Fires in the Wilderness (2 page)

T
he 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 dukes, 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.

As our train passed by the hobo jungles, I thought about how lucky we were. We were getting paying jobs that would support our families back home. Yet none of us knew what tomorrow was going to hold—or the days after that.

W
e arrived at Camp Custer in Battle Creek in the early afternoon. An army sergeant had us line up and called out names. When we heard “Sokolowski,” Squint and I said “Here!” at the same time. He placed two checkmarks on his chart. We were then taken to a building that had medical gear, doctors, and nurses for physical examinations before we could join the CCC. The army people called the building the “infirmary.”

Camp Custer was jammed to the gills with guys who were enrolling in the CCC. We stood in long lines waiting to have our teeth inspected, eyes examined, and bodies poked and prodded. Pick, Stosh, Yasku, Squint, and I stayed together, avoiding Big Mike O'Shea and his buddies. We talked nervously as we stood in the slow-moving line waiting our turn.

“What are you going to do with the money?” Squint asked, breaking the silence.

At the mention of the word money, Yasku spun around to face Squint. “What money? I didn't get no money.”

“You dope,” Squint said as he punched Yasku playfully on the arm, “we're gonna get paid for working in the CCC. I'm talking about the $30 we get every month. What are you gonna do with the money?”

“We don't get to keep that much,” Pick laughed. “The CCC sends $25 back home each month. We get to keep $5.”

“Still, that's a lot of money,” I said.

“At first I was thinking that I'd buy a horse, but I changed my mind. I'm gonna save up to buy an automobile,” Squint said with a chuckle. Our conversation was interrupted as the line moved forward a few steps.

“You need a lot of money to buy one of them,” Stosh chimed in after a time. “And who are you going to get to drive it, Squint? You don't see good enough to drive. You'd kill somebody.”

“You wait,” Squint responded. A wide grin crossed his face. “I'm gonna save up a couple thousand bucks and buy a brand new LaSalle Coupe—a convertible. They make 'em in yellow. That automobile looks like sunshine rolling down the street.” Squint sighed and looked around to make sure that he had everyone's attention. “When I get my LaSalle, I'll hire Jarek to do the driving.”

The guys laughed and slapped Squint on the shoulder. “That was a good one, Squint,” Pick said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “Maybe I'll buy a LaSalle and get Yasku to drive it for me.”

As we got closer and closer to the infirmary, we were split up and sent to different areas for examination. A dentist looked at my teeth first. You had to have four good teeth top and bottom to be in the CCC. You couldn't be too tall or too short. You couldn't be too skinny or weigh too much. Doctors checked us all from top to bottom—our ears, eyes, and noses.

The physical was a breeze except for the shots. I'd never been to the doctor or had a shot in my life. The needles were big and long. One of the guys ahead of me howled. Another fella fainted and they left him laying there right on the floor. We had to step over him as we approached the doctor with the needle. The doctor didn't seem to care; he just shoved and pushed the plunger, one in each arm. They felt like the hardest punches I'd ever taken.

I rubbed my arms as I left the infirmary. Outside I found Squint sitting on the steps; the few things he had brought with him that day were neatly stacked at his side. His face was streaked with tear tracks.

“Squint,” I asked, “what's wrong?”

“I washed out, Jarek. They're sending me home.”

I was puzzled. “What do you mean, washed out?”

Squint turned away so I couldn't see his tears. “I didn't make it. The doctor told me that my eyes are too bad for me to be in the CCC. The train back home leaves in an hour.” Squint stood up and faced me as he wiped his eyes with his sleeves. I didn't know what to say. He put his arms around me and talked to me in Polish. “Now it is you who must be a man, Jarek.” He sniffled quietly before continuing. “I won't be around to protect you from Mike O'Shea and others like him. Don't risk your job by fighting. Your work with the CCC is very important to our family. Promise me that you will work hard and stay out of trouble?”

The news was like a punch in the gut. I blinked away tears. There was only one word I could say—“Promise!”

A
fter we all completed our physicals and shots, we were told that we would have twenty-four hours of rest before starting our training. I wandered around aimlessly, lost in my thoughts and already missing Squint.

That afternoon, an army officer ordered us to assemble on the parade grounds, a large open area. An American flag stood tall at one end. The parade grounds were just outside of our barracks. Like everything else at Camp Custer, it was clean as a whistle. Rocks around the grounds were painted white. The lawn was cut low and well trimmed. There wasn't a loose paper or piece of trash to be seen.

We formed into neat rows and columns to take the Oath of Enrollment. My mind wandered as the words were repeated in broken chorus. “I agree to remain in the Civilian Conservation Corps for the period of . . . I will obey those in authority and observe all the rules and regulations thereof . . . any articles issued to me by the United States Government for use while a member of the Civilian Conservation Corps . . . I further understand that any infraction of the rules or regulations of the Civilian Conservation Corps renders me liable to expulsion therefrom. So help me God.”

At Supply Headquarters, we were issued a steel cot, a cotton mattress, a pillow, two pillow cases, four sheets, mattress cover, three blankets, and a cotton comforter. They also gave each of us a mess kit. The kit contained a pot with a lid, a pan with a handle, and a cup, all contained in a nice, neat package kept in a canvas bag.

Stosh wondered aloud about the mess kit he was issued. “It don't make no sense. Everything round here is so clean, why would they want us to make a mess?”

None of us was about to argue about getting free things. So, we just took our mess kits and moved on down the line picking up more gear.

The stuff kept piling up. We were issued a canteen, four undershirts and drawers, a heavy jacket, two suits of overalls, two flannel shirts, two pairs of wool trousers, two pairs of shoes, a working hat, and a dress cap. It was like Christmas, but the gifts kept coming. We got a raincoat, overcoat, belt, necktie, six pairs of socks, working gloves, a toilet kit, towels, and a duffel bag to hold all our new gear.

The denim work clothes, shoes, and uniforms they gave us were left over from the war and were available in two sizes . . . too big and too small. Pick's arms and legs stuck out of his clothes. Yasku looked like an empty sack tied in the middle. When we complained, the army supply officer just growled and told us to trade. Stosh was just happy to get new shoes, no matter what size.

Before hauling armloads of supplies to our barracks, Stosh threw his old, holey shoes in the trash. “No more hand-me-down shoes for Stoshu Campeau,” he said. “I won't get no rocks between my toes no more.”

Our bunks for the night were inside old green army barracks. The barracks were a collection of long rectangular buildings lined up side-by-side. Though the buildings themselves were old, they were neat and clean. Not a speck of dust was anywhere to be found, and they smelled freshly washed. Each building housed about sixty guys. Beds were placed against the sidewalls and a potbellied stove squatted in the center of each building. The olive drab woolen blankets were scratchy, but the steel cots were comfortable.