Dick Gregory followed Pierre Salinger to the platform. His reception was more respectful. Looking like a bearded black prophet out of the Old Testament, eyes burning and yet somehow managing to twinkle at the same time, Gregory invited the crowd to dinner at his home-—-which just happened to be en route to the Amphitheatre. A large throng accepted the invitation and started back down Michigan Avenue. Norma and I fell in behind Mrs. Gregory, one of those rare women whom pregnancy really does make even more beautiful.
“I knew I should have gone shopping today,” she was sighing to herself. “Dick should really give me more notice if he’s bringing folks home to dinner!”
Moving very slowly, three abreast, on the sidewalk at all times, the crowd proceeded down Michigan Avenue as dusk turned into night. Black marshals, some of them Blackstone Rangers on the scene unofficially and out of love and respect for Gregory, maintained order and discipline without too much trouble. They may have had doubts about Gregory putting himself out on a limb for what was basically a crowd of white kids, but they couldn’t help admiring the ethical imperative which caused him to assume leadership.
Without him the crowd was a body without a head. All of the recognized leaders had been picked off by the Chicago police during the preceding days. The valiant Wisconsin delegation had had the guts to lead the march earlier in the day, but they hadn’t had the experience and know-how to handle the confrontation. Now Gregory, with many such confrontations behind him, inspired the crowd with a cool heroism that had long ago dispelled fear of personal physical harm.
The confrontation took place at Eighteenth and Michigan. Lights from a TV truck played over the crowd. The demonstrators responded by raising their fingers in the V symbol for peace. The throng remained quiet and orderly while Gregory spoke with the officer in charge of the National Guard troops.
It was agreed that the troops would break ranks so that the demonstrators might move past them to the waiting police. The cops would then arrest the demonstrators, who would submit peacefully. Police vans were already assembled to cart away those arrested. However, there obviously weren’t enough vans to begin to handle the crowd, which now stretched all the way back to Grant Park-still on the sidewalk, still lined up by three, still quiet and peaceful.
The cops were obviously concerned that no harm should come to the convention delegates among the crowd. Gregory was told that he and the delegates would be allowed to continue on to the Amphitheatre, but that the rest of the demonstrators wouldn’t. Many of the delegates went to the front of the throng to discuss whether they should take this option or not. Most of them opted to stick with the marchers. A few of them fell back in the ranks of the crowd and removed their delegate armbands.
The arrests began in an orderly fashion. Gregory and many of the delegates submitted to the police and were carted away in the vans. Then suddenly the National Guard closed ranks again and the arrests ceased.
An order was shouted, and the Guardsmen quickly donned their tear-gas masks. There was the pop of tear-gas canisters hitting the pavement. The Guardsmen charged into the crowd on the sidewalk, using their rifles like clubs.
Caught in the melee, I had only an instant to appreciate how strategically the military had chosen the confrontation point. On this particular block of Michigan Avenue, tall factory buildings rose on both sides. The mass of guardsmen was in front, the crowd of demonstrators pressing from behind. Because of the buildings, the tear gas just lay like a blanket, out of reach of any breeze which might have wafted it away. The first victims of the gas just lay there while the Guardsmen beat them. It was the perfect cul-de-sac!
Now jeeps shot up Michigan Avenue and Guardsmen tossed tear-gas canisters into the middle and back of the crowd. They went all the way back to Grant Park. Here the area was more open, and for the second time tear gas dissipated into the lobby of the Hilton. This was no police riot. All of this was done with careful military precision. The crowd had no place to flee. All the people in front could do was remain and be gassed and beaten again.
I’ll never forget the inspiring sight of those glorious American boys in their glorious American uniforms wielding their rifles and bravely charging those peacenik Reds who were armed to the teeth with bristling beards and long, treacherous hair, and vicious volumes of Dr. Spock. It brought tears of pride to my eyes! It really did! Or maybe it was just the tear gas. . . .
In the nightmarish confusion, Norma and I were separated. I thought I saw her darting through a hole in the National Guard lines toward the other side of the street where the TV truck was being held out of camera range of the action. I took advantage of the same break in the Guardsmen lines to follow.
But when I got there, I found that the girl I’d followed wasn’t Norma after all. She was much younger, just a child. Blood was streaming from her head. I helped her through an alley, choking on tear gas all the way, and finally left her with a medical aid team. They told me to take short, shallow breaths, and pointed me toward the other end of the alley where the tear gas was thinning out.
Choking, I reached the exit. I stopped in a bar and had three quick scotches while I recovered from the effects of the gas. Then I set out to hunt for Norma again.
It was about an hour later when I finally got back to Grant Park. The smell of tear gas was still thick in the air, but the gas itself had dissipated. Still, like everybody else, I dipped my handkerchief in water and kept it pressed to my mouth as I moved around the park and searched for Norma.
I searched for a long time in vain. Finally I decided to go up to my room and take a shower to wash away the grime of battle before resuming my quest. Just as I emerged from the shower, my telephone rang.
“Where the hell have you been?” It was Austin.
“Looking for Norma.” It would have taken too long to go into details.
“Well, she’s right here in the hotel,” he told me. “At that emergency ward the McCarthy people set up on the fifteenth floor.”
“Is she badly hurt?”
“No. They brought her in unconscious, but she’s awake now and the doctor says she’s not badly hurt. I just happened to spot her when they carried her into the lobby.”
I told him I’d meet him at the emergency ward and hung up. I threw on some clothes and grabbed an elevator. It was filled with cops. Like me, they got off at the fifteenth floor. Only I walked out of the elevator and they charged.
They went down the hallways, dragging people out of their rooms. When I reached the makeshift emergency ward, they were shoving the doctors out of the way and going for the patients. The medical personnel protested in vain. Bloody victims were hauled out of their beds to assume their roles as victims once again.
Austin was trying to shield Norma. I joined him. Between us, we managed to get her out of the room before the cops grabbed her.
We ducked down the hall and into a stairwell. Behind us we could hear the cops lining people up against the walls, clobbering an occasional one who protested, prodding the others with their clubs.
Somehow Austin had managed to arrange for a chauffeured car. It took us directly to the airport. We stayed there until we were able to get on a plane later that morning.