by Byron White
The men slept on metal army cots. Each unit was composed of a top and lower bunk. The bunks themselves were composed of metal frames with straight wire mesh. Atop this wire mesh, in many bunks, boards were added and outfitted with a mattress. The store-bought mattresses were new additions. Until last year, the men had slept on cloth enclosures stuffed with moss. Now, the men placed their own sleeping bags and pillows or coats on the mattresses. Their bunks were the only space that the men claimed as their own domain. All other space was for communal dwelling.
The men kept their few personal garments in duffel bags or around their bunk areas. Their work clothes hung from nearby walls or beams or from their cots. Mitts and stockings, or other wet clothing and boots, were commonly placed in the area near one of the stoves. Here they dried out somewhat overnight, but it was not uncommon for those items to be still damp the next morning.
Finally, they were called to supper by the sound of Lew Cull hitting a large piece of iron hanging outside the cookhouse door, the standard call for meals at camp. After supper, some men sat around on their bunks having a leisurely smoke. Others, like Albert Oake, sat quietly on the edge of their bunks reading their Bibles. Still others gathered in groups having a good yarn. Off in one corner Cyril Cooper and a group of men were engaged in playing cards. On this particular evening they were playing Donkey. This was similar to the popular card game 45s. In Donkey, though, the object was to get rid of the pack of cards. The last person left holding a card was the loser, the Donkey.
Cyril lorded over the group and played the court jester whenever they played Donkey. Cyril wore an old quiff hat, all battered and worn and bent out of shape. To this costume he added a big pair of wire-framed glasses with no lenses. When the game was in play, Cyril prodded the players. Jokes flew back and forth and the air was filled with laughter. Frequently, the others would have Uncle Ben involved in their frolic. Often they would conspire to make Uncle Ben the Donkey. Tonight, though, Uncle Ben felt poorly. He lay on his bunk with his eyes closed. Cyril, for his part, had shaken off his disappointment in not getting the weekend off. A rollicking game of Donkey was in full swing.
Gerald Head decided to forgo playing cards this evening, instead choosing to attend to his personal hygiene and his clothing. The men had been in camp for almost a month now. When Gerald had left home in Comfort Cove, he had not taken a lot of things to wear. His work pants were in fact old hand-me-downs from his father, Lewis. These were in a sorry state of disrepair. Numerous holes were appearing in them, and Gerald’s raiment was becoming the subject of much good-natured joking. The men were threatening to fall upon Gerald and rip the tattered pants off him. Knowing some of the fellows, Gerald thought there was a high probability that this might happen. He had no needle or worsted to do the necessary repairs, so Gerald often visited Billy Ginn and borrowed his supply. Billy’s work pants were, if possible, in worse condition than Gerald’s. Billy was constantly sitting on his bunk “scunnin’,” keeping his ragged pants from disintegrating. Billy, too, had to protect his pants from being ravaged by his fellow teamsters.
After washing himself, Gerald decided his wardrobe was lacking. An extra shift of underwear and a new pair of work pants would be a good investment. He decided to visit Stan and Allan at the forepeak, where he would purchase a new suit of winter combination underwear and a new pair of briggs. These heavy trousers were common among men in the lumber camps; they resembled riding breeches and had stout leather patches attached at the knees. They fitted snugly around the lower legs and could be tightened around the calf by means of laces. Yes, Gerald decided, it was time to make a purchase.
Gerald dressed and fought his way out of the bunkhouse by crawling over the wall of snow that had drifted against the door. As he headed for the forepeak close by, he thought he would suffocate in the drifting snow. Uncle Aram Freake and Ed Layte, fellow teamsters, were just leaving as he arrived. They, too, were fully dressed for the short jaunt back to the bunkhouse.
“Come in. Come in, Gerald, my son.” Allan bid him welcome. He handed Gerald the broom to brush the snow off his boots and pants before he moved farther into the forepeak. A brisk fire was burning in the stove and the wind could be heard whistling in the stove pipes. It was warm and snug inside and two lanterns were spreading warm rays around the main room.
