“Here,” he said. “Sit down here while it’s still dry.”
He opened the thermos and filled the plastic cup. He took a drink and, without swallowing, spit it out on the ashes.
“Sacrament!” he swore. “Want some?”
“No thanks,” Henri answered. “You’ve been here a long time?”
“Forever!” Jean-Louis chuckled at his own little joke. “Sometimes, it seems that way.”
“Not much action here, eh?” Henri continued. St-Jean, it seemed to Henri, was being especially quiet.
“Mosquitoes are pretty bad.”
“How about when there’s wind? Fire must get pretty bad then.”
“Oh, you bet. When the wind shifts, the flames roar and you see it jump from the tops of the trees and you run like hell.”
“Did that ever happen? You had to run?”
“No. I’ve been sitting here a long time. So far, nothing like that.”
“Where’s Alphonse?” St-Jean spoke up for the first time. He had been thinking about Marie-Josée lying in the back of his father’s station wagon. He remembered the trouble he had undoing the clasp of her bra and how she had ripped away three buttons trying to get his shirt off. He was not sure if she was a virgin that night. He only knew that he was and that when he dropped her off two streets before her house, he no longer was.
The pump operator smiled. The man was about thirty-five years old and seemed to be intelligent enough. But, sometimes, he would laugh suddenly as if he had been thinking of something that was very funny. He would stop, just as suddenly, look at Henri and St-Jean, and then grin and poke at the ashes with a stick.
“Where is your foreman?” St-Jean asked.
“He’s gone for a walk,” the man answered. “And your boss too. They went up over there to check.”
The man pointed towards the eastern slope of the hill, where the burned out section ended and the almost blue sky began.
“What about the two guys we replaced?” Henri said.
“Them too.”
“I thought they were going to eat.”
“So did they,” the man said. “So did they! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”
Henri got up off the log. He walked away from the pump and standing with his back to St-Jean and the pump operator he pissed on the ashes. It had stopped raining and he saw the sun beginning to show between two, thick white clouds.
Later in the afternoon, the sky was clear and it was very warm. The students who had gone over the easterly crest were spread out in groups of three and four among the charred tree trunks on the burned-out section of the hill. They worked steadily. They broke through the charred humus of the forest floor and then they shoveled out the yellow sand. They went at it two at a time, until they were tired and then two other students took over. They dug and shovelled until there was a mound of yellow sand all around them and only their hard hats and shoulders could be seen above ground.
It had started with an idea. The students were tired and bored with the whole business. All they wanted to do was lie in the sun and get as far away as they could from the black, dead world of ashes and burned trees. But, there was not a single green, unburned piece of ground anywhere. Every inch of ground, every felled tree, even the rocks that could be found, were covered in black soot. François Gauthier had an idea. With his shovel, he marked out a circle in the ashes about three feet in diameter. He dug inside the mark, removing the burned needles and humus until he had a perfect circle of yellow sand. He sat in the circle on the sand, with his knees raised and his chest resting against them. He rested in the sun and was very happy with himself. He said nothing to the others. He was content to sit there, warm and dry and happy in the sun, until someone or something forced him to do otherwise.
The others were quick to recognize the worth of François’ idea. But they could not let it alone. They seemed compelled to modify his plan somewhat. Together, in groups of three or four, they dug holes in the ground large enough to sit in with their knees tucked up and their backs resting against the walls. When they finished digging and sat down in the holes, they were disappointed. Sitting in the holes, with only their hats showing above ground, was uncomfortable. The sand slid down the mounds onto their necks and inside their shirts when they leaned their backs against the walls. The earth was damp on the bottom of the holes and they had to place their gloves beneath them just so as to keep their buttocks dry. It was cool and damp where they sat hidden from the rays of the sun. They came out often to take the stiffness from their legs and to warm themselves in the sun. At such times, they could see François sitting on his circle of warm, yellow sand, with his knees pulled up and his chest resting against them. His hard hat was pulled down low over his eyes and they guessed that he was sleeping. Some swore they could hear him snoring.
