Report from Engine Co. 82 (12 page)

Looking around the lobby I can see that no one has tools with them. “No claw tools around here Jim,” I reply. “What do you
want one for?”

“The furnace room is under the stairs,” he says, “but it’s locked up. All we need is a claw tool to break the hasp. The way
I feel now all I want to do is open the furnace doors and crawl in with the coals. Somebody go get a claw, or a hook, or a
halligan—anything.”

Big Van, a huge man from Ladder 42, leaves us to look for a tool. There are now seven firemen in the lobby, including Jim
and me, and we all gather around the furnace room door. Jim is the only man who has ventured to take his coat off. The rest
of us know that there is no sense taking our coats off until there is some possibility of getting warm. Jimmy McClure, from
the Squad, has a screwdriver, and begins to turn the screws in the hasp. Good, now the superintendent of the building won’t
be as mad as he would be if we broke the hasp off altogether.

Jim Gintel asks, “Anybody stop to think that this is breaking and entering?”

“A small crime committed in the name of humanity,” I say, rather proudly.

“Humanity, hell!” Jim retorts, “I’m only thinking about us here. There won’t be enough room in there for the rest of humanity.”

Big Van returns with a halligan tool, a steel bar with a claw on one end and an adz and a pick on the other. “Shove it,” Jim
says, “McClure’s almost got it now.”

McClure removes the last screw, and the hasp swings freely on its hinges. I have carefully positioned myself on McClure’s
left, so that I’ll be the first one in as the door is opened. As the door begins to swing out I can feel the moisture and
the warm air escaping. I am the first one in the-room. There are two concrete steps leading down to the boiler pit. I don’t
want to go any further unless I can see where I am going.

“Someone turn on the light,” I say. Hands go up on either side of the doorway, and they slide the walls. The switch is found
and the room is lighted. I look around and begin to shake. I can feel my stomach turning, and the relief of the room’s warm
air just brings sweat to my forehead. The walls are covered with cockroaches and water bugs scurrying in every direction.
Some are as long as three inches, and as they scamper, the smaller ones drop from the walls. The light has surprised and confused
them. I look up at the ceiling, and it, too, is a moving black mass. Roaches are falling all around us, and as they hit the
floor they shoot in the direction of the coal pile as if propelled by a twisted rubber band.

There is a concrete ledge around the boiler pit, just high enough to sit on. McClure throws his coat against the wall. It
hits, then falls on the ledge. He walks down the two steps, picks up his coat and begins to swing it against the wall. The
roaches are fleeing from this madman, and he continues until a portion of the wall is cleared. He sits down, and the other
men begin to sit or stand around him. I don’t want to appear alarmed in front of the other firemen, but I know I have to get
out of this room, out of this building. I’ve been nervous about roaches since I was a kid.

I grew up on the East Side of Manhattan, in the shadows of Sutton and Beekman Places. I lived in a tenement much like this
one, and each Sunday my aunts, uncles, and cousins would climb the five flights of gum-stained marble stairs to our apartment.
They would bring beer, and soda, and food for the weekly visit. At the end of the day, after all the Irish songs were sung
and after a fist fight with a cousin or two was won or lost, the empty bottles would be gathered up and stored beneath the
bath tub, which was prominent in our kitchen. The following morning the bottles would be put in a large brown paper bag. It
was my job to take them to the store for the deposit, which my mother would share with me.

One sunny Monday morning I noticed as I was carrying the bag down the stairs that there was a half inch of beer remaining
in one of the bottles. I put the bag down, and put the bottle to my lips. Since children don’t sip things, I put the lip of
the bottle wholly into my mouth. The bottle was emptied, and as I was about to swallow I felt something moving within the
liquid. I spit the beer out, and with it came a long, thin brown roach. I was nine years old then; it happened more than twenty
years ago, but I still can’t forget it.

Jim Gintel is running back and forth in the small space in front of the furnace. He is demonstrating how to masturbate an
elephant, and as he runs toward me both of his hands are about a foot apart and above his left shoulder. He stops, puts both
hands above his right shoulder, and runs back. The men are laughing wildly. I leave the room unnoticed.