“’Tis a poor night out there, isn’t it, Gerald?” Allan asked.
“Yes, sir. ’Tis vicious. Vicious!” Gerald replied. “I thought I was going to lose me breath.”
“What brings you out on a night like this?” Stan asked.
“Well, I was just inspecting my clothes and found that I was desperately in need of some new duds,” Gerald replied with a laugh.
“What did you have in mind?” Allan asked.
“Well, my underwear is beginning to reek a bit and I need a pair of briggs.”
“We got the briggs, all right,” Stan stated. “But our underwear supply is rather low. I believe there’s only one pair left.”
Stan got the key and opened the van, the camp store. Soon Gerald had himself outfitted in a fine new pair of briggs. He fancied he cut a dashing figure.
“Now let’s see about your underwear.” Stan moved a couple pairs of coveralls and found the required item. “Jingoes, Gerald. We have only one pair of combination underwear and they’re size forty-eight!”
“They might be a little big on you,” Allan said, laughing.
“There’s nothing else there?” Gerald asked hopefully.
“No, b’y. That’s the only pair I’ve got left in the van,” Stan said with a faint smile on his face.
“I’ll take ’em. I need ’em pretty bad.” Gerald had no choice but to acquire the underwear. He signed for the items. These would be deducted from his pay when the scaler made up the next settlement.
Gerald placed his new acquisitions under his arm and prepared to leave. At the door he paused and turned to face Stan and Allan.
“Skipper,” he said, addressing Stan, “I’d like to apologize for running my horse.” He paused for a moment. “I talked to Alb and Art about it. I knows now that it was the wrong thing to be doing.” There was a moment of awkward silence and Gerald turned to go.
“Gerald.” It was Stan speaking. “I’ve been watching you. You seem to like Scott, and Scott seems to like you. The two of you are moving a fair bit of wood.”
Stan said no more. Gerald looked at him and nodded. Then he turned to leave.
“Good night, Gerald,” Allan called as Gerald closed the door of the forepeak behind him.
BACK IN THE BUNKHOUSE, Gerald gave himself an extra scrub and donned his new set of combination underwear. It felt good to have clean clothes next to his body. Or at least some of his underwear was near his body; other parts were quite a distance away. The trapdoor for his backside rested near the floor at his ankles! The huge armholes sagged almost to his waist! Size forty-eight underwear didn’t quite fit him snugly. He greatly resembled a small boy with his head sticking out the flap of a huge tent.
Oh well, at least the underwear is clean, he thought.
Back at his bunk Gerald became sharply aware of his old clothes, in contrast with the fresh smell. The old smelled sweaty, dirty, and disgusting. The crotch and rear were stained. An evil plan was hatching in his idle mind. He borrowed a pair of scissors from Phil McCarthy and returned to his bunk. Within a couple of minutes he had cut the crotch area from his old underwear, which he wrapped in a sheet of brown paper that had arrived with the mail a couple of weeks before.
“Bertie!” Gerald called. Gerald was summoning his buddy Bert Fudge. “Bertie! Come here!”
“What do you want, Geraldie?” Bert always wore an old pair of dried leather boots around the bunkhouse. When Bert was moving, the whole bunkhouse knew it.
“Bertie, I’d like for you to give this gift to Albert Oake,” Gerald said.
Clomp! Clomp! Clomp! Clomp! Bertie was off to Albert’s bunk at the far end of the bunkhouse. Bert and Gerald were
younger than Albert, and frequently Albert used Bert as his “gofer.” If Alb needed something he’d send Bert to do his bidding.
“Bertie,” he’d say, “go fetch my boots,” or “Bertie, go put some more wood in the stove.” Off Bert would go and fulfill Alb’s request. Bert was great fun around the bunkhouse and he and Alb played their roles with relish.
“A gift from Geraldie, Albert.” Bert handed over the package and stood waiting.
Alb gingerly folded back the brown paper wrapping. He peered inside and wrinkled his nose and sniffed. Alb held the package at arm’s length and peered again. Phew! Alb’s left eyebrow shot up.
