Fires in the Wilderness (10 page)

“That's what it was like, Jarek,” Ben said. “That's what it was like.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

Ben and a couple of other guys in camp had come from northern Wisconsin, an area north of Green Bay. He sat there in the dark rocking back and forth. Only his eyes were visible. The story he told added another layer of chill to the night.

“Back home in Peshtigo they tell about a firestorm that took the whole town in 1871. People there say that the fire took place the same time as the great Chicago fire, only it was worse. In a single night, the whole town was nothing but cinder ash. Some say that more than two thousand people were killed by that fire.”

Ben swallowed hard. “Jarek, we could've been killed today—burned alive just like some of my relatives in Peshtigo.”

I did the best I could to comfort him, but he wasn't the only one who was shaken by the awesome power of the wildfire we fought that day. Most of us didn't get any sleep at all that night. Trails of sooty tears and sweat traced the ridgelines of our faces. Hair was singed off our arms, eyebrows, and heads. We were cut and bruised. Just before sunup, a steady rain began to beat down on us. Hot embers sizzled at the touch of rain.

In the early light, we retraced our steps from the day before, following the ridgeline of the valley and searching for remembered landmarks in the devastated countryside. Eventually Stosh found a shovel. Its handle was charred, but it was still useable.

As we followed the burned-out fire line north, we heard the sound of voices calling out from across the wasteland. A few of the boys tended to the others while Pick ran off to find the rescue-and-recovery team. We were to discover that the beast consumed about a thousand acres of the Marquette National Forest.

The CCC nearly had the fire under control, but it was the rain that saved the day.

A
truck carried us back to camp late in the morning. Those of us who jumped into the lake to avoid the fire had been the last to return. Friends cheered as we arrived. Though everyone was eager to find out how we managed to survive, we couldn't wait to get cleaned up and into fresh clothes. A shower had never felt so good. After we scrubbed the soot and smell off ourselves, we headed to the mess hall for some chow. Cookie made goulash. The food tasted smoky, but we ate like it was our last meal. No one had been seriously injured while fighting the fire. We were thankful for that.

Before going back to the barracks for some sack time, I checked in at the recreation hall. I was one of the lucky ones. There was mail from home. Mother and Father did not read or write English. Squint didn't like to write much, probably because his vision was so poor. However, my sister Sophia wrote to me each week. I tried to write back as often as I could.

I took the letter to my bunk, where I read it eagerly. My parents were doing fine. Father was looking for work, but prospects weren't good. Sophia still had her job as a maid. Between what she earned and the money that was sent home from the CCC, my family was getting by with few frills.

Her letter was filled with well-wishes from close friends and people from the parish. She wrote about old neighbors who had moved out and some who had moved in. Then she got to the point of her letter. I read in stunned silence, not wanting to believe the message. My face must have told the story. I lowered the paper and covered my eyes.

Yasku was eating a candy bar when he took notice of me and edged his way to my bunk.

“Sumpin' wrong?” he asked as he munched his treat.

“Squint's dead,” I replied hoarsely.

“Nah, that can't be!”

“Squint was never the same after he washed out of the CCC,” I said as I stared at the ceiling. “When he got back home he felt guilty, said he was being a burden on our family.”

I took a deep breath and crushed the letter. “He heard there was work out West. So, he took up with hobo ways, hopping trains and begging for handouts as he headed out to California.”

“How'd he die?”

“Sophia said that a railroad bull beat him up and tossed him off a train outside of Kansas City.”

“A railroad bull killed him?” Yasku asked, horrified.

“Not directly,” I replied as I rubbed my forehead. “The bull that caught Squint freeloading a ride on the train roughed him up pretty bad. Those men can be heartless. A couple of hobos riding the train with Squint managed to keep the bull from killing him. But they all got thrown off the train.

“Anyway, Squint survived the bull's beating and spent a few days in a hobo jungle to recover from his injuries. But when he tried to hop a westbound a few days later, Squint didn't have the strength to hold on. He lost his grip on the car and fell underneath the train.” I hesitated before continuing, staring blankly at the ceiling. “He was killed instantly. Squint always kept his home address on a card in his pocket. My family got a letter from the police.”

