Early the next morning, we nervously climbed aboard our train. A locomotive then pushed our railcars onto the ferry. The railroad car ferry was a 339-foot-long steel ship that had four sets of railroad tracks inside. We were told that the ship could hold twenty-two fully loaded railcars. The sole purpose of the Chief Wawatam was to transport passengers and railroad cars back and forth across the Straits of Mackinac. Railcars were loaded from the front, or bow, of the ship.
We were given the choice of staying in our seats on the train or going up on deck to watch the trip topside. I decided to stay put on the train. As the railcar bumped and jerked its way onto the ship, I caught a quick glimpse of the lake. Maybe it was my imagination, but the waves looked taller and more menacing than they had the day before. We all looked straight ahead as the dim light of the ship’s interior wrapped around us. As the Chief Wawatam continued to be loaded with people and railroad cars, the old-timer’s story of the S.S. Milwaukee was on my mind. The car went quiet.
“This is like that story the nuns at St. Adalbert’s told us,” Stosh said nervously, trying to break the silence. “Remember Jonah and the whale?”
“Sure, I remember that one,” Pick said. “This swallowing part ain’t too bad . . . I only hope we get spit out like we’re supposed to.”
The Chief Wawatam creaked and groaned as she left the dock in Mackinaw City. Her large propellers took big chomping bites of water and moved the ship steadily forward. The wind and waves pushed at the ship, causing it to rise and fall, roll and pitch. Some of the guys got real sick.
After what seemed like hours on the ship, we felt a sudden bump that was accompanied by the crash of metal striking something solid. We sat up stock straight as a loud whining sound came from the ship. Yasku’s eyes were wide with fear. Before panic swept through the train, someone shouted that we had docked at St. Ignace. After a time, the railroad car lurched again and we were pulled out of the Chief Wawatam. We were spit out into the daylight, just like the story of Jonah and the whale.
The railroad line followed a trail out of St. Ignace through the wilderness of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. The tracks were in rough shape after a severe winter in the north.
Rocks, swamps, and barren land passed as we rolled on through the morning hours. Miles of tree stumps and piles of dried brush littered the countryside. The train bounced along rough tracks for hours and hours. As we headed west through the Upper Peninsula, rain pelted the train. It came down in sheets with lightning crashing around us.
The train rolled to a noisy stop at an abandoned railroad siding. We saw no town, no buildings, just miles and miles of nothing. We were ordered to unload our supplies. When the train left the siding, we stood there in the rain among piles of food, tents, bedding, cooking gear, and tools.
We were told that our home was called Camp Polack Lake. Mike and a few of his friends were sure to make fun of the Polish-sounding name.
Chapter 10
Polack Lake
We carried supplies to a campsite that was a half mile away from the train tracks. After a time, a few forestry trucks arrived to haul the heavy stuff. We made several trips along the muddy road, lugging duffle bags and supplies. Stosh and Yasku kept a close eye out for man-eating moose and the lumberjack ghost. Polack Lake wasn’t far from our campsite. The water was gray, cold, and shallow. It wasn’t the beautiful swimming hole that Pick imagined it to be.
The cooks began to assemble a makeshift kitchen as we hauled load after load. Fires were lit and pots of water were put on to heat. The area surrounding us was both awesome and frightening. It was like nothing we’d seen before—nothing we could ever have imagined. Tree stumps dotted the countryside in every direction for as far as we could see. Branches that once carried emerald green pine needles now lay scattered along the ground, brown and dead. In some areas, dead branches were piled waist high. The ground itself was rutted and scarred by the thousands of tree trunks that had been cut off at the base then dragged off to the lumber mill.
Everything was colored dull brown or gray. Even the sky itself was a dreadful gray. The rain was cold. The ground was still frozen hard as a rock in areas. Fingers of snow reached out from the shadows. Ice hung at the fringes of standing water that gathered in the low areas. It was like winter was trying to keep its cold grip on the land. The only color to be seen was the dull olive drab of the army equipment and clothing we wore.
