Report From Engine Co. 82 - Dennis Smith [101]
It is ten minutes to eight now, and the sun begins to break through threatening clouds. In another hour I will take a shower, change into clean clothes, and drive home for a day of sleep. Right now though, there is nothing to do but drink still more coffee, and wait for the men of the day tour to arrive for work.
Charlie McCartty, as usual, is the center of attention in the kitchen. Most of us are sitting wearily in chairs, trying to relax after a hectic night tour, but McCartty is pacing up and down the kitchen floor berating a probationary fireman for not cleaning the kitchen.
“Ninety percent of this job is professional work, fighting fires, and making inspections, and all that,” he says, “but the other ten percent is pure bullshit.”
The probie, Frank Parris, starts to grin as he collects the empty cups from the tables.
“The ten percent bullshit,” Charlie continues, “is your responsibility, and that is to keep this kitchen clean, and make sure there is fresh coffee at all times. If ya do that right, then maybe we’ll teach ya about the other ninety percent.”
Parris is one of the most conscientious probies we have ever had in the big house, and he knows, as well as all of us, that Charlie is just making noise. Parris wipes the tables with a sponge as Charlie continues to pace, and mutter.
“When I was a probie, I did everything I could to make the senior men happy, but none of you guys would know about that—that was in the days of leather lungs and wooden fire hydrants, when horses pulled the rigs. I even used to service the mares when they got restless. That’s when a probie was a probie.” Charlie is a pleasant diversion, and he has got the men laughing, and interested in his soliloquy. But, three sharp rings on the department phone redirect everyone’s attention.
“Eighty-two and Thirty-one, get out.” Valenzio’s voice carries through the firehouse. “And the Chief,” he adds. “1280 Kelly Street.”
We can smell the smoke as the pumper leaves quarters. Up Tiffany Street, and down 165th Street. As we turn into Kelly the smoke has banked down to the street, making it difficult to see even ten feet away. Valenzio pulls the pumper to the first hydrant he sees. We will have to stretch around the apparatus, but at least we know we have a hydrant that works. The building is occupied, and we will have to get water on the fire fast.
Engine 73 arrives and helps us with the stretch. Between the lifts and banks of the smoke, we can see that the job is on the top floor, five flights up. But, there is enough manpower for the stretch now, so I drop the hose and head for the mask bin. Valenzio has the pumper connected to the hydrant by the time I have the mask donned, and Jerry Herbert has the aerial ladder of the truck up, and placed by the top floor fire escape. He is climbing up it as I enter the building.
The fifth floor is enveloped with smoke, and I can barely see in front of me. Billy-o and McCartty are working on the door of the burning apartment, but it is secured inside with a police lock—a long steel bar, stretched from one side to the other like the gate of Fort Apache. The smoke is brutal, and Billy-o has a coughing fit between ax swings. Charlie pulls on the halligan with all his strength, as Billy-o hammers with the head of the ax. Finally, the door begins to move, and Charlie and Billy-o work their tools, one complementing the other, like a computed machine, until one side of the door is free. Still coughing and choking, Charlie puts his shoulder to the door, and it swings inward, and out of its brackets to the floor.
Charlie and Billy-o dive to the floor, for the fire lunges out to the hall. Willy Boyle has the nozzle. I ask him if he wants me to take it, since I have the mask, but he replies that he thinks he can make it.
“Let’s go,” Lieutenant Welch says.
Boyle makes it about ten feet into the apartment, but it is an old building, and the plaster falls freely from the ceiling in large pieces. Boyle’s helmet is thrown from his head by the falling ceiling. Lieutenant Welch orders