Fire in the Belly

Sunshine streamed in through the large bay windows as a few men polished the chrome and others repacked hose.  It had been fairly quiet all day with only a handful of false alarms up at Ridley Hall in College Town.  It was amazing that this alarm was tripping at least once a day for a week and the glitch hadn’t been isolated.  Of course, each time Engine Two and Truck Three had made the half-hour round trip to investigate.  To Bob, this seemed absolutely ridiculous, but the guys he was covering didn’t complain at all.  They just seemed to take it in stride and not get fazed, regardless of the frustration.

Bob was a freelance writer who had been given an assignment by the New York Times Magazine to do a story on an unusual group of city workers in Ithaca, a small Upstate New York city dominated by Ithaca College and Cornell.  A college town in every way similar to the fabled Farber of Animal House, Ithaca had for years run a program with both schools offering a job and free room (no board) to any male student in need of financial aid.  The unusual aspect was the job the town provided.  For the commitment of at least one year, the town would provide housing at their Central Fire Station and a job starting at $9,000 per year as an entry-level fireman – or Fire Bunker, as they were called.

Bob watched the men go about their mundane duties in the fire bays.  There were three engines and one truck stationed at Central.  The engines held hundreds of yards of various sized hoses and pumped the water from the city’s water hydrant system to the hoses used to fight a fire.  Truck Three was a very long ladder truck that had a cherry picker and because of its length, it had an extra cab on the back to steer the rear wheels to navigate turns quickly and efficiently.  There were also two small pick-up trucks to ferry the chiefs to the scene.  Bob had been sitting off to the side for the past three hours, fully dressed in boots, pants, coat, and helmet, periodically slapping a pair of gloves against his thigh.  Being from The Times, and against the Chief’s wishes, the Mayor had granted him full access, which also meant that he could join the Bunkers on any call he wished.

Bob was dozing on and off when finally the internal bells in the station went off – and they were loud.  Immediately men began dropping through the fire bay ceiling from four different points, sliding down fire poles.  They landed with a loud thud and in a determined way walked over to their assigned vehicle and climb aboard.  They quietly chatted amongst themselves, fully believing that they were on their way to another false alarm.

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The Bunker program had begun after World War II as a post-depression era solution to higher education.  A big success in the Ozzie and Harriet ’50s, when civic duty was still a priority, the program endured through the radical 60s, the Vietnam 70s, the punk rock 80s, and the dot-com 90s.  Except for people in the firemen’s world and a few admissions officers at local area schools, most weren’t aware it existed, even in Ithaca. Most people Bob asked around town, told him that the Fire Department was made up of paid professionals. There was no reason for them to notice anything else.

Outwardly, the Bunkers blended in well with the veterans, but the differences were stark. The salary was less than half what a career-minded entry-level fireman received, and the accommodations were very spartan.  They mirrored what Bob thought was similar to a marine barracks. The bunker quarters were each comprised of ten single beds, with a metal side table and that was it. The walls were cinder block, painted off white, and there were two small windows at ceiling height without curtains. The floor was yellowing linoleum with small black flecks. There were a pair of boots with thick yellow pants and suspenders sticking out of them standing abreast of every single bed – as if waiting for someone to jump into them feet first.

In a corner of the room, there was a pole attached to the ceiling that ran down through the floor.  Next to the pole along the wall were long yellow coats hanging one after the other, each with a black fire helmet together hung on a hook. They looked like sentries, leaning up against the wall waiting for the bell. There was nothing else in the room at all – no personal effects or alarm clocks or pictures. All the Bunker’s personal items had to be kept in a large locker. Basically, a cupboard that opened with two doors and consisted of a small set of drawers and a place to hang clothes, and that was it.

In itself, the Bunker program would make a nice story, but more was needed to have attracted the interest of The Times, and that “more” was Jake O’Conner. Jake was, at the time of Bob’s visit, a sophomore at Ithaca College. He had been a Bunker for about a year and a half starting in his freshman year, and never in his wildest dreams was being a fireman anywhere on the list.

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Jake was the last of five children from a middle-class Irish family and was a perfect fit for the Bunker Program. His family believed strongly in higher education, but the money had run out by the time it was Jake’s turn. He also had a distant Uncle that was a career fireman, and both his Dad and his oldest brother were alums of Ithaca College. When it was all added up, the admissions office already had Jake signed up before he was even notified of being accepted at the school. Before he knew it, he was at the Ithaca Fire Training Center, a few weeks before school began.

Jake was an exceptional athlete and a natural leader. In high school, he was captain of the soccer and basketball teams and was the MVP in soccer his senior year. He had been brought up by a father who was an extremely successful college coach, and a mother who was a librarian and supported and pushed him to excel. If being a firefighter were in the cards for Jake, he would do what it took to excel at that too.

It seemed that Jake was born to fight fires. Everything came easily to him, and it wasn’t the skill of handling a two and a half-inch hose with 1,000 pounds per square inch of pressure or scampering up and down ladders with flames licking at his heels – it was that Jake just looked like a firefighter.  The fire gear he wore seemed to fit as if he were about to model it down a fashion runway.  It wasn’t that he was so great looking, but without trying he had the part down as if he were the star of a fire-fighting movie.

