“She’s got all the makings of a Class E fire all right.”
“What’s a Class E fire?” Sandy asked.
“Forest fires are rated in five classes, A,B,C,D, and E, according to
the size of the burned-out area,” Landers explained. “Class E is three
hundred acres and up. This one could be a first-rate Class E if it gets
away from us. So we can’t afford to take chances.”
He studied the map thoughtfully. “The way I see it we’ve got to give her
plenty of room. If we can hold her down to two hundred acres, I’ll be
plenty satisfied.” He ran his finger along a ridge that ran off
diagonally to the road in a northeast direction on the right flank of
the fire. Then he penciled an _X_ at the foot of the ridge directly in
line with the head of the fire.
“Our best chance is to start backfiring here, about a half mile due
east. That ridge is a natural firebreak because it’s mostly rock with
only scrubby vegetation. It won’t take more than a skeleton crew to work
that side.”
He addressed two of the gang bosses: “Harry and Ed, you boys take ten
men and a bulldozer and start setting things up on that ridge. A
three-thousand-foot line should do it.”
Now from the foot of the ridge, he drew a line extending in a southeast
direction, so that between them they formed an angled pocket into which
the fire was advancing. “We’ll backfire for another three thousand feet
on this line. The rest of you gang bosses will round up your men and get
to work on that immediately.”
He singled out Dick Fellows. “Dick, you and your three young friends can
help out on the south line, if you will, as fire scouts. General Steele,
I’d appreciate it if you would help me get things organized here.”
The boys followed Ranger Fellows out of the tent as the gang bosses
crowded around the table for a question-and-answer session with the fire
boss and to get a final briefing. Sandy was surprised to see that dusk
was settling over the forest. He looked at his wrist watch and saw that
almost five hours had passed since he had spotted the first thin swirl
of smoke from the fire tower. To the west an enormous golden cloud hung
over the trees like a halo.
“Doesn’t that look beautiful?” Jerry said.
“Deadly beauty,” the ranger told him, explaining that it was the last
rays of sunlight slanting up from below the horizon on the screen of
smoke drifting up from the forest fire.
He led them over to the mess tent, where cooks were doling out
steaming-hot suppers to the fire fighters from big insulated containers.
“Eat hearty, men,” he said wryly as they took their places on line. “We
have a long night ahead of us.”
“How can anyone work in these woods at night?” Sandy said. “It gets so
dark you can’t see your hand in front of your face.”
“It’s not easy,” the ranger admitted. “Normally, Landers would wait
until daylight to tackle most fires. The rate of spread drops sharply
through the night, then picks up again when the sun rises. Dawn and
early morning are generally the best hours to work. But conditions being
what they are—this drought and all—the chief wants us to keep on top of
it every minute. It won’t be any picnic, though, building that south
fire line at night, even if they mount auxiliary spotlights on the
trucks and tractors.”
“What gives with this fire scout business?” Jerry wanted to know. “What
do we do?”
“Run messages up and down the line so that headquarters can keep in
touch with the progress on all sectors at all times,” Dick explained.
“I’ll be stationed at the junction of the north and south lines with a
walkie-talkie radio. You fellows will relay reports from the gang bosses
in to me, and I’ll call them in to the chief.” He grinned. “You’re going
to be mighty leg-weary before this is over.”
At the head of the serving table, a grizzled old man wearing a greasy
undershirt handed them each a tin plate and a knife and spoon. In quick
succession, Sandy received a ladle of hash, a ladle of cole slaw and a
slab of bread—at least two inches thick—slapped on top of it all. The
last man on the serving line dipped a tin mug expertly into a galvanized
can filled with iced tea and sent him on his way. Sandy had intended to
ask for something to eat for Prince, but then he saw that the big
Doberman was squatting patiently before the entrance of the headquarters
tent, waiting for Russ Steele.
When they had finished eating, they scraped their platters clean and
dropped them in a tub of soapy, boiling water to one side of the mess
tent.
It was almost dark now, but the area was bright in the glare of
spotlights that had been rigged up to the heavy power line strung from
poles at the side of the road. Dick Fellows stopped briefly at
headquarters to pick up his walkie-talkie radio, and then they hitched a
ride on a jeep truck. They were part of a long caravan of vehicles
moving slowly through the woods toward the foot of the ridge where the
fire line would be anchored. The boys could scarcely believe that a road
had been cut through the timber in such a short period of time. True, it
was rutted, and bristled with stumps, and twisted considerably to avoid
the biggest trees, but it was quite an accomplishment nevertheless.
