This is part two of our series based on the book Direct Action: Memoirs of an Urban Guerrilla, published by Between the Lines.

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During the late 1970s and early 1980s, there was a large anarchist community in Canada that was particularly active in the prison abolition, feminist, Native, environmental and Third World solidarity movements. While still working within these movements, some anarchists began to adopt direct-action tactics that went beyond the legal boundaries defined by the state. They took up direct action, not because they couldn’t control their rage, but as part of a long-term strategy to build a revolutionary movement that would be beyond the control of corporations and the state. An even smaller group within this movement decided to start a guerrilla campaign — going underground to avoid possible arrest and imprisonment. I was part of a guerrilla group that we called Direct Action.

The Litton Plan — 1982

“Hypothetically speaking, what would you think of someone doing a bombing at the Litton plant in Ontario?” asked Brent.

Julie frowned. “I just finished reading that book by Bommi Bauman you gave me, and it mentions a bombing the Red Army Faction in West Germany did in the Springer Press Building. Even though they gave the authorities three warnings that there were bombs in the building, nobody even tried to clear out the people. Maybe they thought it was a hoax. Maybe the Springer management thought it wasn’t worth the money they would lose to clear the building, since chances were good it was a hoax. But when the bomb went off, seventeen people were killed.”

“Yeah, the RAF said later that you can’t rely on the cops to clear a building,” Brent said. “But that doesn’t mean a bombing can’t be carried out safely. Hell, more people get killed driving cars every day than they do in any bombing.”

I said, “If we did decide to do Litton, we’d put a bomb in an area where no people were working, or we would set it to go off at night, so that no one would get hurt. We would take every precaution we could imagine to make absolutely sure no one would get hurt. We’d learn from the RAF’s mistakes and not rely on the cops clearing the building. Julie, if someone like you was involved, we could have you do something remote, away from the action. I wouldn’t want you to do anything risky.”

“I know,” Julie said.

“Yeah.” Brent jumped in. “If we were to do Litton, Ann and I would do the actual bombing and the only thing we would need someone else for would be to make a phone call warning security about the bomb. That person making the call would be perfectly safe, because they wouldn’t be anywhere near Litton when the bomb would be placed or go off.”

“What do you mean — security?” asked Julie.

“I went to Ontario in April and took a look at the Litton plant, and there’s this big glass-walled security tower at the entrance to the plant,” explained Brent. “Besides the cruise guidance system, they manufacture a lot of sensitive stuff like security systems for Ontario Hydro nuclear power plants and cockpit display programs for the CF-18. There’s a history of protesters blocking the gate and driveway that’s been going on for two years now, so they have these security guards that just sit in that glass room and make sure the plant is secure. If we did a bombing, someone would have to phone security and warn them that a bomb is about to go off so they could block off the road in front of the plant. That way we’d be extra sure no one would get hurt.”

Brent continued, “We’d need a lot of dynamite to cause serious damage to the plant. I don’t want to do a symbolic action. It’s got to cause some real financial damage and maybe stall the production of the guidance system. We’ll have to find out which building is used to manufacture the guidance system. There’s a bunch of buildings at the plant.”

“If we did a bombing, it would make the Americans think twice about giving their Canadian plant the contract to build the guidance system,” I said.

“Yeah,” Brent added, “and it would show people in the anti-nuclear movement that militant actions can affect political decisions. The Americans don’t want to waste money, and they won’t like the publicity that blowing up their plant will draw.”

A few nights after arriving in Toronto, we climbed into the truck to case the Litton plant. It consisted of seven buildings enclosed behind a high wire-mesh fence, a stone’s throw from Highway 427, a big freeway that went north-south near the Toronto International Airport. A glass-windowed room in a tower at the entrance to the plant gave away the high-security nature of the products manufactured inside.

We parked on the shoulder of City View Drive, the street servicing all the manufacturing plants bordering the freeway. Other cars, probably belonging to factory workers, were parallel-parked in front and behind us. We had arrived about ten o’clock on a Friday night to see if there was a night shift.

Everything about this action would have to be analysed, and nothing left to chance. A major concern was to ensure that no one would be hurt when the bomb went off, and we wanted to find out if there was a night when no one worked at the plant.