Not long after joining as a Fire Bunker, he got noticed more broadly outside of the firehouse during a fully involved five-story sorority house fire in Cornell’s College Town neighborhood. After the house was declared a goner, and all of the firefighters were called out, it was learned that there was someone trapped in an upper room.  Jake was just coming off the roof after ventilating the building when he heard the screams. He slid down Truck Three’s huge ladder and when he got to the floor where the screams had come from, glass and all, he dove through a window. After a few tense moments, totally surrounded by smoke, he emerged with the girl and carried her down the ladder to safety.

It didn’t hurt that the local TV station had a camera crew there and caught the whole thing on tape. It was such dramatic footage that a number of TV stations across the state picked up the feed and aired it on their news programs – including a quick sound bite of Jake explaining that the glass couldn’t keep him out – and that maybe when the Coed was better he could finally get a date. It wasn’t before long that letters from women all over the state started flowing into the Central Fire Station, asking if Jake would take them out. He was razzed to no end by the rest of the guys.

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As the alarm bells sounded, Bob stood off to the side not sure what to do when he felt his coat being grabbed from behind. It was Jake who checked Bob’s gear and helped him button up his coat all the way. Bob followed Jake onto the back of Engine Two. In Ithaca, the back really meant the back.  The Bunkers had a tradition of riding to all calls by standing on the back platform of the engine and holding on to a bar positioned over the hose bed. Winter or summer the residents of Ithaca could see their firemen in plain sight, sometimes hanging on for dear life if they were heading to a “worker,” (a fully involved blaze). Jake showed Bob how to slide his arm under the bar and hook his elbow joint around it to keep from falling off. He tightened his chin strap for him and made sure that he had his gloves on correctly while telling Bob to stay right by his side and do whatever he said. As they pulled out of the station, the last thing Bob heard was the loudspeaker crackle, “heavy smoke at South Side Fuels.”

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Fire after fire, Jake was always in the thick of things. He was quickly made lead attack firefighter and shortly thereafter Lieutenant of Company No. 4, and was always the first to enter most fire scenes.  At a particularly nasty worker that burnt down an entire block of State Street, Jake had led an entire family out of the back of a building, moments before it collapsed to the ground. He later said that he was very lucky to just be at the right place at the right time.

News stories just seemed to follow Jake around that year, and like at State Street, he was in the right place when it counted. There was a very large goat cheese manufacturer, located just outside of town that was having trouble making ends meet. The owners had no trouble making cheese, but they had no clue how to handle two hundred goats. It wasn’t before long that a call came in reporting that the huge barn at the goat farm was on fire. Being a full ten miles out of town, by the time the firefighters arrived the barn was fully ablaze. It was an amazing sight as there was little smoke and the thick rafters of the upper half of the barn and its roof were still intact and between each burned what could only be called a furious fire. The barn’s wood was so dry that it burned a gorgeous deep orange. Jake, like the rest of his mates, wasn’t there to save the building as they could tell right away that it was a total loss.

As they set up their hoses to surround and drown the building to keep the fire from spreading to the farmhouse, Jake could hear loud wailing coming from inside the barn.  He grabbed a fire pole, a long pike-shaped tool, crept up to the side of the barn, and hacked a small hole through the burning siding.  He could see through the smoke inside that a large herd of goats was pushing on the door of the barn trying to get out.

Jake ran to the door and noticed it was padlocked shut. With flames ready to pounce on him, he stared with disgust toward the farmhouse, where the owners were looking out their windows at the fire. With one swift whack of his pole, he knocked the lock off its clasp and the doors blew open. Jake was bowled to the ground as a sea of goats rushed over him out into the open air. As it happened, the great goat rescue was once again captured on film. Merely by accident, a local newspaper photographer clicked his shutter just as Jake did his thing and the goats piled over him.

The image was so good that it was picked up by every wire service in the country, eventually being printed in over 300 newspapers nationwide (many in color on the front page).  The picture won the photographer a “photo of the year” award. More importantly to Jake, the goat farmers were successfully prosecuted for arson and insurance fraud – never to harm innocent goats again.

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They blew through intersection after intersection with the siren constantly blaring, and it finally occurred to Bob that his George Plimpton act might not be such a great idea. Riding with the Chief earlier that week, Bob had been to a few fire calls and noticed how the guys pounced on a fire scene once they arrived and wasted no time getting the hydrant hooked up and investigating the building. From what he had heard on the loudspeaker, this was no false alarm, and the look on the faces of the guys surrounding him was grim. Only Jake looked the same as always, and as he was to stay by Jake’s side, Bob became a little more confident – but not by much.

As the engine approached, Bob could smell smoke and he tried to peer over the cab of the truck to get a better view. He could only see a sign that read, “South Side Fuels, serving Ithaca’s oil and propane needs.” One of the guys mumbled something about this being a refueling station, as the fire engine pulled into the parking lot and ground to a halt.