It was boring. After the digging it was boring and dull and the only diversion was when they came out of a hole to stretch and warm themselves in the sun. Suddenly, they heard a sound coming from the west. It was the steady drone of an engine that grew louder and louder. Then, it was above them. All of the students stood up in their holes. They waved at the yellow aircraft with their hard hats and yelled, “Over here! Over here!” The large, twin-engine water bomber circled in low and dipped its wings. The students cheered, realizing that the pilot had seen them. They were excited about seeing the CL-215 and how the pilot had recognized them as part of the firefighting crew. They watched the plane as it flew eastward and disappeared behind a ridge of tall jack pine. The boys returned to their holes then and waited for the day to pass.
It was close to sunset when Alphonse arrived. The boys in the trenches could not see the sun from where they were and they were cold and bored again. Alphonse stood by one of the holes and looked down at the boys inside. Henri and St-Jean stood behind him.
“Hey, hey,” Alphonse said, nodding his head in disapproval, “a nice bunch you are.”
Alphonse did not approve of them hiding like that and not working. They were not getting any work done but they were not unhappy. There was that, at least. Later, they would get some work done.
“All right,” Alphonse said,” Fill up the holes. As soon as you’re finished, we’ll head back to the road. The caboose should be there by now. We’ll be eating at Camp 15.”
“We’re not staying there, are we?” Morrow wanted to know. “We’re going back to Washika, aren’t we?”
“Yes, later,” Alphonse replied.
Chapter 17
After the boys had filled in the holes, Alphonse and the crew went back along the trail, following the canvas hose in the almost dark. It was dark when they reached the road. They saw the fire, and the old man and the driver standing by it, almost exactly as they had left them. They both had cups of tea and the old man had a pipe dangling from a corner of his mouth. The students noticed the pipe and they wondered how he did that. They had noticed earlier that day that the old man did not have any teeth. As they came closer to the fire they could hear him speaking. They had never heard him speak before.
“Oui sacrament!” he said. “You can be sure of that.”
The caboose driver laughed and tossed the rest of the tea in his cup towards the fire. He turned and looked back as Alphonse arrived.
“Yes sir,” he said.
“Yes sir,” Alphonse greeted the man. He nodded towards the old man who acknowledged the gesture with a short wave of his pipe. The old man added water to the pail suspended over the fire. Beyond the fire, it was dark. From where he stood, Alphonse could just make out the reflections of the fire on the door of the truck.
“Ready to head back?” Alphonse said to the driver.
“Sure thing. No problem at all.”
“What about the shovels? The truck’s gone.”
“Leave them here for tonight,” the old man spoke up. “Just pile them right up here.” The old man pointed to the cord of firewood behind him. Folded over the wood was a thick tarpaulin similar to the one the students had seen on the tru
ck rack. “Just cover it all with the tarp,” the old man added.
The students rushed to the woodpile and deposited the shovels and grub hoes, leaning them against the wood. When they had finished, they covered the tools and the wood with the tarpaulin.
“Anyway,” Alphonse said to no one in particular, “there’s no guarantee we’ll be back here tomorrow.”
“Ha!” the old man laughed, showing his bare, toothless gums. “There’s no guarantee of anything around here. With that gang in charge here, we could all be dead in the morning.”
The driver laughed, and as the old man smiled at Alphonse saliva dripped down from the corner of his mouth where the pipe was.
“I’m an old man,” he continued. “I’m an old dried up thing and I’ve been around a long time and I’ve seen lots of them guys, them guys from the head office. Calis! Do I ever know about them.”
