Corn Creek and the Ranger

by Richard Seifried

Signal Hill Musings

March, 2009

The ice is gone. The earth is a tangle of fallen limbs. Some trees fell over, their roots submitting to the awesome weight of frozen rain. Now the wind is blowing. Temperatures are in the 50s and 60s. Violent storms are expected for the next two days.

I read a lot, as you already know. The current book is unimaginatively named Rangers at Dieppe.

On August 19, 1942, British and Canadian Commandos, plus fifty U.S. Rangers, invaded the French coast at a heavily armed (by the Germans) port town called Dieppe.

Rundel Smith and I were at Camp Wakonda, a YMCA camp north of Piqua, Ohio, and we were closing it down for the year. I was fourteen, Rundel was twelve or thirteen.  When we heard of the invasion, we stopped having our spoiled bologna fight (hitting one another in the face with the stinking stuff) and listened to the radio. The invasion of Europe! Already!

The big invasion (D-Day) would come two years later. Unfortunately, the Dieppe Raid was a slaughterhouse for the Allies as they lost almost sixty percent of their assault force. But, the United States was made aware of the fact that we, after 200 years, once more had a Ranger Unit.  We also learned lessons that would prove invaluable for the Normandy landings of Operation Overlord in June of 1944.

Kenneth Roberts came to mind as I was finishing this book. His Northwest Passage told the story about Major Robert Rogers and his Rogers Rangers who fought in the French and Indian War. Special men. Powerful men. Courageous. Humble.

Back in 1961, I had a WWII Ranger in my crew of firefighters protecting the Salmon National Forest.

Coming back to the Corn Creek Fire after an injury, I was given a nine man crew that my bosses had drafted out of the saloons of Darby, Montana.  On our first day together, with the service short of fighters, my crew was given a quarter of a mile ridge to contain and were flown in by helicopter. Up the mountainside came a line of burning grass and underbrush. Stupidly, I told my men to follow me, realizing that if we didn’t stop the fire, ninety men above us might get burned up alive.

Only one man followed me. In seconds we were running before the fire and were cut off from the ridgetop and safety.

The mountainside became more rugged, steep, and rocky. My companion and I made it to a rocky ledge just in time. Naked rock cliffs were above and below us. We sat down and waited.

My companion asked me, “What do you think our chances are?”

“Not good.” I was adding up my insurance policies trying to determine how much money my family would get.

Fortunately, the fire burned down a shoot on our right. Although extremely hot, the air rushed downhill, cool air coming in from our left. Then, the fire burned up on our left. Again, fresh air blew in from the opposite side. It was so hot that the metal brass buttons on my army jacket scorched brown spots on my T-shirt.

Perhaps an hour later, we decided to climb through the slot and walk across the glowing ashes to the ridgetop. At some point, I fell forward, running my hands onto the smoking earth. I recall that I must have screamed, but the pain and burns were nominal. We made it to the top experiencing only very hot shoes and smoke-filled lungs.

We expected our crew of winos to be looking for our bodies – but they were gone. My companion and I hiked the mile back down the mountain. We found the crew happily swimming in the river. Believe me I was angry.

I write all of this because my sole companion was a Ranger from WWII. His name was Lowell. He was powerfully built, extremely courageous, and unwilling to let his stupid crew boss burn up alone.  If any of the other men had been with me, instead of Lowell, I would have been unable to help him. We would have died.

Surprisingly, except for one man who thought of killing me, I became very fond of the rest of the crew. They became tough and reliable. Never again did I have to worry about them performing their duties. And, we had considerable respect for one another. As a result of that earlier accident, I had a swollen, badly lacerated jaw covered with dirty whiskers. I guess I looked rather mean. No one bothered us except for the bosses.

I miss such adventures, including the confrontation with the man, Lee Hayden, who thought about hitting me with his ax. I’m not sure what his beef was, but he never confronted me because I carried a sharp, long handled shovel – and because of the scar and stubble on my face! For a couple of weeks, I often walked past him, very close, daring him to strike. He never did.

No guts!