Fires in the
Wilderness
A Story of the
Civilian Conservation Corps Boys
Jeffery L. Schatzer
Text copyright © 2008 Jeffery L. Schatzer
Cover illustration copyright © 2008 J.W. Edwards, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles.
All inquiries should be addressed to:
Mitten Press
An imprint of Ann Arbor Editions, LLC
2500 South State Street
Ann Arbor, MI 48104
Printed at Edwards Brothers, Inc., Ann Arbor, Michigan, USA
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Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-58726-550-1
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-58726-703-1
Prologue
Through the 1930s, the Great Depression held an ugly grip on the United States. Millions of people were out of work and without money to purchase food, shelter, or clothing.
President Franklin D. Roosevelt established the Civilian Conservation Corps, the CCC, to fight the paralyzing depression and put young people to work. This program hired young men from across the United States and its territories to work on projects that improved the land and protected the environment. The money these boys earned helped their families purchase the food and shelter they so desperately needed.
Many of the first boys to enroll in the CCC came out of urban areas, trained at army camps, and shipped to wilderness areas in order to begin their work.
Contents
Chapter 1. Skinny Cats
Chapter 2. Train to Tomorrow
Chapter 3. Camp Custer
Chapter 4. New Duds
Chapter 5. Swimmers and Drivers
Chapter 6. Volunteers
Chapter 7. Training
Chapter 8. North Bound
Chapter 9. Beyond the Waters
Chapter 10. Polack Lake
Chapter 11. Something from Nothing
Chapter 12. The Pit
Chapter 13. Pain from the Sky
Chapter 14. Attack
Chapter 15. AWOL
Chapter 16. Camp Commander
Chapter 17. The Storm
Chapter 18. Hard Rain
Chapter 19. The Prodigal
Chapter 20. Broken Chain
Chapter 21. The Turn
Chapter 22. Sign of Deer
Chapter 23. Fire and Ice
Chapter 24. News from Home
Chapter 25. Fighting Words
Chapter 26. Gloves
Chapter 27. Officers’ Quarters
Chapter 28. Time to Think
Chapter 29. Out of the Frying Pan
Chapter 30. Distant Thunder
Chapter 31. Fighting the Beast
Chapter 32. Surrounded
Chapter 33. Conquering the Beast
Epilogue
Glossary
Author’s Notebook
In Appreciation
Chapter 1
Skinny Cats
April 1934
M atka (Mother) stood on the back porch looking out into the darkness. The dim light from behind her made it look like she was glowing. Her housedress was frayed and faded. The tattered apron over her dress bore stains of time and mountains of Polish food. Her hands fumbled nervously at the hem of her apron, twisting it into a knot.
“Jarek,” she called out to me, “do not be gone long. Tomorrow is big day for you and Sid.”
“Yes, Matka,” I replied. Though I wanted to run back to her, it would be too hurtful. Good-byes had already been said, another one would be even harder. Instead, I turned back to the path. My eyes slowly adjusted to the dark as I followed the rutted walkway that traveled from our back door to the alley. Clouds moved across the thin sliver of moonlight. The city was covered in a blanket of darkness. No matter, I knew every root and stone in the path. There was comfort in its imperfection, a comfort I would miss dearly.
The path ended at the alley. From there I followed wheel ruts that cut through the dirt. A few families on the block had automobiles, but the buildings that lined the alley housed mostly horses and carts. Since I was little, my buddies and I had been meeting in the alley just a few houses down from ours. It was one of the only places we had to share a bonfire, swap stories, and enjoy the company of friends.
A sudden movement in the night shadows startled me. A pack of skinny cats scurried down the alleyway, weaving back and forth down the dusty ruts. They scoured every doorway and trash can in a desperate search for food. Ribs poked out from skinny sides. Their legs moved in a blur as their noses tested the air. They would fight for the smallest morsel of food.
I felt like one of those skinny cats. This was 1934, and the world was suffering from the Great Depression. The money had long since run out. Ojciec (Father) had lost his job at the furniture factory. Siostra (Sister) and Matka had no work since the hotel closed. Starszy Brat (older brother) Squint and I lost our jobs at the wagon company downtown. There was no work to be found. Worst of all, food was scarce. Ojciec did not like taking handouts from the government, the church, or anyone. We made do as best we could with hand-me-down clothes and shoes.
It was our last night with our families in Grand Rapids for a long, long time. This was the last bonfire we would share with friends. Luck had run out. We were skinny cats running for our very lives.
I tried not to show fear. At least I would be with my friends and my brat (brother) at the meeting place in the alley—Yasku, Stosh, Pick, Squint. Though his given name is Sid, nearly everyone called him “Squint.” His eyesight had been bad for as long as I could remember. Unfortunately, eyeglasses were a luxury that my rodzina (family) could not afford. He got his nickname because he squinted to see everything.
By the time I reached the meeting place, the bonfire was roaring. It would take the chill off the cool April night. Yasku Solinski scrounged some branches from a pine tree that had fallen over by St. Adalbert’s Church on Fourth Street. The sap in the wood made loud popping and cracking sounds and sparks chased high into the sky. The dry pine burned fast and hot. A bed of coals shimmered in shades of orange and red. I rubbed my hands together and warmed them by the fire.