Normally, at this stage of a call with a working fire in front of them, the men would be scurrying like bees in a hive, but the danger was telling as everyone just peered at the fire from where they stood.  They made sure for protection that some part of the engine was between themselves and the fire. Most of the guys didn’t know what was inside, but with fuel as part of the company’s name, they weren’t too keen on trying to find out.

Jake got everybody’s attention quickly thereafter.  He got a group of the guys to get a hydrant attached to the engine, and from a good distance to begin setting up a few two and a half stations just in case.  He then grabbed Bob by the arm and told him something he was hoping he would never hear, “Let’s go take a closer look and see what we’ve got.”  Bob felt he had no choice but to follow.

They both squatted down about 100 feet from the building to survey the scene.  There were two large and tall one-story buildings that were attached by a roof that seemed to be high enough for a truck to drive under.  The buildings were smoking a lot more than when they first arrived, but Bob couldn’t see any fire yet.  He looked over his shoulder back at the entrance to the parking lot, hoping for some help, but there was still only one engine and everyone seemed to be doing something.  Bob’s attention was jerked back to the fire when he heard a loud bang coming from the closest building.  Just then a wisp of fire shot out of a window and snuck back inside.  Jake tapped Bob’s shoulder and pointed toward the space between the buildings, “I want to see if we can save the other building – it may not be involved yet. Let’s go!”  Bob wanted to run in the other direction, but something made him nod his head.  Neither of them had air tanks, but Bob had figured that Jake hadn’t bothered with them because he wouldn’t be going inside.  As they approached the buildings the smoke began to get really thick and Bob wished he had stayed back by the truck.

Both Bob and Jake were now just outside of the drive-through area.  It was so smoky that Jake had Bob lie on the ground where the air was a little clearer.  Jake’s radio crackled, “We just got word that there are three oil truck bays in each building.  Can you tell me if there are any trucks currently inside?  We need to know if we should evacuate the area.  A lot of kids live around here…” As Bob listened to this message from the Chief, the smoke was so thick that he couldn’t see anything.  Worst of all he couldn’t breathe.  Everything in front of his burning eyes was grey.  He began to notice black spots that were moving fast by his head.  As one approached he saw Jake’s nose and face push out of the dark smoke, literally breathe in the black spot, and disappear back into the gray void.  Another spot came cruising by and Bob mimicked Jake, breathing in the cool air and relieving an edge of the anxiety-filled panic that was overcoming him.

Just as Bob felt that he couldn’t take anymore, the wind shifted and the smoke completely lifted.  He saw Jake squatting close to the ground right next to him.  He turned and grabbed Bob by the coat collar and dragged him to the door of the closest building.  Bob crouched next to Jake as he tried the door.  It must have been locked because Jake got up and immediately began kicking it with a fury.

Right then the radio crackled again, but only Bob heard it over the racket Jake was making. “We just caught up with the owners Jake, you don’t want to know what they’ve told us – just get the hell out of there now!”  Bob approached Jake from behind to tell him that he was leaving, just as the door flew open.  Bob could see right into the building and despite the heat, a freezing cold streak shot through him.  Lined up along each wall as far as he could see were propane tanks – five and six deep. He saw what looked like two propane filling stations just to the right of the door.  In the center was a smoldering chassis of a large truck that had been melted to the floor with only the tires left smoldering.  The fire was mostly confined to the ceiling toward the far end of the building, but Bob noticed right away that the flames were moving quickly in their direction – apparently drawn by the surge of oxygen provided by the open door.

Jake turned to Bob and yelled, “Try to beat me back to the engine – let’s go, now!”

Jake and Bob got about five or six strides toward the engine and away from the horror they had just witnessed when hell was finally unleashed.  Too late, the Chief had learned from the fuel company owners that in addition to the full oil trucks parked in the buildings, there were about 1,500 propane tanks, but most importantly there were two 30,000-gallon gas tanks buried below the surface.

Bob felt as if he were run over by a truck as he lay on the ground not more than 10 feet from the engine.  Somehow he had made the 100 feet back to the engine, but he didn’t know how.  He couldn’t hear anything, but he felt himself being dragged along the ground.  He looked up and saw Jake pulling on his coat sleeve.  He thought he was seeing things because all of the logos and reflection tape on Jake’s coat were blurry, but he wasn’t as they were melted.  His helmet looked like a skullcap with all of its edges chipped away.  After a few feet, Bob pulled himself to his feet.  He gave Jake a wink and walked the remaining feet to the other side of the fire engine.  As he made the turn he glanced back toward the fire and noticed that no part of the buildings was left standing, but there was what appeared to be a forty-foot high flame shooting into the sky like a giant Bic lighter.  Both he and Jake pointed at each other and began hollering for joy at the top of their lungs.  They hugged each other, danced in a circle, and burst out laughing.

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Days later, Bob sat at his desk late at night staring at a blank screen on his laptop. He held a glass of 16-year-old Lagavulin single malt scotch in one hand, and a picture of a burnt South Side Fuels in the other.  He shook his head, flicked off his computer, and as he left his study thoughts of new topics that would interest his editor at the Times ran through his head.