“It’s magic,” Jerry exclaimed. “How did they do it?”
“Bulldozer magic,” the ranger said, pointing to the broken and uprooted
trees littering the sides of the road. “We even have some brush-breaker
trucks that can plow through a grove of trees up to six inches in
diameter as if they were matchsticks.”
The caravan ground to a halt before they reached the foot of the ridge,
so the dozers and tractors could complete a huge clearing where the
vehicles and equipment could assemble. To Sandy, it was a scene of
immense confusion and noise. It seemed to him that the gang bosses were
trying to outshout each other; the men were getting in each other’s way;
and the trucks and tractors were rumbling about aimlessly.
“What a mess!” Jerry groaned.
The ranger grinned. “It just looks that way. This is as smooth an
operation as I’ve ever seen. Wait till they get rolling.”
And in no time at all men and machines were peeling off in orderly
fashion to the right and left; up the ridge to the northeast; and
southwest through the forest, clearing a strip through the trees the
width of two bulldozers.
Behind the dozers came the plows, rooting up the thick bed of duff on
the forest floor; then the graders, piling up soil and sand in a high
bank against the advancing flames. Working by the light of big spots
mounted on trucks, agile volunteers—mainly high riggers from the lumber
camps—climbed the trees along the edge of the growing line, lopping off
low branches that hung across into the danger area.
“Just to make sure our backfires don’t backfire on us,” Dick Fellows
said wryly.
The young ranger set up his command post in the headlights of a jeep; it
consisted of a folding table, canvas chair and the walkie-talkie. Quiz
was intrigued by the little battery-operated receiver-transmitter. Dick
pulled the rod antennae out of the top of the little oblong case until
they were fully extended, and flipped the switch. There was a crackle of
static and a variety of other interference before he succeeded in
getting through to Fire Boss Landers at headquarters. Reception was poor
and he kept his head bent close to the instrument. The boys were only
able to catch snatches of the conversation. Finally he signed off and
looked up.
“The chief just received a report from air observation. She’s
progressing pretty much according to type. About three-quarters of a
mile wide at the head, and covering roughly one hundred acres. There’s
just enough wind to benefit us—keep the fire moving due east and
restricting the spread at the rear. Unless the picture alters radically
before morning, we’ve got her licked.”
“That’s great!” Sandy said.
Quiz glanced over the treetops at the faint reddish glow in the sky to
the west. “It’s not nearly so bright over that way now.”
“You’re right,” the ranger agreed. “That’s because the crown fire has
died out. It’s strictly a surface fire now. Of course if we get another
scorcher tomorrow, she’ll likely flare up again.”
Jerry was peering anxiously through the thick forest in front of them.
“You can just about see the flames now flickering over there.”
“It’s possible,” Dick admitted. “She’s only about a quarter of a mile
off now.” Ruefully, he surveyed the tall, stately pines in the grove
opposite them. “It breaks my heart to think we’re going to have to
sacrifice all that timber.”
“When do we go to work?” Sandy asked him.
“Right now. The chief wants to know how things are progressing all the
way down the line and he wants a thorough report on the contour of the
fire front. Sandy, suppose you work the ridge, and Jerry and Quiz can
take the south line. Find the gang bosses and ask them how things are
shaping up in their sectors.”
Sandy climbed a steep rocky incline at the right of the clearing to the
top of the ridge. From the crest, which was nearly forty feet higher
than any of the surrounding terrain, he had an unrestricted view along
the full length of the ridge. A full moon sitting on the very rim of the
horizon lit up the scene like a big orange bulb. It was obvious now why
Fire Boss Landers had chosen this site to construct the fire line. It
was a natural barrier running straight as an arrow to the northwest, at
least a mile long from tip to tip. Its rocky slopes, barren except for
grass and stunted shrubs, swept down about a hundred feet on each side
to the edge of the woods. The ridge was a great scar in the rich
Minnesota earth left by some passing glacier millions of years ago.
Halfway along the ridge, Sandy could see the dozers rumbling back and
forth over the crest, their headlights gleaming like the eyes of
prehistoric monsters. He started toward them at a dogtrot.
When he reached the nearest gang, a big man who seemed to be directing
the operation swung his flashlight full on Sandy’s face. “Hi, son,
what’s up?”
