Fires in the Wilderness (13 page)

Just when it looked like we were gaining the upper hand, the sharp sound of an explosion shot through the early morning darkness. The stream of water that was our lifeline began to wither, then fell to nothing. We had lost our pump. The fire surged across the break a quarter-mile to the east. Mike and one of the other assistant leaders moved their crews to fight the advance.

No one had any idea of the horror that was unfolding.

D
esperate shouts came from the area of the outbreak. The dozer was down, and the water pump was out of commission after the explosion. Worse yet, gasoline from the exploding pump set a second fire behind us. On all fronts, the beast was edging forward with growing confidence. We were losing our battle. We were fast becoming surrounded. To our west, between us and Mr. Wilson's truck, the fire extended an ugly claw.

I moved my team to face the new outbreak to the west. The wind whipped as we pushed against the fire. Flames hopped across the railroad bed, driving the fire deeper into the forest. “It's going to trap us!” I shouted as the beast grew around us in nearly every direction. “Get out before we're surrounded!”

The boys followed as I ran between torches of fire and blazing timber. Flames licked at bare arms, singeing hair and eyebrows. I emerged on the other side of the outbreak and began counting heads as they followed behind me. There were two missing, one was Pick. I edged as close to the flames as I could, shouting his name. From the far side of the fiery wall I heard screams for help. The arms of the beast were growing stronger, gathering its prey and preparing for the kill.

I turned to my team. Faces were cast in horror. “Look for a gap in the fire,” I shouted. “Maybe there's a way to get them out.” Stosh picked two boys to go with him. The group wove their way through tangles and trees, paralleling the path of the fire. The rest of the team paced and fretted, worrying about the lives of their friends. As I looked for answers, a thought came to me. I suddenly knew what had to be done.

“Get off the railroad bed,” I ordered. The boys moved away from the direction of the fire and off into the nearby woods while I headed for Mr. Wilson's truck. There were two sprayers and a pile of blankets in the back. I hoped it would be enough to do the job. If I could break through, it might just work.

I slid behind the wheel and closed the door solidly. The engine growled as I shifted into gear. Gravel flew from under the tires, tapping loudly against the metal frame. The truck gathered speed as I steered as close to the tracks as I could. My eyes focused dead ahead, hands gripping the wheel tightly. The wall of fire got closer, closer. I jumped on the accelerator, pounding the pedal to the floor.

Heat and fire encircled the truck as I drove through the wall. When the truck entered the flames, I began counting out loud to time how long it would take to break through.

Within a four-count, I was on the other side and laying on the horn. Pick and another fella appeared from the smoky haze, stumbling as they ran for the safety of the vehicle. I opened the door to hail them.

“Get in the back!” I shouted at the top of my lungs. “Wet down the blankets with the sprayers, but don't use all the water.”

I rolled the truck down the rail bed a few hundred feet. The truck's horn was muffled by the sound of wildfire. Twelve more stragglers were eventually loaded on board. I ordered Pick to look the truck over for damage. He quickly ran around it. One of the tires was beginning to smolder, so he doused it with a few shots of water from the sprayer.

“Runnin' low on water!” Pick hollered as he tossed the sprayer into the back of the truck.

Towering ahead of us was another wall of flame, larger and more violent than the first. It was time to get out. As I began to turn the vehicle around, someone beat on the top of the cab. I opened the door.

“A few more are trapped on the other side!” he shouted, pointing to the giant flames ahead. “One of 'em is Mike.”

I swallowed hard. There was no question about what had to be done. “Everybody out!” I ordered. “Take a few wet blankets, cover yourselves, and stay together. I'll be right back.” Once again, I pointed the truck down the bed of the tracks.

The truck tossed and heaved as it penetrated the thick skin of the beast. This time it took a ten-count before emerging through the far side. I gave the horn a long blast, and then climbed out to inspect for damage. The lives of many CCC boys, including mine, relied on this beat-up old truck. The tires were smoking, but sound. I emptied one of the sprayers putting out a few spots in the truck bed, then tossed it aside before climbing back aboard.