“Bertie! Go fetch Geraldie and bring him here!”
Clomp! Clomp! Bert headed off to do Albert’s bidding.
Gerald resisted mildly as Bert slung him over his shoulder and headed back up the bunkhouse. Bert clomped along carrying a large bundle of white cotton and a laughing head sticking out of it. The bunkhouse men paused to watch.
Bert stopped in front of Albert. “I’ve got Geraldie!”
Albert stood up. He was well over six foot and cut an impressive figure. He circled around Bert and studied Gerald’s new suit of size forty-eight combination underwear.
“Well, well, Bertie! What have we here?”
“’Tis Geraldie, sir!” Bert replied in mock reverence.
“For a moment there, Bertie, I thought you’d taken someone’s bedsheets,” Alb replied.
“No. ’Tis Geraldie, sir,” Bert said, still standing at attention with Gerald hanging over his shoulder.
“Bertie!” Alb ordered. “Toss Geraldie out the door into the snowdrift!”
Bert turned for the door, but with one great squirm Gerald freed himself and flounced to the floor. Bert pounced upon his prey and the great fray was on. Gerald had been willing to let Bert parade him up to Albert, but to be tossed into a snowbank was a different matter.
“Bertie! Toss Geraldie out the door!” Alb repeated, cheering Bert to victory. By this time everyone in the bunkhouse had stopped to watch the excitement.
One minute Bert had Gerald pinned to the floor, and the next, Gerald was kneeling across Bert and shouting for him to say “uncle.” But neither combatant could hold the other for long. The epic battle raged around the bunkhouse. The wood piled near the stove went flying in all directions. Gerald hastened to escape under a nearby bunk. At times Gerald was five feet away, but Bert still held some part of his size forty-eight underwear, and pulled him back! For five minutes the great frolic continued. Men were standing now, cheering the two gladiators on. Bert’s heavy leather boots sometimes landed on Gerald’s feet, causing great yelps and moans to fill the air.
Up until now, Gerald had been on the defensive, trying to escape Bertie’s clutches and escape being thrown, body and bones, out into the drifting snow. Now Gerald decided to switch tactics and go on the offensive! As Bert headed toward him, Gerald stood his ground, and then, with a great roar mixed with laughter, he hurled himself upon Bert. Taken by surprise, Bert fell to the floor. Gerald immediately commenced to pummel his assailant, and the two rolled back and forth across the bunkhouse floor. Finally, both became wrapped like one giant mummy in Gerald’s number forty-eights. When the rolling stopped, Gerald was on top with Bert pinned to the floor. A great roar of approval went up from the spectators. Gerald and Bert lay panting and laughing beside Albert’s bunk.
The interlude was short-lived, however. A big hand fell on Gerald’s shoulder. It was Albert Oake.
“Come on now, Bertie! Help me put Geraldie out the door!”
Gerald was roughly lifted up and Bertie quickly disentangled himself from the folds of Gerald’s underwear.
It was no good to resist. Alb and Bert marched Gerald to the end of the bunkhouse. Cyril Cooper already had the door open. With a one, two, three, Gerald was sent flying out into the raging blizzard, buried face first under the drifting snow. The next instant, he shot back through the still open door and sped across the bunkhouse floor leaving a trail of white in his wake. Back at his bunk, Gerald changed into his one remaining pair of dry pants. The warmth wrapped around his body. He shook the remaining snow from his new underwear, hung them up to dry, and headed up the bunkhouse. It was time to join Cyril and the boys for a final game of Donkey before retiring for the night.
CHAPTER 9
STAN AWOKE TO THE sound of wind howling in the eaves. He lit a match and looked at the clock. It was five in the morning. Stan moved to get up, but then remembered it was Sunday, a day of rest. He pulled the sleeping bag up over his head, intent on getting another hour of sleep. But all his senses were awake now, and Stan’s active mind would give him no peace. His mind churned.
