Fires in the Wilderness

by Jeffery L Schatzer

  I shook my head in dumb disbelief.

  “Have you noticed that other enrollees follow you? They trust you to do what is right. You’re a natural leader.” The captain leaned in toward me. “Just the other day, you took charge of a group of enrollees, leading them out of harm’s way when the wildfire crowned. Without your leadership and judgment, lives would have been lost.”

  Captain Mason stood up and walked around his desk, leaning on a corner. “You took control in a desperate situation. Not everybody does that.” He paused before continuing. “Think back to when your buddy went AWOL. When you came directly to me, you were taking a risk. You knew that you were breaking the chain of command by going around Assistant Leader O’Shea. Still, you were doing what you thought was right. You stood up for Campeau. That shows courage and initiative.”

  The captain put his hand on my shoulder and looked me square in the eye. “The boys in camp respect you. Everybody knows that you’ve taken a lot of grief from Assistant Leader O’Shea.” The captain gave a wry little smile. “I’ll bet that someone close to you was responsible for the skunk that ended up in his tent.”

  I let out a laugh, giving away the secret.

  He turned serious. “Sokolowski, the enrollees at Polack Lake look up to you. Most would like to be a part of your team.” He paused for a moment. “You’re a bear hunter. I need people who show backbone, take initiative, and are natural leaders.”

  I was bewildered by what the captain was saying.

  “People like Assistant Leader O’Shea are bullies and blowhards. They get things done by pushing and browbeating. People like him are needed in the CCC, but they’re a dime a dozen. You, Sokolowski, are very different.”

  I was speechless. When I first entered the captain’s office, my mind was full of worry about getting booted out of the CCC. Now I was worried about the burden of a new responsibility.

  “As of this month, Sokolowski, you’ll be receiving an additional $6 in your pay.”

  The thought of $6 more each month was overwhelming. “Will the CCC send the extra money to my family?”

  “The money is yours. Do with it what you will.”

  “Thank you, sir!” I stood and extended my hand. His handshake was firm and sincere.

  “You’re welcome,” the captain said before shifting his gaze to his desk. “You may be thanking me now, but being a leader can be tough duty. Getting enrollees to do things they don’t want to do will take all of your skills. So, before starting your new job, I’m ordering you to take the rest of the day off. Put a cold washcloth on your face. It’ll help keep the swelling down.”

  As I turned to leave, the captain offered one more comment. “Oh, Sokolowski, there’s a staff meeting in the mess hall at 7:00 this evening. Please be on time.”

  Chapter 28

  Time to Think

  I didn’t argue with Captain Mason when he told me to take the day off. After applying a cold compress to my face, I decided to take a long walk. Most of my time at Polack Lake had been spent either at the camp or in the pit. A nice walk was exactly what I needed to clear my head. I headed east to get away from the fire area and most of the work activity. On the way out of camp, the crest of a low ridge gave me a commanding view of our community in the wilderness. I marveled at just how much had been accomplished in a short time by a pack of skinny cats.

  Dust kicked up from my heels as I continued down the two-track road. Dirty gray sand crept into my shoes. I stopped by the side of the trail to empty them out. For a while, I walked barefoot, feeling the grit between my toes. The smell of summer was heavy on the air. The few remaining trees were in their full majesty. Insects buzzed and swooped. The wildflowers were in bloom, and blackberries offered a treat for the eyes and the tongue.

  Somehow, I found myself at the edge of a clearing. A tall oak that had not been taken by the lumber companies stood proudly to one side. Its stout branches were like arms welcoming a weary traveler. It had been a long time since I’d climbed a tree. The wind in the leaves whispered an invitation that couldn’t be ignored. I dropped my shoes and took hold of a branch that hovered above my head. My feet grabbed at the rough bark, toes helping to secure the grip. Higher and higher I climbed, until I found a resting place.

  Two branches that had sprouted closely together formed an easy chair that was just my size. I took a restful seat there overlooking the clearing. The gentle wind moved blades of grass and leaves in nearby trees. One seemed to call. The other would respond in kind. It was nature’s dance. Black-capped chickadees, pine sparrows, blue jays, and other northland birds squeaked and squawked noisily.

