Fires in the Wilderness (3 page)

As we were getting organized, a sergeant came by the barracks and taught us how to make our beds. Some of the guys complained that they already knew how to make a bed, but the sergeant set them straight. Blankets had to be tucked perfectly and so tight that you could drop a nickel on them and it would bounce. We were expected to make our beds first thing each morning. The sergeant informed us that beds and belongings would be inspected daily. “Your mothers won't be here to pick up dirty clothes and straighten your things for you,” he said. “Any questions?”

Pick shuffled his feet nervously. “Any idea of where we'll be assigned? Do you think it'll be near Grand Rapids? It'd kinda be nice to go home from time to time.”

“You won't be goin' nowhere near Grand Rapids,” the sergeant said. “Most of the first enrollees are being sent to the Upper Peninsula.

“The Upper Peninsula?” someone asked. “What's it like there?”

“It's freezing cold. Winter all the time,” the sergeant said in a spooky voice. “They got moose with big teeth and huge, pointy antlers. Them moose like to eat boys, ya know.”

“You're kidding, right?” Yasku asked nervously.

“I am straight as a string telling you the truth,” the sergeant said as he crossed his heart. “The Upper Peninsula is full of bears and wolves and mountain lions, too. Every one of 'em is hungry for fresh meat.”

Stosh swallowed hard. “Bears, too?”

“That ain't the worst of it,” the sergeant continued. “I heard tell that the ghost of a crazy lumberjack is wandering around the Upper Peninsula. An enlisted man from this outfit was up there and heard the story of a lumberjack who drowned in a small lake. Whenever it rains, the ghost of that lumberjack wanders around looking for people to chop up with his axe.” The sergeant looked around at us. Some of the guys' eyes were as big as saucers. “His spirit rises in the rain b'cause he can't leave the water that drowned him dead.”

The sergeant eyeballed the group of boys who were listening. Then he took in a deep, raspy breath. His head shook and his tongue wagged as he let out a long low howl. A few of us laughed and walked away. Several guys pestered the sergeant with questions about ghosts and beasts as he left the barracks shaking his head.

Stosh and Yasku looked a bit spooked. Pick put his arms around them and said, “Don't you guys worry. Jarek and I will protect you from man-eating moose and lumberjack ghosts.”

T
he four of us managed to bunk close to each other. Big Mike and his gang were assigned to a different barrack. We took it easy the rest of the afternoon, organizing our things and trading clothes until we found the best fit possible. We had new clothes, new shoes, new socks, and underwear. It had been a long time since most of us had anything new. It didn't matter that the stuff was left over from the war.

Later on, a soldier came by the barrack and told us to get ready for supper. We were to report to the mess hall after we had washed up. Mess hall? Mess halls and mess kits were new words for us. Whatever a mess hall was, it didn't sound like a good place to be having supper. It would take a long time before we figured out all the different words that the military used for things.

The mess hall was a huge, open building with rows and rows of tables. Practically everything inside and out was painted olive drab, the official color of the army. As we approached the mess hall, the smell of food made our mouths water. “I can't believe we're eating twice in the same day,” Stosh said as we were paraded into the hall. “I think I might like this place.”

“I hope we're having somethin' other than baked potatoes,” I said. Yasku laughed.

As we took our places at a large table, we were told that there was to be no talking during dinner time in the mess hall. Tin plates and military silverware were stacked up on one end of each table. Heaping bowls of mashed potatoes, gravy, and peas were placed in front of us. Bread, butter, and pitchers of milk were at each table. Pieces of golden brown, deep-fried chicken were stacked high on platters. We dug in and ate like never before. The mess hall filled with the clatter of eating. After dinner, there was peach pie. It was heaven.

One fella at our table prayed long and hard after his meal. A wise guy sitting next to him whispered, “What you prayin' about?”

“I'm praying my family don't hear about what I had or how much food I ate tonight,” the fella replied in a hushed voice.

His prayer set us all to thinking. Back home there wasn't much of anything for our families to eat. Each of us felt guilty, yet none of us could pass up the piles of food. I especially thought about Squint. I was sure that he would be going to bed hungry tonight.

