Smoke Screen

by Suzanne Ouimet

  Smoke Screen

  Suzanne Ouimet

  Published by Suzanne Ouimet at Smashwords

  © 2008 Suzanne Ouimet

  All the characters and events in this novel are fictitious or are

  used fictitiously.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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  Prologue

  Nothing was happening. Not yet. “Be patient.” Finally, a tiny ribbon of smoke spiralled upward.

  “Hardly enough. It needs air.” Squatting down, he leaned over the heap of dried grass and cedar chips and blew on it two or three times. No smoke, not yet, not now.

  “Shit! It should start.”

  He pushed the hood of his black jacket back, off his head. Leaning over the tiny pile, he pulled apart the grass to have a look. The cigarette was still in place. Was it still lit? Yes! It is!

  A gust of wind swirled around him. He moved to the side so it could fan the small mound of fuel.

  “Yes!” he exclaimed aloud, as the dried grass started to smoulder again. Piling a little more grass around it, scattering more cedar chips at the base of the wall, he then stood and went to his truck.

  Watching the infant fire from inside the cab, he could see it was alive, it was growing. He began to tremble. Feeling slightly sick to his stomach, the tears started. It’s her own fault. He pulled the hood of his jacket back over his head.

  Finally gaining control of himself, he scanned the area, saw no one, put the truck in gear and drove away. He hoped no one had seen him. Guess I’ll find out sooner or later. The thought someone might have seen him excited him.

  Early morning, the eastern sky just beginning to lighten, there was no one about. No one would discover the fire until it was too late. He was pretty sure everyone would get out safely. He’d come back later to check.

  - I -

  The call about a fire at the Bellevue Apartments on 7th Street came into the fire hall at 6:51 a.m. A duplicate call was made to Ben George, Chief of Leffler’s Fire Department. He jumped out of bed, dressed and in less than eight minutes was in his truck and at the fire station in twelve.

  Harv Wilson had the pumper warmed up, while the kid, Jim Petrie, raring to go, paced beside the truck. Ben, always called ‘Chief’, scrambling into his protective gear, jumped onto the running board along with the rest of the team. Sirens wailing, they roared down the road, encountering little traffic. Squealing around the corner onto Alma Street, they sped the few blocks to 7th.

  Mid-block, flames engulfed a wooden apartment structure. Huge clouds of black smoke billowed skyward from the burning roof. Most of the windows had been blown out by the heat and flames poured out. Home to about fifteen families, some with children, the building had always seemed a firetrap to Ben. He wondered, once again, why they kept building these wooden multi-family dwellings. Tinder dry, they had no sprinkler systems. In his opinion, a recipe for disaster.

  The engine pulled up in front of the building, scattering a large crowd of onlookers. Quickly deploying the cumbersome hose, the firemen attached it to the hydrant conveniently situated at the curb. Within minutes, huge jets of water shot out to douse the flames.

  A second truck arrived almost immediately. Several more firefighters joined the first crew. Another hose was instantly hooked up, spraying as much water through the windows as they could.

  Several members of the Leffler police force were trying to control the crowd. People wrapped in blankets, arms thrown around their children, stood staring at the fire. Eyes red-rimmed from smoke and grief, they watched helplessly, as their dwellings and belongings surrendered to the flames. Women holding babies sobbed. Several men, soot mixing with the tears rolling down their cheeks, paced up and down, powerless to do anything to protect their homes.

  A short, stout man in a ragged housecoat, commented to no one in particular, “Man, this place is going up fast! Nobody could still be alive.” No one paid him any attention, didn’t even glance his way.

  Two cops approached Ben. “We’ve managed to account for most of the occupants, Chief, but a woman and maybe a baby could be missing – they might not have got out,” one of them told him.

  “Which apartment?” Ben asked.

  “I was told it’s the last one on the right, second floor, in the back.”

  The second cop interjected, “The apartment below it is empty.”

  Ben ran over to a member of the second unit and asked, “Who’s working the rear of the building?”

  “We’ve set up the third unit over on the next street. Had to go through some backyards, but we’re ready to roll,” the firefighter assured him.

  “Do we know for sure this woman didn’t get out?” Ben turned back to the cop. “Do we know she’s actually at home?”

  “Well, as far as I know, she’s the only one missing, No one’s willing to say for sure. It’s still pretty early. Most of the occupants had just gotten out of bed when the fire was discovered. No one’s seen her.”

  Ben ran frantically around to the rear of the building where the third unit was now spraying water and fire deterrent into the windows of the second and third floors, They sprayed up and down and back and forth from one end of the structure to the other.

  Despite knowing the exit doors at both ends of the building were probably secured, he headed for the one at the right, hoping it might be unlocked. It wasn’t.

  “Help me here, will you? Got to get this door open!” Ben called out urgently. “I’m going in!”

  “No way, Chief. Nobody’s goin’ in there,” a member of the second unit told him.

  “I’ve got to go in. I can’t let a woman and her baby die. Get the guys to aim the hose on that last apartment at the back, will you? See if they can get the flames in there beat down. I’m going in.”