Sandy explained that he was scouting for Ranger Fellows.
“I’m Ed Macauley,” the gang boss introduced himself. “Everything looks
pretty good from here. We’re clearing a strip about ten feet wide just
below the crest on the far side here. We’ll start our backfires down
there in that tall grass at the edge of the woods. Then for good measure
we’ll light another one along the top of the ridge.”
Sandy was puzzled. “One thing I don’t understand. Why are you making the
fire line on the slope away from the fire?”
Macauley grinned. “Because fire burns a lot faster and picks up more
momentum going uphill than it does going downhill.” To illustrate, he
took a long wooden match out of his pocket and lit it with his
thumbnail. When he tilted the lit end down, the flame blazed up
brightly, licking greedily at the unburned stem. Then he tilted the end
up and the flame changed direction and flickered feebly at the blackened
stub and finally died out. “See, there’s less chance of the fire jumping
our line if it’s burning downhill.”
Suddenly he frowned and poked his nose into the air like a scenting
hound. “Hey, you feel that?” He wet his forefinger in his mouth and held
it up.
At that moment Sandy was aware of a cool, gentle breeze on the left side
of his face. When Macauley spoke, his voice was tight as a bowstring.
“Wind’s picking up, and it seems to be swinging around to the southwest.
That could mean the fire will veer smack into this here ridge.... Hey,
you better relay that news back to the fire boss fast. Maybe they’re
just wasting their time on that south line.”
“Won’t they realize the wind’s shifting?” Sandy asked.
“Maybe not. On account of the elevation here, we’d feel it first.”
Macauley handed the boy his flashlight. “Here, better take this so you
don’t stumble in the dark. And make it snappy.”
Jerry had already returned with a report from the south line when Sandy
stumbled into the bright lights of the clearing. Jerry was sprawled out
on the grass at the command post while the ranger phoned his information
into headquarters. Sandy interrupted Dick Fellows excitedly to announce
the unexpected wind shift. And Dick was even more excited as he told
Paul Landers about it.
Jerry shook his head skeptically as Sandy plopped down beside him on the
grass. “I don’t think that fire is going to change direction. You should
see it down near the middle of the south line. It’s so close now that
they can see to work by it.”
Sandy shrugged. “Won’t be able to tell for sure for a while. But that
wind is definitely swinging around and picking up velocity—by the way,
where’s Quiz?”
Jerry jerked his thumb back across his shoulder. “He’s back down the
line jawing away with some of the gang bosses. By the time this is over,
he’ll be an expert fire fighter.”
Sandy laughed. “Shakespeare to smoke-eating—that’s our boy. The expert’s
expert.”
Dick put the walkie-talkie down and turned to the boys. “Our aerial
observer reports a definite wind shift to the southwest. It’s still too
early to notice any effect on the head of the fire, but it’s an
important development.” He gazed skyward. “Just keep your fingers
crossed that it doesn’t really blow up. She’d probably crown again and
that could mean spot fires almost anywhere.”
“What are spot fires? You mentioned them before, but you never did
explain what they are.”
“In a stiff wind, great masses of flaming embers and foliage may be
carried through the air for miles and start other fires far ahead of the
original one. That’s where the real danger exists for fire fighters.
Lots of times in a bad crown fire, men have suddenly found themselves
completely surrounded by flames.”
Sandy shuddered. “That’s horrible.”
“Anyway, it’s nothing for us to worry about. We haven’t had a big blow
up this way in almost two months.”
“Say, Dick,” Jerry asked curiously. “Do they know for sure what started
this fire?”
“Not with absolute certainty,” the ranger told him, “but it’s a pretty
good bet that it was that lightning storm we had a few days back.
Lightning is by far the leading cause of forest fires in the United
States.”
Sandy yawned and glanced at his watch. “Gee, it’s almost midnight,” he
said.
“Why don’t you guys catch forty winks in the back of that big van over
there,” Dick suggested. “I’ll wake you up if there are any new
developments.”
At that instant, the walkie-talkie came to life. Dick conversed briefly
with headquarters, then smiled apologetically at the boys. “Sorry,
fellows, but that nap will have to wait. Landers has decided to hold up
setting the backfires on the south line until we know for sure what’s
going to happen with that wind. Jerry, you take the word on down: Stand
by with the flame throwers, but don’t start backfiring until we get
confirmation from headquarters. No sense burning down any more timber
than we have to.