As the sounds of eating slowed, a shrill whistle pierced the clatter. “Listen up,” shouted the army officer we'd seen earlier. The room went silent. “My name is Lieutenant Campbell. You are going to learn a lot about military ways over the next several weeks. Let me start out by saying that the Civilian Conservation Corps isn't the army. However, when you address an officer, you are to stand at attention, eyes straight ahead, and arms sharply to your sides. Salute an officer crisply, and the officer will return your salute. You are to address officers by their rank and surname. Or, you may just refer to an officer as sir.”

Lieutenant Campbell glanced around the room to make sure everyone was listening closely. “I know you've been given a twenty-four-hour rest period to recover from your shots. However, I have a few special jobs to offer, and I'm looking for volunteers.”

Stosh leaned over and whispered, “I heard we shouldn't be too quick to volunteer.”

Lieutenant Campbell walked back and forth at the head of the dining hall. “I need eight boys who like being around water. I prefer guys who can swim, but it isn't necessary to know how. The job is easy and you'll be given special training. If it turns out that you like beach detail, you might volunteer to do it all the time. So, do I have volunteers?”

Hands shot up across the room. Lieutenant Campbell pointed to eight eager faces. He motioned at four of them. “I want you to meet me here right after dinner. I'll take the rest of you boys to the beach tomorrow after breakfast.”

I sat back in my seat thinking that maybe going to the beach might be a good job. I regretted listening to Stosh. My thoughts were interrupted when the lieutenant spoke up again.

“Now, I need four guys who want to be truck drivers. Don't worry; you don't need to know how to drive. You will get training on the job.”

Quickly I stood up to volunteer along with about half the other guys in the dining hall. Stosh tried to hold me down, but I really wanted to drive a truck. Lieutenant Campbell scanned the room, overlooking me and choosing four others. What irritated me most was that the lieutenant picked Mike O'Shea.

As the dining hall emptied and the guys headed off to their barracks, I pushed through the crowd and walked right up to the lieutenant. “Sir, I would really like to be a truck driver. I know I could do a good—”

“Next time, kid,” was all he said, “next time.”

“Yah, punk,” Mike O'Shea said as he put his big hand on my shoulder and shoved me backward, “maybe next time.” A smirk crossed his face as he sauntered out of the room.

For a moment I wanted to wipe that smile off Mike O'Shea's face right then and there. But I thought better of it. I'd promised Squint that I'd stay out of trouble.

A
fter supper, Pick and I were talking on our bunks when Yasku burst through the barracks door. He was doubled over in laughter. “Wait 'til you hear this,” he said, gasping for breath. “Those guys who volunteered for duty on the beach . . . well, they got a chance to work near the water all right. They're washing all the pots and pans and our dinner dishes. Sounds like beach duty and waterfront jobs mean doing dishes.”

“See,” Stosh said with a chuckle. “I told you to be careful about volunteering. My father was in the war. He told me of such things.”

“I'm glad you said something,” Yasku said. “The way Lieutenant Campbell described them jobs, it was mighty tempting to volunteer.”

We explored Camp Custer all evening, laughing and joking about the beach workers. The camp was like a city. Aside from the barracks, mess hall, and infirmary, they had a store (called a PX), rifle ranges, training centers, and other buildings too numerous to explore. Eventually we found ourselves in one of the buildings. It had a pool table, and we played pool until they threw us out at 9:00 p.m.

Lights out was at 10:00, and everyone was expected to be in the sack and quiet at that time. Somewhere nearby our barrack, a horn played a soft, gentle tune. Later we would find out that the horn was a bugle and every night at Camp Custer the bugler played taps. As I lay in my bed listening to the music, I thought about missing my chance to be a truck driver. It still burned me that Mike O'Shea was chosen instead of me. Then I thought about Squint and the words of my father. Back home in Grand Rapids, many, many people were out of work and scratching just to stay alive. I had a job. If my father were here, he would remind me to be thankful, no matter what.