Alphonse laughed along with the others, but not too much. In his heart he knew that the old man was right. The man had the knowledge of years and his age allowed him to speak out without fear. Alphonse, however, was a foreman. He wore the hard hat of his rank. He had his job to think of, and his wife and his children. And then, there were the students. They respected him, he knew that. And he always wanted to be good to them. On the drive, that was easy. He was in charge, miles away from the camp, out on the Cabonga where no one could see them, and they worked well. Some days they did not do very much, that was true. But there were other days when all of the students did excellent work. It would all balance out in the end. But here, it was different. Here, many were in charge and considered themselves beyond reproach. Not all of them believed as he did, that all things happen for a reason, that a balance is almost always reached one way or another.
The driver offered his cup to one of the students and each, in turn, dipped it into the pail and passed it on to the next student. Finally, Henri filled the cup and offered it to Alphonse.
“How long to Camp 15?” Alphonse spoke to the driver.
“An hour, hour and a half,” the man answered.
“Guess we’d better get going then.”
“Yes sir. No problem.”
Alphonse turned to the old man.
“Are you staying?” he asked.
“All depends.”
Alphonse looked at him, at his tired old eyes and the deep lines stretching over his brown skin.
“All depends,” the old man repeated. “All depends on you.”
“How’s that?”
“How’s that, you say? You’re the last truck out of here tonight. Think they’d send someone out just for me? Ha!”
“No problem,” Alphonse replied. “Get on with us.”
“No favours, eh? I don’t want no favours me.”
“It’s no problem at all. There’s room for the three of us in the truck.”
“Na, na, na!” the old man waved his pipe back and forth in front of his face. “I’ll sit in the caboose like everybody else. Na, na, sacrament. I’m too old now to start that kind of stuff.”
Alphonse looked at the man once again, and as their eyes met across the fire both men smiled. He was at least seventy-five years old. He was tall, probably as tall as François Gauthier if he would hold his back straight, which he never did. He was tall and very thin and his long-legged trousers were held up tight to his crotch with police suspenders that made his legs look longer than they were. The old man had spent many years of his life in the sun and it showed on his hands and his face. The skin, brown and lined, was taut on his face and around his cheekbones and his long nose curved like the beak of a falcon. His name was Frederick Garneau. Alphonse stared at the man and realized what a good time the old man was having there. It was not true that they had left him behind. He had probably refused several rides back to camp. And he probably did not dislike the bosses, at least not all of them, as much as he said he did. He was an old man who had come to spend his last days where he belonged and to poke fun at the younger men as they struggled to learn some of the things he had known for years. Alphonse wondered if the old man, in his wisdom, was aware that somewhere in the head office there was someone who understood and had given the okay for a man of Frederick’s age to be there, in the bush, working on a forest fire.
Two of the students drew water from the stream and helped the old man put out the fire. The wood sizzled and a large cloud of smoke went up from the wet, black wood. As the students poured the last pail, they heard the truck’s engine and saw a large section of green forest lit up by the headlights.
“Okay, let’s go.” Alphonse said.
The door to the caboose was open and the inside of the caboose was lit by a small dome light on the ceiling. The boys climbed the two steps and went inside. The last to go in was Frederick Garneau. The driver pushed him from behind after Frederick got a foot up on the first step. The old man laughed. But he forgot to duck going inside and he swore as his hard hat crashed against the upper portion of the open doorway.
The boys sat on the benches along the walls of the caboose. As the old man entered, Henri moved down along the bench and motioned to the old man to sit down beside him and next to the rear window opening.
“Sit here, Monsieur Garneau,” Henri said. He had heard Alphonse asking the old man what his name was.
“Na, na!” the old man replied. “Fred. My name is Fred, you hear?”
“Yes sir.”
As the truck moved along the gravel road, the students held on to the benches and looked at one another. Hardly anyone spoke. They were quiet going along the new rough road. The only thing attracting their attention was Fred, sitting there in the dim light with his eyes closed trying to sleep. He would grimace with pain when they hit a bad spot on the road, causing the skin, stretched over his skinny limbs, to pinch on the hard wooden bench.
