On the less serious side, in my second year, I became the bartender/manager for the campus pub, keeping it open late. It is amazing how you can solve the problems of the world late at night over a beer.
After two years at seminary, we each had to do a year-long internship in a parish. We were supposed to help out at mass, teach religious education, do home visitations. I picked St. Augustine’s, a poor trilingual parish in Brooklyn—English, Spanish, and Haitian Creole. We would give out food to many who were so grateful. I also worked at a Lutheran medical center as a student chaplain in that hospital’s clinical pastoral education program, which was worth graduate credits in counseling. I visited with patients as they struggled with illness or injuries. Wearing an intern’s white lab coat, I listened to the concerns of patients, visitors, and staff, whatever their religious beliefs.
Throughout the seminary, I was always the guy who thought differently. I wrestled with God and couldn’t understand why God allowed me to have uncertainty if he was calling me to be a priest. In that wrestling, really getting in the mud, I kept asking, God, do you want me to be a priest or get married? What are you calling me to do with my life?
And then I got an answer—sort of.
In the summer of 1981, I finished my intern work in a parish for the year and got the call from the FDNY.
I requested a leave of absence for two years, arguing that being a firefighter would help in my formation. But what the Fire Department wanted to do was shape me in a different image. They were looking to create ordinary heroes.
* * *
• • •
The six-week fire academy on Randall’s Island, from early September to the first week of October, resembled military boot camp, with short haircuts and instructors screaming in your face. Coming from an academic background, I had to adjust.
Training to be a firefighter was like training to be a soldier in the Army: learning to follow orders, to use your tools properly, and to understand the wiles of your very dangerous enemy—fire.
But it was also fun, always a challenge, and never boring.
We ran, did calisthenics, and read manuals on the physics and behavior of fires. How does the fire grow? What’s happening to a room on fire? How is the building being destroyed while you are going in? The sheer amount of material was overwhelming, like drinking from a firehose. The science of fire and the skills of firefighting have grown exponentially. New firefighters now spend four or five months in the academy.
Understanding fire behavior and firefighting procedures gave us a base knowledge of what to expect. This allowed us to recognize the anomalies and adjust to them. Overcoming fear by familiarization was the key to developing a firefighter. Fear was now a tool to combat the unexpected.
The academy taught us to pull hose, climb ladders, search smoke-filled rooms, and use the SCBAs. There was a term, “smoke-eaters,” for older firefighters who knew how long they could last without an air mask before they passed out. That sounded like a bad idea. Carbon monoxide is deadly. I’d rather wear my SCBA and make it last longer by controlling my breathing, an old scuba diving trick.
We learned to properly hold a Halligan tool (named for a chief who joined the FDNY in 1916) while someone else hit it with an ax to force a door open. And we climbed hundred-foot aerial ladders carrying hose. I had to overcome any latent fear of heights. Instructors would put a ten-foot scaling ladder flat up against the building. We had to climb straight up to enter a window, reposition the ladder into the next window, and climb that.
We also had to rappel down from the roof of a six-story building, a tactic sometimes used to rescue people who were trapped. It was terrifying looking over the edge, even with a net below. Eventually, it became fun. I never did it at a fire scene myself, but I commanded at a job where firefighters rappelled down a building to save a person who otherwise would have died.
Always our instructors stressed safety. When I started, the turnout coat was very light and not protective. Water would go down into your boots. You’d get the top of your ears burned, a sign you needed to get out. We changed to bunker pants and a coat made of Nomex with a heavy thermal lining, and these days a Nomex hood for head and ear protection. Other equipment, such as thermal cameras, which show the location of the fire, have improved safety.
There were other lessons. During training for first aid, I corrected the instructor who was talking about hyperthermia. I had literally memorized the manual while competing in first aid with the Vollies. He went off on me, but later apologized and said I was right. Even so, I learned being right isn’t everything. In the fire academy, the firehouse, and life, creating a team was paramount.
My parents came to my graduation from the academy. My father was so proud and my mother was supportive, but I’m sure Mom thought I was crazy. My brother was intrigued. After graduating from Marist College in Poughkeepsie, New York, Kevin had become a paramedic and rode with ambulances for the NYC Health and Hospitals Corporation. He was so skilled that doctors would ask him to intubate patients in the emergency department. We had many discussions about how to get the Fire Department to take over the relatively young Emergency Medical Services (EMS). FDNY did so in 1996.
As a probie, I was assigned to Engine 234, which was in the same firehouse with Ladder 123 and Battalion 38, in Crown Heights, in the middle of Brooklyn on the corner of St. John’s Place and Schenectady Avenue. This was a poor, congested neighborhood made up of African Americans and Hasidic Jews. St. John’s Place East was one of the busiest firehouses in the city for occupied structural fires.
Every FDNY firehouse grabs its personality from the community, especially in distinctly ethnic areas like Crown Heights, Harlem, Chinatown, and Little Italy. Hundreds of languages are spoken in New York, and each firehouse and EMS station has its own culture, depending on the population and the work it does. High-rises or tenements? Industrial or residential? Apartment buildings or private dwellings? Many firehouses interact a lot with school kids, teaching them “stop, drop, and roll” and showing them the fire trucks. But wherever you are, there is always an emotional connection to the community, symbolized by the silhouette of the firefighter in a helmet searching for people who need help—a symbol of hope.
