Crosseֆ
₮o ßare
To those who came before
us, to those here now, and to those who will follow…
To the 343…
…………………..
And to Carol, Tommy,
Matt, Meghan
and Erin…
Tom McMasters-Stone
January, 2015
Foreword
This
is a compilation of events, real & “fictional”, and unknown, as well as a
semi-autobiographical novel. If you
think you see yourself when you are reading what I am talking about when I am
talking about what I am talking about- you don’t.
The
only names that have not been changed are those of Spencer, Belle, Abbey, &
Max. A finer crew of dogs has never
existed, in fact or fiction.
You can friend them on Facebook, @ “Crew McStone”.
Oh. No, never- never did I drink at work, or
report to work under the influence. That
part of my personal journey started after I retired.
The
title and cover illustrations are, I believe, self-explanatory- but perhaps
not. The “Crosses to Bare” are those
faced daily- by firefighters and other emergency responders, and by people from
all walks of life- alcoholics & addicts; those suffering from PTSD, Depression,
and other diagnoses, or combinations thereof; and those recovering from the
shame, fear, and guilt that they suffered at the hands of organized religion or
parents who were either absent or unsuitably present.
It was hot. Damn
hot…
…
I had been sitting in the kitchen at Station 2, the oldest
of the 11 fire stations in Tolenas- nonetheless, a beautiful brick, 3-bay
structure- halfway through my lunch. My
turn to cook, I had made mom’s original taco salad recipe, except for substituting
Ranch dressing for the Thousand Island.
Half the crew was sitting around me, the other half down
working out. The sun was pouring through
the south-facing windows on this warm, September day.
While cooking, he had remembered briefly, and sadly, the
reason for the kidney beans- they were cheaper, and absorbed the flavor of the
hamburger, making a small contribution towards stretching the meager food
budget for himself, his parents, and three younger siblings.
I had subsequently been thinking of the traditional, equally-thrifty,
Sunday supper back then- scrambled or over-easy eggs and toast, when one of the
two lookout towers behind the lake on the Blue Ridge started chattering. Both were still staffed, and they probably
would be all the way through Thanksgiving, given the long-term weather
forecasts.
Damn.
I got up and walked over to the dispatch area, and
stopped in front of the topographical map that covered 10 square miles of the
area, over 60,000 acres, much of it the waste-high dry grass so typical of this
area of California at this time of year.
Each of the towers had a 360-degree circle drawn around
them, and had a string hanging down the map pinned to their location on the
map.
The areas east of the towers were mostly green,
identifying them as the property of the United States. To the west, though, all
areas were white- privately-owned, and local responsibility.
“Three Rivers, Frazier Peak, I have dark smoke at 272
degrees.”
With my left hand, I grabbed that string and ran it
through the hash mark for 272.
“Three Rivers, Donlevy Point, I have it at 143.”
With my right hand, I ran the second string…
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
Everybody looked up, the forks hitting the bowls, or
cups settling on the table.
Center of town.
Five seconds later, the business lines started lighting
up.
After all these years, some of the old timers still
called the business lines. The dispatch
area I was standing in was no longer used for that, having long ago been
supplanted by central dispatch, and full-time dispatchers. When I had first started, I had sat there
hundreds of times dispatching calls, but gone were the days of rotating
dispatch assignments in the firehouse, and leaving that guy behind when
responding to calls, or in extreme cases, leaving the radios unattended to cover
another emergency. And, yes, they were
ALL guys back then…
“Let’s go to work!”
As I jogged towards the pole, I heard “Stand-by,
Battalion 3, residential structure fire.”
Three spins on the pole before I hit the pad, not bad,
but nowhere near his best of almost 5.
Snort! A pad. In the old days, we didn’t need no stinkin’
pad.
“Battalion 3, Engines 7, 8, 9, Engine 2 for Engine 10,
Truck 9, Rescue 10, Medic 1, Medic 5, structure fire at the corner of Thompson
and Gurney streets, repeating, Battalion 3, Engines 7, 8, 9, Engine 2 for
Engine 10, Truck 9, Rescue 10, Medic 1, Medic 5, structure fire at the SE corner
of Thompson and Gurney streets, time out 1745 hours.”