About an hour down the road, Lavigne rapped on the window and signalled to the driver that he had to go outside. When the bar was removed and the door opened, several students went out to relieve themselves. After he had finished, Lavigne had gone to speak to Alphonse and the driver. When he returned to the caboose he was carrying a grey felt cushion. He handed the cushion to the old man and returned to his place along the opposite wall.
Neither Lavigne nor the old man had spoken. Lavigne had handed him the cushion without saying a word. All along the road the rest of the way to Camp 15, the boys sat without speaking and, in the dim light of the caboose, tired old eyes looked at them kindly.
Chapter 18
Camp 15 was very different from Washika. More than three hundred and fifty men lived at the camp and everyone seemed to be in a hurry and going about different tasks. Not everyone ate, or washed, or slept at the same time of day. The sleep camps were two-storey buildings with long wooden stairways on the outside at one end. In the cookhouse there were places for two hundred men at a time and the cook had five cookees helping him. Everyone passing with a tray could see them working the pots and pans in the open kitchen. This was so very different from the cookhouse at Washika where Dumas ruled over all including his small kitchen and one cookee. During the meals Dumas stood at the centre of four long tables surveying all who ate in his cookhouse, making sure that nothing was missing and that the fellows ate without chatting. His food was delicious, his discipline supreme. Here at Camp 15, the cookhouse was much like the cafeteria at the Collège de Ste-Émilie and the food just as mushy and tasteless; the students immediately took a great dislike to the camp and its inhabitants. None of them spoke during the meal and they ate very little and drank tea, and all appeared distraught.
Outside, it was raining. The bus was parked alongside the cookhouse landing with its engine running. As the students came out of the cookhouse they could see Alphonse inside the bus talking to the driver. They were both having a good laugh. The students stepped into the bus and sat down. No one fought for a window seat. It was quiet, and dark, and damp. Before the bus was a mile south of Camp 15 the students were curled up in their seats with ar
ms wrapped around themselves, swaying freely with the bumps in the road and just barely hearing the engine groan and the wipers squeaking across the windshield.
“Work!” a voice called out.
It could not be. Surely it must be a nightmare. The students groaned and squirmed in their seats. They rubbed their eyes and stared at the dim light on the ceiling.
“Come on now, my little ducks,” Alphonse called out in a loud voice. “We’re home. Wake up now!”
Alphonse and the driver stood at the front of the bus looking at the students stumbling about and searching for their gloves and lunch pails. They swore and mumbled, and all were in a very bad mood.
“After you’ve dropped off your things,” Alphonse shouted from the front of the bus, “come over to the kitchen. Dumas will have cakes and tea for you.”
The camp was asleep. The generator had been shut down but there were dim lights coming from the main sleep camp and the bunkhouse-and-office as well as from the cookhouse kitchen. As the students stepped down from the bus they saw P’tit-Gus walking across the yard with his hunting lamp. It was still raining softly. In the bunkhouse-and-office, a naphtha lamp hissed loudly on the table. The guys dropped their gloves and lunch pails on the beds and left for the cookhouse. André Guy undressed quickly and before the last guy had left the bunkhouse he was in his bed with the blankets covering his head.
Dumas smiled at the students as they entered the rear door of his kitchen. He did not even seem to mind that they had not removed their hard hats. He stood in a corner of the kitchen talking to Alphonse, stopping only to smile at the arrival of yet another student. The students did not know what to make of this sudden change; they were never permitted to enter the cookhouse wearing their hard hats or without washing their hands thoroughly and combing their hair. They stood on both sides of the long wooden table and ate cookies and doughnuts and drank several cups of hot tea. They were happy to be home. Eating slowly, they looked at the array of pots and pans hanging from hooks on the walls, felt the heat of the large wood stove and smelled the fresh bread stacked in racks near the windows. They were happy and tired and each of them was feeling very special for the way Dumas was treating them.
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