Delicate Affair

I realize that in talking about my experiences as a volunteer firefighter, I sometimes portray a humility that borders precipitously on false modesty. And I guess I owe it to the men and women of Thurston County Bald Hills Fire Protection District to take credit for the heroism we showed on one particularly delicate October morning, 5 years ago today.

My pager woke me around 4:30, and as I had been so accustomed to doing, I mentally calculated how long this call could take without forcing me to be late for work. Two hours, tops, since I lived about an hour from the Evergreen State College. Just in case, I threw my work clothes into a bag, and would shave and shower at the fire station if I had to.

The pager read car fire, and I went over all the potential hazards we would face that could lead to one or more of us as victims ourselves. Or worse. Would we be able to control cross traffic this early in the morning, with so many eager drivers speeding along the road to work? What if it was a Volkswagen with a magnesium engine block? If you spray water on a magnesium fire, the reaction can sometimes lead to dangerous explosions. What if there were people trapped inside? Would one of us risk our own lives trying to pull them from a lost situation? Would I be able to control the heroic impulses that often overtake us when we hear the desperate pleas for help?

At the station, I pulled the engine from the bay. Three volunteers arrived. Ginny, one of our few women, had a long history of getting into trouble, both on and off the department. Her husband Tom was in a precarious mental state, being as how Ginny had recently shacked up with another man, a truck driver from Wyoming. And Rob was a loose cannon, as well, with a tendency to stick too hard to the rules and regulations when it suited his needs, and not at all otherwise.

Although I was the youngest, I was the only Lieutenant on scene, so the call would be under my command. I had Ginny drive, because past experience dictated she was far too dangerous behind a hose. And at no less than 80 pounds overweight, she could no longer fit properly in her gear or don an SCBA. Unfortunately, this meant she would be in charge of the pump operations, perhaps the most critical position on a fire scene, as she controlled the lifeline to the firefighters in the heat of battle. She was also by far the worst driver of anyone on the department, a fact underscored when I had to remind her to disengage the break so that we could pull out of the parking lot.

Along the way, I called us en route, and requested everyone's ID tags, which I velcroed to my command chart. If someone should fall, this is how I would identify my comrade. In the back, Rob and Tom struggled mightily to get into their SCBAs, the air tanks that could save their lives in an emergency, or spell their doom with even the slightest malfunction.

With all the grunting and groaning, I was reminded of a PBS documentary that filmed two grizzlies in flagrante delicto.

Rob was already in trouble, the air escaping from his mask so loudly that he could barely hear me.

Hey, Rob, your valve regulator is open.

What?

Close your valve regulator.

What?

We arrived on scene before I could assist Rob with his SCBA, and I told Ginny to keep the engine at least 60 feet from the burning car. She got within 30 feet before I started to get nervous.

Um, yeah. Ginny you might want to stop.

20 feet.

Okay, this is good.

10 feet.

STOP THE GODDAMN ENGINE, GINNY!

She slammed the breaks and we all jerked forward, me dropping my chart.

Er, good job.

I assessed the fire, which didn't seem to be too terribly large, but I knew that underestimating the magnitude of the flames could lead to tragedy. I certainly didn't want to be responsible for making an orphan of Rob's children, or a widow of Ginny, even though she had recently shacked up with a truck driver from Wyoming.

Guys, I think I'm just gonna use the booster reel on this one.

Somehow, Rob heard me over the hissing of his open air tank.

But you're not supposed to use the booster reel on a car fire.

Yeah, I know, Rob, but the fire's almost out, and we're parked too close to pull out the crosslays.

But you're not supposed to use the booster reel on a car fire.

Yeah, like I said...

But you're not supposed to use the booster reel on a car fire.

OKAY, I HEARD YOU, GODDAMN IT! FINE, PULL OUT THE NUMBER 2 CROSSLAY! JEESH! AND FOR FUCK'S SAKE, CLOSE YOUR VALVE REGULATOR!

What?

CLOSE YOUR MOTHERFUCKING VALVE REGULATOR!!!

What?

The scene, of course, was rapidly deteriorating, and I knew that it was my job to pull the team together. I told Tom to help Ginny with the pumps, since she didn't know what she was doing.

I ain't helpin that whore.

Yeah. Great. Or not.

I ordered Ginny to engage the pump and feed water to the Number Two Crosslay once Rob and Tom had fully pulled the hose from the engine.

This one? She asked, fully opening the valve for the Number Four Bedlay on top of the engine, which filled the neatly folded hoses with water, rendering them a useless mess.

NO! Christ, not that one! The Number Two Crosslay!

This one? She asked, fully opening the valve for the Number Three Bedlay.

THE ONE THAT SAYS NUMBER TWO CROSSLAY! THE ONE THAT I'M POINTING AT! THE ONE THAT IS RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU!!! GAH!!!

I climbed atop the engine to assess the damage. It would take us at least an hour to remove, drain and re-lay the lines.

Meanwhile, Rob was in trouble. Having never turned off his valve regulator, his tank was nearly empty. The low air alarm rang loudly.

Why is this bell ringing?

Because you're running out of air, Rob.

Why am I running out of air?

Because your valve regulator is open, Rob.

What?

The situation, now completely and utterly chaotic forced my hand. I decided to use the booster reel, in spite of Rob's protestations, in spite of the rules I was so derelict in upholding.

Ginny, open the water for the booster reel.

This one? she asked. I didn't bother to see which line she ruined. I simply climbed up beside her and opened the line myself.

This one, Ginny. The one that says 'Booster Reel.'

Time was now a hopelessly unaffordable commodity. I rushed to the back of the engine, pulled the booster line off its reel and rushed toward the car. I lifted the nozzle, braced myself and aimed.

The fire had burned itself out.

Great job, guys.

And just like that, the professional firefighters from town, like blisters, showed up only after the work was done.

You know your bedlays are full of water? the driver laughed.

The fire's out. We're all safe.

You know, you're really not supposed to use a booster reel on a car fire.

Rob, his tank fully depleted of air said, I told him.

Behind the pump controls, I could barely hear Ginny mumbling, This one?

And I caught a glimpse of Tom; lonely, stoic, hopelessly inept Tom, watching Ginny from below. He was mouthing the word, whore, over and over and over again.

A fire commander's number one job is to make sure that none of his firefighters come to harm.

And save a few emotional wounds, from which we might never recover, physically, at least, I had proven myself in battle.

I put my arm around Tom, and gave him a brotherly squeeze.

I'm going to be so late for work.