  A sudden movement caught my attention. A couple of fox pups were playing nearby. They tumbled in the tall grass, nipping at each other’s ears. The pups took turns chasing. Back and forth they played. They made me think of Squint and how we would rough and tumble. Despite the yelping and pawing, the love between brothers was something very special. I enjoyed watching their games, but I couldn’t control the flow of tears.

  Back at camp, word got around quickly about my promotion to assistant leader. By the time I showed up at the staff meeting, I had been congratulated by nearly everyone. The only notable exception was Mike O’Shea. He was the last to show up at the meeting. Mike’s appearance was shocking. He had two black eyes that made him look like a raccoon. His lower lip was fat and bore a wide split. It was apparent that Big Mike got every bit as much as he gave.

  Lieutenant Campbell formally introduced me as the newest assistant leader at Camp Polack Lake, and the staff applauded—except for Mike. As the meeting progressed, updates were offered on various projects and activities. Roads and trails continued to be cut through the Marquette National Forest. Miles of additional telephone cable were being strung.

  Mr. Wilson reported on clean-up operations that had been taking place in the area of the wildfire. A team of enrollees had been going back to the site each day. They carried heavy backpack sprayers filled with water to douse hot spots and put out small outbreaks that flared up from time to time. The forester indicated that it would take a while to get everything under control. At the end of his report, he commented that the enrollees on mopup duty were getting tired and that their fatigue could prolong the work.

  One of the experienced local men reported on the progress of a surveying team he was leading. The enrollees were doing a good job of learning how to operate the equipment. Soon they would be ready to work on their own. Another local man reported on the construction of a third fire tower north of camp.

  Mike glared at me through the entire meeting. Once the reports were over, Lieutenant Campbell stood. “Any questions or comments?”

  I stood so everyone could hear me. “I know I’m the new guy here, but ever since coming to Polack Lake, I’ve been working with a crew in the gravel pit. The scenery never changes down there.” Several of the leaders chuckled. “I think the guys in the pit would like to see something different. I’d like to volunteer my team to trade places with the mop-up crew.”

  “Is that all right with you, Mr. Wilson?” the lieutenant asked.

  “Heck, yes,” said the forester. “Have your enrollees meet me after breakfast tomorrow. The boys on my mopup crew will report to Mr. O’Shea.”

  The meeting was adjourned, and I headed back to the barracks. Mike hung back to meet me in the shadows. “It ain’t over between you and me.”

  I stopped and faced him. “Yes, it is. Fighting with you didn’t solve anything. It never will.” I turned sharply and walked away.

  I smiled as I crossed the parade grounds. Trading jobs with the mop-up crew was a stroke of genius. Not only would we get out of the pit, we’d be out from under Mike’s thumb.

  My smile wouldn’t last long.

  Chapter 29

  Out of the Frying Pan

  August 1934

  Mr. Wilson pulled the supply truck into the campsite right after breakfast. My work crew joined him just as he was opening a map of the burned-out area we l
eft only days before. He had completed an inspection tour earlier in the morning. On the map he located hot spots that needed attention. We were issued fire rakes, axes, and shovels. We were also introduced to the sprayers. After some basic instructions, we loaded up on the truck and began wheeling toward new scenery and away from the pit.

  Some ideas sound better than they really are. If the pit was bad, mop-up operations were awful. It didn’t take long for the griping to begin. The work was dirty and difficult. The ground was still hot in places. The stale stink of burned-out wilderness soiled our noses. Ash covered everything, including us, with a powdery coating of grit. Each stroke of the rake, strike of the axe, or push of the shovel raised a cloud that floated on the air—only to be taken in by our lungs. Handkerchiefs couldn’t begin to filter it. Dry ash and dust had a bitter taste. It settled in our ears and stung our eyes. We coughed and choked violently as we worked.