The heat was overwhelming, and the fire was growing more intense by the minute. I hit the horn a few more times. If I was to save those behind me, I couldn't stay much longer. Other boys were supposed to be here, but I couldn't see anyone.

With only moments to spare, I ran into the woods, calling out for survivors. Just as I was about to give up, ghostly figures appeared ahead of me. They were silhouetted against the red and orange of the flames. The beast was consuming the brush and fallen timber all around them.

I ran up to them and saw that they were struggling to move a fallen tree. Someone was pinned underneath it. It was Mike O'Shea. The tree was pressing down hard on his chest.

“What do we do?” one of the guys shouted above the roar of the fire. “Mike was cutting down this tree, and it fell on him. We can't move it!”

Mike struggled to speak. His words came out in a painful whisper. We had to lean down close in order to hear him. “Leave me. Save yourselves.”

I cupped my hands around my mouth and spoke loudly so the two boys could hear clearly. “We're not leaving him here to die. Find something sturdy that we can use as a lever.”

One of the boys spotted a thick branch on the ground nearby. We slid part of it under the tree next to Mike's chest and took a solid grip. The three of us began to lift. Our backs strained. The branch cracked under the pressure. Slowly, the tree inched upward. While the two others struggled to keep the tree off Mike, I took hold of his arms and pulled.

Somehow, some way, the plan worked. When the pressure was off his chest, Mike gasped deeply, taking hot air into his lungs. He was badly burned and coughed uncontrollably. There was no time, and this was no place to give him first aid. We quickly gathered him up and helped him back to the truck.

As I climbed up into the battered vehicle, I shouted, “Cover up with the blankets back there. I'll get you out of here.”

I
crossed myself and muttered a quick prayer. Getting to this point was not easy. Getting out with everyone alive would be more difficult.

The truck started up like a champ. I gave the dashboard a loving pat. But, when I went to shift it into gear, there was nothing. I moved the stick, trying to coax the transmission to life. It wouldn't move out of neutral. I tried again—nothing! Desperately I worked the shift lever, searching blindly for first gear—nothing! I turned off the engine and popped the hood on the truck, praying for a quick and easy fix.

The shift mechanism traveled down into the bowels of the machine. A piece of tree limb was stuck in the middle of the linkage, jamming the gear shift. Desperate, I found a rock and started beating on the wood—once, twice, three times—until I heard a loud pop. I didn't know if what I had done would work, but there was no more time. The beast was crowding in from all sides. I slammed the hood down.

“Get us out of here!” someone in the back shouted.

I didn't take the time to answer. Instead, I turned the key in the ignition again. The truck started. I slammed it into gear. This time it made the heavenly grinding sound of a transmission engaged. The vehicle spun around, tossing gravel as we headed back toward the flames. It was the only way out.

Halfway through the wall, I heard a loud bang. The truck swerved hard to the right. I fought to keep it straight. Emerging through the far side, I stopped in front of the waiting survivors, leaving the engine running. “Check for damage,” I shouted to no one in particular. “There's a sprayer back there that has a little water in it.”

Someone jumped into the bed of the truck and grabbed the remaining sprayer while the others hopped on board. “You've got a blow-out,” he shouted, “left rear. Everything else looks okay.”

“Spray down the blankets with what water there is left, and make sure everybody's covered up.”

My heart pounded. Sweat poured down my brow. There was one more wall of fire to negotiate. The truck had to hold together. I had to hold together. My leg shook as I eased out the clutch. The old truck came to life slowly. It gathered speed grudgingly. “Ka-lunk, ka-lunk” the flat tire slapped against the frame of the vehicle. My knuckles were white and sore from gripping the wheel so tightly. I winced as the truck entered the hellish wall of fire.