As I pulled up my suspenders, slung on my black coat, and
climbed into the shiny white Pierce engine, dispatch broadcast an update:
“Battalion 3, we have multiple reports of two children trapped inside.”
Shit. I had heard
that many times, usually unfounded, but…
I briefly thought of Jake and Josh, who should be home by now.
I pushed the transmit button, diverting my voice from
the crew to the radio channel. “Engine 2 responding.” I looked west, and saw it was no wonder that the
lookouts had picked it up right away, the heavy, black column of smoke already
a quarter mile into the air, drifting NE in the late-afternoon summer breeze
that had worked its way through the Golden Gate, and was already starting to cool
things down.
As I wriggled my arms into the Scott Air Pac forming the
back of my seat, I thought SE corner.
The McMahon mansion- over 200 years old, balloon
construction, the largest single-family residence in at least in three
counties.
I spoke into the headset, “Ok, we are second due on this
one, it’s the big place. Remember our walk-through,
we’re going straight in, and listen to Danny’s size-up, he’ll be there first,
and… IDIOT!”
I grabbed for the air horn lanyard. “It says pull to the right and stop, not slam
on your goddamn brakes in the middle of the lane!”
I smiled briefly as I remembered the old days, when Captain
Will would lean out of the engine window, bang on the door and yell at the
folks who had slept through that part of Drivers’ Education class.
“Everybody ready?”
They were. Even the rookie,
Peterson, our fourth member that day, who was sitting behind the driver. He was on an overtime shift, and even though
he had less than a year on the job, he was a military veteran of 20 years, and
showed some consistent signs of logic, common sense, and mechanical aptitude. Tall, shaved head, a couple facial scars from
the war. Hmmm. This might be his first working fire, though.
Rounding out the crew, besides the Driver/Engineer,
Randy, was Jess, already one of the best we have, even after just 4 years, sitting
behind me. Word was that she is
schlepping some guy named Chad on A-Shift, assigned to Truck 11.
“Engine 7 on scene, we have a heavy working fire in the
ground floor of a three-story residence, we’re going for it.”
That last part said it all, something the officers on
B-Shift, the Killer Bees, had worked out amongst themselves. “Going for it” transferred all command
authority to the next due unit, and made it clear the most important thing for
Danny to do at that point was to fight fire, and not worry about organizing
things. We were next due, and Tony, the
Battalion Chief, would be a couple minutes behind.
“Tolenas, Battalion 3, upgrade to a second alarm.”
We arrived just after the radio broadcast from dispatch
upgrading the fire.
“Tolenas, Engine 2 on scene. We have one exposure, the structure to the
rear. Go straight to a fifth alarm, we are going for it, too, special call two
extra truck companies, another air unit, two more ambulances, and have Public
Works increase the water pressure in this part of town.
Let’s call this ‘Gurney command’, Engines 8 & 9
bring us water, I am sending my crew to support the interior, and I’ll be
checking out the exposure and the back of the house.”
I grabbed my red helmet, and stepped down from the
engine, gave their assignment to my three crewmembers standing there-
specifying the 200’ line- and started around back.
I passed the crowd assembling nearby, and yelled about
the two kids. Those that responded
either shook their heads or held both palms up.
As I approached the side gate, I saw it was already
open. Good, no dogs. When I turned the rear corner, there was a
lightweight ladder up to the second floor, heavy smoke pouring from the window
above the head of the ladder, and a guy who looked vaguely familiar on the
ground with a coiled garden hose in his hand.
I automatically dropped my helmet on the ground, grabbed
my mask and seated it on my face with the four rubber straps. Scooping up the helmet, I walked to the
ladder.
“Hook the garden
hose up as close as you can, I’m going up.”
I reached for my portable radio, but the pocket was
empty. Nothing. Goddammit.
I looked up at the ladder, then flipped it over, so the
fly, the upper section, was away from the building, and the ladder was at the
windward side of the window, and started up.
When I got to the window, it was already slid wide open,
and the screen burned away, forming the perfect “chimney”.
I said to myself, muffled by the mask, “Hurry up!”
