E110
English Composition
Clarence P. Finklewhip
5/17/11
Essay #2-Narrative
The metal-clad government issued door, complete with criss-cross hatch in the glass, creaked open as I stepped into the dark apparatus floor. The red giants were still there, silently waiting for the first sound of the alarm. I moved towards the kitchen, dimly lit by the light from the grease covered stove hood, opened the door, and set about performing the duties of a “good rookie”. Bring the donuts, make the coffee, put out the paper, defrost the bread, set out the peanut butter and jelly…all the rote duties of the rank amateur, drilled into the minds of the beginner by wizened old masters of the “game”, as the entirety of “rookie-dom” is called.
“The guys will be happy about the donuts I brought in,” I thought to myself as I left the kitchen to ready my firefighting gear for the day.
Each and every day I am on duty, I am required to perform a series of safety checks on all parts of my arsenal: Helmet, Nomex hood, jacket, pants, boots, breathing apparatus, axe, hoses, nozzles, rotary saws, etc. The list goes on and on. All things necessary to face the “beast” as the brotherhood refers to any manifestation of fire. Pulling on my boots and pants, I heard another member enter the dark chamber, his footsteps echoing across the dirty concrete floor.
“Morning kid,” said Keith, a 27-year veteran, as he shuffled in the dank darkness.
“Morning sir,” I said, glancing in his direction, avoiding all eye contact and grateful that the dimly lit arena hid my averted eyes.
One does not pretend any sort of familiarity with one’s station mates when a rookie. “Seen but not heard” is the mantra that informs all the rookies’ actions for the first 2 years of his career. I slung the cumbersome breathing apparatus over my jacketed shoulder, it’s maze of clinking buckles, filthy hoses, and thick Nomex straps dangling every which way. Gently clicking the compartment door from which I had obtained if , I headed outside to run the morning safety checks. This, too, was drilled into our heads as rookies.
Without warning, the bank of fluorescent lights above the fire engines flickered on. My heart stopped, breathing quickened, body frozen momentarily. From the alarm system came the familiar digitized voice, Digital Sally, delivering the details of the alarm in her strange and uninterested monotone: “Structure fire, Engine 100, Rescue 100, Task Force 73, Engine 90, Battalion 10, Structure fire. 19872 Hayvenhurst Ave, Unit 1, Tac channel 17, OCD clear.” Her words hanging in my ears, I spun on my heel and raced back inside the station, as doors everywhere were bursting open with sleepy-eyed “off shifters” struggled to rouse themselves, incredulous that they would be required to work just as they were about to go off duty.
Clambering into the back of the engine, near panic as I tried to shovel my pile of gear into the floor, I fumbled for my radio, trying to set the tactical channel in the dark cab. Keith materialized, moving methodically, almost slowly, towards the engine, economizing all his movements with the experience years give.
“Let’s do this,” he mumbled. And then, “Morning, Cap,” he laughed, as the Captain, bleary-eyed from a good nights sleep, heaved himself into the front seat, pressed the “enroute” button, opened up the data terminal in front of him, and yawned.
Seconds later, the engineer responsible for piloting the 24-ton fire-killer through the city streets, appeared in the drivers seat. With a deft flick he activated the massive battery system to start the engine, depressed the starter button and it roared its eagerness to be released from the captivity of the stall.
“Ready back there?” said the captain, glancing over his left shoulder at me.
“Yes sir,” I responded, with all the confidence I could muster. Fake it ’till you make it.
“I’ll take Van Owen, that way I can beat 90’s on scene,” said the engineer as we accelerated past the automatically opening doors. He made a hard left, and punched the throttle, thrusting us into our seats.
The flurry of coats and jackets in the back, stirred up by myself and the veteran, obscured my sight for a moment. When the dust settled, I could see the ominous “loom-up”, signaling that we had a real fire.
“Damn, it’s a ripper,” said the captain, suddenly awake.
“Loom up”, cackled the radio, as the other responding stations, seeing the same pillar of destruction that marked our common destination, barked out the customary “heads up” sign into their radios.
Weaving through the traffic on Van Owen was difficult, as school was just about to start. The near gridlock of a thousand cars and kids delayed our arrival on scene, increasing the anticipation. We turned north on Hayvenhurst, and our first view of the fire from ground level was astonishing. A wall of fire and smoke, at least 20 feet tall was blasting across the street, stopping all traffic in both directions. Such an immediate conflagration was indicative of arson for sure. We rolled up within attack distance and the captain issued a “size-up” of the situation to Operations Control Dispatch.
“OCD, Engine 100, on scene. We have a large, single story commercial building, well involved with fire. I’ll need an additional 2 task forces, as well as another battalion chief,” he stoically ordered into the radio.
“All units, 19872 Hayvenhurst, Engine 100 reports single story large commercial, well involved. All units continue through, emergency,” repeated the dispatch center to all responding units. I knew that the adrenaline in these arriving members would be pumping for sure as a result of this report.