From down the alley, a window opened. Mr. Damski poked his head out. “You kids watch that fire. Don’t burn the city down!”
Squint answered, “Yes sir, Mr. Damski, we’ll be careful.”
“Just make sure you got some water to douse that fire.” The window slammed shut, and we all turned to Stosh.
Stosh Campeau lived the closest, so he left to fetch a bucket of water from the pump in his backyard. As he walked back with the full bucket, cold water sloshed against him with each step. Though his house was no more than thirty paces away, everything from his knees on down was soaking wet. Stosh put the bucket down next to the fire, then plopped himself onto a rock and took off his shoes and his pants. He placed his wet shoes next to the fire. Then he stood up and started drying his pants, waving them above the flames. Stosh didn’t seem to give a second thought about being practically naked in the alley.
I covered my mouth to keep from laughing as I watched him. Stosh was always doing stupid stuff. Spilling water all over his legs was just another dumb thing he did. Steam started rolling off his pants as the water evaporated. After a time he put them on again. When he did, the pants were hot in a few spots. We all laughed as he hopped around, trying to cool off his steaming drawers.
After o
ur laughter died down, I turned my attention to the bonfire. Fire seemed to have magical powers. Its sights, sounds, and smells fascinated me and caused me to think. As I stared into the flames and embers, I thought about the words Ojciec had spoken to Squint and me earlier. In broken English, he said, “My sons, to become a man is hard. For a boy to become a man is harder still. For what you will do, I am very proud.” Warmth from the fire washed over me. In a while I would have to move around in order to warm my backside.
The wind shifted slightly. I turned my eyes away from the stinging smoke as Frank “Pick” Kowalski used a stick to push small potatoes around in the hot coals. Dinner was almost ready. For most of us, this would be the only meal of the day—one scrawny potato. It was a meal the skinny cats would have fought for.
“When are them spuds gonna be ready?” said Yasku as he rubbed his hands and warmed them by the fire. “I ain’t et nothin’ since yesterday.”
“Hold your horses,” Pick said. “We’re all hungry.” He poked around in the hot coals, pushing the potatoes onto a piece of scrap wood. “Let them cool or you’ll burn yourself.”
Stosh was putting a new piece of cardboard in his shoe to cover the hole in the bottom. We all knew that Stosh’s shoes were older than he was. The soles had long since developed large holes. Since his family had no money for even secondhand shoes, Stosh resorted to putting cardboard over the holes from time to time. He inspected his work and smiled. “There, that ought to give me a few more miles.” He slipped his shoe back on, careful to keep the cardboard in place. “Say, did ya hear that Mrs. Czpanski got a whole can of meat for cleaning some rich family’s house?”
“Ya, I heard that her kids got a spoonful each for dinner,” Squint said as he whittled a stick with his old pocket knife. He speared a potato before continuing. “Other than handouts from the state and a loaf of bread here and there, that’s all they got to eat.”
“I’m tired of being hungry all the time,” Stosh added.
Pick took a bite of his potato. Steam floated off the white center. He used his hand as a fan, trying to cool the potato in his mouth. “I heard that when we get into the Civilian Conservation Corps, we’ll get three hots and a cot.”
“Huh?” Yasku asked. His mouth was stuffed with potato.
“You know,” Squint chimed in. “Three hots and a cot . . . three hot meals each day and a cot to sleep on at night.”
“Three hot meals every day?” I asked. “No kidding?”
“Just a minute,” Yasku began as he looked across the bonfire at me. “You ain’t old ’nuff to join, are you?”
“I’ll be sixteen next week.”
“How’d you get in?” Yasku asked. “You got to be eighteen. And if I remember right, brothers ain’t supposed to join at the same time.”
I hung my head in silence. Squint raised up full and looked around. “I told the selection agent that he’s my cousin—eighteen years old, just like me. Any of you say anything different, I’ll knock your block off. Understand?” No one spoke another word.
Pick swallowed the last of his potato and broke the awkward silence. “It’s chilly, even for April,” he said looking into the fire. “Maybe where we’re going it’ll be nice. Bet ya there’ll even be a lake where we can go swimming.”
Much of that night we were lost in our individual memories, thoughts, and fears. A spring storm was moving in from Lake Michigan. Lightning danced off to the west as the sky grumbled with distant thunder. The skyline of the tired city lit up in brilliant flashes, only to be quickly swallowed up again by darkness.
“Lightning is like fire from the sky,” said Stosh, gesturing toward the gathering storm. We nodded in agreement as we concentrated on the dance of the flames and the shifting colors of our own bonfire. As a light rain began, we doused the fire and scurried off like skinny cats to catch a few hours of sleep before leaving Grand Rapids, perhaps for good.
My stomach growled, begging for more food.
Chapter 2
Train to Tomorrow
The weather cleared by morning, and we started out on our adventures in the CCC, the Civilian Conservation Corps. The train left Grand Rapids and headed for Battle Creek with other boys our age. I’d guess there were about two hundred of us. A handful of paying passengers were sprinkled here and there. I sat next to Pick, facing Yasku, Stosh, and Squint.
