Report From Engine Co. 82 - Dennis Smith [71]
“The dispatcher is supposed to send those units automatically,” Vinny says. “Why the hell is he asking if he should send them?”
But, before anyone can answer the bells start ringing. Three bells, then three more. Then there is a long pause, followed by Box 2188. A third alarm has been sounded for 138th Street. Now we know why the dispatcher asked. He’ll have to call another Field Com Unit from Queens. The dispatcher’s office must be a madhouse of noise, bells, and men running to find available companies, and making sure that no section of the Bronx is at any time completely stripped of fire protection.
The radio begins to squawk again: “Battalion 27 to Bronx.”
Now we will find out what kind of a fire they have there.
“Bronx to Battalion 27—go ahead.”
“Transmit a second alarm for Box 2737.”
The dispatcher will have to send companies from Queens and South Manhattan for this fire. He needs three additional engine companies and another ladder, but some of the assigned companies are operating at the third alarm on 138th Street.
“Can you give us a progress report?” the dispatcher asks.
“We have a large body of fire on the fifth and sixth floors of 1994 Hoe Avenue. It is a six-brick,” [six stories made of brick construction] “100 by 100,” [dimensions in feet] “occupied building. The occupants are being removed. Surrounding properties are, 1) A street,” [in front of the fire building] “2) A six-brick 40 by 80 multiple dwelling,” [the building to the left] “3) A rear yard,” [behind the fire building] “and 4) A six-brick 40 by 80 multiple dwelling” [the building to the right]. “We have one line in operation on the fifth floor, and two lines are being stretched. Doubtful at this time” [it is doubtful that the fire will be controlled with the present assignment of companies].
“Ten-four, Battalion 27,” the dispatcher signs off.
“That must be that big, H-type building in the middle of the block, there,” Benny says.
“Yeah,” Vinny replies, “and if the fire gets in the cockloft they’re gonna be there all day.”
The Tactical Control Unit, Ladder 712, pulls in front of the firehouse. It is three o’clock, and their day is just beginning. As Johnny Nixon backs the rig into quarters, he stops and points to the smoke above Hoe Avenue. He says, with a wry smile, “That’s one of the few we missed around here.”
“You may end up there yet,” I say to him.
He replies, laughingly, “I’m not afraid.” And I know he isn’t, for Johnny Nixon has been fighting fires in the South Bronx for the past twelve years.
There are so many bells coming over the system that I stop counting them. Each time a company is special-called to a fire, or relocated to cover another fire district, the signal is telegraphed over the bells. I make a mental note to visit the dispatcher’s office someday. It must be interesting to watch them organize such confusion.
Bill Kelsey is on housewatch, and he is yelling “Get out eighty-two, and seven-twelve. Boston and Seabury.”
It is probably another false alarm, I say to myself as I grab the handrail on the back of the pumper.
A young boy waves us on at the intersection of Boston Road and Seabury Place. As we approach, he runs down Seabury, turning occasionally to make sure we are following. There is a large crowd gathered in front of the Diaz Bodega. Benny Carroll yells over the siren, “It must be an O.D.” The pumper stops, and the crowd makes room for us. I am the first to reach the object of attention, and see a guy in a crimson-stained yellow shirt lying in a mass of thick blood spread evenly over the sidewalk. I can hear the faceless voices of the crowd uttering in broken English, “Someone tried to off ’im, man. Some bad-ass thought he made peace with hisself. Who the man who cut ’im? We gonna get ’im.” It seems strange to hear the black’s dialect spoken with a Spanish accent.
The Chief from the Seventeenth Battalion has been special-called, and as he looks about him he tells his aide to request an ambulance and police assistance. The man is lying on his side, with his head on his forearm.