From Chapter Twenty - Coming of Age for the Third Generation

“Lets go, I’m low on air,” I said.

He followed me out the front door and onto the snow covered lawn. We both knelt down and removed our helmets and face pieces.

My son and I, together.

I looked over at him as he stared at the house, now only light smoke was coming from the top of the front door.

“Did you enjoy it?” I asked.

He just nodded back at me, a satisfied look on his face.

I always thought it would be great to be there for his first time inside, but I never knew if it would actually happen. I had just lived a dream. Emotions welled up inside me, flowing through my system. I thought I was going to cry. He wasn’t my little boy anymore.

Tiffany's Tap & Grill prepares for Gary's event on June 24th

From Chapter Nineteen - Billy the Kid and Uncle Mike

In just a few years, Little Billy has developed into an excellent, well-trained firefighter, officer, and a degreed engineer. He’s now mentoring another aggressive and smart kid and watching the development of a young man he watched grow up–my son Mike.

The similarities between the two of them are striking, and they’ve developed a close relationship. I like Mike having someone from a younger generation that he can go to for answers and
someone who understands the state training bureaucracy from having experienced it firsthand. The fact that I trust him and the answers he’s giving my kid also helps. They now scuba dive together, and Mike does odd jobs for Billy around the house he’s building. It will be fun to watch how it turns out.

***

A chimney fire had extended to the wall and the construction was a bit unusual. The decorative false walls around the mantle created concealed spaces for the fire to run through. We were having a hell of a time chasing the fire down, and figuring out all the possible avenues of travel. Mike was sent in to give us one tool or another and then stood back to watch. Guido and I were working on opening up while having the standard, reserved, business-like discussion that takes place in such situations.

“What the fuck? You think we should open this fucker up?” Guido asked. “Goddamn this fucking thing is running. We gotta get ahead of the son of a bitch.”

On and on went the typical back-and-forth that goes on when we get frustrated digging out a fire like this. After a half hour we were satisfied we had it all, and we picked up to return to service.

On the way home, Mike was quiet. He asked a couple of questions, trying to learn about the tactics and methods we had employed. Finally the comment I had been waiting for came: “That wasn’t the Uncle Mike I knew.”

From Chapter Eighteen - A Flick of the Switch

My son Mike was thirteen-years-old when his interest in firefighting developed becoming the third generation in a family of firefighters. To me, his transformation seemed instantaneous like the light coming on at the flick of the switch. He began tagging along with me on calls that I chose selectively for time of day and type of call. I didn’t want to expose him to anything really ugly–inevitably that would come if his interest remained.

He started by learning how to rack or reload hose as well as how to change an air cylinder. He picked up the names of various pieces of equipment, both real and slang. I didn’t push him. I’ve seen too many sons join because of their fathers. Either they were forced to sign up or they joined out of some sense of obligation. Most of them, the sons that is, were worthless as firefighters– they really didn’t want to be there and it showed. You can’t manufacture the desire to do this job.

Mike couldn’t wait for his fourteenth birthday which was the required age to submit the paperwork to join as a cadet. He still wouldn’t be allowed to do a whole lot but he could increase his knowledge by taking a few classes. The timing was good as I had hung my white helmet up for good. Now I could concentrate on working with him and observing him in the field. After he joined, just a few weeks went by before he got his first official lesson. He’d only been on a few calls, and none too serious. It was still all cool-looking gear, flashing lights and blaring sirens to him, regardless of the wisdom I tried to impart.

From Chapter Seventeen - Better to Be Lucky Than Good

The old cliché–it’s better to be lucky than good–sometimes combines with–being in the right place at the right time. It was mid-afternoon, and the old farmhouse was well involved. Clifford, a department north of us in Susquehanna County, had made a good attack with the manpower they had, blitzing with the deck gun from the driveway and knocking down the bulk of the heavy body of fire. Still, a lot of fire on both floors remained. The incident commander developed a plan to simultaneously put crews on the first and second floors to complete the extinguishment and then begin the overhaul. We talked about this a bit, and decided it would be more prudent to deal with the first floor initially, so we could get a better look at the structure and make sure it was safe to put guys on the second floor. The stability of the second floor was already questionable in my mind, as the stairs going up were gone, burnt away.

