Melancholy memories

NOTE: Orginally written June 1, 2005

Its amazing how certain things bring back memories that you had not quite forgotten but never really thought about. Gina Cavallaro Army Times article has done just that for me. I know its one thing to read the account of how a friend or fellow “brother” gave his all for something but it is something entirely different to witness it first hand. Gina’s article brought back those very memories for me this morning.

I still remember that June day in 1993. We were dispatched to a house fire in a neighboring town. Arriving not long after the first due engine arrived we picked up their line and made the connection to our pump to provide them water then we went to the roof to ventilate. In those days I was riding on an engine, one of those fire trucks that carry water and hose to the scene and take the firefighters drag the hose into the building to find and put the fire out. But everyone always wants to go to the roof for some reason, I guess it’s the exposure you get, everyone can see you doing something and it’s exciting. Jamie and I pulled a ground ladder off the side of the engine, grabbed our tools and went to work. As soon as the first cut was made smoke started to poor out of the incision. As each cut brought forth more smoke we would periodically disappear from the sight of others but never each other. It was summer and we were sweating profusely in our turnout gear, but the chief seemed immune to the heat. Perhaps it was because he always did things his own way, but I’ll never figure out how he got away with only wearing a bunker coat and his white helmet on the scene, with nothing but a pair of shorts and his sneakers.

Jamie and I crossed over to the other side of the roof and began cutting a hole in that side of the roof to aid in the fire suppression activities. As we crossed over I remember seeing the Chief standing there at the top of the ladder watching us and yelling something. Seems like he was always yelling at someone, to do something differently, but with our gear on and the noise of the fire ground I couldn’t tell what it was. To this day I still don’t know what he was saying, but Jamie seemed to know, I guess it was because the Chief was his father and he just knew what his dad wanted done. We created the other ventilation hole and crossed back over to get off the roof. By now the black smoke issuing from the holes we had made had turned to thick white smoke as the engine crews inside the building put water on the fire.

I looked over to the ladder as we made our way and noticed that the Chief was gone, not unusual, he had other things to tend to. We climbed down and headed back to the engine to switch our gear over and go inside. That’s when we noticed that the Chief was walking towards the ambulance. He never made it there collapsing a few feet from the rear door with the EMTs in tow. They scooped him up and slammed the doors behind them as they began working on him. The last thing we both saw was the ambulance pulling away from the scene, rushing him to the hospital. Jamie followed along driven to the hospital by another firefighter.

I don’t remember much of that day after that, but the Chief died about an hour later. Four days later in the hot summer sun, we buried him. I now work not far from the National Fallen Firefighters Memorial, and whenever I get the chance I walk over there and pay my respects to my fallen Chief and brother and the thousands of other names on those brass plates. And, I wonder how it is that the last memory you have of someone is them yelling to you and somehow it’s the fondest memory you can recall of them. To Gina, I wish her the best in dealing with the lost of her new friend and comrade in arms. To all those who have lost a loved one, I commend you to the rolls of the hero’s that survive and keep their memories alive.