My first firehouse had a lot of minority firefighters. The Vulcan Society, the fraternal order for African American firefighters within the department, had its building around the corner. I didn’t realize until later when I got promoted and worked in different firehouses that the FDNY was 90 percent white at that time. In January 1982, the first women were accepted by the department as the result of sex discrimination lawsuits. My initial firehouse received one of the early female firefighters, who was exceptional. Today, diversity is our goal, to better serve our city’s wonderful mix of cultures and people.
For a year, I wore a helmet with an orange front patch that read, “Prob Firefighter,” to distinguish me from full-fledged firefighters. Probies are inexperienced and, at times, dangerous to themselves. Firefighting requires a set of skills, but it is also an art that can only be developed over time with experience.
At a fire scene, I often watched the most senior person in the company to see what he would do. I remember one older firefighter standing in front of a building as it burned, arms crossed, taking it all in. He took a moment to think, then went to the location where he expected to find a victim. He made the rescue and got a medal for it.
Firefighting is, above all else, learning to control your physical and emotional reactions as you focus on the task at hand. When an alarm comes into the firehouse, you hear a tone alert. Your heart starts to pound. You throw on your gear and jump on the rig. You hear loud sirens in the background as you listen to the radio, trying to glean bits of information. Is someone trapped? As adrenaline flows, your mind races, thinking even before you get to the scene: What do I need to do to get that person out?
Some runs were extremely dangero
us—fire blowing out a window, down a hallway, multiple people trapped, no easy access. In every big fire, it was important to have a sense of fear, which is a warning device. Fear allows you to pick up on information that helps you follow through on your mission. You develop a sense of fear (awareness) and a sense of courage (calmness) at the same time. They are not two separate elements. They come together in that moment of danger.
I worried about people who didn’t have that fear. The smartest firefighters are constantly aware of the hazard as they move into situations where everybody else is running away.
One of my first fires in an occupied residential structure was an accidental blaze in a tenement building dating back to the early 1900s. We didn’t know the origin of the fire. We were on the second or third floor. The Ladder searched the apartment and told us in the Engine that the fire was in a back room. I was on the nozzle.
As a nozzle firefighter, going up against fire can be like fighting a wild animal that has a mind of its own. Flames race across the ceiling as heat surrounds you. Disintegrating plaster falls as the beast tries to outdo your maneuvers. Its intention is to consume everything in its path, leaving charred remains.
When we entered, the smoke was so black I couldn’t see. Somehow, I held on to the nozzle, and squatting down, duckwalked into the room to stay below the heat. Other firefighters were pushing me from behind, keeping the hose straight. Then, while on my knees, gripping the hose with all my power, I hit the ceiling with the water, rotating the nozzle clockwise. I felt the intense heat and saw a glow in the corner. I quickly shot it with a blast of water, driving the flames back.
Outside, the Ladder was breaking windows to enter and search, and opening the roof bulkhead door to let out the smoke. The room started to clear. Now able to see, we continued to extinguish little pockets of fire. Not only did I put out my first fire, I learned that teamwork was absolutely necessary.
In my first few years, I was going to a lot of fires and loved the excitement, the adrenaline rush, and the FDNY culture. A “10-75”—a working fire—would bring four Engines and two Ladders, two chiefs, a Rescue, and a Squad to the scene. The FDNY has a lot of resources, so it sends lots of people. You can always turn them around—but if you need them, you can’t wait.
The St. John’s East firehouse was in a crime-ridden neighborhood with shootings about once a week, sometimes more. Several times, we scurried into the street in front of the firehouse to treat someone with a gunshot wound. We threw the victim in the back of the chief’s SUV and raced to the hospital in our makeshift ambulance while I did CPR.
The housewatch for Engine 234 was a six-foot-square fishbowl with large plate-glass windows in one corner of the building. Though people generally like firefighters, we were afraid we’d catch a stray round, so we installed bulletproof glass behind our housewatch windows. Police officers sometimes dashed into the firehouse to get off the street. They’d hang up their gun belts and we’d feed them.
It wasn’t always about firefighting.
In February 1983, a blizzard dumped two feet of snow on New York City. The only thing moving on most roads were fire trucks. We got called to a house where a seventeen-year-old pregnant woman had gone into labor.
By then, I had been certified as an EMT; we had another EMT and an obstetrics kit on the rig. The baby was coming so fast, and the ambulance couldn’t make it through the snow. We had to deliver the baby ourselves.
I kept talking to the mother as I was delivering her baby, reassuring her that she could do this. The head emerged, followed quickly by the baby’s body. I cradled the tiny girl, suctioned her mouth, and heard her cry. It was the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard. I cut the umbilical cord, wrapped the baby in blankets, and gave her to the mom. We then bundled up mother and child and carried them up the block to an ambulance waiting on the main road. Plowing through heavy snow, we followed the ambulance to make sure they got to the hospital.