“Sandy, you go down the ridge and tell Macauley and Roberts that they
can start backfiring any time they’re ready.”
“Right!” the boys said in unison, and started off in opposite
directions.
It was an eerie sight watching the men fire the grass with their flame
throwers. Rapidly they moved along the top of the ridge with the
cylindrical tanks strapped to their backs, the long metal nozzles
spewing out jets of blazing gasoline that consumed everything they
touched. Soon the entire crest was aflame. To the west, a towering
column of smoke spiraled high into the moonlit sky, the glints of the
inferno below shimmering on its underside. It reminded Sandy of the
familiar mushroom cloud of an atomic blast, and with a sick feeling he
remembered the missing bomb lying somewhere in these woods.
CHAPTER TEN
A Temporary Victory
Shortly after 3:00 A.M. Quiz Taylor aroused Sandy and Jerry, who were
asleep in the supply truck.
“Come on, they need us!” he told them excitedly. “The fire has really
busted loose again.”
Sandy sat up groggily, rubbing his eyes. “Whazza matter? Wha’ happened?”
“There’s a real southwester blowing up. The fire has crowned again—you
should see it! She may leap the ridge!”
“Leap the ridge!” Sandy sat up ramrod-straight, jolted into full
wakefulness. “Good night! Let’s go!” He and Jerry slipped on their boots
and laced them frantically.
The sight that greeted them as they leaped out of the truck was
frightening. To the east, as far as the eye could see, the canopy of the
forest was one massive sheet of writhing, twisting fire. Long, forked
tongues of flame leaped high into the sky, whipped about by the strong
breeze blowing from the southwest. The head of the fire had veered off
sharply and was attacking the ridge on a quarter-mile front which was
widening every second.
The boys hurried over to Dick Fellows, who was talking into the
walkie-talkie and scribbling frantically on a pad. As soon as the
conversation ended, he tore off the sheet he had been writing on and
handed it to Sandy.
“Make sure every gang boss on the ridge sees this,” he said tersely. “If
she crosses the ridge, they’re to pull out their crews at once and
retreat to the road. If this wind keeps up, we might not even be able to
hold her there.”
For the first time, Sandy was aware of the loose debris blowing across
the clearing. As he took the paper from the ranger, it almost blew out
of his hand. In the unburned portion of the forest, the treetops were
rustling nervously. It sounded like a lament, Sandy thought.
Dick looked at Jerry. “We’ve pulled most of the men out of the south
line already. Landers feels that we should abandon it altogether for the
present. Suppose you run down there and notify them, Jerry. Tell ’em to
report behind the ridge on the double. They need every man they can get.
Quiz, you stay here in case anything else important comes in.”
Sandy started up the crest of the ridge, but the ranger called to him,
“Better circle around in back. It’s pretty hot up there.” He looked at
the surface fire advancing slowly through the underbrush toward the
clearing on the flank of the big blaze. “It won’t be long before we’ll
have to get out of here. Better send back a couple of boys to move those
trucks off the line.”
“Right,” Sandy said, and circled around behind the ridge.
The protected slope was teeming with men and machinery. Bulldozers
scurried up and down like huge beetles, clearing off everything
inflammable. Tank-trucks were moving slowly along the foot of the slope,
their crews sweeping big firehoses across the face of the forest. Trees
were doused from crown to root. Other smoke-eaters with hoses were lined
up on the crest of the ridge like soldiers, dwarfed by the monstrous
flames that seemed to arch over them threateningly. Whenever a flaming
bough or a mass of burning foliage came toppling to the ground nearby,
they would train a jet of fine, foglike spray on it. Watching this
panorama, Sandy was once again impressed by the fact that the fire
behaved at times with what seemed like animal intelligence. Time and
time again, treacherous fingers of flame would stretch out to the men,
driving them back behind the safety of the ridge. One such streamer
actually did dart across the crest like a snake, badly burning a dozer
operator.
Sandy relayed the communiqué from Fire Boss Landers to all the gang
chiefs. He found Ed Macauley about a half mile down the ridge. His crew
had started to build a hasty fire line at right angles to the ridge in
an attempt to stop the fire racing down the edge of the forest, but they
had finally abandoned it.
“Nothing short of a miracle will stop her now,” he told Sandy
hopelessly.
“Isn’t there anything we can do?” the boy asked, his voice tinged with
panic.