As we sat in the dark truck, I kept my eyes on the motionless landscape of the Litton plant. Other than two employees moving about inside the illuminated security tower, there were no signs of life. “Looks like they’re joking around and drinking coffee,” said Brent, focusing a pair of binoculars on the security room. “What else is there for them to do on a Friday night?”

“Are there many cars in the workers’ parking area?” I asked.

Brent shifted his view over to the parking lot. “Yeah. There’s quite a few. We’ll see when a shift changes, and if they all go.”

I looked over at the floodlit lawn and hedges bordering the front of one of the buildings. I had already figured that we would have to drive the van up over the roadway curb and onto the lawn and park in front of that building. There were not a lot of options. Most of the buildings were behind the high wire-mesh fence surrounding the site, but that one building was outside. Anyway, we had no means, without jeopardizing our security, of verifying which building manufactured the cruise missile guidance system, so we were left with hope and opportunity as the only factors determining where we would place our van bomb.

“If we use all 550 pounds of dynamite in this bombing, it might blow out the windows in all those hotels,” I said. “We better make sure they’re all warned to stay clear of their windows before the bomb goes off.”

“Yeah,” agreed Julie. She seemed increasingly nervous with each passing day. Her youth was beginning to show.

“What if people are working in these buildings all night?” she asked softly, her pale blue eyes wide open in the dim light.

“That’s what we’re here to find out,” said Brent, not exactly answering her question.

Eventually a flood of people began pouring out of the plants and heading in long streams towards the parking lot. Within minutes cars jammed the driveway exiting the plant. “You can sure tell they’re hourly workers,” Brent said. “The second their shift is over, they’re outta there.” We smiled at each other.

I didn’t like that the line of cars had to pass us, but we put down the binoculars and pretended to be looking at a map in the truck. I glanced up at the faces of the people inside the cars as they passed and noticed how intent they were on getting out of this neighbourhood. It was Friday night, and no one was dilly-dallying. As quickly as the floodgate had opened, it shut. Within ten minutes the river of people pouring out of the plant had dried up to a trickle, until by 11 p.m. there was not a soul in sight other than the same two security guards in the tower.

Brent picked up the binoculars again and strained to see if there were more cars left in the lot. “Damn,” he whispered. “There’s still about twenty-five cars in the lot. When me and Angie were here in the spring, there was definitely no night shift. Maybe they got a bigger contract. I don’t know.”

It was obvious that we would have to case the plant to determine whether there was a night when no one was working, but what if there wasn’t? Would we go ahead anyway, and take whatever precautions necessary to make sure no one got hurt?

Even though a little voice inside me said we shouldn’t go ahead and take the risk, my sense of reason told me that we had come too far and invested too much to stop now. I knew Brent wouldn’t turn around and go back and neither would I. Julie would probably jump at the chance of going back now, but if we proceeded she would go along with us regardless of her misgivings.

Our situation reminded me of a friend who had worked hard to get a grant to fund an expedition to a mountainous region to film the nesting site of a rare bird. The expedition was the culmination of years of hard work. After assembling a film crew, climbing the mountain and being on the verge of filming, they learned that the area had been designated high risk for rock slides. Should they go ahead or go back? Despite the danger, they had invested too much time and money into their expedition to turn back.

I knew we wouldn’t change course either.

As though she was reading my mind, Julie suddenly broke the silence with a question. “Don’t you think 550 pounds is too much dynamite? And don’t you think we should target somewhere else if there is a night shift every night? Remember when the RAF bombed the Springer building in Germany and the cops didn’t take their bomb threat seriously so all those people got killed?”

I looked over at Brent for an answer.

“Anything less than 550 pounds would just be a symbolic bombing,” he said. “We want to get the idea across that sabotage should be used to cause real financial damage, to deter investors from going ahead with their deadly projects. We can learn from the RAF bombing and make sure the cops and security know it’s a real bomb. The RAF didn’t use a van. We’ll park the van where they can see it and leave a real stick of dynamite outside the van so they’ll know we’re serious. Don’t worry, Julie. Everything is going to be fine.”

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