The Reluctant Midwife (29 page)

“Listen, lady,” the thin dark man holding the jackass growls. “It will be cold again this winter, and you'll be sorry if you pass this up. If you don't want it, someone else will. Mrs. Hester, the midwife, sent us up here. She took four bags yesterday and Mr. Maddock took three today.”

I'm suspicious . . . “Is this what they call ‘bootleg coal,' from those diggers over in Pennsylvania? I read how out-of-work miners
are digging pits on the hillsides and how the cops arrested some two hundred men, but the jury wouldn't convict them.”

“Damn right! Pardon my French, ma'am. Some call it bootlegging, but Sheriff Hardman calls it sensible. We have wives and kids to feed. Do you want some or not?”

My mind spins like a top. The price is good, but technically the fuel
is
stolen. On the other hand, Mr. MacIntosh, the coal baron, died by his own hand at the beginning of the Depression and his widow, Katherine, and her little boy moved back to Baltimore, so they've given up on Appalachia. Now the coal is just sitting there and the miners are only scratching a living from the earth, same as Dr. Blum and I.

I make a snap decision. It's not cold now, but it will be this winter. “I'll take the rest of what you've got, all four bags and I'll take more if you're ever up this way.”

“Well, thank you, ma'am. Where should we put it?”

I show the men where we keep the firewood under the porch and run upstairs for a dollar. Returning, I grab two biscuits from the kitchen and wrap them in a piece of newspaper.

“Here,” I say, after turning over the money. “For your journey home, in case you get hungry.” The men look surprised.

“God bless you, lady,” the dark fellow says. “You and your man.” He looks over at the garden where Isaac is hoeing potatoes.

Here I almost choke.
My man!
If they only knew how close I am to getting rid of him!

I wake just as the sun is peeking over the mountains, thinking about President Roosevelt's fireside chat last night. The Hesters had us over to dinner and just like old times we sat around the radio listening, along with all the other worried Americans. In his quiet, reassuring way, Roosevelt talked about the Public Works Project, about getting people off the dole, about a new program called Social Security. Most important, he gives us hope that these dark days will not last forever.

Outside my window, leaves in the old oak rattle so hard I get out of bed thinking it's rain, but it's just a strong, hot wind, coming up from the valley. Too bad; it's been two weeks without a drop.

Blum has already made breakfast, leaving a bowl of porridge on the table for me and is out in the garden wearing a pair of cut-off blue jeans, transporting water from the spring to our delicate seedlings. It's important because by seven
A.M.
, it's already eighty and the ground is bone dry. Three-quarters of the states are now experiencing drought, and West Virginia is one of them. Not enough snow this winter, they say. Not enough rain this spring.

I watch from the kitchen as the doctor carries two buckets at a time, then bends with a tin can and carefully gives each plant
a drink. He's working without a shirt and his body is lean and brown, but that only makes me hate him more.

An hour later, as I approach Camp White Rock, already twenty minutes late for work, I'm surprised to see more men without shirts, about a dozen of the CCC boys, just outside the gate, marching into the wind along Crockers Creek, armed with axes and folding shovels on their belts. The Forest Army, I think, like in the yellow-and-green CCC poster in the infirmary. “Hi, Nursie!” the young men shout.

I pull over and roll down my window. “What's going on?” I ask Lou Cross, my patient with the plantar wart, who is leading the troops.

“Working in the woods, miss.” He tips a green cowboy hat that is definitely not part of the regulation CCC uniform. “Going to dig a trench up the ravine and cut brush for a firebreak. It's a big project. We have two natural barriers from a wildfire, the cliffs and the stream, but we're vulnerable as hell on either side, pardon my French.”

“I don't think there's been a fire around here for ten years.”

“Makes it worse, especially this year when there's not enough rain. Too much dead timber and dry brush.”

“What's the gun for? In case you have a mutiny in this heat?” I ask with a smile. He has a pistol in a holster strapped to his hip.

“Copperheads or rattlers,” he says, pulling down his hat to keep it from blowing off. “Keep up, Morris! Roland, quit looking at the birds, we have a lot of work to do. Watch the ax, Snake! That thing could hurt someone.”

