Report From Engine Co. 82 - Dennis Smith [47]
It is eight o’clock, and the space on the apparatus floor reserved for Engine 85 is still empty. The men of Ladder 31 are still examining the intricacies of the power saw—the nuances of engineering that they understand better than I.
There is still time for a half-hour drill, and we sit around the table again. Captain Albergray takes his place beside Lieutenant Coughlin.
“We’ll try it again,” he says. “Dennis, explain the procedure to be used if the regulator of the Air-Pac malfunctions.”
I am about to answer, but I am conditioned to be quiet as the bells come in. Box 2738. The men of Ladder 712 respond, but we are safe. That is Engine 85’s box. I begin to answer again, but stop when the telephone sounds three short rings.
“Take it in Eighty-two,” Willy Knipps yells. In less than thirty seconds we are responding to 2738, Southern Boulevard and 172nd Street. Dammit, I knew that answer cold too. If you don’t get enough air into the face piece, turn the bypass valve away from the body. The red valve. Then turn the knurled nut of the regulator. And the regulator valve. The yellow one. I wish I had known the answer that cold when we were in the cellar of that plastics factory. The smoke was gravy-thick, and we couldn’t find the fire. We kept pushing in through the deadly atmosphere. Suddenly, I couldn’t draw air, only an odd sucking sound. I started to rip my face piece off, but remembered where I was. I could make out all right in an ordinary fire, in ordinary smoke, but this plastic stuff is hard to take for more than twenty seconds. I remember thinking, red valve first? Yellow first? Like I was taking an exam. I dropped the hose, and turned both simultaneously.
Ladder 31 is behind us as we rush up Southern Boulevard. They must have been special-called too. The traffic is backed up, and we turn into the oncoming lane, forcing cars to the curb. We reach the intersection, and the pumper turns up 172nd Street, and stops opposite the alarm box. This is the box that Mike Carr never made it to, and as I picture the letter President Nixon sent to his widow I wonder if the President read the text before he signed it.
I stop thinking about Mike Carr and the President. Standing on the back step of the fire engine, I look at a wild scene before me, in the middle of the intersection. Ladder 712 and Ladder 31 are stopped side by side on Southern Boulevard, and Engine 45 is facing them having come from the opposite direction. Between the companies there is a naked man, his eyes flaming torture, his writhing body dancing in insane lament, and his mouth bellowing scornful, mad sounds in Spanish. In his hand he holds a whip, and like a Central Park carriage driver he swings it savagely.
Some Saturday mornings we would buy “guinea-heros,” and walk the nine blocks from East 56th Street to Central Park. Salami and Swiss, with lettuce and mayonnaise, for a quarter. Put it on the bill, my mother said it’s O.K. Our sandwiches were secured to our belts with old string as we climbed imaginary rugged mountains. It was Texas. Bobby Benson is being held on the other side of the hill, but the B BAR B boys will save him. At noon, we found a niche safe from strollers, and bit into the soggy, melting bread. Satisfied, but thirsty, we searched for a jumping-water fountain. Found it, and saw the Victorias rolling by, and the bobbing heads of tired mares. Run fast. Stay low. Grab the spring, the strong curved metal bar, and pull up. There is a crossbar to hold the ass. The driver sees us. The knotted whip end flies backward, and we take Spango, his eye bleeding, to the hospital.
The handle is four feet long, wrapped in black leather, and the whip is as long. Chief Niebrock tells Lieutenant Lierly that the man has to be restrained, but the whip swings dangerously on target for all who approach. A crowd has gathered. It yells taunts with great amusement, while impatient motorists lined up and down along the boulevard honk their car horns.
“Better surround and rush him,” says the Chief. Benny and I move