  Yasku removed the dirty handkerchief from his face to wipe the sweat from his forehead. He leaned on his shovel and focused his gaze on me. From his nose on up, his face was black with soot; from his nose on down, it was pale white. “So, you volunteered us for this duty?”

  I cast my eyes down. “I was trying to help.”

  “Well, thanks for nothing.” Yasku spit soot out of his mouth. Then he replaced his handkerchief and slowly returned to the task of spreading embers from a hot spot. “At least in the pit we didn’t have to put up with this heat, stench, and dirt,” Yasku muttered without looking at me.

  Pick struggled with the heavy sprayer and laid a swath of water over some hot embers. They hissed and sputtered. Through the handkerchief, Pick muttered, “Don’t do us no more favors, Jarek.”

  During the lunch break, I went to join the guys. One by one, they left, forming their own circle. Mr. Wilson came to join me, easing himself against the back of his truck. He removed a straight-stemmed pipe from his pocket, cleaned the soot off, and stuffed it with tobacco. His eyes scanned the sky as he struck a match and drew on the pipe.

  “Ain’t easy being an assistant leader, is it?” Mr. Wilson said as he let a puff of smoke escape the side of his mouth.

  “I don’t understand it,” I said. “Last night the guys were all slapping me on the back, congratulating me. Today, all they want to do is gripe.” I scratched my head and soot wafted from my hair. “Looks like I made a mistake volunteering for mop-up detail.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Mr. Wilson said as he tamped the tobacco down in his pipe and relit. A small cloud of smoke encircled his head. “It’s human nature for people to rebel against authority, especially new authority. People just love to test limits.”

  “But these fellas are my friends,” I said.

  Mr. Wilson put his pipe down by his side, crossed his legs and looked me in the eye. “Sokolowski, you ain’t being paid to be a friend. You’re being paid to be an assistant leader. So, act like one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Go toe-to-toe with these guys and stop the griping— the sooner the better. Let them know who’s in charge, and that you won’t put up with their carping.” He took a long, slow draw off his pipe and released the smoke before continuing. “You don’t have to be mean or cruel, but you’ve got to lay down the law.”

  He left me to think. I knew he was right. I needed to show some backbone. Five minutes before lunch break was over, I took action. “Gather up,” I shouted. The guys grumbled and slowly got to their feet. “Double-time over here or you’ll all be pulling KP tonight.” The team quickstepped over to where I was standing.

  “What’s with you?” Stosh asked. The others muttered in agreement.

  “You’ve made it clear that you aren’t happy with your new work assignment. Well, I’ve got news for you: this fire needs to be put down for good and we’re the ones who are going to do it. If you don’t like it, just say the word. There’s a train leaving from town that runs back down to the Lower Peninsula every day.”

  I let my words sink in before continuing. “From now on, I don’t want to hear your griping. Give me a fair day’s work, and we’ll get along. Now, get to work.”

  The fellas grumbled in low whispers, but not to me. Still, they kept up the work and did a good job. After getting back to camp that afternoon, I moved my bunk to one of the other barracks. Fortunately, I found a place to stay that didn’t house my friends or Mike O’Shea. It wasn’t easy to leave my buddies, but I felt that it was something that had to be done.

  At supper I sat with some of the boys from my new barrack. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched my friends from Grand Rapids across the room. From time to time they looked in my direction and talked amongst themselves. It was hard to keep my distance.

  The captain and Mr. Wilson were right: being a leader wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be.

  Chapter 30

  Distant Thunder

  Weeks after I was promoted to assistant leader, I had my last class in motor vehicle operations. Each student took turns driving a gravel truck. One of the guys from my new barrack came close to backing over the flagpole in the parade grounds. We all earned certificates for successfully completing the class. Afterwards, I walked to the rec hall to write a letter to Sophia.

  In one part of the building, some enrollees were playing cards. A ping-pong game was going on in another area. I took a table near the book shelves and settled down to write. My world had changed completely in recent days. How would I share all that happened?