  Despite objecting, they helped him smash the metal door with their fire axes until it gave way.

  “He’s doing it again. Has to be the hero,” one of them remarked as Ben disappeared into the building.

  “Yeah, well that’s the Chief for you,” another replied. “Wait and see, he’ll get his name in the paper again.”

  There were no flames in the entry hall, only smoke. Ben donned his mask and began to climb the stairs. The higher he climbed, the thicker the smoke. He kept his hand on the railing all the way up. When he reached the door to the second floor, he grew fearful of flashback.

  He felt the metal door to see how hot it was. Through his gloves he could feel the heat but it wasn’t extreme. Sometimes firefighters found exit doors locked between floors. Several people, he knew, had died in Leffler in the past few years due to this illegal and dangerous practice. But this one opened readily enough from the stairwell landing.

  Feeling his way along the wall, Ben headed through thick smoke to the first door on his right. About two feet of relatively clear air remained just above the floor. Ominous black clouds billowed through the open entryway at the far end of the hall.

  Sitting down, he shouted as he thumped on the closed door.

  “Is anyone in there?” Hearing no answer, he wondered if anybody was even in the apartment. Anxious about flashover, he’d still have to check.

  Ben had good reason to be fearful. A flashover, or backdraft, can happen when a fire is starved of oxygen, where combustion has ceased but gases from such things as upholstery, carpets and other furnishings, along with the smoke, remain at a very high temperature. If oxygen is re-introduced, by opening a door or window, for instance, an explosion can occur, as the gases heat and expand. Despite wearing protective gear, a firefighter has maybe two seconds
to evacuate the flashover area.

  Because the men were pouring water into the apartments through the broken windows, Ben felt the chance of flashover was minimal. He reached up and slowly turned the doorknob. Locked. Using his axe, he began smashing at the lock. After several blows he was finally able to push open the door. Calling out again, he cautiously entered the unit. Standing in the short hallway, he could see into the living room, could see the blackened walls, the broken glass, the charred furniture. Water still poured through the windows. Not too much smoke, but no one in sight.

  Three doors opened off the little hall, two open but one to his left was closed. He felt the knob. Not too hot. He opened it, saw it was the bathroom. Peering through a mist of thin smoke, he could make out a figure on the floor – a young woman clad only in a thin cotton nightgown. Lying on her side she held a young baby protectively to her chest. She’d covered its tiny face with a wet washcloth. Ben knelt down to feel for a pulse on the girl’s wrist. Weak. Still…

  “I’m coming out,” he shouted, turning toward the open windows, not sure anyone could hear him through his mask. Lifting the girl in his arms and making sure the baby was shielded between their bodies, he carried them out of the bathroom then through open apartment door. Thick smoke still obscured the hallway and stairwell. Barely able to see, Ben managed to shoulder his way down the stairs and out the exit door. A few other firemen coming up the stairs told him, as they passed, “The fire’s almost under control. We’re checking the halls to make sure no one else is inside.”

  An ambulance crew waited, just outside the exit door.

  “Weak – the mother – weak pulse,” he gasped through his mask as they took the girl and baby from him. “Not sure about the baby.” Suddenly exhausted, pulling off his mask, he collapsed to the curb.

  “You all right, Chief?” one of the ambulance crew asked him.

  He didn’t answer. Something didn’t feel quite right.

  - II -

  Frannie awoke choking. Opening her eyes, she discovered the room filled with acrid smoke. She could hardly see it was so thick. It smarted her eyes and she immediately began to cough.

  The baby! My baby! Panicking, she stood up. In bare feet she tried to find her way to the nursery. Blinded, her eyes streaming, she bumped into the bedroom door frame. Though the nursery door was opposite her own, she could hardly find the opening. Finally inside, she managed locate the crib almost by feel alone. Reaching down, she scooped her baby girl out of her bedding. Little Nichole didn’t awake. Somehow, she must get her out of this smoke. Only able to stagger the few feet into the bathroom, she closed the door before collapsing to the floor. Here the air was less smoky so she was able to take a deep breath without choking. Pulling herself up to the sink, she ran cold water over two face cloths, wrung them out, then placed one over the baby’s face and the other over her own before lying back down where she could still breath without coughing too much. The baby breathed little shallow breaths and Frannie wondered why she wasn’t coughing.

  The young mother knew that, unless a miracle happened, they wouldn’t last long in this fetid air, which grew thicker by the moment. She closed her eyes and prayed somebody would find them before it was too late.

  * * *

  Waking up later in the hospital with an oxygen mask covering her nose and mouth, Frannie’s first thought was about her baby. Was her little daughter still alive? She remembered nothing since covering the Nichole’s face with the wet washcloth. She remembered reading about using a wet towel as a mask against smoke and hoped it had worked. Looking around the room, she saw an old woman asleep in the bed next to hers. She noticed a button attached by a wire to the raised metal side of her bed and assumed it was to summon a nurse. So she pushed it and waited.

  After what seemed an eternity, a thin, young black woman clad in white with a nurse’s cap perched on her neatly coiffed dark hair, entered the room.