There were no sounds of motors or engines. There were no foundry noises, city noises, or people noises. Nothing but the constant tap of rain. Even the flocks and formations of birds that were moving north in their spring migrations were quieted in their travels.
“Holy smokes,” Stosh said, his body shivering with cold. “What have we gotten ourselves into here?”
As we looked around and took in the view, the air began to fill with the smells of food cooking. Our attention shifted from our surroundings to the thought of lunch. Soon two hundred hungry CCC boys were circling around the cooks. Each held a mess kit open and ready to be filled.
“Listen up,” the lieutenant called. We all snapped to attention. “You’re a long way from home. By my reckoning, we’re about five miles from nowhere. It will take us several days to get this camp together, and we’ve got a lot of work to do before we can bed down for the night. So, let me introduce you to your camp commander.”
The camp commander’s voice boomed through the cool air. “At ease, gentlemen,” Captain Mason said. We relaxed our posture as the captain continued. “Lieutenant Campbell is correct; we are in the middle of nowhere.”
He pointed to the east. “If you don’t like the work, or if you want to run home to mama, St. Ignace is a four- or five-day walk in that direction. You can try to hop a train, but they don’t stop to pick up passengers here. You’d have to jump on board while it’s rolling full speed.” Then the camp commander pointed to the southeast, “Manistique is about forty miles that way, give or take. You might be able to catch a boat to the Lower Peninsula there. However, if you choose to go ‘over the hill,’ I’d recommend that you pack food and water.
“Now,” the camp commander continued, “if you choose to stay, you will be a part of something very important, something that will last for generations. Together, we’re going to turn nowhere into somewhere. It will take time, and it will take work—lots of it. Over the next few days, we’re going to concentrate on building our camp. Over the next six months, we’re going to begin transforming our camp and the surrounding countryside.
“We’re going to break out the tools and clear the area right after lunch is over. Once we’ve prepared the campsite, we’ll have to set up tents and beds in an orderly fashion before we hit the sack. Leaders have been chosen to direct the work. The sooner you get your jobs done, the sooner you can catch some shut-eye.”
The captain let his message sink in before continuing. “This is the Civilian Conservation Corps, gentlemen. We are not wet nurses or babysitters. Remember the Oath of Enrollment you took. You are to obey the orders of those who have been put in charge. Furthermore, you are expected to follow the chain of command at all times. If you’ve got a question, a problem, or a bellyache, take it to your assistant leader—not to Lieutenant Campbell and not to me. Is that understood?”
Silence hung in the air. “Get your fill of lunch because it will be a long time ’til supper. One final thing: Anybody who doesn’t work will face KP. Dismissed!”
For lunch we had stew and corn bread. Assistant leaders then organized us into work crews. From the back of a truck, shovels, axes, and grub hoes were handed out, and we headed off in separate directions to tackle the work.
Of all the rotten luck, our assistant leader was none other than Big Mike O’Shea.
Chapter 11
Something from Nothing
Big Mike delighted in showing off his new-found authority as an assistant leader. The harder we worked, the more he pushed. Mike gave the dirtiest and hardest jobs to me and my buddies. We cut brush and move
d thorny branches all afternoon and into the night. After dark, we worked in the light from supply trucks and a bonfire that was tended by one of the enrollees.
The rain stung, the wind howled, and the temperature dropped. Now and then we could see that flakes of snow were mixed in with the rain. Despite the army rain ponchos we wore, all of us were shaking with cold and soaked to the bone.
While Yasku and I were hauling branches and brush to a pile outside the campsite, a hot ember drifted down and landed in a dry bed of pine needles that was sheltered from the rain. Though the brush pile was soaking wet, the burning pine needles started the pile afire. Flames grew as they were fanned by the wind.
I looked around and spotted a finger of snow nearby. I grabbed handfuls of the grainy snow and threw it on the flames. The fire hissed at me like a snake. Yasku started taking the pile apart, kicking at branches. We worked feverishly. When Yasku and I returned to the work crew, our hands were burned, and we were blackened by ash and soot.
