Report From Engine Co. 82 - Dennis Smith [73]
As we head up Tiffany Street we can see the smoke still rising above Hoe Avenue to the north, and as we look to the southeast we can see still another column, billowing rapidly above Fox Street.
“Ya know,” Benny says to me as he pulls his boots up, “Kelsey is right. The Bronx is burning up, and the sad thing about it is that no one knows it. This is an insane day for fires, but ya won’t read anything about it in the papers tomorrow, and ya won’t see anything about it on T.V. tonight. That’s the real sad thing. We work our ass off, and nobody knows about it.”
I nod my head in agreement. It is sad. But even sadder is all the families who will be shoved into welfare hotels tonight. Nobody knows about them either. One family in a small stinking stoveless, sinkless hotel room, and the immoral bastard of a hotel-keeper will charge the city fifty dollars a day for the vermin-infested room that he used to be lucky to fill for twenty a week. I think of the fire on Hoe Avenue—there must be fifteen or twenty families burned out there, and it’s a good bet that most of them are on welfare. And the fire on 138th Street.
But I have a fire of my own to think about now. I pull my boots up, and throw my rubber coat over my shoulder. Vinny holds an end up as I slip my arm into it.
There is a squad car waiting for us at the corner of Fox Street. As we near the corner the cops drive slowly down the block, siren wailing. The crowd in the street makes room for us to pass. There is fire playing out of the windows of the first, second, and third floors, and we can feel the intense heat as we pull in front of the building. A small crowd of teenagers is gathered across from the burning tenement singing, “Bum, baby, burn! Burn, baby, bum!”
“I’d like to take a few of them in with us,” Willy Knipps says as he takes the nozzle, and drops a length of hose from the pumper. “I’d burn baby them.”
“It’s all a big joke to ’em, Willy,” Vinny says, pulling the hose.
“Some joke.”
“Listen Willy,” I say, “we’re going to be here for the rest of the day. Why don’t you let me take the nob in a little way, and you go get a mask.”
“It’s all right, Den. I can do it.”
“C’mon, Willy,” I say forcefully, making a grab for the nozzle. Willy is a very proud man, and I know that he doesn’t want to give the nozzle up. “What the hell do you want to kill yourself for,” I ask. “It’s only an abandoned building.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” he says resignedly, loosening his grip on the nob. Valenzio has driven the rig to the other side of the street, and has begun to hook up to the hydrant as Willy runs to the mask bin. Kelsey is helping Valenzio with the big hydrant connection, and we get water in a matter of seconds.
“Give it a good dash from the street first,” Lieutenant Welch says, and I direct the nozzle toward the first floor window; 250 gallons per minute hits the flaming room, and the fire darkens quickly.
We go into the vestibule, and over the wet garbage. It doesn’t smell so much now, but it is ugly and soggy—a pyramid of waste and decay. We go up five steps, and the fire meets us at a front door of the first floor. Lieutenant Welch is saying that the Chief will have to transmit a second alarm on arrival. The truckies of Ladder 712 pass by into a smoky apartment on my left, searching for fire extension, and the men of Engine 94 start to go up the stairs to the second floor with a line. The fire hisses and crackles before me, and Benny and Vinny are behind me relieving the back pressure of the surging water. Lieutenant Welch says that we can move in, but slowly. I keep the nozzle directed at the ceiling, and I’m making circular motions with my arms as Benny and Vinny hump the hose in. Suddenly, a heavy piece of plaster falls, and my helmet is knocked from my head. I feel a long, cutting pain across the back of my neck. The melted paint is dripping from the ceiling. I let out a small yell, and Lieutenant