eventually separated from the trial leaving the Chicago 7.

I also ended up joining the staff of the Seed in 1971, by then relocated to offices above Alice’s Revisited on Wrightwood.  The guys who had eyed me suspiciously when I wandered in on the at the LaSalle Street office were long gone by then.  It was my turn to be paranoid when strangers showed up at the office wanting to join the revolution.

I never turned in my assigned account of the Yippies during the convention to that Free University class.  I guess this is it.  Professor Lynd, will I be marked down?

 

Wednesday, August 19, 2026

In My Chicago Summer of '68 The Whole World Was Watching--Part IX of a Murfin Memoir

  


The crowd swelled around the Poor People's Campaign wagons heading south on Michigan Ave. late Wednesday afternoon.  Ralph Abernathy and the SCLC folks did not seem all that delighted with our company as they inched up the Avenue  from Jackson to the police blockade at Balbo.

Note—In Today’s episode I hook up with the Poor People’s Campaign Mule Train, Amy and I reunite at Michigan and Balbo, a short cab ride with “Thomas Jefferson,” and the Battle of Michigan Avenue.

Late Wednesday afternoon I was accidentally near the head of two or three hundred folks trying to find our way out of Grant Park when we finally found an open bridge over the rail tracks.  To our astonishment the Poor People’s Campaign Mule Train was coming down Michigan Avenue heading south.

If things had worked out differently in Memphis that April, Dr. King himself might have been in the lead wagon.  The Poor People’s Campaign was his dream to unite the poor of all races into a new movement for economic justice.  But he was dead and Ralph Abernathy was left to carry on.  He was on the seat of the lead wagon dressed in overalls.  The mule train was meant to recall the promise of 20 acres and a mule free and clear to Freedmen after the Civil War.  Their presence in Chicago was really just to publicize a planned encampment in Washington to pressure Congress for a whole new economic deal for the poor. 

Most importantly, the Poor People’s Campaign had secured what almost no one else had—a permit to drive their wagons right up to the doorstep of the International Amphitheater.

We surged over the bridge and joined the procession.  Others were already with them.  More joined as we inched north filtering in from the Park or coming from elsewhere in the city. 

To tell the truth Abernathy and his people did not look exactly thrilled to find their wagons suddenly engulfed by disheveled youth, many of us still reeking of tear gas or nursing wounds.  They had good reason to believe that their permit would not be honored if we were with them.  And these folks who had themselves endured so much police violence in the South, worried that we would draw the same response down upon them again.

It is only a few blocks south from Jackson to Balbo.  But at the methodical, plodding pace of the mule drawn wagons and as we clogged the street with swelling numbers it seemed like an hour, or so to reach it as the Chicago Police scrambled to get a large force in front of us and redeploy the forces from Grant Park and other sites in the city.

When we finally reached Balbo, the cops had enough massed force to block the march further south.  The marchers pushed up tightly, filling Michigan Ave and spilling into the edge of Grant Park.  It looked, as best as I could tell in the press and confusion, that the crowd stretched back a block or more, but there were probably no more than a couple of thousand folks.  It was a standoff.

As the crowd went into a chant after chant, Abernathy and his people negotiated with the police.  Eventually, they were allowed to pass, but the cordon of cops quickly closed and blocked the rest of us. 

I was getting uncomfortable in the crowd. I noticed that the sidewalk was clear right around the corner on Balbo across from the Conrad Hilton.  I stepped over there to get my bearings. 

The light was fading to dusk when I heard my friend Amy Kesselman’s voice.  She found me again after we were separated earlier at the Band Shell.  At six foot two and wearing the only cowboy hat around, it was a lot easier for her to find me.  I would never have picked all five foot nothing of her out the crowd. 

We tried to decide what to do.  Amy wanted to try and find other staffers from the Movement Center.  She thought that they were well back on Michigan.  Since there was no way to push through the crowd on Michigan, we decided to head north on Wabash then cut back to the Avenue.

There were some cops forming on Wabash, so we went on to State.  It was amazing.  Life seemed to be going on as normal.  The sidewalks bustled with ordinary folk going about their evening as if nothing at all extraordinary was occurring two blocks over.  We cut back to Michigan and sure enough found ourselves to the rear of the crowd.  But a glance made it clear that it would be unlikely that we would connect with the others.  Now Amy wanted to go back where we started because she was sure things were going to get interesting.

