The Raids

by Mick Lowe

  38

  A Fire in the Dark

  Even with the labour-saving jumbos, Jake and Bob still finished their shifts bathed in sweat, their overalls soaked beneath their oilers, the heavy water-proof slickers favoured by many miners to ward off the endless drizzle of the underground workings. The reason: here in the Lower Country they were closer than ever to the underground fire that stubbornly resisted every effort to extinguish it and that was fast becoming an accepted, if enervating, fact of life in Frood Mine’s Lower Country. They tried every stratagem—pouring water to it, starving it of oxygen—that mine managers and engineers could conceive. But in the end, it was a standoff—that portion of the mine was simply walled off with a bulkhead, and the fire was left to smolder, in the hope it would eventually consume all its fuel and snuff itself out. Burn, baby, burn. But it would continue to smoulder for decades, becoming a part of Sudbury’s underground lore, pulsing and glowing, unseen there in the absolute darkness of the belly of the mine. It was a mute reminder—and perhaps a reproach—of the folly that men can enter a place where it was never intended they should go; and in their greed and technological reach and insatiable craving for more and more and ever more, they would contrive the conceit that they could safely ignore the cosmic, karmic consequences of their actions.

  39

  Jake’s Last Shift

  It happened at the end of another steamy, sweat-soaked shift, vexed by one of the drill’s booms stubbornly refusing to turn as rapidly as the others—a glitch in the hydraulics, perhaps—and so Jake left Bob behind to walk the defective machine to the service garage and to report the problem to supervision and the incoming cross-shift.

  Jake was making his way alone along the main haulage drift on the way out to the cage—an uneventful passage—until he reached the unmarked divide between the future of mining and the past. And it was just there, as he trudged wearily out of the go-go area into the older, tracked portion of the level that he first noticed the tail lights of a train of ore cars on the track in the far-off distance. But even from his vantage point hundreds of feet away, Jake could sense something was wrong. The red lights appeared immobile, instead of receding into the distance at a faster pace than the tired, sweat-soaked Jake was walking. No, clearly the string of loaded ore cars wasn’t moving, and that was odd.

  As he approached the ore train Jake saw the motor was at a dead stop, and that the motorman had descended from his loco to wrestle with one of the cars in the middle of his train. By the time he had drawn even with the stalled train, Jake was finally able to discern the nature of the problem: one of the wheels on one of the train’s middle cars had jumped the track, threatening to cause a chain reaction that would drag the cars behind it off the track, thus derailing the whole train.

  The motor man, Jake can see, is a young guy—even younger than himself—and clearly uncertain as to what to do next.

  “Need a hand?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” The youngster regards Jake with a worried look. Even a greenhorn knows the seriousness of the situation: left unmoved, the partially derailed train will clog up the haulage drift, eventually backing up all further traffic on the line, and, finally, shutting down all production in this portion of the level. One wheel on one ore car is creating a million dollar snafu that could well cost the young motor man his new job.

  Jake’s cap lamp bobs as he nods in sympathy with his co-worker.

  “Got anything to pry with?”

  This time it’s the youngster’s turn to nod as he produces a ten foot scaling bar that he’s somehow obtained from—somewhere. A sturdy instrument, indeed. Jake is impressed.

  “Good. Okay, you start wedging over there on your side, and I’ll take the low side over here. You push it towards me, and I’ll push it back towards you. That way we rock it up high enough to get it back up on the track. Got it?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Jake feels a momentary pang at being called “sir,” as if he has just entered a new, and not entirely welcoming, country. Something tells him it will happen again.

  “All right. On my count of three. One … two … three!”

