The smartest person in the world is the one who knows the limits of his own knowledge

We were called to what was the best fire of my short career the other night. It was a great experience, and, when I sit back and think about it for a while, it's amazing how much I learned from that one incident. One could spend 16 weeks or 160 weeks in the academy, but there's no teacher like the real thing. That's not a knock on training--I think we should train more than we do...a lot more. I just don't think it's possible to create the same environment in a training situation that exists at a real incident. But, that's a tangent I don't want to explore right now.

The real point of this drivel was my realization of how much I don't know. It's a huge wake-up call. I now know that I've been skating by. It's pretty easy to sit around and get lulled into thinking you know everything when you work at a station like mine--one of the highest call volumes in the department but a low occurrence of fire, especially first-in fire. Then, I get one of those fires, and I end up feeling like I'm bumbling around while all the people who know what they are doing act quickly and with purpose. They intuit things that I'd actually have to see happening. I can bury my head in the books, and I will, but there's a lot of knowledge that doesn't lie within those books. I sure hope that knowledge comes with experience. If it's instead an innate knowledge, I might as well find another vocation.

So, I'll reopen the books, but, I'll also hope for more fire (sorry, property owners) and take every bit of knowledge I can from both. On a side note, it was pretty fulfilling to finally have a "good" fire. It makes you feel a little less like a social worker in a KCFD uniform and more like a firefighter.

Charleston Fire Tragedy--politics as usual

The City of Charleston has politicked its way out of admitting any wrong-doing in the June 18 blaze at the Super Sofa store that killed nine firefighters. You'd think that if nine people died, somebody (or a whole lot of somebodies) did something horribly wrong. Although the Charleston Fire Department seems intent on improving to hopefully avoid another tragedy like this, isn't the first step in recovery always to admit there is a problem?

Working Fire

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.

It begs the question

We were dispatched to a car wreck last night, which, en route, turned into a pedestrian hit by a vehicle. (This is common; you can't blame the dispatchers, as they are only relaying the information they receive.) We were then told to stage for the police, as a disturbance had supposedly developed. So, we sit at the corner for a moment until we see the ambulance barrel on through and go to the scene, which happens to be right outside a bar. We figure we'll follow them in. Once on scene, we are told by a really drunk and loud guy that his friend was supposedly hit by the big-ass tour bus idling in the middle of the street. "I saw everything," the drunk guy says, which is an immediate indicator that he is the last person from whom I'd want to get the story. Anyway, I'm looking at the three guys standing by the bus, one of whom was supposedly hit by said bus, and I can't tell who that would be, because they all look fine and drunk to me.

So, it begs the question--if someone was hit by a bus, but you can't immediately determine who that person is, was anyone really hit by a bus?