In the lobby I see that Jim’s coat is still standing. I take my own coat off, and hold it at arm’s length. The cold quickly
penetrates my arms and chest. I inspect the coat carefully for roaches, and then put it back on. I take my heavy canvas gloves
from the pocket, and push my hands into them. They are frozen, and I have to apply strength to move the fingers. I pull the
metal door open, and return to the fire.

In the street, I can hear the man in charge of the fire, Chief Marks, yelling, and his voice reminds me of a high G on a saxophone.
Some Chiefs direct fire operations the way NASA Control directs moon shots—calmly, and with great self-assurance. Others,
like Chief Marks, lead their men like Leonard Bernstein conducts the New York Philharmonic in a Stravinsky symphony—with frenzy,
and great excitement. While a competent man, he is known by firemen to be a “screamer,” not a very complimentary title in
our business. Instead of controlling overall operations with dignity and expertise, he runs helter-skelter at a fire, overseeing
each operation, each hose line, each ladder placing. I once saw him yell at a respected New York photographer for standing
around, and ordered him to place a ladder at the side of a burning building. The photographer, who was taking shots on assignment,
simply walked away. I guess the Chief took him for a fireman, because he was wearing a rubber coat that he had borrowed—evidently
he missed the wide Car-din tie, and gleaming Gucci shoes.

Chief Marks holds the rank of Deputy Assistant Chief of Department, which in the military structure is roughly equivalent
to a bird colonel. When he yells he expects people to react as an Army Private would to a General. He is now yelling at Lieutenant
Welch, “Keep that line directed at the roof, Lieutenant. What the-hell is the matter with ya? Keep the line where I tell ya.”

Tom Welch has been around for a long time, and even before he was promoted to Lieutenant he didn’t think of himself as a Private.
He was a fireman who knew what he was doing, a professional.

The wind is gusting heavily now as I stand behind Vinny Royce, but I can hear my Lieutenant yell over the noise, “Listen Chief,
I’m freezing my ass off, and I want to put the fire out as much as you do.”

“What did you say?” the Chief asks, the anger bulging out of his Irish face.

Lieutenant Welch realizes the futility of a confrontation with a Chief at a fire. There is no such thing as being a Jacksonian
democrat in the Fire Department.

“Yeah, Chief,” he replies, “at the roof, I know.” Years of experience show in his resignation.

Benny Carroll has the stream directed at the fallen roof. The icicles hanging from his helmet look like tassels on a party
hat, but there is no indication that the wearer is having fun. His face muscles are strained, and the veins in his neck are
raised. The wind is howling fiercely now, and the water comes back like a sand blast. It seems like small particles of glass
are being wedged into my skin. I think momentarily of the small pleasure of heat in the furnace room across the street. Benny
is calling for relief, and Willy Knipps moves up to take the nozzle. I take my place behind Kelsey and Royce, grasp the two-and-a-half-inch
hose with all my strength, and push forward to relieve the back pressure.

Lieutenant Welch is standing next to us, and I say, “That Chief has a big pair yelling like that, especially on a night like
this. All he has to do is walk around with a walkie-talkie for a little while, and then he gets into a heated Chiefs car and
forgets about us.”

“Yeah,” Lieutenant Welch says, “but at least you know what to expect from him. He yells a lot, and he’s a ball breaker, but
he’ll never hurt ya.”

I’m a little surprised that he’s defending the man who just harassed him, but I know what he means. Some Chiefs never yell,
but if a fireman is a minute late for work, if he has white socks on instead of black, or if he is found smoking on the apparatus
floor of the firehouse, they will not hesitate to write Department charges against the man. The Fire Department is run as
a semi-mibtary organization, and we have a
Book of Rules and Regulations.
These rules are inviolable. If a man is charged with an infraction of these rules and regulations, then, as in the case of
a military court-martial, he is required to stand trial before Department administrators. Very few firemen are found innocent
at these trials, and when found guilty a man can be fined as much as thirty days pay or even be discharged. So when a fireman
says a Chief will never hurt ya, it is a very high tribute.

The fire in front of us has darkened down some, the flames have disappeared into the building. Hundreds of thousands of gallons
of water have been poured into it, and it won’t be much longer before it is a smoldering, rickety ash-heap. Tomorrow the cold
will sweep through its charred rooms, and its dispossessed tenants will sift silently through the ashes looking for something
to save. But there won’t be much left. And they will leave the building forever with half-empty shopping bags.