  The car full of muck is crazily heavy, as Jake had known it would be, and at first Jake is just able to turn its momentum by bracing his legs and thrusting back against the top of the car with both hands. But, after a momentary period when they rock the swaying, heavily laden car in rough equilibrium, things begin to go horribly wrong. Jake realizes, too late, that he has failed to reckon with this new, younger partner’s strength and enthusiasm—fuelled, no doubt by his eagerness to get his assigned task completed successfully—or the way they would both be compounded by the leverage the kid could muster with his makeshift pry bar. Jake averts disaster at first by straining to the utmost to check the momentum of the car as it sways towards him. But Jake’s own kinetic energy is soon turned against him as the kid braces the scaling bar to shorten the arc of the swing on his side. This is a manoeuvre they both understand—or think they do—one they’ve both employed dozens of times before: rocking a vehicle back and forth in ever greater oscillations to free it from a snowbank. The technique requires increasing momentum, plus the vehicle’s own motive power, in steady rhythm, to work. But here the only momentum is created by the exertions of the two men. Jake is bracing for the strain once again when it happens: the momentum of the swaying car combined with the pull of gravity is more than Jake can handle. Everything that happens then happens in slow motion—Jake sees the heavy car rocking toward him, strains to slow its approach, is overmastered by its sheer weight and momentum, and watches in horror as it begins to tip toward him, spilling the jagged heavy muck over him, slowly at first, and then with shuddering, bone-crushing speed.

  “Shit!” Jake is pinned feet first by the rough flow of ore. Still straining fruitlessly against the weight of the overturning car, Jake is twisted to his left by the car’s contents, which bury him, first to his knees, then up to his waist, before knocking him down entirely and out of sight to his erstwhile partner.

  “Hey!”

  “Hey buddy!” The kid, alarmed by Jake’s sudden disappearance, comes running around the tail end of the stalled train. He arrives breathless, standing over Jake, clearly appalled at what he sees. “Oh man! Are you all right?”

  Jake is lying on one side, buried up to his neck in muck. He can only see the kid with one eye, and even that is blurry because he can’t turn his neck to see, and the kid is just at the outer edge of his limited peripheral vision. Anger wells up in Jake, but he suppresses the urge to snap at the kid. Do I look like I’m all right? What the fuck? Go get some help to get me outta here!

  The kid swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. At least there is no blood. None that he can see, anyway. He fights back the panic that is sweeping over him like a wave. “Okay! Listen, I’m gonna run for help, get some more guys to help dig you outta there! Okay? I’ll be right back!”

  And with that the kid is gone, pelting down the drift toward the shaft, running awkwardly in his big steel toes, his hard hat bouncing crazily on his head.

  Jake’s vision is limited to the feeble cone of light from his cap lamp so he hears, rather than sees, the kid disappearing down the drift. After that he is alone, lying on his side, very nearly buried alive in high grade Frood Mine muck. That Frood Mine high grade Jake knew so well. Its faintly greenish cast. Muck so rich, so coveted, that it yearned to transmute itself into precious and base metal, wanting only air, provided by the miners themselves as they drilled and blasted their way into the ore body, and a little fuel in the form of old, square set timbers, to spontaneously combust and begin the reduction process, as it had in the fire that smouldered even now somewhere in the mine deep below Jake’s prostrate, twisted form.

  He knows he should turn off his cap lamp, to preserve the precious, dwindling supply of electricity remaining in the battery strapped to his hip, but he cannot reach the small, finely gnarled knob atta-ched to the cap lamp mounted on his hard hat. His left arm i
s pinned beneath him, and his right arm is buried just deeply enough that he can’t move it, either.

  Gradually Jake becomes aware that he has no sensation below his waist. I can’t feel my legs! Christ! What’s going on down there? The turn of events has been so sudden that only now is the seriousness of his situation sinking in to Jake. What if my legs are broken or—God forbid—even crushed? How will I ever be able to mine again? Or walk, or make love to Jo Ann?” And, for the first time, Jake feels a surge of panic beginning to well up in his throat. Breathe! he tells himself … Just breathe! He forces himself to concentrate on just that, on drawing one good inhalation through his nose, into his lungs, but this, too, is impossible with the ore spilled so tightly around him, packed close to his chest and back. There is simply no room for his chest to expand. This realization triggers an even stronger wave of panic until some even more primal instinct for self-preservation takes over and Jake tries, instead, breathing shallow, modest volumes of air through his mouth. That works. His gratitude is so profound that, with his mouth barely a centimetre off the floor of the drift, the taste of sulphur, rock dust and mine damp is almost a welcome thing.