Soon the night air in the barracks was filled with the sounds of sleeping. Some of the guys snored louder than the bugler. Here and there, soft whimpers could be heard as boys experienced the loneliness of being on their own. Snores and whimpers were sounds we would all have to get used to. Though each of us was lonely, it was the first time in years that we'd gone to sleep without being hungry. In the night, someone lit a fire in the potbelly stove. Though the temperatures dropped outside, the small fire took the edge off the cold inside the barracks.

At 6:00 the next morning, the bugler played once again. This was different music than we had heard the night before. While we were at Camp Custer, the sound of reveille would wake us each morning. Arms were still sore from the shots we received the day before. Still, we got up to face the new day. Our first job was to make our beds the way we'd been shown, tight and taut. We got dressed, then picked up and organized our things. An army sergeant came around and inspected our barrack. Some boys remade their beds several times until they were “army sharp.”

It was a cold day for late April. Snow and rain spit from the sky as we assembled on the parade ground. We shivered in the early morning hours. After a flag-raising ceremony, morning exercises, and breakfast, the beach workers attended to their pots and pans. The rest of us had the day off to relax. As I explored Camp Custer, I spotted Big Mike O'Shea pushing a wheelbarrow piled high with rocks. Last night's smirk was replaced with a strained grimace as he worked behind the heavy wheelbarrow.

This was the first time I really took a good look at Mike O'Shea. He was three or four inches taller than me, maybe six feet, with broad shoulders and long thick arms. His head was square like a cinder block. He wore his carrot-orange hair cut close. Freckles dotted his face. The thing that caught my attention was the hard look he had in his eyes and the scowl he wore on his face. If his prediction that he and I would have it out one day was correct, he would be a handful. Still, I was less afraid of him than I was of losing the job that would keep my family alive.

As I watched him push the heavy wheelbarrow around, I understood what it meant to volunteer to be a truck driver. In the army, as in the Civilian Conservation Corps, driving a truck and pushing a wheelbarrow were often one and the same. It was just like a beach worker was a dishwasher. We learned quickly that our army leaders would twist words to make volunteering for extra work sound like fun.

Mike had worked up a good sweat driving his truck in the cool morning air. He grunted with strain as he pushed his load. Despite my promise to Squint that I would steer clear of trouble, I couldn't resist poking fun at him. “Look,” I said laughing and pointing at Mike O'Shea and his one-wheeled truck. “Is that truck a Ford or a Chevrolet?”

The army enlisted man who was supervising the work glared at me. “Unless you want to join your friend, you'll keep your mouth shut.”

Big Mike wiped the sweat from his brow and spit. “He ain't no friend of mine.”

T
he next three weeks were consumed by daily exercises, classes, and job training. The military had all of us CCC boys going from sun-up to sun-down and later. We were all fingerprinted and issued serial numbers. The disk on the chain around my neck read: CC6-104377.

Though there was little time for anything else, my brother was on my mind every day and night. I worried about him. To be honest, I also worried about myself. Squint was older and bigger than me. He had always been my hero and protector—the only person I could turn to in good times and bad. I counted on him as he did me. We had been a team ever since we were little. Now the team was separated. Growing up would be harder without him.

Big Mike was a constant problem. He was a cloud of trouble that seemed to follow me around Camp Custer, no matter where I went. He continued to go out of his way each day to make life a little more miserable for me and my friends. I wasn't all that concerned about him pushing me around. I could take care of myself. I was more worried about holding down my temper and keeping my job in the CCC. The military officers made it clear that they didn't want any trouble. Fighting could be used as grounds for dismissal. I vowed to keep my promise to Squint: to keep my job and keep my nose clean. That promise would prove to be a hard one to keep.

Morning seemed to come earlier and earlier each day at Custer. Most of us had never experienced formal exercises like sit-ups, push-ups, chin-ups, jumping jacks, and stretching exercises. We'd spent some time running around the neighborhood back home, but never two miles or more at a stretch. Our leaders told us we'd have to be in good shape for the work ahead.