HARRY R. CARTER, Ph.D., MIFireE

Once again the sad dirge of a firefighter’s funeral is heard across the land. Two brave Illinois firefighters have made the supreme sacrifice. As I pause once again to ponder the fact that two more men will not return to their families, my thoughts drift to the issue of safety.

It is a deadly business that we pursue in the fire service. And I would caution you that fire is a most unforgiving foe. As I think back to my days of service with the Newark Fire Department my mind drifts back to a long-ago Sunday in the city. It was a sunny day in June, and the day of our annual historic fire department muster.

As I am often wont to do, I moved out into the antique apparatus area. As I moved quietly and thoughtfully, among the equipment of yesteryear, my mind suddenly seemed to fly up out of my body and move back over the years to an earlier time. I don't know whether to say that it was a happier time, because the statistics and data now available to me tell a tale that it was surely more dangerous than I recall.

However, my heart tells me that I was a lot happier being a brand new fire lad. I guess that at that muster, I became a statistic under the column headed, "victim of the rose colored glasses syndrome." Maybe some of you share these happy memories just like I do.

Think back to the days of yesteryear. Remember what it was like to ride the back step of a pumper, with the wind whistling past your ears, smoke off on the horizon? The siren was wailing, cars were pulling over so that you could move on a bit faster to reach the scene of the blaze. The air horns were trumpeting your approach, much like the horns on mighty battlewagons heralded the start of sea borne conflicts.

How about you aging Truckies out there? What thrill can compare to racing over the city streets, with your arm looped through the bar on the back end of a tractor- drawn, tiller model aerial: hanging on for dear life? I can still see and feel the run down Central Avenue as Truck Company #11 made its way through the Central ward in Newark.

Think back you engine people. Think back to those contests to see who could get the quickest water onto the fire? Remember how many seconds you could save by skipping the task of donning those cumbersome self-contained breathing apparatus units. Do you remember the tough-guy contests we used to hold just to see who could eat the most smoke? Damn those were the good old days. Iron men and wooden ladders! On that Sunday my mind seemed to be filled with the photos, facts and figures of the countless big fires I had been to over the past three decades. The feelings that washed over were warm and satisfying indeed.

I then paused and moved my tour down memory lane into the fire museum itself, which was located next to the equipment display area. I wanted to take a closer look at memorabilia of those times and places that were racing madly in front of my mind’s eye. The glow of nostalgia ran high as I gazed upon the faces of the chiefs, captains and firemen that broke me in many years ago. They stared down at me from their faded photos on the museum walls.

My warm glow began to take on a chilling tinge as I got to the section in the museum devoted to line-of-duty deaths. I stared at the mangled helmets, reading the sad epitaphs and wondering about the loss suffered by the members of my department who had made the supreme sacrifice; members who had answered their final alarm.

Each of the fatal interludes had a story attached. Some were spectacular, others seemingly routine. All brought a tear to your eye, because each carried with it thoughts of a life ended prematurely, and a family left behind. One story seemed particularly poignant to me.

It was the story of the father who was out exercising the company horses on a Sunday morning. He took his son along for the ride, as was the case in those days. What a proud little lad that son must have been as he and his Dad trotted down the thorofare, waving to his friends? Suddenly something spooked the horses and they took off running out of control down the cobblestone street. While the son hung on for dear life, his father worked to regain control of the frightened horses.

And then it happened. The wagon hit a bump, and the father flew into the air. He was hurled to the cobblestone pavement in front of the wagon. The exercise wagon then ran over him on that sunny morning, doing its mortal damage in a thrice. The department records say he died a short while later in the hospital, from massive internal injuries and a fractured skull. What a sorry end to such a fine morning.

My mind then pictured a small boy, sitting in the hospital waiting room. He was crying, off in a corner away from the crowd. Clutched in his hands was a dirty, battered fireman's hat; the only thing left from that morning which started out so swell. He was remembering his Dad, a Dad who would never again hold him on his knee and tell him how much he loved him.

What a needless death it was, I'm quite sure. Was this common in the days before seat belts and safety harnesses? If records of the Newark Fire Department are any indication, a lot of good men met an untimely death in a similar fashion. And what of the little boy? I do not know what happened to that lad, but the great-great-grandson of that fire fighter is currently serving on a truck company in Newark. He is the fifth generation of his family to proudly serve the citizens of Newark.

This cycle of tragedy has repeated itself in the fire service time and again. The driver on my engine company when I was stationed in the Vailsburg firehouse back in the 1980’s lost his father in 1959, when the poor guy was trapped under a collapsing wall, at a fire which occurred a few short hours after my buddy's high school graduation. A line of duty death you might ask? No, because his Dad didn't die until a few months later. The department said that the stroke that felled this mountain of a man was not connected in any way to the severe head injuries suffered on that fateful night.