I didn't tell Yasku the rest of the story. It was too personal. My parents didn't have the money to go out to Kansas or to send his body home. Instead, he was buried out there in a cemetery with a simple wooden cross for a headstone.

The sorrow and sadness were like a fog that sat heavily on my chest. While in the CCC, I missed home as much as anyone else. Still, I missed Squint most of all. Now he was gone forever. There was a hole in my life that would never be filled. I hadn't even had the chance to say a proper good-bye.

Yasku was without words. All he could do was whisper simple thoughts of sympathy. Unconsciously, he knew the right thing to do. He placed his hand on my shoulder and walked quietly away to leave me with my thoughts.

I had a sudden urge to get moving. I needed time to think. The day had cleared up after the morning shower. As I paced the parade grounds, mud caked my shoes. It didn't matter; there was only one thing on my mind. My brother had always been special to me. He had been more than a friend. Sure, we'd our share of troubles. Still, he was the one person who would always stand up for me. It didn't matter if I was right or wrong. Squint was a friend, tried and true.

As I paced thinking things through, Yasku was blabbing to everyone in camp that my brother had died. He made no mention that Squint was the fella who had washed out of the CCC only a few months back. He just wanted to let people know that I was suffering.

Ambling back and forth, I was lost in sadness and regret. Deep thoughts and remembrances haunted me. A hard shot to my shoulder shocked me to my senses.

“Watch it,” grunted Mike.

“L
eave me alone,” I hissed. “I don't want any of your guff today.”

“Well,” Mike said, “isn't that just too bad.” He circled around to face me. “I've got a bone to pick with you.”

“Not now.” I turned to walk away.

“Yeah, now!” Mike grabbed me by the upper arm and spun me around. “Don't walk away from me. What's with you Polacks? Are you all cowards?”

“What are you talking about?” My anger started to boil over.

“Yesterday at the fire, you and your buddies turned tail and ran when things got a little hot,” he mocked. “If you'd stuck it out like men, we would have had that fire under control. Instead, you ran away.”

“You don't know what you're talking about,” I said squaring up to Mike. “We had no choice. If we'd stayed, a lot of good men would have been hurt or killed. Besides, I didn't see you pitching in to help when the fire jumped the line and started racing toward us.”

He leaned forward, sputtering with anger. “Bear hunters? Baloney! I knew the first day I met you Polacks that you were all chicken livers.”

I went red with rage tackling Mike to the ground. We rolled around in the dirt, each struggling to get the advantage. I got him in a headlock, but he managed to wiggle free. Finally, we broke away from each other and put up our fists, then began circling for a fight.

“I been looking forward to this,” Mike said through his clenched teeth. “You're gonna get what you got coming.”

A small voice in the back of my head was telling me to cool off and back down, but I wasn't in the mood to listen to that voice. O'Shea was the one who threw the apple at Squint. O'Shea was the one who was making life miserable for me and my buddies. I'd just lost my only brother. Now Mike kept pushing. It was time for me to push back for a change.

“I'm gonna feed you a knuckle sandwich, O'Shea. Just tell me when you've had your fill.”

I moved my head to the left and threw a right to his midsection. The punch knocked the wind out of O'Shea. His eyes bulged as his arms drew into his chest. I moved right and gave him a shot in the ribs. He gasped again. Then I moved back and covered up, thinking that O'Shea would come after me with all he had. When he did, I was going to stop his charge and bust him good.

“Break it up!” Lieutenant Campbell shouted as he pushed us apart.

Mike pointed an accusing finger at me. “He started it. You saw it all, didn't you? He tackled me. He punched me first. He attacked a superior. I was just defending myself.”

The lieutenant looked at Mike. “I don't care who started it. There's been a rub between you two boys for a long time. I've seen it, and I'm tired of it. We're gonna finish this matter once and for all right after the morning whistle tomorrow. Until then, stay away from each other.”

I stared Mike down for a moment. It was clear that I'd hurt him in our quick fight. His anger simmered as the lieutenant's words sunk in.

