Inside the Woodstockade

On the first morning of the Washington protest, TIME Correspondent, Robert Anson, was covering a group of demonstrators near the Lincoln Memorial, and was swept up in the ensuing "bust" (the charges against him were later dropped). Along with others, he was taken to the makeshift jail that was soon cheerfully labeled "Woodstockade." His report:

EVEN though we stood in the shadows of the city jail, it quickly became evident that this was no ordinary prison. Gamboling over the grass of the 2,500-sq.-yd. enclosure were hundreds of protesters crying, "Welcome, brothers and sisters!" to one another. Said one prisoner, rubbing the tear gas from his eyes: "This isn't a jail! This is a goddam party!" So it seemed. Indeed, there was more petulance than anger. Moaned one youngster, as he was pulled into the compound: "I mean, I was going to be guilty, but they busted me before I even had a chance to do anything." Besides, it was difficult to get mad at guards who kept smiling and joking and in one instance, answered shouts of "Pig!" with "We don't like the war any better than you do."

The camaraderie quotient built as fresh busloads of arrestees poured in. A ritual was played out for each new arrival. A reception line was formed, composed of representatives from each Mayday "region." The newcomers held their right fists high in the standard radical salute or entered with their hands clasped on their heads, P.O.W. style. They were greeted with the chants: "Ho-Ho-Ho Chi Minh, N.L.F. is going to win," or "One-two-three-four, we don't want your f-- war."

P:

The most resonant cheer went up for a little old lady in a print dress and a cloth coat, who wrinkled her nose and shot her right fist aloft as she walked through the gate. The crowd mobbed her when she announced in a syrupy Southern drawl that her name was Nannie Leah Washburn, and that she had traveled all the way from Atlanta to lie down in front of cars in a traffic circle. "I was born a rebel and I'll always be a rebel," she croaked, and the crowd cheered with gusto. When she told them it was her 71st birthday, she was rewarded with a thundering chorus of Happy Birthday.

The novelty of new arrivals ultimately wore off, and the prisoners settled into a routine. Frisbee and smoking grass were signal diversions. One group commenced a surreal Blow-Up basketball game with an imaginary ball. Finally, a prison warden produced the real thing. Separate latrines were established; a modest covering was provided in the one for females, a gesture labeled "sexist" by women's liberationists. Regular prisoners from the overlooking cell blocks threw down friendly gifts of oranges and tobacco. Late in the afternoon, when the wind picked up and the sun dipped behind the clouds, a city prisoner even tossed down his trousers with a note: "Here are my pants to keep you warm. We're all with you and love you too. My friends and I are very lonely people."

P:

Predictably, the carnival atmosphere diminished somewhat. The Army set up a crude tent hospital, and a prison doctor announced that all prescriptions for drugs, including methadone, would be filled. One fellow screamed in mock withdrawal pain: "Give me cannabis, give me cannabis, I can't live without it!" Some women wandered into the tent asking for birth control pills (the medics had none).

The more militant prisoners carried on endless legal colloquies and insisted upon "noncooperation with the system," which meant rejecting food, water, blankets and tents. It also meant refusing to participate in the lengthy legal processing that began in the late afternoon. One of the hard-core--dubbed "Lin Piaoists" by someone within the compound --seemed a bit subdued when he realized what he had let himself in for. "If I don't sign the paper and be fingerprinted," he muttered, "I could be in here forever." A girl roamed through the crowded area crying, "New York region, where are you? Will someone please have a meeting. We haven't had a meeting in two hours."

Darkness eventually shrouded the compound, and revolutionary noncooperation or not, the protesters began to protect themselves against the chill. Blankets were unfolded, and packing crates were broken up for firewood. The fervor of resistance seemed to relax, revealing a band of people who were young, tired and cold. A few tried a couple of verses of Viet Nam Rag, then retreated into subdued silence; hardly anyone knew the words. Then someone put a harmonica to his mouth, and soon they were singing, like so many Boy Scouts and Camp Fire Girls:

Someone's in the kitchen with Dinah. Someone's in the kitchen I know-o-oh, oh. Someone's in the kitchen with Di--nahhhh. Strummin' on the old banjo.

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