Exit the rig safely, shut the door, pull on the breathing apparatus, grab the nozzle, flay out the hose, and ensure your own safety, personal size up, call for water. The sequence of actions imprinted in my mind from 19 weeks in the academy clicked off, one by one.
“Water!” I yelled towards the engineer, who rapidly was connecting the supply from the hydrant, establishing a supply, and setting the proper pump pressures.
The radiant heat of the inferno was horrific. I knelt before the monster, donning my mask, performing a quick leak test, pulled the Nomex hood over my ears, cinched the rubber straps, and threw my helmet back on.
“Water coming!” yelled the engineer over the din of the other arriving units. Behind me, I could hear the familiar rush and gurgle of the water as it filled the splayed hose, instantly pressurizing it. The whoosh of air and sudden weight of the hose signaled it was time to go to war.
“Put some water on it, NOW!” yelled my captain, when I hesitated, unsure where to start as there was fire everywhere in my field of vision.
I yanked open the bail of the nozzle and a blast of murky water leapt from the nozzle. Adjusting the pattern from stream to fog and back again, I attempted to give myself a measure of protection from the inferno not 20 feet away.
“Move up!” ordered my captain, now at my back and pulling hose from the ground.
My mind locked on the heat, the inferno before me was roaring, billowing black acrid smoke in every direction. The sounds of other companies arriving on scene, sirens blaring, clamoring for action, filled the periphery, but I only saw and heard one thing: the beast.
“Direct your line onto the eastern corner,” yelled my captain over the din of the power tools that were starting up.
“Watch the opposing lines,” said a voice that appeared beside me, it’s owner manning a second fire fighting line.
“Take the exposure to the south! Get some water on the other building!” shouted Keith, who had just arrived breathlessly behind us.
His initial job of establishing the supply from the hydrant was complete and he began his support of our fire attack line.
“Keith,” screamed the captain, “get the rotary saw!”
“I’m on it,” shouted Keith, sprinting to the engine. He had already heard it.
A tortured cry came from inside the building.
“Oh, God…” I thought.
“Water on the window, the window!!!” shouted Cap. “There’s a man inside!”
Indeed, a human form could be seen just inside the bar-lined window, screaming it’s last scream. The sound of his voice was engulfed in the roar of the fire and it was hours before we found his body, charred beyond recognition, in the room
As the water poured from more and more lines, I became aware of the declining intensity of the situation. Having pushed back the dragon’s first volley, we moved from defense to offense, and entered the building. The heat penetrated my jacket, finding every thin area, reminding me of my humanity and weakness. Smoky blackness surrounded us, accented by licking flames and glowing embers. We inched our way through the crackling mess, seeking out the seat of the fire.
“I see it!” and then, “Back here!” a voice shouted.
I wheeled about, lugging the cumbersome hose, banging into the other members cloaked in the mess, and tried to pull my hose towards the familiar voice of my captain. A huge pile of crates, boxes, carpets, and trash appeared to be the beginning of the fire and now, suffering a deathblow from our efforts, lay smoldering in a massive heap on the floor of the warehouse.
“Gimme’ some foam,” barked the captain into his radio. “Put your line on that pile, kid,” he wheezed through his ash- covered face piece.
The adrenaline was subsiding and, as I moved my hose stream to cover the wreckage, I realized that I was exhausted, gasping for air behind my mask, and my low-pressure alarm was ringing.
“You’re done, kid. Good job,” said Keith, as he took the nozzle from me. “Get outta here and rehab.”
I turned and began to slog through the disaster, jostling past the incoming back-up crews, seeking the dim glow of the exit just visible through the remaining smoke. More and more members were crowding into the disaster to begin the dirty work of “overhaul”, the systematic removal of the charred contents of the building.
“Nice job, kid,” said the engineer, handing me a bottle of water. “Suit down and hydrate up. There’s some donuts on the tailboard.”
I moved to the rear of the engine, feeling the gush of sweat between my skin and turnout liner. Peeling off my mask and sweat-soaked hood off, I reveled in the cool morning air as it refreshed my skin. I heard a voice.
“What happened?” said a marveling onlooker.
“Not sure, looks like arson or something,” I said. “I think there was a guy in there but he’s dead.”
“Oh no!” exclaimed the bystander. “So sad…” Her voice trailed off.
Turning silently away, I removed my jacket, now 10 lbs heavier from the soaking it received. The cotton of my t-shirt, crinkled from heat and moisture, received its first breath of fresh air in 35 minutes. It felt good to be out of that portable prison, and I laid my jacket on the tailboard, opened the bottle of water and drank it dry.
“You never know what’ll happen, huh kid?” said another firefighter, as he eagerly grabbed a donut from the “pink box of death”.
“Yes, sir,” I said, a little more confidently than last shift.
Experience, that certain confidence builder, allowed me to look in his eyes as a peer. It would be years before I felt as if I had left the “rookie” stage of my career. But I realized, after this experience, I was on my way, and I looked forward to the next fire with eager anticipation.
