BAM!!! The bells go off and I'm pretty sure the sound waves lift me out of bed. Some guys manage to sleep through that sonic blast. Not me. It hits me like a freight train. The heart goes from 40 to 120 in half a second. Head for the rig and listen for the tone: two short ones and it's a car wreck, automatic alarm, or some drunk passed out on the street; one long one and it's MOVE. YOUR. ASS. Shove your feet into your boots, feel that lump of sock that somehow always gets wedged where it shouldn't be. Grab the suspenders, wing 'em around your shoulders and jump on the rig. Try to get dressed in a four-ton runaway rollercoaster going 60 down streets never meant to be taken at 60...with a load that tends to shift. Watch that car always creeping closer in the intersection, never knowing if it's really going to stop despite the
Bright
Flashing
Lights,
Two
Different
Wailing
Sirens and
Constant
Blast of the
Airhorn. The windows are down, you can smell the smoke from 6 blocks away. It's a worker and your heart beats that much faster. You get close enough to see the house--another pumper beat you on scene--that's ok....they're gonna need water and there's plenty of work for everyone. You pull up next to a hydrant, the plug man jumps out, grabs big yellow and the hydrant wrench, wraps the hose around the hydrant and gives the signal to
GO! shuck....shuck....shuck Big yellow flops out the backside of the pumper and into the street. The fire is a block up and the neighbors are out, migrating toward the scene. You pull up to the house, thick black smoke chugging out of the eaves. Grab a hook and an axe and up to the front porch. Your driver is fixing the first pumper up with water. Other guys are on the roof, chopping away. Flashing lights and radios speaking up everywhere. It's your turn to work. Don the facepiece and fumble with the regulator. Put on your gloves and
go in. The smoke is lower and thicker with every step until, finally, you can't see six inches in front of your face. Don't fall into a hole--test that ground in front of you. You can hear it now, always louder than you think it would be--crackling and blowing like a furnace. The ceiling needs pulled in that room. Jam the hook up into the plaster and through the lathe, now pull down. It crumbles, but you need a hole twenty times bigger. Arms churn, hook jigsawing up and down, falling debris covering you in God knows what....until the black gives way to glowing orange--"I got fire here!!" The guy on the nozzle comes in, you open the hole up more for him. He lets it fly and the orange immediately darkens. The smoke begins to clear out through the 4' by 4' holes cut by the guys on the roof. What was invisible before begins to reveal itself. You can take a breath, remove the facepiece, take a look around. The smoke still burns your eyes and throat, but the amount of air left in your bottle is directly proportionate to how much of a man you are (this just in:
cancer risk is twice as high for firefighters). There's that pile of junk you tripped over on the way in. There is always junk,
everywhere. You chuck it out the window if it was or is on fire. The fire is probably in the walls, so you go to town on them. Some idiot is still breaking windows--
NEWS FLASH--this fire is almost out and there is no more need for ventilation. It could be nine degrees out, or ninety. Either way, you're drenched in sweat inside your gear. If it is cold, now is the time you start to notice. You mop up the hot spots--don't want to be coming back two hours later. "Chief Rekindle" does not work here. You exit the house, drop your air bottle and tools in your rig, and help the other companies roll up, all the while avoiding any TV camera that might be present. Back at the station, rolled up dirty hose is tossed on the bay floor--the next shift can get that. Dirty tools don't get cleaned--the next shift can get that too. Peel off and hose down your nasty gear and replace it with dry stuff. Smooth out that lump of sock. Wet gear hangs from every conceivable place. Maybe you take a shower, or maybe you fall right back into bed. Maybe you sleep the rest of the night, maybe you run 6 more calls of homeless alcoholics and automatic alarms. Either way, that serene woman's voice wakes you at 6 a.m. every work day. The next shift can tell you had a fire that night the second they walk into the bay--the smell hangs in the air. You sip coffee, skim the paper, talk about the fire a bit and watch the local early news with a keen eye looking out for any fireman's face--any TV time earns you the privilege of buying a couple dozen donuts. Take your gear off the rig, roll up your bedding, and go home. Take another shower, the smell is still there, lingering in your hair. Kiss your wife, your kids, whoever, and tell them you love them. Wait two days. Repeat.