  Next he becomes aware of the quiet. Not absolute silence, certainly—back towards the go-go area he hears, far off in the distance, the revving and roaring of the scoop trams and the rumble of muck dropping through the ore passes. He is also aware, in the silence, of the ringing in his ears that has now become such an ever-present thing that he barely hears it. But now, helpless beneath the muck, he concentrates on the ringing. It has, he decides, become louder since his first shift underground. Hard to believe that was just over a year ago! The year has gone past in a flash, so much has happened. But now time has slowed to a crawl. Christ! Where is my own Mine Rescue crew? How long have I been here? Not sure how much longer I can stand this! Huh! Not like I have much choice … And then, from the direction of the loading station he hears it, a low-geared motor whining at high revs to make maximum speed—the man car, almost certainly. Soon enough he sees its headlights throwing shadows on the walls of the drift, and then here it is, with guys hanging off it every which way.

  “There he is!”

  The motor slows to a stop, is switched off, and Jake is surrounded by his co-workers. They quickly size up the situation, as if determining a plan of attack.

  “Jesus, McCool! The whole idea is we put the muck into the cars, not the other way around! Didn’t Jesperson teach ya nothing?”

  Jake recognizes the voice of Jeff “Sniper” Robertson.

  “Ha, ha. Very funny, Sniper. Now will you please get this shit the fuck offa me?”

  Before Robertson has time to crack off again Jake hears the sound of the chunks being lifted and thrown back into the ore car, sometimes shattering on the side of the car. The rescue party sets to its task with a will. The sound of muck being moved, and heavy breathing. Some of the larger chunks, Jake knows, are very, very heavy. It will take two guys just to budge them, much less lift them.

  “Hey! I see a leg! I got a leg here! Okay, now, be very careful guys.”

  The last of the muck is being gingerly lifted off Jake’s right leg. His resurrection has begun. It continues for several more minutes as chunks of varying sizes are carefully removed from his right hip, his arm, and at last one hand is free. Jake slowly wiggles his fingers at first. His right hand is badly bruised, but it works. Next he makes a few tentative motions with his arm. So far, so good. The muck is plucked, piece by piece, from around his torso. At last Jake can breathe. The air in his lungs has never felt so sweet. “Phew. Okay, fellas, I think I’m gonna be all right, if I could just sit up …”

  Half a dozen strong arms are extended to Jake’s upraised arm in an effort to pull him upright, but it’s too soon. His left arm and half-buried torso resist all their efforts.

  “Nope, no good fellas.” Jake feels the arms straining against his relent. “We’re gonna have to dig him all the way out.” And they do, chunk by chunk, piece by piece, until Jake’s resurrection is complete, and he is pulled, wobbly, to his feet. But he collapses. Is pulled back on to his feet again. Collapses again.

  “Whoa! This just ain’t workin’! Okay, fellas, let’s just walk him on over to the man car there …” And they do, Jake’s arms wrapped around the necks of two of his rescuers, his feet dragging across the deck, until he is hefted safely onto the man car, which delivers him to the cage, which has been has summoned to the level to make an emergency evacuation.

  And so ends Jake’s last shift.

  Everyone from the level is so densely packed against Jake in the cage that he barely needs his legs to remain upright. He is, for once, almost grateful for the fusty, sweaty crush of bodies which has become such a familiar part of his underground working day.

  On surface the light of day, even filtered through the lofty gloom of the headframe, is more glaring than ever, and it feels like everyone is staring at Jake as he staggers past on his way into the dry. Once there, he is greeted by a strange sight, almost an apparition. In the middle of the large room, which is wreathed in a cloud of hot shower steam, a solitary figure sits on the floor atop the central drain. The grey water pouring off a hundred filthy miners’ naked bodies swirls around him as he nonchalantly soaps his own grimy body. Jake frowns, and shakes his head in disbelief. He motions at the sitting figure as if to say “What the fuck?”

  “Charley Burrell,” whispers a workmate.

