WE SIGHTED the penitentiary late that afternoon. At first it was a thin white line in the distance. Then it disappeared behind a hill. We passed through the town of Leavenworth and came to a stop in front of a red-brick wall fully forty feet high and stretching as far as we could see. A huge double‐ barred door swung open to admit the train as we pulled into a siding within the enclosure. The gates swung shut again. As we stepped out of the coaches, machine guns were trained on us from all directions. Unkempt, unwashed, and with a two weeks' growth of beard, we were no doubt a tough-looking bunch. As we marched double file into the prison yard, I heard a rough voice say, "There come the sons-of-bitches now." We found ourselves in a miniature high-walled city of red-brick streets and buildings. The cell blocks stood massive in the distance, and over all the grimy boiler-house reared its tall smokestack into a cloudless blue sky.
We were stripped of our civilian clothing and fitted with numbered prison garments, each of us receiving a gray dress uniform with cap and brass buttons, a work suit of faded dungarees and jacket, a hickory shirt, cotton-flannel underwear, two pairs of socks, and a couple of handkerchiefs. As a special favor we were permitted to wear our own shoes. The numbers were stenciled on patches sewed just above each knee on the trousers and on the back of coats and jackets. Mine was 13104. They had started with 13101 in order to make our group easy to identify among the mass of inmates . Andreytchine was 13101. Haywood happened to be 13106.
Next we went to the deputy's office to be assigned to our prison work and permanent cells. The barred anteroom was crowded. A dozen or more of us, including Bill Haywood, were