Report From Engine Co. 82 - Dennis Smith [38]
In the lobby I see that Jim’s coat is still standing. I take my own coat off, and hold it at arm’s length. The cold quickly penetrates my arms and chest. I inspect the coat carefully for roaches, and then put it back on. I take my heavy canvas gloves from the pocket, and push my hands into them. They are frozen, and I have to apply strength to move the fingers. I pull the metal door open, and return to the fire.
In the street, I can hear the man in charge of the fire, Chief Marks, yelling, and his voice reminds me of a high G on a saxophone. Some Chiefs direct fire operations the way NASA Control directs moon shots—calmly, and with great self-assurance. Others, like Chief Marks, lead their men like Leonard Bernstein conducts the New York Philharmonic in a Stravinsky symphony—with frenzy, and great excitement. While a competent man, he is known by firemen to be a “screamer,” not a very complimentary title in our business. Instead of controlling overall operations with dignity and expertise, he runs helter-skelter at a fire, overseeing each operation, each hose line, each ladder placing. I once saw him yell at a respected New York photographer for standing around, and ordered him to place a ladder at the side of a burning building. The photographer, who was taking shots on assignment, simply walked away. I guess the Chief took him for a fireman, because he was wearing a rubber coat that he had borrowed—evidently he missed the wide Car-din tie, and gleaming Gucci shoes.
Chief Marks holds the rank of Deputy Assistant Chief of Department, which in the military structure is roughly equivalent to a bird colonel. When he yells he expects people to react as an Army Private would to a General. He is now yelling at Lieutenant Welch, “Keep that line directed at the roof, Lieutenant. What the-hell is the matter with ya? Keep the line where I tell ya.”
Tom Welch has been around for a long time, and even before he was promoted to Lieutenant he didn’t think of himself as a Private. He was a fireman who knew what he was doing, a professional.
The wind is gusting heavily now as I stand behind Vinny Royce, but I can hear my Lieutenant yell over the noise, “Listen Chief, I’m freezing my ass off, and I want to put the fire out as much as you do.”
“What did you say?” the Chief asks, the anger bulging out of his Irish face.
Lieutenant Welch realizes the futility of a confrontation with a Chief at a fire. There is no such thing as being a Jacksonian democrat in the Fire Department.
“Yeah, Chief,” he replies, “at the roof, I know.” Years of experience show in his resignation.
Benny Carroll has the stream directed at the fallen roof. The icicles hanging from his helmet look like tassels on a party hat, but there is no indication that the wearer is having fun. His face muscles are strained, and the veins in his neck are raised. The wind is howling fiercely now, and the water comes back like a sand blast. It seems like small particles of glass are being wedged into my skin. I think momentarily of the small pleasure of heat in the furnace room across the street. Benny is calling for relief, and Willy Knipps moves up to take the nozzle. I take my place behind Kelsey and Royce, grasp the two-and-a-half-inch hose with all my strength, and push forward to relieve the back pressure.
Lieutenant Welch is standing next to us, and I say, “That Chief has a big pair yelling like that, especially on a night like this. All he has to do is walk around with a walkie-talkie for a little while, and then he gets into a heated Chiefs car and forgets about us.”
“Yeah,” Lieutenant Welch says, “but at least you know what to expect from him. He yells a lot, and he’s a ball breaker, but he’ll never hurt ya.”
I’m a little surprised that he’s defending