March 1969

The peace movement that had begun in the spring of 1965, with teach-ins aimed at the institutions supporting the Vietnam war, had spilled onto the streets, moving from symbolic to concrete resistance. People protested with more militant tactics at the Oakland Induction Center in 1967, and in Chicago during the 1968 Democratic Party National Convention. The war waged on. By 1969 the anti-war efforts had taken firm roots in a tenacious and rebellious GI movement.

In the spring of 1966, the first glimmers of a GI movement began in Fort Hood, Texas, where three privates refused to obey orders to go to Vietnam. The Fort Hood Three, a working-class, rainbow coalition, made history by being the first GIs to publicly and collectively refuse to participate in killing Vietnamese people.

The Army moved quickly to squash the troublemakers and make an example of them. However, instead of deterring further resistance, the protesters’ courage lit a spark of resistance in other GIs who were secretly opposed to the war.

By 1969, individual GI resistance became organized revolt. In Vietnam, whole units refused orders to go to Cambodia, and instances of “fragging,” tossing fragmentation grenades into unpopular officers’ tents, increased. Closer to home, GI coffeehouses sprang up next to military bases and GI newspapers flourished.

Twenty-seven GIs in the San Francisco Presidio protested with a spontaneous sit-down. A GI suffering from shell shock had wandered too close to the fence, and a trigger-happy guard shot him to death. The protestors demanded justice for their slain jail-mate and improvements in the atrocious stockade’s living conditions. The Army responded with mutiny charges for the men who became known as the “Presidio 27.”

In the spring of 1969, the Presidio 27 were being tried. So were we. The Oakland Seven had been indicted for Felony Conspiracy to Commit Misdemeanors for organizing Stop the Draft Week in 1967.

The day before the Presidio trial kicked off, we decided to get involved. We held a quick meeting and decided to throw our weight behind our brothers, now facing death penalty charges for engaging in a non-violent protest. We issued a press release calling our supporters to join us in a rally at the Presidio. We would present the base commander with our demands: Drop the mutiny charges, investigate the murder, and bring the officers responsible for the Presidio stockade to justice.

The Presidio brass freaked out.

The day before our march on the Presidio, two federal marshals disguised as civilians suddenly appeared at our trial. They were serving us injunctions to ban us from entering the Presidio, and threatening to prosecute us for disrupting military operations if we held a rally outside its gates.

The bailiffs smelled a rat and stopped the marshals at the courtroom door. Judge Phillips was pissed off at their attempted intrusion into his kingdom and banned their entrance.

One of the bailiffs tipped us off during the morning break.

I decided to scout out the situation. Two burly crew-cut guys stood ready, not entirely blocking the door, but poised to spring forward when we approached. I had an idea.

We huddled together in an empty corner of the courtroom when the proceedings ended for lunch. I opened up the meeting.

“Brothers, I have an idea.” In high school, at 150 pounds, I played middle linebacker and fullback. I was no great running back, but I knew how to punch a hole in the line and make a few yards.

“Let’s not make it easy for these clowns,” I said. “I have a plan. We walk up to the courtroom door, slowly like we don’t know what’ s coming down, and when I raise my hand, I’ll put my head down and punch a hole in their line.”

Only Frank Bardacke, athletic, imaginative, and a little wild volunteered to join me.

“Mike, I played quarterback in high school. I’ll be right behind you. Let’s go for it.”

The marshals saw us coming and immediately closed ranks. One held the injunctions in his outstretched hand.

We charged.

I knocked one aside, and we plowed through. The marshals never knew what hit them. Frank and I got away without being served.

That evening, San Francisco Chronicle reporter Chuck Findley’s article, Oakland Seven Outwits The Feds helped spread the word of the Presidio rally throughout the Bay Area.

Since I was the only Oakland Seven member with the distinction of serving in the Army, I had become the unanimous choice to chair the rally.

I was taking a significant risk. I was AWOL and would be drafted for two years of active duty if caught.

I decided I’d sock it to the military brass by wearing my army boxing team jacket to the rally. It was embellished with gold gloves and read, “Boxing Fort Ord ‘62.” My attitude was, “Bring it on, Baby.”

The rally was small, two hundred people, at most, but we made up for our low turnout with our pugnacious spirit.

We gathered on the street corner nearest to the base for the rally, I turned on the bullhorn and threw down the gauntlet.

“Just to set the record straight,” I yelled, “I want to let the Army know, I did fight in the ring at Fort Ord in 1962, but I won’t fight in Viet Nam. I’m AWOL from the medical reserve unit stationed a few blocks away at Letterman Hospital.  So, come and get me if you want. I’m more than happy to raise hell from the inside and join my brothers in the Presidio 27, and thousands of other GIs fighting against this immoral, illegal, and unjust war.”

Someone yelled, “Fuck the Army!”

“Right on!” I responded.

“Alameda County singled out The Oakland Seven for conspiracy charges because the district attorney believes cutting the head off of the movement will kill it. It didn’t. We are all still here.

“Yesterday, the Army sent two of their goons to serve us with injunctions promising we would be prosecuted on federal charges if we showed up today. Well, here we are.

“The mutiny charges against the Presidio 27 for organizing a non-violent, spontaneous demonstration against the cold-blooded murder of a shell-shocked GI will not silence their voices! Will not break their spirits! Their repressive tactics have backfired and unleashed a wave of support. This rally is only the beginning.”

We marched to the gates chanting, “One, two, three, four, Jail the Generals. Stop the War.”

The action awakened the press; TV cameras rolled, radio stations recorded, and newspaper reporters scribbled away.

A line of MPs stretched across the road just in front of the closed gate. We crowded up to them, chanting,  “Hey, hey! Ho, ho! Let the Presidio Twenty Seven go!”

On the other side of the fence, clusters of officers and guys in civilian suits watched us. We were on Army property and subject to arrest. Someone must have sized up the situation and decided it was best to ignore us. Maybe the brass had second thoughts about enforcing their injunctions to avoid the spectacle of MPs dragging civilians away in front of TV cameras.

The MP detachment’s ranking officer, a lanky captain, stoically ignored my demands to meet the base commander.  He ignored my subsequent requests to present our demands to the closest officer of the day, and finally, my attempts to hand them to him. This made for good street theatre and kept the drama going, but I wanted to deliver our demands directly. Throwing them over the fence would not be good enough.

A grey sedan with Army plates inched its way through the crowd to the gate., breaking the stalemate. An Army colonel rolled down the rear window and motioned to the MP captain. I seized the moment and shoved the demands in his face. For some reason, he grabbed them and tossed them onto the seat beside him.

That was good enough for me to declare a victory. We’d served our demands. The growing support for the Presidio 27 was going to make the evening news and the morning papers.