Not wanting to go against the lieutenant, O'Shea turned away and started mumbling about something. I brushed the dust and dirt from my clothes and headed back to the barracks. That afternoon a lot of guys came by to say a few kind words to me about losing my brother. I guess Yasku thought he was doing the right thing by telling everyone about Squint, but I wished he'd kept his trap shut.

Rumors about my fight with Mike were also circulating. The entire camp had heard about how I stood up to O'Shea and put in a couple of good licks. A few fellas said that it took guts to fight Big Mike. Some gave advice. All of them told me to punch his lights out.

I wasn't proud of my scrap with O'Shea. I've always looked at boxing as one thing, and street fighting as another. My temper had gotten the best of me that afternoon. I wasn't happy about that. Though it only lasted seconds, the fight had taught me a few things. Above all, I learned that my weeks in the pit shoveling gravel had put some muscle on my bones. I wasn't the skinny cat who'd joined the CCC.

I had no appetite for supper that night. I was sick about the news from home, and I was sick and tired of the way Mike treated me. And, truth be known, I was embarrassed at my outburst with O'Shea. The events of the day stayed with me during my class in motor vehicle operations. One of the drivers showed us how to work the clutch and shift through the gears. Though I sat in the seat and ran through the practice, my mind was elsewhere. It was hard for me to hold on to anything . . . It was even hard for me to hold on to my dream of being a truck driver. My run-in with Mike hadn't helped things.

Lieutenant Campbell said that Mike and I were going to settle things once and for all. That was fine by me. There was a lot of anger I had to get off my chest. As I lay in my bunk that night, I punched Mike in the nose over and over in my dreams.

My time had come.

T
he reveille whistle blew at 6:00 a.m., just like any other workday at Polack Lake. We fell into formation for morning exercises. Lieutenant Campbell had another idea.

“This morning,” the lieutenant began, “we're going to settle a dispute between O'Shea and Sokolowski.” He formed the enrollees in a large circle and told Mike and me to stand on the inside of it. Lieutenant Campbell cut through the ring of boys. He was carrying a large army duffle. He opened the bag and dumped the contents out onto the ground.

Boxing gloves. Two sets of eight-ouncers. They were old and worn like the ones Father had hanging from the rafters in our basement back in Grand Rapids. The gloves were dirty and dusty. Cracks in the leather of the gloves would open cuts on the fighters' faces. I didn't care. This was my chance to get back at Mike O'Shea, and I was looking forward to it.

The lieutenant looked at us. “Put 'em on, boys. Have your buddies help you lace 'em up. Make sure they're tight, so they don't come off during the fight.”

The rules were simple. We were to box three-minute rounds with a minute of rest between each round. Lieutenant Campbell would referee. The first to be knocked out or to call it quits would be the loser.

Stosh helped me with my gloves. “Watch out, Jarek. He's big, and he's strong.”

“That doesn't matter,” I said. “I'm going to pound him into the ground. My father taught me how to handle a mug like him. You watch.”

Mike and I joined in the center of the ring. The lieutenant held out his right arm to separate us. Once he was sure we were ready to go, he said one word: “Box!”

I went at Mike with all I had. My anger took over and I swung at him wildly, putting aside everything I had learned about boxing. My arms spun like a windmill at O'Shea, but nothing landed. The guys who formed the ring were shouting and cat-calling. Mike stepped forward, wrapped his arms around me, and threw me to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Immediately, Lieutenant Campbell pulled us to our feet and pushed us apart.

“Box!”

I came to my senses and started to box like I had been taught. Instead of rushing in to work him over, I circled, waiting for an opening. This frustrated Mike. He held out his hands and taunted, “C'mon, you coward, fight.”

That's when I struck. With his guard down, I stepped forward and flicked a right jab that caught him just above the eye. I pounded him with a hard left to the chin, then popped him with a right to the nose. O'Shea's snot locker made a crunching sound, and blood began to flow. The blows stunned him, and he stumbled backward. The crowd noise increased as I went after the bully. Once he gathered himself, our combat became more defensive.