Planning Your Area Training Weekend: A Satirical Guide...

A chief was tasked by his areas mutual aid association with obtaining course information from two of the myriad private training companies out there to put on a weekend program. He sent me the email string resulting. It’s entertaining.  Especially since everyone kept hitting “reply all.”  I have edited names to protect the guilty. 
 

From: RuralChief@ Heatmail.net

Gentlemen, our local association has settled on your two companies as the finalists to provide our first annual Hot Dogs and Hydrants Training Weekend training, which we hope will become the region’s top event. We know it will cost us a few bucks a head, but think it will be worth bringing your experts in. If you could provide some information on the programs you’d propose and your instructors, it would be appreciated.   

From: ______@heavyfireshowingtraining.org

Our kick ass hands on programs are second to none.  For your folks we’re thinking one of our heavy duty firefighter survival classes would be helpful. Our experienced staff which includes retired captains and lieutenants from busy departments across the country, including the requisite FDNY officer all training companies are required to have.  We’ll teach your personnel sixteen ways to bail out of windows including the head first ladder slide with half gainer. No one else in the industry knows these techniques. For only $450 per head it’s a great value.  

 

From ______@throughtherooffiretraining.com

The firefighter survival stuff is so yesterday. You need a company like ours who can give you the latest in research based suppression. We’ll teach you how to use drones to read the smoke and determine the fire flow path (our drones—which we can provide to your departments for only $8500 per unit plus shipping and handling) are painted LaFrance red and use infrared technology.  Our instructors have adopted every new bit of terminology which will enhance your student experience. For example, we’ll teach your personnel to say “transitional attack” instead of “hit it hard from the yard” like you have for 40 years and much more.  We’ll use our ‘Hefti-house’ to model live fire behavior at small scale in your parking lot.  We even have mini firefighters and ladders. Our program runs only $400 per student, a fantastic value.

 

From: _____@heavyfireshowingtraining.org  

We know you don’t want any of that doll house crap the other guys are selling. Our instructors are all highly experienced. Each one of them has burned up at least three leather helmets in local burn buildings. They all have the standard large droopy mustache or Fu Manchu; mandatory for tough firefighters.

 

From: ______@throughtherooffiretraining.com

How about tattoos? Our guys all have at least half sleeves with flames and Maltese crosses. Nothing says excellence in fire instruction like tattoos. By the way, how about an occupancy based session?  We offer the only program in the country on Mosque firefighting. Our head instructor, Captain Don “Hydrant” Outlet is highly experienced with this occupancy having run over four automatic alarms at one. Only $350 per head. 

 

From: _____@heavyfireshowingtraining.org  

Our guys and gals (we offer female instructors) have tats and mustaches. I bet there isn’t a Mosque within a hundred miles of your area. You want specialized occupancy, can do. We do the only program in the country on backyard gazebo fires.  Only $300 per head. Talk about a challenging building type. The flow path characteristics are like no other.  If you get on scene before it has collapsed, our training will give you the tactics needed for an aggressive interior attack at this tough, challenging, building type. 

 

From: ______@throughtherooffiretraining.com

Do they teach sheds too? You want specialized and unique?  We got it. Garbage trucks. These bad boys are incredibly dangerous and require a full haz-mat assignment, particularly for decontamination afterward. The disposable diaper residue commonly present is highly toxic and needs careful handling and our training gives you the tools. We’ll teach the use of CAFS for vapor suppression and will do this as an add on to our Mosque program for only an additional $50 per head. 

 From: RuralChief@heatmail.net

Gentlemen, thanks for the information and proposals. Since our budget is only $15 per head, after careful consideration, we’ve decided we’re just going to run a fire police class.  One of our local guys, Charlie, will teach it if we feed him lunch.  Charlie weighs in at around 375, so lunch for him won’t be cheap. Perhaps when our budget is bigger or somebody builds a Mosque or we have a major increase in gazebo fires, we’ll get back in touch….

Coming soon...Fire In His Bones

My new novel and sequel to Mayday! Firefighter Down. 

Fire In His Bones will be released this fall. From the back cover...

“Dave, we do a great job in this department with every victim we encounter except one, the one in the mirror.  You’re a victim and you either don’t know it or won’t admit it,” Chief Mann said. Captain Dave Michaels attained his dream job as the company commander of Rescue Squad 1, one of two such elite units in Fairmont County.  But the dream turns into a nightmare, literally, when his crew is first arriving after a North Korean sponsored terrorist bombing of a library slaughters a visiting Kindergarten class.  The “old school” Michaels resists help as his life spirals downward.  Removed from his company and saddled with a desk, Michaels faces the loss of his job, wife, and family.  Assigned to develop a rescue squad training program, the project turns out to be more valuable than imagined, teaching him about himself and helping him deal with the mental trauma.  The assignment and the help of a firefighter counselor reopens the fire house door.  Restored to command of a truck company, Michaels works through his struggles to reach a stronger place, at the same time wondering if the deadly attack was a lone wolf or are more in the wings?