You can see why the fellows admire Lou; he's a natural leader, comfortable with himself and comfortable with the young men. It's apparently just Captain Wolfe who finds him irritating.

When I finally get to headquarters, Mrs. Ross is all in a dither. “He's gone,” she says. “He just packed up and left. No good-bye or anything, just a note with his forwarding address.” She frantically paces back and forth.

“Who?”

“Milliken,” Boodean answers. “His wife came all the way from New England yesterday. Drove by herself. We think she gave the major an ultimatum: ‘Come home now or don't come home ever.' He took off with her in the night.”

“Oh, what will we do now!” Mrs. Ross twists around, flapping her arms like a chicken in a burning henhouse.

“I'm sure Captain Wolfe will step forward until they send someone. Maybe they'll make him the superintendent.” I try to comfort her. “That would be nice.”

“Not likely.” Wolfe steps out of Milliken's office. “I was trying to get someone in the main office at District Five to tell them Milliken is AWOL, but our antenna for the shortwave radio blew down this morning. Not the first time.”

“Did Major Milliken say anything to you? Is this a desertion or can he just resign?” I ask.

“No, I didn't have a clue, except anyone could see he wasn't happy. They'll probably find him at home in Newton, Massachusetts.”

“So who will be in charge?” That's Mrs. Ross again. She's the kind of woman who can't manage without a boss. “I could drive into town and telephone District Five. Kind of hate to in this wind.”

“I guess I'm in charge for now. I think we can manage for a day or two,” says the captain with a laugh. “Eventually we'll get someone on the shortwave and they can figure it out. Meanwhile, I'll have Mac in the welding shop come over to try to fix the antenna. Where's Drake?”

“The fellow from the motor pool already took him up to the fire tower and the cook sent his lunch,” Boodean puts in. “This is his third day on White Rock Mountain and he doesn't mind it at all. He's almost his old self again.”

“Good,” I respond, wishing I knew more about silicosis and vowing to read up on it if I can find the topic in one of Blum's old books.

“Nurse!” I hear a man call out as he stomps up on the porch. “Need help here.”

I can tell by the voice it's the cowboy, Lou Cross.

“Shit!” a corpsman swears, hobbling into the infirmary with Lou Cross supporting him. The young man has his CCC shirt wrapped around his left lower leg and there's blood leaking through and dripping onto the wooden floorboards. Boodean grabs the door as it crashes back in the wind.

“Watch your language, Snake! A lady is present. . . . Sorry, Miss
Myers. This is Snake Nelson,” Lou Cross introduces him. “ 'Fraid he's had a little accident. Cut himself with his own damned ax. Deep one too. Hope you can fix him. I'd hate to try to get to Boone Memorial in Torrington today. That hot wind must be forty or fifty miles an hour, could blow a truck right off the road. Can I leave him with you? I need to get back to the unit. Our goal is to get a trench up to the cliffs by dark.”

Boodean already has Snake lying down and is gently unwrapping the injured leg.

“Sure,” I say, turning to wash my hands in a bowl. Through the window, I watch as Lou mounts his horse and gallops back to the road.

“Okay, Private Nelson.” I pull a chair over to the bedside and look at the wound, then turn to the medic. “It's bad, a deep cut on the shin, right down to the bone, but at least there's not much contamination. We'll need catgut suture, five percent carbolic acid, and gauze dressing.”

“Looks like you got yourself a week of enforced rest, Snake.” This time I call the man by his nickname, still having no idea what it means.

“And, yes, bring out some laudanum too, Boodean. He'll need it.”

“You smell that, Boodean?” We've finished our morning clinic, a short one with only Snake's deep cut, and are battling our way against the wind to the mess hall.

“Yeah, corn bread.”

“No.” I tilt my head back and flare my nostrils. “Smoke.”

“Hope the cook didn't
burn
the corn bread,” Boodean worries. “I'm hungry as a
wolf
.”

“You talking about me, Private Boodean?” The captain laughs, holding his hat down, catching up with us.

“No, sir,” Boodean explains. “I was describing my appetite.
Hungry as a wolf!
Any word from District Five?”