The next day, the newspapers wanted to do a story on the blizzard baby. When I walked into the hospital room, the mother didn’t acknowledge me at all. I was crushed. But when I started talking, she immediately recognized my voice and started smiling. A hospital nurse brought the newborn out, and we posed for photos. We’d made a difference for this young family. They would face enough challenges ahead of them, but they were at least healthy, which made me and my fellow firefighters feel very special and part of their lives.
After every fire and emergency run, we returned to the firehouse and talked. What went right, what went wrong, and how to fix it. That was how the firehouse built teamwork and resiliency. Somebody might write a memo, do a magazine article, or suggest a drill. Everyone, no matter their rank, participated.
Unfortunately, line-of-duty death was not uncommon. In 1978, three years before I joined, six FDNY firefighters, including a battalion chief, were killed in a five-alarm blaze at the Waldbaum’s supermarket in Brooklyn when the roof collapsed. Many more were injured.
When even one firefighter is killed in the line of duty, it is traumatic for the whole department.
Once a year, in the first week of June, the FDNY celebrates Medal Day on the steps of City Hall. It is a day on which we recognize acts of bravery and initiative. Firehouse members and families come out to cheer their fellow medal recipients. For each medal, a short description of the heroic act is read. We marvel at their courage and wonder how they could even be alive after running into such dangerous circumstances.
For the firefighters receiving the medal, the rescue is exciting but at the same time part of the job. When they are recognized by their peers, who understand exactly what dangers and challenges they face, they feel appreciated and understood by those who truly get it. Running into danger requires courage and training. When it’s done, firefighters feel privileged to have an opportunity to make a difference in someone’s life, and that is extraordinary.
* * *
• • •
I worked as a firefighter for six years at St. John’s East, three years in Engine 234 and the other three in Ladder 123. Occasionally, I was sent to other firehouses in the battalion to balance manpower. Over time, I changed, not only in my level of skill, but also in my physical reactions to danger, my intuition. I learned to listen to the fear, but control it to do what I had to do.
As a firefighter often working in darkness, your other senses become keener as you listen for moaning victims or sense a temperature change. Experienced firefighters are like bloodhounds. Even from a mile away, we can tell if it’s a real fire or a false alarm. A burning car and a burning building don’t smell the same.
Working on the Fourth of July in the 1980s meant running all night chasing blazes set by fireworks, which would fly into a window and burn very quickly. After putting it out, we could go to the roof and be able to pick out the next fire.
Every now and then, I’d be detailed to be the chief’s aide in Battalion 38. The chief is like a conductor of an orchestra, getting everyone to work together. One time, as we were driving between firehouses, we received a run a block away and got to a fire before the units. I told the chief I’d go inside and find out what was happening. The idea is to find any people as soon as possible. Fire rapidly spreads, so every minute counts.
I did a quick search of the fire apartment and found an elderly woman trapped in a bedroom, frozen in terror.
Over the years, I’d learned that if you gave people clear direction, they would follow it.
I told her what we were going to do, guided her past the flames while shielding her with my coat, and got her out before we had water on the fire. Though it wasn’t a terribly dangerous rescue, I received a citation and a ribbon on my jacket.
I made lieutenant in August 1987 with a little less than six years on the job. On my first day as a lieutenant, an older firefighter looked at me and said, “You look younger than my son. I need to retire.” And he did.
&nb
sp; As an officer, it’s not enough to know what to do. You become responsible for firefighters and their safety.
When a fire becomes more and more complex, and we have to make decisions, the stress level increases. One of the most difficult times as an officer is receiving a “mayday” message, a signal that the firefighter is in trouble. “Mayday, mayday, mayday”—repeated three times—means the firefighter is trapped, doesn’t know their way out of the building, or is seriously injured. It tells the other firefighters to stop talking on the radio and listen. In just three words, a lot is being communicated. Something is seriously wrong—a life-or-death situation.
In a type of checklist, officers need to know the firefighter’s location, their unit, the assignment, and what resources are available so we can make sure the firefighter gets out of the building alive. Leadership is more than giving orders. It’s about sharing the danger and making critical decisions.
I bounced around firehouses for a year covering open spots, then got a permanent slot in Ladder 128, which was quartered with Engine 259 and Battalion 45, located directly across the street from Calvary Cemetery in Sunnyside Queens—thus the nickname “Tombstone Territory.”
Ladder 128 was slower than my Brooklyn firehouse, near two expressways, and one of the few Ladder companies at the time to have a Hurst tool, the so-called “Jaws of Life” apparatus. We worked a lot of car accidents and had to use it to pry metal apart to free the injured. You could read the manual all you wanted, but only practice gave you proficiency with the tool. A nearby junkyard processed vehicles. I’d order ten cars and we’d cut them up for practice. Everybody loved a hands-on drill. Occasionally we got into power struggles with police responders, who also had Hurst tools. Who gets to do the rescue?
Ordinary Heroes Page 14