She spotted a cab coming down Michigan.  She grabbed my hand and said, “come on!”  We hopped in the cab.  Amy asked to go to State and Balbo.  The driver looked disgusted, whether at the short fare or our appearance.  But just as he was getting ready to pull away from the curb, the door of the cab flew open and two guys tumbled in, both looking the worst for wear.


Tom Hayden, Rennie Davis, and Jerry Rubin--almost half of the eventual Chicago 7.  By Wednesday night Davis's busted head was swathed in bandages, and Hayden popped into a cab convinced he was Thomas Jefferson.  I don't know where the hell Rubin was.

One of them was Tom Hayden.  He was babbling a non-stop monologue that didn’t seem to make much sense.  “He thinks he’s Thomas Jefferson,” the other guy explained.  I’m not sure if he had gotten bopped in the head at the Band Shell like Rennie Davis or if maybe Abbie Hoffman had shared some dope with him.  Anyway, the second guy said, “We gotta get him to safety.”  He mentioned the name of a hotel. 

After delivering Hayden and his pal to safety, we took the cab back to Balbo.  Amy must have paid, because by this time in the week I was down to pocket change.

It was full dark by the time we got back to where we started, on the Balbo sidewalk directly across from the entrance to the Hilton’s Haymarket restaurant.  Bright TV lights shined down from the upper floors of the Hilton, the official convention headquarters hotel where the media and many delegates were encamped.  We could barely make out a line of blue helmets across Michigan.  Protestors surged against them from time to time.

Suddenly, a large phalanx of cops appeared from Wabash and massed on Balbo.  They had their batons out and looked like they meant business.  They marched in military formation right down the street sweeping passed us on the sidewalk and plowed into the mass of demonstrators, clubs flaying.  The cops along Michigan joined the fray.  I am told that another unit hit the crowd on Michigan from the rear.


Chicago's Finest slam into the crowd of demonstrators at Michigan and Balbo.

If you were alive and sentiment in the ‘60s you probably remember the scene, which was broadcast live on network television shooting the action from Hilton windows.  The police violence that had largely been hidden from public view all week was there for the nation to see in all of its savagery.

It was like we were invisible on our side of the street, still in the shadows not illuminated by those lights.  Folks right across from us in front of the Haymarket were not so lucky.  Several of them looked to be delegates, staffers, and others associated with the convention, not protestors.  But a handful of cops waded into them with gusto.  They pushed some through the plate glass windows of the restaurant.

Batons were still flaying as demonstrators began waving and pointing at the TV lights chanting over and over “The whole world is watching! The whole world is watching!”

Some of the wounded began to straggle up our side of the street hugging the building for safety.  We guided a couple of them back up the street toward Wabash where I set up a kind of rough aid station using the firstaid kit on my utility belt and more of my dad’s handkerchiefs.  Amy ferried more to me as I dabbed blood and washed tear gas from eyes until my canteen was dry.  I was soon out of what meager supplies I had.


The National Guard taking up position on Michigan Ave.  At first many demonstrators welcomed them as a relief from the Chicago Police rampage.

Amy and I and our patients were still in danger.  Squads of cops were now breaking off chasing demonstrators.  We told our charges to scatter as they were able.  We helped some get to State Street.  We clamored down the stairs to the subway and headed north.

We evidently were just ahead of adrenalin pumped squads of cops who swept up Wabash and State beating any one they could find, including folks emerging from theaters.

We got off at Diversey and stumbled into the church Movement Center exhausted. Amazingly it was not yet 11 o’clock.  We huddled around the radio trying to find out what was happening.

After we left the National Guard relieved the Chicago Police on Michigan Ave. and began pushing the crowd north.  Greeted at first as practically saviors from the cop rampage.  Bayonets were sheathed and apparently not used.  Swinging rifle butts, however were.

The Battle of Michigan Avenue waned, but cops kept sweeping for stragglers all night.  In the morning they even charged into the hotel where they raided McCarthy headquarters, which had taken in several wounded demonstrators.  They beat everyone in the room.

Next—Winding down, winding up, and getting on with my life.