Fires in the Wilderness

by Jeffery L Schatzer

  Before long, our shirts were off and we were feeling charged up at the promise of warmer weather yet to come. That morning seemed to fly by. We were all surprised and pleased to see the lunch truck roll up to the pit. The driver laid on the horn to tell us to come and get it.

  As we sprinted up to the lunch truck, the driver poked his head out the window. “Looks like there’s a storm coming up from the south. D’ya needs me to grab some rain ponchos and run ’em back to ya?”

  Mike O’Shea appeared out of nowhere. It seemed as though he was always showing up at the wrong time. “Don’t bother trying to help these guys. They don’t have the sense to get in out of the rain. Heck, they’re so stupid they won’t know it’s raining unless somebody tells ’em.”

  Mike slapped his knee as he laughed. The driver stared at him and shook his head. I just wrote off the whole situation as another example of how Mike made himself look foolish. I wasn’t going to let O’Shea spoil this first nice day since coming to Polack Lake.

  “You guys quit lollygagging,” Mike said as we enjoyed our lunches. “Some of the drivers and road crews are complaining that you ain’t keeping up with your share of the work.”

  We all knew better than to believe what Mike was saying. The drivers were always telling us that we were working hard and doing a good job in a bad situation. They also told us that the road crews were working hard and could barely keep up with the gravel we were sending to them. Still, none of us was about to argue with Mike. When he realized that he wasn’t going to get us riled up, he stomped off to check up on other work crews.

  I turned to the lunch truck driver. “Don’t pay any attention to Mike,” I said. “He’s got a mean streak in him.”

  “You fellas are good workers. I’d be happy to bring back some ponchos if you want,” he said.

  “No thanks,” I said. “I think we’ll be fine. A little spring rain might even feel good.”

  “Yah,” Pick added. “It’s starting to get right warm down in that pit.”

  “Well, be sure to take shelter if we get lightning.” With that, the driver waved and headed out to complete his deliveries to the other work crews.

  We watched the storm coming as our lunches settled. “I don’t like the look of them clouds,” Yasku said.

  “Me neither,” said Stosh.

  “Where would we go if the lightning starts crashing around us?” asked Pick.

  “The pit is probably as good a place as any,” Yasku said. “Don’t lightning usually strike high points like trees and flag poles?”

  “There’s too much water in the pit,” I said. “If lightning strikes a river or lake nearby, we could get electrocuted.”

  Pick came up with a solution. “We could crawl under a gravel truck. That would get us out of the rain and protect us from lightning.”

  We all agreed to the plan.

  The storm got closer and closer through the afternoon. The sky was taken over by tall, black clouds that roiled and boiled. Just as we finished loading a truck with gravel, the warm south wind seemed to stop all of a sudden. We watched the truck roll away and were waiting for the next one to arrive when the storm hit.

  The dark sky covered us. Day became night. A sudden wind from the north turned our skin prickly and the air carried a frightful cold. We heard it long before we saw or felt it. A roaring sound started off in the distance and approached us rapidly. Our plan to hide under a gravel truck had gone bad. There were no trucks around and no shelter in sight. We were caught out in the open.

  Hailstones smashed to the ground all around. They were bigger around than our thumbs and struck with the force of a thrown rock. I covered my head with the blade of my shovel. The other guys did the same. The stones pinged off the shovels that protected our heads. Our arms, backs, and legs took the brunt of the stones as they fell from high above.

  The hailstorm lasted only a few minutes, but it seemed like it went on for hours. Just before it let up, another gravel truck arrived and backed down into the pit to take on another load. Like the storm was on some kind of switch, the hail stopped when the truck driver turned off the engine and set the parking break. Our shelter from the storm had arrived too late to offer any help at all.

  The driver stepped out of his truck and wiped his brow with his cap. “Whew, that was quite a hailstorm wasn’t it?”

  “Really?” Stosh asked. “We hadn’t noticed.”

  Our mouths hung open as we looked at the truck driver. Each of us was bruised and bloody from being left out in the open without shelter. As the driver turned his back on us to walk to the rim of the pit, we grabbed handfuls of hailstones and pitched them at him.

