Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: THURSDAY, May 11, 1995 TAG: 9505110035
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: 1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: JAMES J. HALL/SPECIAL TO THE ROANOKE TIMES
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
WHEN THAT CALL rang out through the hills and hollows of Wise County, every man in hearing distance, and some of the women, grabbed their fire-fighting gear and headed out. It was the early 1900s, and back then we communicated through the "hinternet." The hinternet was a single telephone wire strung through the mountains, nailed to trees and one thing and another, connecting the fire towers with each other and with the forest wardens.
Old wall-crank telephones delivered the messages. When a warden answered a call from the tower, his wife ran to the front porch, cupped her hands around her mouth, and yelled "fi-yur, fi-yur," at the top of her lungs. The wife at the next house did the same until everyone in the holler was alerted.
Our method was so sophisticated that a fire never burned more than 20 to 30 acres before we had it put out and had trudged back home in time for church meeting that night.
The able-bodied men all worked in the coal mines, so a fire warden's crew usually consisted of five or six disabled men plus women and boys, who could go any time day or night.
Schools let the boys out of class to fight. Crew members were paid 20 cents an hour. Noncrew members who helped fight received 15 cents an hour.
My dad, Oscar Hall, was one of the county's fire wardens. He fought in World War I and almost died when he was gassed in the Black Forest of Germany. But even after repeated episodes with his throat and lungs at Walter Reed Army Hospital, he could fight fires with the best of men.
Fire towers stood like sentinels on every high point throughout the mountains. Men lived, ate, and slept in them for months at a time during dry seasons.
Each tower was equipped with a map and a compass. When the first wisp of smoke rose through the chimney of mountain flora, at least two of the fire-watchers pointed their compasses and plotted the direction on their maps. Their intersected lines marked the exact location of the fire. That's when the call went forth to the nearest fire warden, who rounded up his crew and all other available bodies, and headed out.
The county was divided into regions so there was always a warden within a few minutes' driving or hiking distance of any fire. If a fire was close, we walked. If a fire was further back in the mountains, Dad drove his A-model Ford and everyone hung on.
The fire-watchers and the wardens understood the importance of reaching a fire before it spread too far. Their goal was to have firefighters on the scene within minutes of that first puff of smoke.
Our emergency equipment consisted of rakes, shovels, Pulaski tools, bush axes, carbide lights, and a five-gallon water tank with a hand-pump sprayer on it. If the fire wasn't near a spring or stream, we left the tank behind because it got heavier with every step through the woods. The men knew the woods and knew where all the springs and streams were located. The lights were in case the fire burned after dark. We needed to see our way out of the woods.
Our best piece of equipment, however, was the brawn and savvy of the people. When we got in sight of the fire, we took into account the way the wind was blowing, which way the fire was burning, the type of trees growing in the area, and the terrain. Then everybody spread out around it or in front of it like fleas on a hound dog. Mountain boys and old miners knew nothing but hard work, so they could make the dirt, leaves, and brush fly.
We commenced to rake and clear a ring around the fire, as close to the fire's edge as we could stand to work. Working close to the fire gave the fighter an advantage because wind at the fire's edge gets gusty and blows back toward the fire. Therefore, the fighter could jump to the fire's edge and push it back without getting overcome with heat and smoke.
After we surrounded the fire and contained it, we patrolled it, or "walked the ring." Wardens seemed to know the mind of the fire and stayed one step ahead of it all the time. Also, wardens loved their mountains and always tried to protect the young trees and new growth as they fought the fire.
When I started helping Dad fight fires, the blight hadn't struck and there were still some mountain chestnut trees in the woods. Their burs would catch fire and roll down the mountain, setting fires all the way. Firefighters back then naturally hated chestnut burs. Little did we know that one day we'd give anything to see the mountains populated again with the grand old chestnut trees.
If fire fighting lasted a whole day, the state paid for a meal. All we were allowed, however, was one loaf of bread among us and one can of pork and beans each.
The state wouldn't pay for a drink. And the men couldn't afford to buy drinks for themselves at 15 cents to 20 cents an hour wages. The firefighters always said they would have preferred a drink over a slice of bread and a can of pork and beans, but that was the state's rule.
One time Dad was called to fight a fire on national forest land over in the Flat Woods section of the county. The only people he could get to go along and help were Labourn Lawson and me, and I was just a boy. When we got there the fire was burning toward the Johnson house. We began to rake and shovel and push and Dad said it was looking bad. There weren't enough of us.
Suddenly, out of the house ran Mrs. Johnson. She cut the top out of a pine tree in her front yard and ran in amidst that fire, beating and whomping and stomping. The flames were swatting back at her dress and hair and I thought for sure she'd be burned alive. But before long, she had beat that fire back and had her side nearly put out. It didn't take much longer for Dad, Labourn, and me to control our side, but we were plum tuckered out.
That's the only fire that almost got away from us and it might have, too, if it hadn't been for Mrs. Johnson. Dad said she put out more fire than 10 men could have.
We sat down for an hour or so and rested and ate our pork and beans. Mrs. Johnson brought us some spring water to drink. We were just about to leave when down the road came a National Forest Service worker, and he had a load of Civilian Conservation Corps boys with him.
He walked over to the char and smoke and asked Dad how we did it. When Dad told him, he turned to the boys and said, "Now boys, this is an example of how not to fight a fire. It just don't work."
Mrs. Johnson looked that Forest Service man eyeball to eyeball and said, "Mister, it's out, ain't it?" And she walked back into the house.
Not to be outdone, the Forest Service worker made those CCC boys ring the fire again. They cleared a path wide enough for a dozen 18-wheelers to pass. But the worst of it was, he had them make their ring around the outside of the Johnson house on the opposite side of the fire.
After a fire was out, it was the warden's job to estimate the amount of acreage burned and determine the origin of the fire. The state liked conservative estimates so their methods of fire fighting would look good. On one occasion when my Dad turned in an estimate of 25.5 acres burned, the state sent a survey crew to check on him because they thought his estimate was too high. The crew returned to Richmond with 1ts own tally - 25.5 acres burned.
Today, empty fire towers stand atop some of the tallest peaks in the Appalachians They are reminders of a day when people ingeniously invented their own methods of taking care of themselves, their neighbors, and their mountains.
James J. Hall worked as a produce salesman, a maintenance man, a coal hauler and a weaving loom technician after his firefighting days in his native Wise County. Now, 74, Hall is retired and lives near Fincastle.
by CNB