And on it went during that Sunday afternoon. As I walked and as I pondered, my mind suddenly began to shift away from the warm, rosy glow of nostalgia to the cold hard facts of life. Have you ever noticed how time has a way of taking the bad memories of your life and tucking them off in some inner recess of your mind where they are hardly ever noticed.

As I thought a little harder, some other thoughts began to drift into my mind. I began to remember those cold, stormy nights when I hung on to the back bar of the old Mack pumper for dear life. My buddies and I were freezing, and hoping that we didn't get thrown off the tailboard as we hit the dips and bumps that riddled the streets of our city.

I remember the one particular driver, now retired, who drove down the narrow side streets of our district, hell bent for election with the three of us clinging desperately to the bar, praying that we would live to see dawn. And what about those teeth chattering jolts when we hit bumps and curbs as we jumped and jounced our merry way to the fires? Maybe the bad knees and back that I now share with my doctors serve as the permanent reminder of the days before jump seats and enclosed cabs.

And what about those thrilling days of yesteryear that I spent hanging on to the side of the hook and ladder, or riding backward on the turntable, using my coat-covered back to break the cold chill of winter? Might my arthritis be just another stirring reminder of those thrilling days of yore?

How about those air horns and wailing sirens that have been our close companion on each and every fire response? As I find myself now asking people to repeat their comments to me with an uncomfortable frequency, and as my wife continually tells me to turn down the television because it is too loud for her, I pause and think. Maybe, just maybe, it is that my hearing has become a part of that passing parade of life.

One final, bleak reminder of past duty in the name of the fire service comes in the obituaries that appear in the local paper. How many young men, have gone to an early grave? Men in their late fifties and early sixties are dying of lung disease, cancer and a variety of maladies that are only just now being tied to the smoke they breathed in years past.

Is this the final reward that tough guys, like the ones I knew, deserve. And what about the killer heart attacks that are robbing people of great portions of what should be productive lives, shared with loving families? What a tragic waste of fine human beings.

As I left that muster, my mind drifted back again to the many fires that I had fought without benefit of self-contained breathing apparatus, back in the days before I was converted to the religion of safety. Memories of hot, smoky cellars and bright flaming tenements came racing through my mind. The times when I ended up in the hospital, sucking on oxygen because I had inhaled a toxic chemical came flashing back to me. And what about exposure to carcinogens? I was always taught that these things take decades to catch up with you. After two decades, you start to wonder. How long has the clock been ticking?

Have I done enough in the intervening years to make up for all of my past sins? Are the physicals and the walking exercise at the mall enough? I know I am a pound or two over weight, and that I had best knock a few pounds off. Boy am I glad that I did use SCBA and OSHA approved equipment after awhile. But is it a case of too little, too late? What time bombs are ticking inside of me?

As I drove home on that sunny afternoon, one final, vivid picture was served up to me by my overly active imagination. It was of another little boy in a hospital waiting room. He too was holding a fireman's hat in his hand. I couldn't see his face, but I could hear the lad crying. I shared his sorrow and wanted to comfort him. And then suddenly he turned toward me, so I could see his face. That little boy was my son Todd. DAMN!!!

The rest of the trip home was terribly quiet and very somber, even with the radio blaring and the sun shining brightly. The memories of that afternoon came back to me once again as I read the story of the two men from Illinois. And the picture of the little boy with the hat came back to me once again. One word comes to mind each time I read or hear of a firefighters line-of-duty demise: why?

I challenge you with one simple question. Are you doing all that you possibly can to insure that your fire department is properly trained, and ready for that next battle that we know lies just ahead?If you have to pause to ponder the query, then, my friend, you need to step it up a notch. And if you don’t make the commitment to safety, please be prepared to have the blood of an innocent person on your hands.

Last week we spoke of taking back the fire service – one chief at a time. This week I am suggesting that we must devote ourselves to saving the members of the fire service – one life at a time. And to do this, YOU must become a proactive trainer. If YOU fail to ensure that YOUR department is well trained, you may as well keep that Class A uniform dry-cleaned and that mourning band for your badge at the ready, your going to need them.

The commentary in this column does not necessarily reflect those of Firehouse.Com, Firehouse Magazine, their employees or parent company Cygnus Business Media. Harry R. Carter, Ph.D., MIFireE, is an internationally known municipal fire protection consultant and contributing editor to Firehouse Magazine. He recently retired as a Battalion Commander with the Newark, New Jersey Fire Department. His commentary appears regularly on Firehouse.Com. For more commentary and information, visit Carter's web site at www.harrycarter.com Harry has published several books available for online ordering, including Firefighting Strategy and Tactics and Management in the Fire Service