Ten-count . . . twelve-count . . . fourteen-count . . . at long last we were through. Clean air had never felt so good! Morning sunshine washed over us. The truck ground to a halt, and I slumped behind the wheel. Two more tires blew and the vehicle slowly sank beneath me. It took a while before I could release my fingers from the steering wheel and climb down out of the cab. My knees shook as everyone cheered and jumped for joy, circling me and pounding me on the back.

“Is everybody okay?” I asked.

“Mike's burned pretty bad,” someone called from the back of the truck.

“Get him out of there!” I ordered. The boys used a blanket as a makeshift stretcher and gently hauled him down. They laid him on the soft grass beside the railroad bed. Mike's hair was singed down to the scalp. His face was blistered with burns and his eyes looked like slits in swollen skin.

“Get the first-aid kit out of the truck,” I said. “Somebody give him some water.”

As others treated his burns, I knelt beside him. “It's over, Mike. You're safe now.”

Tears formed in the corners of his eyes. His lips moved slightly as he tried to speak, but no words came. He lifted a hand and gripped me firmly on my forearm.

“I know, Mike,” I said, choking back tears of my own. “I know. You rest now.”

The fire was eventually put out by the CCC. Through the fight, they demonstrated bravery, courage, and determination. That day in the wilderness, all the CCC boys earned the right to be called men.

What's more, the most terrible of all beasts had been conquered.

I
n July of 1936, ten boys of CCC Company 686 were trapped in the DuFour Creek fire, a blaze that consumed 923 acres of Michigan forest land. An enrollee truck driver named Walter Stokes drove along a railroad bed and through walls of flame in order to save his stranded friends. All were rescued, and Walter Stokes was honored for valor.

During only the first enrollment period of the Civilian Conservation Corps in Michigan—April 1 to October 1, 1933—enrollees constructed 67 miles of fire breaks, 556 miles of fire trails, and 543 acres that were used primarily as landing fields for observation airplanes. They also gave 32,807 man-days to the task of fighting wildfires.

Source:
We Can Do It!

A History of the CCC in Michigan, 1933–1942

By Charles A. Symon ©1983

AWOL: Absent without leave, a military term

Backfire:
1) A fire that is intentionally lit to prevent a wildfire from spreading, or 2) An explosion that comes from an engine, usually when starting, stopping or accelerating

Beat the daylights:
Knock someone unconscious, as in a fight

Bone to pick:
An argument or disagreement

Brat
: Brother (Polish)

Bunk:
1) Bed, or 2) An expression of disbelief

Button:
Nose

Clean your clock:
Beat someone in a fight

Cookie:
Camp cook

Dime a dozen:
Cheap, easy to find

Dole:
Public assistance from the government

Drip torches:
Torches that, when lit, would drip burning material to intentionally start a line of fire

Dukes:
Fists, as in “put up your dukes,” an invitation to fight

Eight ball:
1) A game played on a pool table, or 2) Someone who is a misfit

Feeling his oats:
Feeling better, stronger

Furlough:
Military term for time off or vacation

Goldbrick:
Lazy, someone who avoids work

Grub hoe:
A two-headed tool used for digging; one end is a pick and the opposite end is a six-inch wide blade

Heebie-jeebies:
Nervous, the jitters

Hit the sack:
Go to bed

Hobo jungle:
An area where homeless people or vagrants gather

Hobo:
Homeless person or vagrant

Kolega
:
Friend (Polish)

KP:
Kitchen Police; military term for kitchen or cleanup detail, usually as a form of punishment

LEM:
Local Experienced Men; men hired by the CCC to supervise work and to teach work skills to enrollees

Local experienced men:
(See LEM)

Matka
: Mother (Polish)

Maw:
Mouth

Mess hall or tent:
Dining room

Mess kit:
A compact kit of metal pots, pans, and plates that is used by soldiers and campers for cooking and serving food

Mud:
Coffee

Ojciec
:
Father (Polish)

Palooka:
Inexperienced or incompetent

Railroad bull:
Security guard hired by the railroad company

Rodzina
:
Family (Polish)