  Jake nods, looking down again at the man on the floor, half hidden by shower mist. He knows old Charley’s story well. A hotshot bonus miner from the 1930s, Charley had once been a man of prodigious strength and skill. He’d earned a king’s ransom in bonus, it was said, investing it balls-in in local real estate. On the verge of becoming a millionaire, Charley was wiped out in the Great Depression. His health had been ruined in forty years underground, but severe arthritis and white-hand syndrome had not felled the stubborn Burrell. Convinced a return to his golden bonus earning days lay just before him, Charley stubbornly resisted the company’s repeated efforts to move him into a light duty job on surface. Still, despite everything, Charley is still capable of a day’s work underground, but only just—the day’s efforts leave him too exhausted to shower standing up, a deficiency his co-workers choose to ignore out of love and respect for this once-powerful, still legendary and prideful, old man. But why, Jake wonders, has he not witnessed this bizarre scene before? It is a sight he will never forget.

  And at last Jake emerges into the languid swelter of a Sudbury summer’s eve. He is staggered by the smell, so mysterious and so sweet, and by the sound of a million crickets tuning up for the summer night ahead.

  Jake stops and takes a deep breath of the rich, earthy aroma. It has never smelled so sweet. He summons every last ounce of strength and, limping only slightly, Jake McCool heads for the parking lot.

  He will never work another shift underground ever again.

  Acknowledgements

  I am indebted to a number of true-life characters who helped this fictional account of imaginary characters come to life on the printed page.

  First and foremost are my technical advisors Peter Miner, Tommy Raftery and the other members of the Mine Mill/UNIFOR Local 598 Retirees, who provided invaluable input about working underground and the history of the Mine Mill-Steel Raids. Two now deceased former leaders of Local 598, the late Mike Solski and Jim Tester, were especially formative in my thinking about the period. I miss them both terribly.

  I am also hugely indebted to Oryst Sawchuk, who very generously donated his artwork to the project. His painting “Hardrock” graces the cover. A framed print of the original hangs above me now as it did throughout the writing of this book, providing a kind of visual, creative inspiration that reflects the unique nature of our hometown. Artist, architect, activist, designer, entrepreneur and last of the old time ladies’ men, Oryst, like his art, is a unique Sudbury creation.

  Friends Phil Taylor in Toronto and Paul de la Riva in Sudbury also pl
ayed special roles in guiding The Raids into print, as did Robin Philpot of Baraka Books of Montreal. In the latter I seem to have found, quite unexpectedly, a soul mate.

  As always I was guided in the creation of The Raids by my long-time, steadfast and brilliant agent, Janine Cheeseman of Aurora Artists in Toronto. Her patience with and attention to an aging Sudbury scribbler whose business will, I fear, never prove especially lucrative is a special gift I will always appreciate.

  Also instrumental in the early gestation of this book was my old friend and colleague Jack Todd of Montreal, who provided sound advice and kind encouragement when The Raids was still inchoate.

  Another invaluable resource was Marthe Brown, Head Archivist of the J.N. Desmarais Library at Sudbury’s Laurentian University. Always just a phone call away, Marthe is, like me, a transplanted Sudburian drawn to the irresistible lure of the city’s singular labour history. She has since become a foremost expert on the subject.

  Finally but by no means last, there is the closest of all the concentric circles that aided in the creation of this book, my family, foremost among them being my beautiful wife Anita Yawney Lowe, to whom the work is dedicated. A proud Sudbury girl born and bred, she puts the “class” back in working class. Her sharp eye spotted several anachronisms that, had they found their way into print, would have proved highly embarrassing. And then there is my own marketing mini-team, my daughters Julia and Melanie Lowe along with family friend Ian MacDonald. The kids are all right.

  Like all creators of historical fiction, I have striven to stay astride the razor’s edge, maintaining the delicate, and sometimes lacerating, balance between pure fiction and historical narrative. My goal throughout has been to maintain historical and technical accuracy while avoiding anachronism. The test has been verisimilitude, while avoiding slavish repetition of the pure historical narrative. To the degree that I have succeeded I am indebted to the aforementioned cast of helpful characters. Any shortcomings and failings are all my own.