Lord Coal's Troubles

Britain's National Coal Board is massive by any standards. It is the third largest industrial company outside the U.S., employs 550,000 people (one in every 40 British workers), is one of England's biggest landlords (it owns 130,000 homes), and supplies most of Britain's energy needs. It also has Brit ain's worst managerial headache. Its deficit has mounted to $125 million so far this year, and it intends to close 150 coal mines and seek government forgiveness of loans equaling more than $1 billion. Last week, in the most severe shake-up since the coal industry was nationalized 18 years ago, the N.C.B. abolished seven division offices, announced plans to eliminate 14,000 clerical employees and save $40 million annually.

The N.C.B.'s plight has been worsening despite rising productivity and the board's leading role in applying automation techniques to mines. Like coal industries elsewhere, the board suffers from the increased efficiency of rival energy products: oil, natural gas and nuclear power; coal now supplies only 65% of Britain's fuel needs v. 90% in 1950. The N.C.B.'s operating costs have risen steadily, yet the government has forced the board to hold the price line. Its wages are pegged to an obsolete piece-rate system, its mines are worked out, and unemployment insurance has suspiciously increased absenteeism to 25,000 men daily.

Best Friend? These messy problems land squarely on the ample frame of the coal board's chairman, Baron Robens of Woldingham, who is variously known to Britons as "Lord Coal" and "honest" Alf." After serving on Manchester's city council and running a teddy-bear-manufacturing business, Lancashireman Robens won a seat in Parliament, at 40 became Clement Attlee's Minister of Labor. In 1961 a Conservative government asked him to take over the red-inked coal board, which had become a music-hall joke. Robens moved into the board's office behind Buckingham Palace, mounted a housewives' coal-buying campaign, and announced to the workers: "The miner never had a better friend than Alf Robens." He was soon made a baron.

In 1962, Lord Coal managed to turn a modest $3.9 million profit, but rising competition, casual labor practices and overoptimistic expansion soon reddened the ink again. "If we were a private corporation," admits Robens, "the stockholders would have been bankrupt a long time ago." The government's protective measures (a virtual ban on coal imports, a twopence-per-gallon tax on oil) have been to no avail. And, despite promises that they will get new jobs, the 120,000 miners who will be thrown out of work by the pit closures are no longer sure that Alf Robens is their best friend. Mine unions now call Robens "the self-worshiping Socialist."

Trying Hard. In an almost impossible situation, Lord Coal is nonetheless trying to do his best. One of the country's most polished performers, he flies around visiting coal mines in a $140,000 DeHaviland Dove plane painted in the blue and white colors of the National Coal Board flag. Robens is persistently optimistic about coal's future, insists that Britain's growth will raise consumption and that modernization will make coal competitive. He is squabbling with the Labor government about next year's coal production, which he believes should be 200 million tons instead of the 180 million tons Labor wants. "On that basis," sniffs Lord Coal, "you could get a schoolboy to do my job for me." Still, he is likely to be around for a while: this fall he signed up for another five-year stint as chairman, at $35,000 a year.

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