Lieutenant Welch is next to me, and he is jumping from foot to foot again. His arms are crossed, and he is squeezing himself.
“It’s getting to you, Lou, huh?” I say.

“Yeah,” he replies. “When we first got here, I forgot to pull my boots up, and I have about two inches of water in them. My
feet are freezing, but I don’t want to pour the water out, you know, because what’s in there is acting like insulation. I
think I’d give a week’s pay and two of my children for dry boots and a pair of socks.”

He smiles and I laugh. My own boots are up to my thighs, and my feet are dry, and I feel a bttle guilty that he’s suffering
more than I am.

There is a loud cracking noise, and the sky before us is again filled with fire. The rest of the roof has come down, and the
fire is let loose from its confinement, but it won’t last long. All the lines around the building are directed at the roof.
The fire darkens quickly, and we know it will be over soon. The cold has beaten us, but we won’t have to outlast it.

Chief Marks comes toward us, and in his excited manner yells, “Lieutenant, get an inch-and-a-half line, and take your men
to the top floor.” He doesn’t wait for Lieutenant Welch to respond, but passes us to scream his orders to another company.

Bill Kelsey doesn’t wait for Lieutenant Welch’s instructions, and leaves us to get the smaller hose. The fire has suddenly
become a challenge, and I can see the enthusiasm in the Lieutenant’s face. He calls to Royce, in a voice loud enough for all
of us to hear, “We won’t need masks. The place is vented enough. With the inch-and-a-half we’ll have this fire out in ten
minutes.” The smaller hose is much easier to work with.

Kelsey returns with a fifty-foot length of inch-and-a-half hose, and he couples it onto the two-and-a-half-inch nozzle. Carroll
makes a motion to take the hose, but Kelsey says, “Up yours, Benny. I went to get it and I get to take it in.”

Carroll laughs, and says, “Well, it was worth a try.” I can see that Benny is disappointed. The real work, the real challenge
in firefighting, lies with the man controlling the nozzle.

Kelsey follows Lieutenant Welch into the building. We are right behind them pulling on the big hose, which trails behind the
smaller length. Engine 73 is already in the building dousing the small pockets of fire on the first floor. Engine 50 is doing
the same on the second floor, and Ladder 42 and Ladder 19 are pulling at the ceilings and walls with hooks and halligan tools.

The smoke is light, but irritating. My eyes are tearing. My head still aches from the cold, but I don’t think about it as
the warmth of the fire sinks into my body. We pass the companies working on the second floor, and pull the hose to the third.
There is still a lot of fire here, but it is buried beneath the fallen roof and ceilings. The fire burns a deep orange, duller
than if it were burning in the open air.

There is a long hall at the top of the stairs. The bearing wall which once separated the hall from the apartments is now a
crumpled mass of plaster and metal lathe. I can see the rear wheel and the sprocket of a bicycle protruding from the debris.
It’s a sad part of this business to see the ruins of what must once have been a child’s most valued possession. But I’m glad
it’s only the bike. It’s much sadder when we have to dig the little owner of that valued possession out from under a mess
like this. Fortunately, the occupants of this building all made it to safety, but each foot of the building will be searched
nonetheless. I can remember finding the body of a man who died from heat exposure in a fire. We had been told that the man
had moved out of the place, that he was living with his daughter. We found him in his pajamas, lying dead on the bathroom
floor.

The smoke is heavy now, but it is broken by the wind pushing through the caved roof, and it is lifting. Our noses are running,
even with the inconstant smoke, and we have to keep our heads low. Heat and smoke rise, so a fireman usually stays as close
to the floor as possible.

Kelsey is on his stomach, and crawling through what was once a doorway on his left. Lieutenant Welch is beside him, directing
the beam of his portable lamp before them. The nozzle is opened, and Kelsey is swinging it wildly, but with confidence. He
pushes into the apartment rooms, slowly but progressively, killing the fire as he goes. Suddenly, he jerks up to his knees.
He closes the nozzle, shoves it down his right boot, and reopens it. The water spills over the boot top.