Fires in the Wilderness (12 page)

My smile wouldn't last long.

M
r. 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 left 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.

W
eeks 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.

M
r. 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.

When he got back, he raced the engine and drove down the railroad bed. At regular intervals he signaled trailing vehicles. They dropped off enrollees and equipment. When the boys hit the ground, they started working, extending the natural fire break that the railroad tracks offered.

We were the last to be dropped off—the end of the fire line. Mike and his team were just to the east of us. Fire rakes, axes, and shovels immediately went to work. Heavy smoke didn't start rolling in until a half hour later. Our pace quickened. Soon the wind pushed burning leaves and embers in our direction. Mike screamed orders to his team. We were all working as hard and as fast as we could. The forest was being pushed back inch by inch, foot by foot. We prayed it would be enough to stop the beast.

Mr. Wilson left his truck off to the west, hoping that it would be out of the fire's reach. He jogged along the track to inspect the work. Another part of his job was to direct the setup of portable wells and pumps. He left the tracks and went deep into the brush. Now and then we could hear him calling out directions to the pump crews.

Much of the Upper Peninsula is swampy and low. In many areas, water lays just a few feet below the surface. Shallow wells could be dug in a matter of minutes. Three shallow wells were sunk to support the fight. These wells were strategically located downwind from the fire and several hundred feet behind the skirmish line. Gas-operated pumps drew water from the wells. Thick hoses ran from the well sites to the fire line. CCC boys were assigned to concentrate the flow of water on hot spots. The simple gas engines chugged as they worked. The water they supplied would be poured on the fire in an attempt to quench a monster that is forever thirsty. The pumps were a firefighting tool that hadn't been available to us in our first fire fight.

The clank and clatter of tools rang through the early morning hours. The handkerchiefs over our faces blocked the flying ash from getting into our lungs. Still, we coughed as we inhaled the stinging smoke. Steadily, the noise we were making was overtaken by the roar of the fire. Flames emerged from the south. Heat waves licked at us and took away our energy. Hot cinders flew around, burning holes in our clothes. The hair on our heads and arms that had just grown back since the last fire was being singed off once again.

The tamarack and cedar trees in the area of the fire fed the creature, cracking and popping as they were swallowed. The intensity of the heat was overwhelming, forcing the work crews farther back from the railroad bed. Our firefighting went from offensively building a wider fire break to defensively fighting outbreaks of flames that had jumped the railroad bed. The beast coughed up sparks and embers that danced on the air like fireflies. We struggled to beat out the flames that were trying to establish themselves. Pumps worked furiously, wetting down the dry timber and dousing flames that tried to gain purchase on our side of the break.

Nearby, a bulldozer emerged from the haze of smoke and waves of heat. The man driving the dozer held his arm at eye level to shield his face. Trees and brush fell to the blade, giving a wider margin of safety to the break. We cheered as the machine headed toward us. The chug of the engine was barely audible over the roar of the beast. Suddenly, the dozer bogged down, then ground to a halt. The man hopped off, grabbed a fire rake, and joined us in the fight.

The battle with the beast was pitched. When the fire moved forward, we struggled to beat it back. We would gain ground, and then the fire would advance. The creature was persistent, testing weaknesses in the line and challenging our spirit. Streams of water were our best defense in the struggle; they also cooled us from the waves of heat that swept across the fire line.