A Great Visit to Maryland

On July 10th, the new Truck 715 was placed in service, and one minute later, ran its first call. A fantastic visit with the third generation of Ryman firefighters, and got to see some old friends.

Captain Michael Ryman and Chief Goldstein

 

One minute after the ceremony, the first call drops.

The real "baptism." A structure fire that evening.

Memories

Sorting through old pictures, we discovered a now poignant shot, long forgotten.  The two sets of bunker pants, one real, the other real enough for the owner, sitting side-by-side awaiting a call.  I remember the line advancement with pretend hose and search drills the little guy did in the living room.  The boots,  his, are bigger now and the pants real.  It was a joy watching him grow into them and taking him inside his first time.  Memories are a good thing. 

An End of Winter Teaser.

It’s been an interminable winter, good only for one thing, writing.  Work on the sequel to Mayday: Firefighter Down! is coming along, up to around 69,000 words so far.  Predicting when a project will be complete is an act of futility, but a “teaser” may be in order.  No plot or story hints right now, but here is a scene I recently finished. 

Mickey was on kelly day Monday, the next day Dave’s shift worked.  Firefighter Mark Perry, a five year man, was detailed in to cover the shift.  On overtime from the fifth battalion, none of the truck crew had worked with him before. 

            The morning routine proceeded normally until Dave walked into the kitchen around 8:15 for a caffeine refill and found the detail man sitting at the table reading the newspaper.  Before he could say anything, Pizza walked in. 

            “Have you finished your equipment check out, kid?” 

            Dave knew Pizza wouldn’t have asked if he didn’t already know the answer. 

            Perry answered without looking up from the paper.

            “I’ll get to it.” 

            Joe balled up his fists and started for the detail man until Dave raised his hand. 

            “Perry, my office, now.” 

            “Come on, Captain; don’t tell me you’re one of those rule book pukes.  I heard you were a straight shooter.” 

            Dave looked over at Pizza.  He used every ounce of restraint in his body not to grab the kid by the throat.  

            “Perry, either walk out the door and go on sick leave or get your ass in my fucking office now.” 

            The young firefighter rose, and faced Michaels.

            “Sure Captain, let’s go have a chat.” 

            In the office, Dave leaned against his desk while Perry slouched in one of the extra chairs.  The engine officer was out on a run. 

            “What’s your problem?” Dave asked.

            “My problem?  I’m here on an overtime shift, not to kill myself.  You want to give me that rule book shit, no problem.  I’ll be filing a grievance by lunch time.” 

            “Kid, let me explain something to you.  On this company, firefighting isn’t something we do, it’s who we are.  You just want to collect a check, go back to the fifth.  I don’t want you here.” 

            “Gladly, I feel like I’ve got a fever coming on anyway,” Perry said, rising from the chair.  Michaels walked past him and opened the office door, motioning him out.  As he hit the threshold, Dave said, “he’s all yours, Pizza.” 

            Outside the office, Pizza waited.  Perry walked out and Dave shut the door behind him.  Pizza grabbed Perry by the throat with one hand and lifted him from the ground, pinning him against the wall. 

            “You listen to me, fuck-wad.  You’re not going to file a grievance; you’re not going to file shit.  I know everybody in this department and I’ll make sure the rest of your short career will be a living hell.  You want to learn to be a fireman, stay; we’ll teach you.  You want to leave, be my guest.  I don’t give a shit which.  Now nod you understand.” 

            Perry’s face was red, verging on purple from lack of oxygen.  Pizza flexed his wrist to make the young man’s head bob like a puppet.  He dropped him to the floor, turned, and walked away.  Perry sank to his knees, gasping for breath, bruises starting to form on his neck. 

            Within minutes, Perry gathered his gear and exited the rear door, driving away without another word.  Dave walked across the apparatus floor to the battalion chief’s office. 

            “My detailed firefighter went home sick,” he told the chief.  The older man looked up from his desk and Dave, lifting one eyebrow. 

“Anything I need to know, Dave?”

“You may not want to take him in the battalion on any more details; seems prone to…illness.” 

            “Got it, Dave; you okay running understaffed until I can call somebody in?” 

            “Yeah, we’re fine.  Give Mickey a call.  I don’t think he had anything special planned today; might make it easier.”  Dave knew Mickey might appreciate the overtime he’d get paid for coming in on his day off.

            “Okay Dave, I’ll let you know.” 

 

 

Coming Soon! "Mayday! Firefighter Down"

Working through the final edits and corrections on the draft layout for Mayday! Firefighter Down.

Fire Companies and the Founders—An Introduction

It is difficult for those of us in this era to understand the unbridled fear that a cry of “fire” could rouse in the citizens of Revolutionary times.  It was both a friend, necessary for cooking, heating and life itself and at the same time, a destructive force which could lay waste to an entire city in a day if uncontrolled.  Benjamin Franklin is commonly considered the “father” of the volunteer fire company, which he organized in Philadelphia, but many of the ideas he used there were drawn from existing companies in his original home town of Boston.   