  That was to be one of the most miserable days we were to spend at Camp Polack Lake. The hailstorm had leveled our camp. Many tents were knocked down and blown away. The mess tent was ripped to shreds. The trucks were dinged and dented, windshields smashed and shattered. The storm destroyed practically everything we’d built over the past few weeks. After a day of working in the pit and being caught in an awful hailstorm, we had to begin the work of rebuilding our camp.

  It took nearly a week to patch tents and fix all the damage. We did all the repairs in the evening after a long day’s work.

  Chapter 14

  Attack

  June 1934

  Mike O’Shea had work responsibilities that took him to different projects in the area, so we never knew when he’d show up at the pit. We kept our backs to the work even when Mike was nowhere to be found. During our lunch break one day, the drivers left their gravel trucks and took a walk. Pick was off exploring when he spotted something in the brush nearby.

  “Hey, look!” he shouted.

  Pick began chasing something through the underbrush. He zigged and zagged through the nearby thicket. Now and then we’d catch a glimpse of him and the critter he was chasing. The dark animal squealed as it charged up the backside of a nearby oak tree. Pick wasn’t far behind. As he climbed, the animal scurried higher and started to bleat. We didn’t know whether the animal was friendly or not, so we grabbed our shovels and joined the chase.

  “What is it?” Yasku shouted up at Pick.

  “Don’t know,” Pick hollered back. “Maybe it’s a dog.”

  “You rube,” Stosh laughed, “dogs don’t climb trees. Maybe it’s some kind of wildcat.”

  The answer came quickly. Mother bear crossed the nearby clearing like a black landslide. She took up a position at the base of the tree, tilted her head back, and clacked her teeth. All of us on the ground backed away nervously. The bear issued a sound like a long, low train whistle. Our hair stood on end. Stosh jumped behind a tall stump and peeked out occasionally.

  “Oh no! Oh no! Oh no!” Pick repeated as he feverishly searched for an escape. His eyes moved left and right, up and down, desperately looking for some way, any way, to save himself from an angry bear.

  “Get out of there!” Yasku hollered up to Pick.

  “I can’t!” Pick screamed in terror. “Help me!”

  The black bear circled the oak, then began to climb. She hung just below Pick. Her head swung back and forth as she continued to make loud clacking sounds with her teeth. Pick was trapped between mother and her baby. The cub clung to the only branch nearby that would hold Pick’s weight. Mother inched her way up, peeling bark from the tree with her sharp claws.

  “We’ve got to do something,” I said to the guys. “If Pick gets out of there alive, we’ll have to keep the bear away from him. Be ready with your shovels and follow me.”

  “Help!” Pick screamed desperately.

  Stosh threw a rock at the mother bear, striking her in the back with a dull thud. It had no effect whatsoever. The bear inched upward and took a swipe at Pick.

  “Climb, Pick! The cub is sitting on a strong branch—climb up to it, then swing out and away from the bear,” I shouted.

  “Are you crazy?” Pick screamed. “I don’t want to get anywhere near that bear baby! Its ma will tear me to pieces!”


  I hollered back, “When you climb further up the tree, the cub will go higher.”

  Eyes wide with fear, Pick pulled himself up slowly. When the cub scooted farther up the tree trunk, Pick swung his body out on the branch. His feet were just above the mother. “Good bear. Good bear. Pay no attention to me. Just get your baby,” Pick pleaded.

  Hand-over-hand, he moved farther and farther away from the tree trunk. The cub cried and the mother bear continued to clack her teeth loudly. We edged toward the tree, holding our tools up, ready to strike in Pick’s defense.

  The branch bent under Pick’s weight. When he was out about six feet from the trunk of the tree, mother bear scampered up to reach her cub. With her baby protected, once again she took a swipe at Pick, her claws falling short of their mark. Coming so close, the claws caused Pick to lose his grip on the branch, and he tumbled out of the tree. He grunted as he took several limbs with him on the way down before falling hard on the ground.