Macauley shrugged. “Not till she runs into the big firebreaks. There’s
another road about two miles north of the ridge; runs east to west. With
enough men we can bottle her up between the two roads. But she’ll burn
off better than a thousand acres before she’s finished.”
The fire was now abreast of where they stood on the crest. A scorching
wave of heat swept up the slope, bringing tears to their eyes, and
forcing them to retreat behind the ridge. No longer did the men need
lights to work by, for the glare of the flames lit up the countryside
with an unearthly reddish glow.
Sandy was surprised to see Quiz come staggering breathlessly up to them.
He handed Macauley a message. “New plan from headquarters,” he gasped.
Macauley frowned as he read it, then crumpled the paper up into a ball.
“Darn waste of time, I call it.”
“What’s up?” Sandy asked.
“Landers wants to give it one more try. We’re going to build a line down
at the end of the ridge.” He walked a little way up the slope and
studied the head of the fire driving steadily forward before the wind.
“We’ve only got a little more than a half-mile leeway. We’re gonna have
to work fast. Need every man and machine we can spare. C’mon, boys,
you’re graduating to pick-and-shovel work as of now.”
The north end of the ridge terminated in a steep slide of gravel and
slag. The proposed fire line was to extend due west from this rockpile
for at least half a mile. As Macauley pointed out, everything was
against the fire fighters. The terrain was unsuited to efficient
operation of the dozers and graders; the timber was old and sturdy; and
in places the trees were jammed together so tightly and their foliage so
interlaced that trunks on opposite sides of the line appeared to have
common crowns.
“With this wind,” the gang boss predicted, “our backfires won’t
accomplish a thing. Most likely, they’ll jump the line themselves.” He
sighed. “But orders is orders.”
Because of the time element, the heavy machinery just punched
helter-skelter through the woods, and left the cleaning-up to the
pick-and-shovel crews. Behind them came the water wagons, wetting down
the brush and trees on the safe side of the line.
Quiz Taylor and Sandy Steele were assigned to a crew of ax men. Jerry
James, who had come along about a half hour later, landed a soft job
manning a hose. But when the overly plump Quiz collapsed at the side of
the trail, Jerry generously offered to swap jobs with him.
“Not permanently, you understand, old boy,” he warned Quiz. “Just until
you get your wind back.”
Within a half hour, Sandy’s hands were covered with blisters and his
clothes were plastered to his body. Sweat poured down his face, blinding
him and caking into mud as it mixed with the dust. His legs felt as if
they were made of cast-iron, and he could barely lift one foot after the
other.
Enviously, he watched Quiz riding on the back of the water truck. The
sight of the fine jet spray gave him a sudden inspiration.
“Hey, Quiz!” he shouted. “Turn that thing on us for a while.”
“Good idea, son,” one of the smoke-eaters said, and the rest of them
picked up the chant. “Let ’er rip, boy.”
Quiz obligingly swerved the nozzle in their direction and they were
engulfed in cooling mist. Sandy opened his mouth wide and let the water
soothe his swollen tongue and parched throat. After five minutes of
this, they went back to work with renewed energy.
The line was completed in record time, but none too soon. The fire front
was only about 200 yards away when Macauley gave the order to backfire.
Although the front was less than 1200 feet wide, the flame-thrower crews
ignited the fringe along the line for a full half mile. The boys,
resting with the pick-and-shovel men on the north tip of the ridge,
watched anxiously as the backfires flared up strong in the dry brush and
foliage. Innumerable times, the flames leaped the line to attack the
trees on the far side, but each time the dripping wet boughs repulsed
them.
“Looks as if we’ll stop her,” Sandy said with elation.
One of the fire fighters shook his head gloomily. “The backfire ain’t
getting anywhere though.”
It was true. The backfires were making only slight progress toward the
head of the fire, which was racing forward with incredible speed.
“You know what?” Quiz said hesitantly. “I think the wind is beginning to
die down.”
“Aw, it’s your imagination,” Jerry said wearily.
“No, he’s right,” another man exclaimed. “She’s slowing down.”
Sandy studied the flames closely. He didn’t notice any perceptible
difference in the rate of the fire, but he did notice that the smoke
appeared to be rising in a more nearly vertical direction. Then, almost
miraculously it seemed, the breeze died abruptly.
“My gosh!” Jerry said wonderingly. “It’s as if somebody turned off a
fan.”