Loud clanking, metal-on-metal sounds echoed through the terminal as the locomotive crept forward. Cars in the train clasped each other. The heavy wheels of the engine grabbed at the tracks and the chug of the engine slowly picked up a rhythm. When our car jerked to life, we held on to keep from being tossed in our seats. Voices rose in a collective “whoa” as a few loose items skittered across the floor. We cheered as the train gathered speed heading out of town.
Pick, Squint, Yasku, Stosh, and I spoke in Polish, sharing the excitement of our first train ride. Train yard dogs chased alongside us, their tongues hanging long from the corners of their mouths. We waved at people outside the window and joked amongst ourselves in the language of our neighborhood.
From behind us, someone spoke out a little too loudly: “Polacks.” We all froze. It was a word that none of us liked because it was used to make fun of us, our language, and our families.
It was a word that could lead to a fight.
We all looked around to see who said it, but there was no way of telling. Some of the fun was stolen from our train ride.
“Let’s not make trouble,” Pick said. “We should speak English.”
From that time on, we spoke English. Between us we agreed to speak Polish only when we were alone or when we wanted to keep something a secret. Though using English would help avoid some problems, it didn’t feel right. Polish was the language that had been with me all my life. Speaking English felt like turning my back on my family.
Thoughts of home occupied our hearts and minds as the city got smaller in the distance. The sickly, bitter smell of coal smoke from the steam engine penetrated the car. A coating of greasy ash clung to everything. Still, nothing could take away from the pure excitement of the trip. None of us had been more than a few blocks from home ever before in our lives. Every mile of rail and every small town along the way was an adventure.
The rocking motion of the train eventually lulled me to sleep. The strangest dream came to me. I was running away from something, something fearful. Its breath was hot on my shoulders. No matter how fast I ran, the beast kept gaining ground. It clawed at my back and roared in my ears. As the beast was about to consume me, I was jarred awake by a sudden jolt.
Pick elbowed me in the ribs and pointed to a fella who was handing out paper bags. Lunch was being served to the CCC boys. Each of us got an apple and a baloney sandwich slathered with butter and mustard. It had been a long time since any of us had been given a whole sandwich to eat. The apple was an added bonus.
“What kind of jobs do you think we’re gonna do?” Yasku asked as he savored his lunch.
“Don’t know,” Squint said, wiping his mouth on his shirt sleeve. “Work is work. I don’t much care as long as I have a job.”
“Me, I want to drive a truck,” I said between bites. “That’s got to be the greatest job in the world.”
As Squint was about to comment, an apple core flew out of nowhere and hit him smack on the side of the head. It splattered its sticky juice all over his face and onto his clothes. My brother shot up as a group of boys a few seats away broke out in laughter.
“Who threw that?” Squint demanded as he charged the jokesters.
“Who wants to know?” shot back the biggest one.
The big-mouthed guy stood up quickly, towering over Squint. They started exchanging words and began a shoving match. The once–noisy railcar got quiet as all eyes turned toward the ruckus. I didn’t want to see Squint get into a tussle. My brother wasn’t much of a fighter, though he was never one to back down.
Squint pushed off from the other guy and balled up his fists. “Put up your d
ukes, you punk!”
I scrambled out of my seat to break up the fight. Then it happened. I got between Squint and the big guy and pushed them apart. At the very same moment, the train car lurched violently. The big guy went tumbling down the aisle, head over heels. Squint and I managed to hang on and stay upright.
After regaining his balance, the big guy jumped to his feet and scrambled forward with fire in his eyes. Before he was on us, our buddies stood to back us up. His face was red with anger, but it was obvious that he didn’t want to fight all of us. He pointed a finger at me. “Nobody, but nobody, pushes Big Mike O’Shea around.”
“Knock it off,” said one of the paying passengers. “Go back to your seats and pipe down.” The passenger shook his newspaper in disgust before returning to his reading.
Mike O’Shea looked me up and down. “You and I will have it out one day.”
“You’ll have to go through me first, O’Shea,” Squint responded. “You’re the one who’ll have to watch your step.” Squint wiped the juice off his face with his shirt sleeve. “C’mon, it’s over. Let’s go back to our seats.”
Big Mike looked around at Yasku, Stosh, and Pick before sitting down hard. I stared out the window once again and thought. Since we were little kids, Squint had always been the one who stood up for me. This was the first time I actually stood up for him. My heart swelled with pride. It felt good, very good.
I put Mike O’Shea out of my mind as the train clicked and clacked over the rails. We passed through mile after mile of barren farm fields and towns we’d heard of but never seen—Moline, Wayland, Plainwell, Kalamazoo, and others.
Encampments along the way, called hobo jungles, could be seen next to the tracks outside many of the cities. Those with nothing but a few meager possessions and the clothes on their backs gathered there. The tents and shacks in these run–down communities housed the poor as they looked for work or bummed for handouts from kind and generous people. The jungles were made up mostly of men who would hop empty railcars and steal rides from town to town. Being a hobo was a hard life, especially when railroad security guards, called bulls, would find them. Railroad bulls could be cruel, beating up hobos and throwing them off the trains.
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