“Not yet. I have two welders on the roof, but the wind is so strong, every time they think they've got the aerial fixed something else comes loose. Last I heard they made a brief connection with Camp Laurel, but reception was so poor they couldn't communicate. I guess we can get along without a superintendent for another twenty-four hours.”

“Do you smell smoke?” I question the captain.

He takes a long sniff and looks around. “Not really. Must be something from the kitchen.” I take another sniff to make sure, but the faint hint is gone.

Boodean is right, Starvation MacFarland did make corn bread for dinner, along with beef stew; plain fair, but tasty. Starvation has also made donuts dipped in sugar for dessert. I don't know if all the CCC camps feed their men so well, but the fellows at White Rock have nothing to complain about.

As we return to the clinic, I raise my head again. There it is, the smell of woodsmoke! “Come on, Boodean. Don't you smell it, the smoke?”

He looks around and takes a few breaths. “Could be the men are burning trash. . . . Probably shouldn't, not with this wind. And there's a patient on the porch, smoking a fag.”

Frustrated, I ask the camp secretary to come out. Maybe women have better noses. “Do
you
smell smoke, Mrs. Ross? Like woodsmoke?”

She looks at me out of the corner of her eye, as if this is some kind of a test and she wants to give the right answer. “Maybe a little . . .”

“See,” I tell Boodean as we enter the infirmary. “Mrs. Ross smells it too. Can you find the captain and ask him to have some of the boys investigate? After that, check with Drake at the tower, see if he's seen anything?”

“Not likely to reach him,” the older lady reminds me. “The shortwave radio still isn't working. The two fellows trying to fix the antenna were going into Liberty for a part. If they don't find one there, they'll try Delmont.”

I let out a sigh. So there's no way to communicate with the outside world and no way for Drake to communicate with us either, but that's really not my worry.

“Okay, Boodean, bring in the next patient.”

By three o'clock, there's no doubt about it. There's a fire somewhere, and though the sky is still clear, even Boodean can now smell the smoke. The captain is tense and has called in the four camp officers. I stand listening at the open door as Wolfe takes a seat behind the superintendent's desk.

“Listen, guys. I know this isn't regulation, but without Milliken someone needs to take charge. Until we're able to contact District Five, I hope you won't mind if I step up.”

Loonie Tinkshell makes a joke. “It's your funeral!”

“Right,” says the captain. “So here's what I need you to do. People have smelled a whiff of smoke for a couple of hours. It's getting stronger and if I'm not mistaken, there's a haze coming over the mountain. We need to take about twenty boys off their usual assignments and get them out looking for the source. They need
to go all the way up to the cliffs and maybe a little way over the mountain. The fire may be on the other side.

“The cook can keep his crew, we have to eat”—here there are a few chuckles—“and Lou Cross still has his guys out building a fire trench, but that's a big project and will take the whole day. Maybe some of the men from the sawmill could look for him. We need to be on the alert. Otherwise, it's business as usual. Surveying class tonight, Ed?”

“You betcha.”

As the camp officers leave, the captain steps out on the porch, runs his hands through his hair, and stares at the sky. I go out and stand beside him, trying to keep my nurse's uniform from blowing up over my knees. “The smell's getting stronger and the wind too,” I observe. “And look up by the cliffs, there's an orange haze.”

The captain goes back into headquarters and returns with his binoculars. “Son of a bitch, Milliken! He would pick today to abandon ship,” he grumbles, adjusting the focus of the lens. “There's smoke all right and it's thick at the base of the cliffs. Probably came from the west side of the ridge. The whole damn county might be burning, and with our shortwave radio out, we're the only ones that don't know it.

“Boodean!” he shouts. “Get on the bullhorn and alert the fire suppression teams. I want two trucks of men dressed in protective gear, with their tools in their hands, water packs full and on their backs in front of headquarters in twenty minutes.
This is not a drill
.

“After that, you better work on the radio. I don't care if you have to send a monkey up the pole, see if you can get Drake Trustler and the ranger station in Delmont.”

He turns to go back to the superintendent's office but stops for a minute to squeeze my hand. That's all. One small squeeze but it means a lot.
I'm glad you are here,
the touch says.
I appreciate you. We are friends
.

