Report From Engine Co. 82 - Dennis Smith [45]
There is a lot of chuckling, but Jerry Herbert doesn’t believe it.
“C’mon, Bill,” he says.
“So help me Christ,” Billy says, “that’s what he said.” Billy-o holds up the newspaper clipping and waves it in front of everyone. “And a reporter must have been monitoring the fire calls, because the story is right here, out of one of the biggest newspapers in the world.” I walk over to take a closer look at the clipping, and the headline reads, sure enough, BRONX FIREMAN REVIVES DYING SQUIRREL.
Captain Albergray interrupts the laughter, and the story, by yelling, “Hey Jerry, shut the television off, will ya. It’s drill time.”
As Jerry turns the switch, Lieutenant Lierly enters the kitchen, and says quietly, for the noise has toned down, “Ladder 31, on the apparatus floor.”
Jerry, Billy-o, Dulland, McCartty, and Tom Leary head for the door. Ordinarily, we would drill together, but Lieutenant Lierly wants to train with the new power saw that was recently issued to Ladder 31.
Engine 85 is operating at a deep-seated rubbish fire out at Hunts Point—an East Bronx industrial area, filled with junk yards and automobile graveyards. The trash is piled high in Hunts Point. Small contractors pay someone, although no one knows who, to drop their truckloads of refuse in the vacant streets by the bay. Or they drop their loads without prearrange-ment, but they’re always ready to part with a fifty-dollar bill if caught—small-scale graft that ends inevitably in hard work for firefighters. We know that Engine 85 will be out there for a few hours, pouring water on heaps of smoldering garbage, hoping the water will sink through and extinguish the fire.
Captain Albergray opens his worn, three-ring binder of training bulletins on the kitchen table. Lieutenant Coughlin of Ladder 712 sits beside him at the table, and we gather around them in a semicircle, sitting on armless chairs, or tables. Captain Albergray speaks.
“All the companies of the 27th Battalion are due for evaluation in the next few weeks. Now, the officers from the Bureau of Training are tough, and very little gets by them. You either know the stuff, or you don’t. We, as firefighters, know that we are responsible for a lot more than extinguishing fire, and the evaluation officer can pick questions from reams of technical information. We don’t know what they will ask, but I’m confident that we will have the right answers. In any case, we will review as much as we can during our drill periods for the next few weeks.”
The men are uneasy in their chairs. They, as I, would rather drill on fire tactics or rescue procedures—and the interesting, exciting stories that invariably arise. But, the department requires that we know as much about a hose or a rope as a soldier knows about his rifle. A two-and-a-half-inch cotton jacketed fifty-foot length of hose weighs 71 pounds, and when filled with water weighs 178 pounds. The roof-rope we use in rescues is 150 feet, weighs 40 pounds, and is made by turning South American hemp fibers into yarn, twisting the yam into strands, and braiding three strands into rope thirteen-sixteenths of an inch in diameter. Yes, it is going to be a boring drill period.
“Well talk about the Scott Air-Pac first,” Captain Albergray says. “We use this mask daily, and we should know its specifications.”
“I use my car daily, and I don’t know its specifications,” I say to Benny, low enough not to be overheard.
“Cosmo, how much air does the cylinder