“Where have you goldbricks been?” Mike snarled as he spotted us.
Yasku and I looked at each other. He spoke first as he pointed back at the brush pile. “We was just back there helpin’ out . . .”
Mike stepped forward. His eyes glowed in the dim light. “I don’t want excuses. I expect you to work.”
“We’re not making excuses,” I said. “We were putting out a fire.”
Mike grabbed me by the shirt. “Your job is to haul brush and wood, not put out fires. You two are on KP tomorrow. If I catch you goofing off again, you’ll be on KP for a week.”
It was clear that Mike wasn’t going to listen to our side of the argument, so we accepted our fate and went quietly back to work. In the night, hands were blistered by rough axe handles and cut by the thorns and heavy underbrush. A first-aid station was set up sometime in the evening, and it was kept hopping busy. An army medic and some volunteers worked through the night patching up wounded workers.
Though he was cruel, Mike and his work crew accomplished more than any of the other teams. That caught the attention of the lieutenant. “Keep up the good work, O’Shea,” the lieutenant said. Big Mike seemed to relish the praise he was given.
The rough campsite was cleared, and umbrella tents were pitched before midnight. I shared a tent with Stosh, Yasku, Pick, and two other guys. We didn’t take the time to introduce ourselves. The canvas was soaked and had a moldy, musty smell. The legs of our cots were on rough, uneven ground and wobbled whenever we rolled around. We didn’t care. We slept in our wet clothes, too tired to eat, wash, or change.
At 4:00 a.m., while the others slept, Yasku and I were shaken awake by rough hands. It was Mike O’Shea. “Rise and shine, you goldbricks. Everybody who worked last night gets to sleep in today. You get to pull KP.”
Stosh and I were to find out that KP, or Kitchen Police, was punishment, pure and simple. It was work upon work. After digging stumps, hauling brush, and setting up tents through the night, Yasku and I spent the early hours of the day peeling potatoes, scrubbing pots and pans, and cutting firewood for the cook stoves.
After breakfast, Yasku and I joined the rest of our work crew. Both of us worked hard in order to avoid any more KP. Setting up the mess tent and other large buildings was the order of the day. High winds that swept the area made the job difficult. Doing KP before starting work for the day made the job seem impossible. After a long day, I collapsed on my cot.
Later that evening, rain tapped against the roof of the mess tent as we sat down to supper. The cooks made chipped beef on toast. The toast was burned and tasted like shingles, but we didn’t complain. After our meal, Lieutenant Campbell told us that we would start our real jobs in the next few days. A forestry agent from the U.S. Department of Agriculture was due to show up to talk about the work ahead. With Mike in control, I saw only agony and trouble in the future. Still there was little I could do; my family was counting on me and me alone.
Gradually, the camp took shape. Like Captain Mason said, we were creating something out of nothing. Our official designation was Company 688, Camp Polack Lake.
Chapter 12
The Pit
Camp Polack Lake was nothing like Camp Custer. There were no buildings with windows, only tents that let in the wind and the rain. We didn’t even have the luxury of a bugler to give us a tune each morning and night. Instead, we had a whistle. The morning whistle blew at 6:00 a.m. We made our beds and cleaned up inside the close quarters of our tent. Teeth chattered in the early morning air as we struggled to get into cold clothes. Then it was formation for morning exercises. Before breakfast, like all the days that were to follow at Polack Lake, we lined up and policed the site, picking up trash and debris. We also endured daily inspections. After a flag-raising ceremony, it was off to breakfast.
The pancakes were heavenly. Stosh, Pick, Yasku, and I sat together with the other fellows from our tent. Pick ate like there was no tomorrow. Even though he was over six feet tall, he only weighed about 125 pounds. The blend of melted butter and syrup made eating the hotcakes like dessert. With full bellies, we were herded out onto the parade grounds at the center of our campsite to report for duty.
Lieutenant Campbell introduced us to the forester. Mister Wilson bit off a piece of plug chewing tobacco. He spoke with the chaw in his mouth, stopping occasionally to spit a smear of brown liquid.