  I wanted to tell my family how I felt about losing Squint, my fight with Mike, and my promotion to assistant leader. As I worked through my message, I never felt more alone in my life. Along with all that happened to me, my new job forced me to separate from the friends who had been by my side since I was a kid. I wrote and rewrote my letter home. The wastebasket near me filled to the brim with discarded letters.

  Father had been right when he said that “for a boy to become a man is very hard.” The highlight of my letter home was to announce that I would be sending them an extra $6 a month. The money would make life just a bit easier for them. Still nothing would ease the grief of losing Squint. I wasn’t totally happy with the letter, but I dropped it in the mail slot just the same. The right words did not exist.

  It was a hot, muggy night as I slipped into the sack before lights-out. The cicadas played a symphony of rhythmic chirping sounds. Bullfrogs were croaking their nighttime chorus and mosquitoes buzzed. Off in the distance, thunder rolled like giant drums. My eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling through the dark of night. So very much had happened, and I was operating in new territory.

  It felt like I hadn’t fallen asleep at all when the whistle blew and the call came for everyone to assemble. It was just after 3:00 a.m. “Off and on! Off and on! Off your backs and on your feet!” someone shouted from the parade grounds. My feet hit the floor, and I jumped into my clothes.

  I knew what it was the minute I stepped out of my barrack. The horizon off to the northwest was aglow. The telltale odor of smoke floated on the wind. Enrollees began pouring out of their barracks as Mr. Wilson pulled his truck to a stop right in front of me. A cloud of dust from his wheels covered me. “Can you drive?” he asked.

  “Sure. I just passed motor vehicle operations.”

  “Then drive.” Mr. Wilson climbed into the passenger side as I took the wheel.

  “Where are we going?”

  Mr. Wilson looked at me like I had a hole in my head. Then he pointed toward the glow on the horizon. “That way, boy,” he said, “go that way.”

  I popped the clutch and the truck started with a neck-snapping jerk. Headlights bounced off the road ahead, turning curious animal eyes into reflectors. As I drove, Mr. Wilson studied his map by the dim glow of a flashlight. We were several miles out of camp when he first spoke. “We’re looking for the best place to fight this fire. If we can find a natural break, like a road or a river that’s in its path, we’ll draw the line there.”

  As we pushed toward the
fire, the countryside choked with clouds of drifting smoke. Hot ash tinged with glowing edges wafted down from the sky like fiery snow. Wind from the southwest was driving the beast toward us.

  “Stop!” Mr. Wilson shouted.

  I jammed on the brakes and the truck swerved hard to the right. Mr. Wilson jumped out and climbed a high ridge next to the road. He carefully scanned the area with his binoculars before scrambling back to the vehicle. I held the flashlight for him as he manipulated the compass and looked at his old map.

  “There’s a railroad track that runs just north of here,” said Mr. Wilson. “That’s where we’ll make our stand. Now, let’s get out of here before we’re cooked alive.”

  I spun the truck around on the narrow road and headed back to camp as fast as I could. There was no time to waste. The countryside was as dry as a bone, and this fire was moving fast.

  Chapter 31

  Fighting the Beast

  Mr. Wilson briefed all the leaders and assistant leaders on the size and movement of the fire. His worn, crumpled map was spread out on a table so we could all see it clearly. He used a pen as a pointer to show where the fire was, the direction of its path, and the railroad bed that would be our line of defense. Assignments and working orders were given sharply. Within minutes, the trucks were loaded and two hundred young gladiators armed with hand tools were on their way to face the beast. Bulldozers and tractors with huge V-plows would also join the fight.

  I took my place in the cab of the lead vehicle with Mr. Wilson behind the wheel. My team and Mike and his team rode in the back. As we approached the edge of the fire, Mr. Wilson turned north on a seldom-used two-rut trail. Low-hanging branches slapped at the windshield, and brush screeched and scraped at the side of the truck. After a few miles of twisting and turning trail, we found the railroad bed. Mr. Wilson stopped and ran back to the other drivers in the caravan, giving them their final instructions. Smoke was beginning to pour across the tracks.