I took a team of four to the first floor; two guys on the line and two with hooks and tools opening up the walls and ceiling. They were making good progress on the remaining fire and I was starting to get a look at the supporting elements of the structure when we had a bit of a surprise.

I was kneeling in the living room when a massive crash occurred. Visibility instantly turned to shit. Initially, all I could see was that a portion of the second floor had let go. I ordered an immediate evacuation and started counting heads. “Everybody out!” I yelled through my face piece. The radio mic on my shoulder started screaming with officers outside calling for status reports. I ignored that, at present, pushing guys out the door until I was sure they were all out. About then, the smoke started to lift a bit, and I looked over about two feet to my right. There was a freezer sitting there, which thirty seconds before, had been in a room on the second floor. I exited the building and told the incident commander and the other officers outside what had happened. My hands shook a bit, and my heart still pounded. I was more relieved than scared; relieved that everyone got out alive.

If I had knelt two feet over to the right, I would have been just another line of duty death statistic. Maybe it’s not a cliché after all.

Outside the Covers

Far from every funny or tragic incident from fifty years of three generations can make it into a single volume, the amount of material between the covers limited by practical considerations. This means that many interesting stories—told in fire houses for years—could not be included.

One which has been repeated hundreds of times involves the first time I met my friend Russell. We were both assistant chiefs—he located two departments to the west. One day, a car wreck in Fleetville brought the rescues from both departments as well as the two of us. Crews from both departments went to work removing the roof and popping doors; the usual tasks, but the kid driving was still pinned. The crushing impact had brought parts of the dash and fire wall down onto his feet and lower legs.

Looking at it, Russell determined we could get a tool in next to his legs, but it would take four hands to properly position the tip and move the boy’s feet once the operator began to spread the jaws of the heavy equipment. Space in which to accomplish all this was at a premium. There appeared to be access for only one person, which left us one set of hands short, but never lacking ideas ideas, Russ proposed a solution to me, someone he had never met.

Russ, the larger of the two of us, laid down, his head toward the spot where the tip of the jaws had to be placed. I laid on top of him, oriented in the same direction, and held the victim’s legs, prepared to move them as soon as they were free. With Russell guiding the spreader tips, they slowly opened and I could move the boy’s feet, allowing additional firefighters above us to slide him onto a back board and remove from the car.

Being on top, I crawled out first, followed by my partner from below. He stuck his gloved hand out.

“Russ,” he said as I shook it.

“Gary,” I responded. We’ve been friends ever since.

From Chapter Fifteen - Take the RIT

“Would you take the RIT for me?” he asked. The rapid intervention team on the incident was a rescue company from Carbondale.

“Sure, just get me a portable,” I said and he immediately handed one to me. I went over and met my crew. They seemed like good guys, and they had the right equipment with them.

At that point, we decided to take a look at the underside of the second floor to see if it would be safe to put a full crew up there to overhaul. Following the stairway back to the first floor, we entered the main room beneath the bedroom. We shined our lights on the underside of the floor above, evaluating the extent of the fire damage. It was significant, and with the amount of damage to the carrying beams, it became evident that a full company could not be safely accommodated on the floor above. Then we started to look around and evaluate how much fire remained on the first floor and how extensive the overhaul operations would be. Still in the back of our minds was the possibility that the owner’s body was still somewhere in the building. We knew it was impossible that anyone could have survived that fire.

As we worked our way toward the door to the rear hallway, our hand lights passed over and quickly returned to a form partially lying against the wall next to the door. Unfortunately, we now knew the location of the owner. Apparently he had come downstairs and found the fire. As conditions deteriorated rapidly, he collapsed before making it out the back door.