“Look around, gentlemen,” Mr. Wilson said. “This land was once covered with beautiful pine trees. Some were 100 feet tall, maybe more. ’Bout forty years ago, almost all of that timber was harvested. The lumber crews cut the trees and slashed off the branches. They hauled off the trunks and the slashings were left behind. The lumber barons made a lot of money in their time, but they left us a big, ugly mess.”
He continued, “They darn near took all the pine. Now this area is covered with stumps, brush, and trees that the lumber barons didn’t want.” Mr. Wilson gestured to the countryside just outside our camp. “Our job will be to clear the area and build roads to prevent wildfires. Who knows? We may be called on to fight fires as well. Come next year, we’ll be planting trees in this area.”
Mr. Wilson went on to tell us that the limbs and tree branches that were stacked into slashing piles across the state created serious fire hazards. Our first task as the CCC was to do all we could to reduce wildfires. He called the job “pre-suppression.” That meant building roads and fire trails, constructing watchtowers, and stringing telephone lines that would link the towers to the camp. If and when the time came, we would put our lives on the line fighting fires in the wilderness.
“Fellas,” Lieutenant Campbell concluded, “your assistant leaders will be assigning you to teams and passing out jobs based on your skills. Remember what Captain Mason said earlier: This is the Civilian Conservation Corps. We ain’t your mommies. Work hard and keep your noses clean. I don’t want no trouble from any of you. If you have problems or questions, take them to your assistant leaders.”
My heart sank as Mike O’Shea approached. “I’ve got a special job for you boys.” He glared directly at me. “You’ll be in charge of supplying road construction materials. It’s up to you to make sure that the road crews get the gravel they need.”
Road construction materials—sounded good; maybe I’d even have a chance to drive a truck. After all, workers and materials had to be delivered to areas where roads were being built. Optimism faded away when we were handed shovels and marched to a gravel pit that was a few miles from camp. There we began our work.
Drivers backed huge dump trucks into the gravel pit. Once they parked, Stosh, Pick, Yasku, and I loaded each truck by hand—shovelful by shovelful. Ice-cold water seeped through the gravel. In short order, our feet were soaked and miserable. That was the least of it. Hour after hour we picked up the gravel and tossed it far overhead into the trucks. It was backbreaking work. At lunchtime, we sat at the edge of the pit and ate our sandwiches. Our arms were so sore and tired the sandwiches seemed heavy.
Work in t
he gravel pit went on day after day, five days a week. The days lasted forever, and the nights were a blink. One day Pick took me aside. “Mike is always going to keep us in this pit or someplace worse. Why don’t you try to clear things up? Maybe we’d have a chance for something a little easier.”
What Pick said made sense. After supper, I tracked Mike down to talk things through. My hand reached out to him. “I think we got off on a bad foot,” I began. “I just want you to know that I don’t have any hard feelings.”
“Well, I do have hard feelings.” Mike poked his finger into my chest to punctuate his words. “If you’re here to get buddy-buddy with me, I don’t want it.”
I stepped back and looked him in the eye. “What do you want?” I asked.
“I want you and your pals to pay for making me look like a fool.”
A big-mouthed response was on the tip of my tongue, but I didn’t say it. Mike didn’t need anyone else to make a fool out of him. He was good at making a fool of himself by the way he acted. Talking to Mike O’Shea was impossible.
Chapter 13
Pain from the Sky
We ignored Mike O’Shea and the constant taunts he delivered both at camp and in the pit. Our work continued regardless of the weather. In fact, we were told that the only time we wouldn’t be outside working was if the temperature was lower than twenty degrees below zero. The month of May had been cold and rainy so far, but not that cold. The weather took a change for the better one day, or so we thought.
Down in the gravel pit, we couldn’t always tell which way the wind was blowing. Early on that particular day, we felt a breeze on our backs for the first time since our jobs began. The wind had shifted and was coming out of the south. The air carried warmer temperatures and the first smells of spring.
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