  “What’s going on here?” shouted one of the truck drivers from behind us.

  “Is that a bear?” asked the other.

  Just then, mother and cub scuttled down the tree and hurried off into the woods. When she was off a fair distance, the bear snorted a final farewell.

  We had the heebie-jeebies that whole day. Cautious eyes kept focus on the horizon as we shoveled load after load onto the gravel trucks. The last thing we wanted to see was another bear. Every snapping twig or movement in the brush caught our attention.

  Now and then, one of us would recall something from the encounter. We talked it over, laughing nervously at both our actions and our stupidity.

  “I guess that sergeant back at Camp Custer was right,” Pick said. “There are bears up here, but we ain’t seen no man-hungry moose or a crazy lumberjack ghost just yet.”

  “We best keep our eyes wide open from now on,” Yasku said with a touch of fear in his voice. “The story about that crazy lumberjack ghost keeps me awake at night.”

  The walk back to camp that evening was full of good-natured joking. Still, we kept a close eye on the brush and trees alongside the road just in case our bear friend was in the area. When we got back to camp, we learned that Pick, Stosh, Yasku, and I were suddenly famous. The gravel truck drivers had spread the story of our wild animal encounter. Everyone in camp called us the Bear Hunters.

  We enjoyed our newfound status. For some unknown reason, Mike was none too pleased.

  Chapter 15

  AWOL

  Days and weeks passed without much changing at Camp Polack Lake—until one night in June. Someone in our tent had the homesick blues. Boys aren’t supposed to cry. Yet soft, whimpering sobs mixed with snoring in the darkness. There was no way of telling who it was. No one got up to offer support or comfort, not even me. I would come to regret that I didn’t help a friend that night.

  At 6:00 a.m., the morning whistle sounded. Yasku sat up on the edge of his cot and scratched his belly. Pick drew the covers over his head. “I say we snitch that whistle and bury it in the woods.”

  “Hey, where’s Stosh?” I asked.

  Pick pulled his covers down, sat up, and looked at the empty cot. “Maybe he’s in the latrine.”

  The word latrine was another military term that we had come to use without a second thought. After some confusion, we discovered that a latrine was a community bathroom. Lieutenant Campbell told us it was a French word.

  We dressed and made up our cots, leaving Stosh’s the way we found it. Then we went off for our morning duties. Still no Stosh. Pick, Yasku, and I feared the worst. Our daily routine continued as if nothing happened. We had our flag raising and did our calisthenics—push-ups, sit-ups, jumping jacks. We policed the grounds, picking up scraps of paper and anything else that didn’t belong. The captain insisted that his campsite be spotless.

  After breakfast, we fell in for roll call. When Captain Mason called Stosh’s name, there was nothing but silence.

  Stosh’s name was called again, louder.

  “Maybe he’s in the latrine, sir,” I said hopefully.

  “Go check up on him,” the captain said as he continued the roll call.

  I ran back to the latrine area. He wasn’t there. Then I did a quick search behind the mess tent. No luck. When I reported back, the captain split up the work gangs and had us search the camp and the surrounding area. Stosh was nowhere to be found.

  After our quick search, the camp reassembled for work detail. Once again my buddies and I picked up shovels and headed off to the gravel pit. Yasku spoke up to Mike. “Ain’t we gonna keep looking for Stosh? He can’t be far off.”

  Mike spun around to face us all. “No, we ain’t gonna keep looking for Stosh,” Mike said sarcastically. “Your buddy is AWOL—you know, absent without leave. If and when your buddy comes back to camp, I’m going to recommend that he be kicked out of the CCC. Captain Mason will do it, too. He listens to me.”

  The morning walk to the gravel pit seemed much longer than usual. We walked in silence most of the way, looking desperately for any signs of Stosh. We held out some hope that he’d just wandered off and was somewhere near camp. But as hours passed, it was clear that he’d run off.

  Pick spoke to me in Polish. He kept his voice down to a whisper so Mike couldn’t hear. “We’ve got to do something. Maybe the bear got him. Even if he ran away, Stosh is sure to come to his senses sooner or later.” His eyes studied me and the other guys. “When he does, he’ll want his job back.”