  “Good! You’re awake. How are you feeling?”

  Frannie began to pull the mask from her face.

  “No, don’t pull off your oxygen mask. Leave it on for now,” the nurse ordered gently. “You can speak through it.”

  “Where’s my baby? Is she all right?” Frannie’s voice was very hoarse.

  “She’s okay, she’s good. Luckily Chief George got to the both of you in time. They’re going to keep her in Pediatrics on oxygen for a few days to make sure her lungs are clear. You’ll be able to go and see her in a few hours,” she assured the young mother, as she adjusted her pillows and blanket. “You two had a real close call, you know. Your little girl, she’s a strong one,”

  “Has my aunt been to see me?”

  “I’m not sure. Do you want me to find out? Visiting hours are from 2 until 4, so maybe she’ll be here then. Don’t you worry.

  “We’ll remove that mask in a little while; see how you breathe on your own. If all goes well, we’ll get some food up here for you. I’m sure you must be hungry.”

  Then she left the room leaving Frannie to rest.

  - III -

  In another wing of the same hospital, Ben George was also hooked up to oxygen. After rescuing the girl and her baby, he’d collapsed onto the curb in front of the Bellevue Apartments. A member of the ambulance crew rushed over to check his condition. At first, he thought Ben was suffering from smoke inhalation but soon realized he was having what appeared to be a heart attack and been rushed to hospital.

  Still unaware the young woman and child he’d rescued had survived, he remained sedated, his wife Margaret and their daughter, Lisa, at his side. Barely awake, he was content to lie there with his eyes closed, listening to their quiet chatter.

  His mind wandered and he found himself back in the Solomon Islands, along with the rest of the crew of PT109.

  It was the middle of a pitch black night, August 2, 1943. He was floating, scared silly, in the warm salty water. He would never forget it; it would remain the most defining experience of his life.

  Fourteen of us aboard that night. 02:30, a Japanese destroyer runs us down. Our boat is split in half. Eight of us thrown into the water. We never found two of the guys, Andy and Harold - never did find them.

  Everyone shouting, calling out their names. No one answers. The hull’s on fire. No, it’s only gasoline burning on the water. We all climb back on the wreck. One of the guys, McMahon, is badly burned but the rest of us seem okay. I’ve got a few burns, nothing serious, but think maybe my left ankle is sprained, it hurts like hell.

  A couple of the other guys are barely conscious probably from gasoline fumes. Jack Kennedy is pulling McMahon back onboard. Ross is helping some of the other guys. It’s chaos; I don’t know what everyone is doing. I’m feeling light headed.

  It took hours to get everyone back on board. What was left of the damaged hull was taking on water. The air wasn’t that cold but they were all shivering, suffering from shock. At sunrise, we decided we’d better leave the sinking wreck and swim to a small island about four miles away.

  We all thought we were goners. Well, maybe not Jack, but all worried about sharks, and even crocs in the shallower waters. Not to mention the Japanese who occupied many of the small islands around.

  We felt we were lucky to be alive. We made our way to Bird Island, the non-swimmers and injured men tied to a float made from part of the boat’s gun mount. Stronger swimmers towed it, Jack Kennedy among them.

  On Bird Island – exhausted, traumatized, starving – there was nothing but coconuts to eat, nothing but coconut milk to drink, making some of the guys sick. No water but at least there were no Japanese.

  On the third day, with no rescue in sight, Kennedy and Ross decided everyone should cross over to the next island, where there might be better shelter and more to eat than coconuts.

  Once again, the stronger swimmers towed the weaker on the floating gun mount, managing to reach a new island named Olasana. Still only coconuts, but a little more shelter. It was cold and rainy for a couple of days and we were all p
retty miserable, but at least we were alive. Kennedy and Ross made several swimming forays out into Ferguson Passage hoping to intercept another passing PT boat. No luck. But they did find a barrel of water on another island as well as a small canoe.

  Two natives, Biuku Gasa and Eroni Kumana, finally rescued us, gave us food, clothing and blankets. They used dugout canoes, which seemed hardly large enough for a single man, let alone two, to travel from island to island. Ben would always remember their kindness.

  One night, Kennedy and Ross actually went, yet again, in one of these tiny craft, out into Ferguson Passage hoping to intercept another PT boat. They were capsized in a squall and swept onto a reef. Ross suffered many cuts and bruises, but both made it safely to shore.

  Seven days after the ramming, word finally got back to the Navy. Rescuers took us to the base at Rendova – all except for the two missing men.

  Those poor guys were never found. Jack was decorated although he often declared he’d done nothing heroic. None of the rest of us was even mentioned, but that’s okay. But Kennedy – he'll always be my hero!

  "That's when they started to call me ‘Chief’ back then because I was an Indian," he thought. I’m still an Indian and they still call me ‘Chief’. But it’s not the same. I got a lot of respect back then. A lot less now..… but back then."

  * * *

  Several hours later, when Ben finally awoke reasonably clear-headed, his wife Margaret told him the girl and the baby he’d rescued had not only survived but were going to be fine.

  “That’s good news. I was afraid one of them was gone, maybe both.”