Twenty minutes later, two trucks loaded with firefighters dressed in long-sleeved green shirts, heavy army pants, and gray metal helmets pull up in front of headquarters singing over the roar of the wind, a popular Cab Calloway song. “
Hi de hi de hi de
hi—
Ho de ho de ho de
ho.” They act like they're going to a Sunday school picnic instead of what will probably be a brush fire.

The drivers and foreman get out to consult with Captain Wolfe. My medic is still up on the roof fiddling with the antenna and Mrs. Ross is inside repeating in her high voice, over and over into the radio mouthpiece, “This is CCC Camp White Rock, does anyone hear me? Urgent message. We believe there may be a forest fire. This is CCC Camp White Rock, does anyone hear me?”

“Boodean, take these,” the captain shouts over the roar of the trees bending back and forth in the hot wind like wild women dancing. Leaves and small branches fly through the air and it reminds me of the time last spring when we had the tornado, but there's not a cloud in the sky.

My medic leans over the roof as the captain stands on the porch rail and hands up the binoculars, a recipe for a fall, if you ask me, but I keep my worries to myself. “Can you see the fire from up there?”

We all wait while the medic crawls to the peak of the building, stands up, and scans the mountainside. “To the left,” he says. “I can see flames in the ravine to the left. A ground fire . . . Holy shit!” We all turn where he points and watch as the top of a pine in the distance bursts into flames.

“Go. Go!” Wolfe shouts while the drivers and foreman run to their trucks and head out of camp. The corpsmen have seen the burst of flame too, but it only increases their enthusiasm.

“Hot potato! Let's hit it,” one fellow yells. Another starts up an old army song.
“Over hill, over dale. We will hit the dusty trail! And those caissons go rolling along.”

Myself, I'm not thrilled or enthusiastic. I'm scared. Lou Cross said we were sitting ducks with all the dead timber around us and I'm afraid he's right. Unfortunately, he and his crew started up the ravine on the right side of camp and the fire is coming down the left.

“Mrs. Ross, keep trying to connect with the outside world,” Captain Wolfe commands. He grabs a bullhorn and begins to walk around the compound. “All personnel to the flagpole, immediately!”

I follow after him, not sure if I'm
personnel
, but wanting to know what the next step will be.

“Men, we have a critical situation. There's a fire about three miles away in the ravine between White Rock and Medicine Ridge. We have to send everyone. We'll start digging trenches about a mile from the camp. The fire suppression teams are already out there. I'll pull Lou Cross and his crew over to the left, if he hasn't already gotten there.

“I need someone to go with me to get Drake Trustler down from the fire tower. It may be a hot ride. Who volunteers?”

Loonie Tinkshell raises his fist. “I'll go.”

“Okay, then. Every man follow your team leader. Get shovels, axes, rakes, anything you can find, buckets of water and burlap sacks. We'll beat the flames back if we have to,” he shouts against the wind. “And be careful as hell.”

Now, except for the roar of the wind and Mrs. Ross's calls for help on the shortwave radio, it is quiet. Boodean has been forced to come down from the roof or the wind was going to blow him down. Snake Nelson, the boy with the leg wound, still sleeps on a cot, under the influence of the laudanum.

I lay out gauze to cover wounds or burns, and Boodean runs
to the laundry for clean towels and washcloths and then to the kitchen for salt and ice to make saltwater packs to cool the men's skin, but other than that we are as ready as we can be.

“What do we do now?” Boodean asks me. “Sit and wait?”

“No, we should set up an ambulance system, some way to transport corpsmen if they get injured.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I want you to scour the camp for an available vehicle, maybe a pickup truck with a metal hood. Metal, not canvas; it could catch on fire. We'll make a couple of pallets in the back and load the stretcher, then you take ambulance down the road, closer to the flames where the men are working.

“If anyone gets hurt, do first aid at the site, bind wounds, put on splints, whatever you can to stabilize the patient before you move him, but stay away from the fire. Don't get hurt yourself.”

The secretary stands up and starts yelling into the mouthpiece again, “This is CCC Camp White Rock. Can you hear me? Can anyone hear me?”