  “Today the three of us will work as hard as four,” I replied quietly in Polish. “We’ll make up for Stosh’s share. Tonight I’ll talk to Captain Mason before Mike can get to him.” Pick shared the plan with Yasku.

  Through the day we worked harder than we had ever worked before. Mike gave his silent approval as we shoveled load after load into the endless line of gravel trucks. Our muscles screamed and our backs ached with strain. At the end of the day, we shuffled to camp, drained and bone-tired.

  After a cold shower and a change to my dress clothes for supper, I walked over to Captain Mason’s tent. I was scared, but there was no turning back. Stosh needed me, and my other buddies were counting on me.

  Chapter 16

  Camp Commander

  As I approached his tent, I could see that the captain’s head was down and he was focused on the paperwork in front of him. “Excuse me, Captain Mason,” I said nervously as I stood at attention and saluted. “May I have a word with you?”

  The captain returned my salute. “Stand at ease. What’s your name, enrollee?

  “Jarek Sokolowski, sir.”

  “What brings you here this afternoon, Sokolowski?” the captain asked as he straightened himself. He squared all the edges of his papers and files, placing them neatly on his desk. Then he lifted his gaze and looked me in the eye.

  “My friend is Stoshu Campeau.”

  “Ah, the young man who went AWOL last night,” the captain said as he turned and opened the top drawer of a file cabinet behind his desk. “Campeau . . . Campeau,” the captain muttered. “Here we go, let’s see what we have.”

  Stosh’s name was neatly lettered on the tab of the folder that Captain Mason retrieved. He opened it and examined the contents. His lips moved in silent speech as he read.

  “Hmmm,” the camp commander muttered as he stroked his chin. “It appears as though your friend has been placed on report several times by Assistant Leader O’Shea. The paperwork indicates that Campeau is a bit of a goldbrick. Now it seems he’s deserted.”

  “S-s-sir,” I explained nervously. “Stosh is only a little homesick. He’s really a good worker. I’m sure he’ll be back in camp in no time at all.”

  “Stosh . . . is that what you call your buddy?”

  I nodded.

  “Have you talked to Assistant Leader O’Shea about this matter?

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, Sokolowski, I have to be straight with you. I don’t like people who go AWOL. What’s more, I made it perf
ectly clear that if enrollees have questions or problems, they’re to talk with their assistant leaders, not me. Do you recall those instructions?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said weakly.

  The captain picked up a pencil from his desktop and rolled it between his fingers. “President Roosevelt has given us jobs at a time when there aren’t jobs to be had. When someone goes AWOL, like your friend Mr. Campeau, the CCC looks bad and I look bad. Worse yet, it makes the president look bad. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes, sir, I do. All of us know how important these jobs are. Our families are depending on us. It’s just that Stosh has never been away before. He’s just a little homesick, that’s all. I am sure he’ll be back tomorrow. The next day at the latest.”

  “Well, Sokolowski,” the captain said as he closed Stosh’s file and put it aside, “with Campeau’s work record, I am not inclined to take him back. My first thought would be to discharge him and send him home.”

  My heart sank. I knew that Stosh needed this job. His family needed the money that the CCC sent each month. Stosh’s father was sick. His mother had no job. And his brother and sister were hungry and suffering. I swallowed hard before continuing.

  “Sir, I’ll be responsible for Stosh when he returns. I’ll make sure that his record is clean from this point forward. The guys in my work crew have agreed to pick up Stosh’s share of the load until he gets back. When he comes back to camp, all I ask is that you give him another chance.”

  Captain Mason bounced the eraser end of the pencil on his desk as he thought. “You should have talked to Assistant Leader O’Shea about this matter. However, it took a lot of guts for you to come to me, Sokolowski. I admire that.” The captain sat back in his swivel chair and leaned hard on his right elbow. “The CCC allows me a certain amount of discretion in these matters. So, if your friend comes back in a couple of days, I will consider taking him back. You see to it that your crew picks up Campeau’s workload.”