Church bells were the original station siren or pager of the day.  Such an alarm did not only bring out the engine men, but the community as a whole with their buckets.  Early truck work was aggressive and took the form of sometimes tearing down neighboring homes or buildings with their hooks to contain the fire and limit spread, the trench cut of the 1700s. 

In Boston, Revolutionary leaders such as Sam Adams and John Hancock were firewards (equivalent to a modern day Captain) and helped organize their companies as part of the resistance to the British.  Other firewards were participants in and gave aid in Paul Revere’s ride.  In some cities, fire companies adopted resolutions stating they would not fight a fire, should one occur, in the hated Tax Stamp office unless other property was endangered.  The Sons of Liberty, a Revolutionary era political organization with an anti-British focus drew a significant percentage of its membership from the ranks of the firemen in many cities.  That is not to say that firemen universally supported the Revolution any more than all firefighters today subscribe to a particular ideology.  Firemen then supervised actual political fires including effigy burnings and those of Tax Stamps.  Historians argue that fire companies provided a model and much manpower for Revolutionary ideals and organizations.  Many fought as part of the Continental Army and cities had difficulty maintaining their companies and engines.  As the towns and cities sprung up, so did the need for fire companies.   

Franklin wrote about the reasons men volunteered in their communities.  They did it “not for the sake of reward money or fame.  There is no provision of either made for them.  But they have a reward in themselves, and they love one another.”  Altruistic reasons aside, some things haven’t changed as the fire companies of the Revolutionary era enjoyed “a vibrant social life.”   

While it may seem simplistic, the development of American cities with the density of housing and other buildings as well as vertical expansion with taller buildings simply could not have happened without fire departments.  Today, fire departments are viewed by many as simply another public agency for which municipal budgets and taxes struggle to support.  In the era of the Revolution, they were truly part of the foundation without which the country could not have survived. 

 

From the mouths of babes—come Chiefs

Walking in for a visit with a friend of mine, I saw the assistant chief’s buggy outside the building. 

“So, you put a white hat back on?” I asked him.  My friend had been the department chief a number of years ago.

“No, I took a captain’s spot.  That’s his,” he said pointing at a young—well young to me—man who he then introduced me to.  My friend then went on to tell me that the young man’s father had been a captain when he had been chief years before and he knew the now assistant chief since he had been quite young. 

My friend told how the boy had enjoyed his trips to the fire house, looking at the equipment and asking questions.  One day, when he was about five years old, he noticed my friend’s turn out gear in the back of the chief’s car. 

“What’s that for?” He asked. 

“Well, when I get to the fire, I put my gear one,” my friend answered. 

“Really?  My daddy says you just go to the fire and yell at everybody.” 

Oh Where Oh Where Should My Red Light Be...

Warning lights in the 1960s weren’t the high efficiency LED’s or strobes we see today.  A single bulb “Vitalite” was the norm.  Back then, West Corners had a whopping two traffic lights, both of which were relatively new.  Heavy traffic for emergency responders was not a major problem. 

Mom was not a fan of lights on the roof of cars.  She felt they detracted from the looks.  Further, she didn’t even like them on the front dash, arguing they obstructed her vision. 

None of this was much of an issue when Dad was a firefighter, lieutenant, or captain.  We lived less than a mile from the station; one stop sign and two turns away.  When he made Assistant Chief and had to start responding to the scene, things changed. 

A mobile radio—with tubes—was installed in the car.  A miniature manual siren was bolted under the hood.  Neither of these was a problem; it was the red light that was in dispute.   Locating it on the roof was out of the question and her objections regarding the front dash were continued.  The light ended up on the rear deck in the back window of the old Dodge. 

This location was one step above useless.  When parked at a scene, it could be useful, but did little to expedite actually getting there. 

All this changed one fortuitous day when Mom and I happened to be in the car with Dad when a fire call was received.  Dad called out as responding and activated the light on the rear deck and the dinky siren, and attempted to weave his way through what passed as traffic in our little town.   In the front seat, Mom was astounded at the difficulty he experienced. 

“Why won’t these people pull over?” She asked, incredulous over this lack of cooperation, her hands braced o the dash board against the bobbing and weaving of the car.

“Because nobody can see the damn light,” Dad said.  Mom knew better than to continue the conversation while we were enroute to the call.  Meanwhile, I was having a blast in the back seat; seeing the flashes of red bounce in and out of the car and looking for smoke in the sky in front of us. 

Mom and I watched from the car while the incident, nothing serious if memory serves, was handled.  When the fire apparatus was repacked and returning to the station, Dad got back in the car.  Mom had apparently been giving some thought to the ride we took to the scene and her previous position on the location of the red light in the car.  Before Dad had barely settled in to start the ignition, she revealed her decision.

“Rich, put the damn light wherever you want it.” 

Dad didn’t say anything, but before the day was out, the center of the roof was graced with the old single bulb red light.