Had he done the right thing, he wondered, by operating Camp 13 and contracting for Bowater? The company paid him a set amount for each cord of wood delivered to the river. Out of this he paid the cutters so much per cord to cut the wood. Then he paid the teamsters for each cord of wood delivered. In addition, the road crews, the barn tender, the cooks and other camp personnel had to be paid. Added to this was the cost of the horses and their feed and the food for the men. It was not a cheap operation to run. Still, if Stan delivered all his wood to the river, he stood to make quite a decent living. Also, Stan and Allan drove their own wood from Camp 13 to Gander Lake. That was extra cash.
Stan knew the key to success was in getting all their wood out. The first year’s warm winter had made it impossible to deliver the wood; some had been left in the country. Last year, they had gotten all the wood off, but it had been a struggle. He and Allan had planned and slaved and done everything humanly possible to see to it that the wood would all be moved this year. Would they get it all, he wondered? Or would one of a thousand unforeseen circumstances conspire to defeat them?
Stan shook his head. By jingoes, he thought to himself. That wood’s coming out this year! He was determined to look fate in the eye and stare it down.
Still, Stan mused to himself, maybe his older brother, Ralph, had done the right thing.
In 1948, Ralph had taken his wife, Elsie, and their son, Melvin, to the United States. Both Ralph and Elsie now had good paying jobs. Things seemed to be going well. Yet it had been a very bold and difficult decision for Ralph to make. From his letters, Stan knew that Ralph still suffered from bouts of homesickness. He hadn’t wanted to leave, but he thought that leaving was best for his family.
Stan still remembered Ralph’s first letter home. One section of the letter had been stamped indelibly in Stan’s memory. As he lay in his bunk, with the wind howling outside, Stan recalled every word Ralph had written.
The people here ask me about my country and so on. Well, I scarcely know what to tell them. When I talk I tell them good things about Newfoundland, as most I know are great things concerning that glorious Island out there in the Atlantic Ocean. But I repeat, when I try to tell any good thing, I think of the night we embarked on board the SS Burgeo at Port aux Basques for North Sydney. For me to leave my homeland was almost like leaving a ship in distress when I should be doing something to save her. Of course, I knew the Island wasn’t going to sink just because I left it, but such are the ties that bind one to the land of his birth. While we were, I would say, about a mile from the shore, the land just fading out of sight, I began to sing “When sun rays crown thy pine-clad hills and summer spreads her hand.”
I didn’t sing much before I stopped; perhaps there was a lump in my throat. Then I heard someone else, and what do you suppose they were singing? They were singing “the dark shores of night are behind, I’m heading toward the port of glory.”
Well I hope they were, but I felt there was as much glory behind as before. But with all that past, I try to answer the good people’s questions in the best way I can. Of course, the most I like to talk about is the sea and the fishing. None of them have ever seen the sea . . .
It had not been easy for Ralph to pull up roots and go. All things considered, though, Stan was making a good living home
here on the island. It was a hard life, but then again it was hard for most people. On the bright side, he had a good wife, Dorothy, and three children. Perhaps he would have more. Besides, they were saying on the radio that the economy was improving.
Only a couple of years ago, in 1949, Newfoundland had voted to join Canada. It had taken a runoff vote and only a tiny majority had voted in favour. Stan had voted against joining, but Dorothy had cast her vote for becoming part of Canada. It was to be the only time during all their married life that the two would vote differently. Stan was still not sure that becoming part of Canada was a good idea. To him it was like giving up part of your birthright. Like his brother, Ralph, he was extremely proud of his Newfoundland heritage. Still, he had to admit that it was becoming better for the older folks. The money coming in was making life easier for the elderly.
Stan threw back the sleeping bag and sat up. It was no sense lying here thinking idle thoughts. The cold air hit his body and made him want to relieve himself. To get to the outhouse up back would mean dressing heavily for the outdoors. Stan reached under the bed and pulled out an old metal pail. He had not used it so far this winter, but with a blizzard raging outside he would use it now. He would dress and empty it outside later. It was time to get the fire going. Allan was snoring loudly in the next room as Stan struck a match and lit the birchrind. Soon the firewood was burning brightly.