I was waiting for some indication of steam before I took
the plunge. That would still be pushing
things, as the rule was never be above the fire without a hose line, but at
least the presence of steam would give me some refuge if Tony decided he wanted
a big chunk of my ass afterward.
Nothing but thick black smoke and heat. Then I heard a sound, a squeak, at first
thinking I was hearing things- and then I heard it again. Goddammit.
I grabbed the regulator, seated it on my mask and dropped in headfirst.
Figuring the door was somewhere opposite the window, I
headed straight across the floor, quickly found the doorjamb, and tried to
close the door. It wouldn’t budge. I swept the floor on both sides, all was
clear, but the door would still not move.
I dared not risk standing up and using my shoulder, as the heat down
here on the floor was already almost too much.
I searched right, quickly found the bed, and a small
body on top. I stood up, grabbed it, and
ran back to the window. The
vaguely-familiar face, which I now remembered was an area firefighter
somewhere, was there with the garden hose in his hand. He immediately dropped it, and I handed the
child off to him.
As I turned away to resume my search, a piece of glass
tore a hole in my air supply line.
Goddammit. I dropped back to my
knees, finished the search of that room, exited left, and started down the
hallway. It was a little cooler there,
but not much, and just as I felt a door with my left hand, the low air alarm
went off.
I opened the door, and felt linoleum under my
knees. Bathroom. I closed the door behind me, searched the
floor, the narrow space behind the toilet, and the tub/shower. We never knew where a child might hide to
escape the danger.
Back into the hallway, and left, where I checked the
shelved linen closet, and moved on.
I was out of air, thankfully on an inhale rather than an
exhale. I took out the regulator and let
it dangle, and quickly removed my mask and tossed it aside. Hopefully the guys following me would not
find it and get the wrong message. Or
maybe it would be the right message, huh?
Open doorway, carpeted.
Bedroom # 2. I hugged the left
wall, with my right leg and arm sweeping continuously for obstructions. Around a dresser, sweeping over and under one
side of the queen bed, and on around the foot.
As I went up the other side of the bed, I could barely make out a
half-full baby bottle on the floor.
Bed clear. Room
clear, but the bottle bothered me. I
crawled back to the head of the bed, by now hacking, my eyes watering, and
slime running out of my nose. As I
pushed the bed away from the wall, a little, sooty arm flopped away from the
wall, and hit me in the face.
****************
I awoke with a startled “arrrgggh” and hit my head hard as I tried to sit
up. Falling back down, dazed, I wondered
where I was. Something warm hit my face
again, startling me, and I opened my eyes.
Jeezus… Spencer.
I put my arm around him, and thought back.
Both boys had died in the fire, as well as a third, a
neighbor boy nobody knew was there. The
review of the fire disclosed nothing we could have done differently, but three
boys were dead because they were left unattended. Since two had survived for a day or two, my
internal review would never stop searching for where I could have gained enough
time… That damn window glass- maybe.
The entry-crews arrived just after I found the second
boy, I had handed him off, and went outside to the rehab area. Some oxygen and a couple shots to help my
coughing and improve my breathing, and I was good to go. My seniority and crotchetiness meant all I
had to do was look at the med folks when they suggested the obligatory
ambulance ride. I went back to the
Station in my own seat, as appropriate.
I briefly remembered stopping in at the school the next
morning, spending a few minutes looking undetected in the windows of my boys’
classes, with tears in my eyes.
Ugh.
As I opened my eyes and slowly focused behind Spencer,
the underside of a heavy, wooden picnic table loomed there.
Not again.
groundhog day.
lather, rinse, repeat. The agony,
the despair, the worthlessness.
This had happened many times, too many, the most
gut-wrenching occurring before the split, when I had been lying by the overturned
computer chair, with Max the one licking my face.
Marie, just home from work, had come hesitantly trudging
up the mahogany stairs to Grand Central, where she could see me lying on the
floor, eyes closed, unmoving. She
thought I was dead.
I can never take that back.
I thought briefly back to my last actual Groundhog Day,
sitting in an early-morning meeting in Monterey, having finally put some decent
time together, and hoping the light at the end of the tunnel was not a train
coming the other way. Back in the van
later, and turning on NPR, I got the news that one of us, one of the true,
great, journeyman actors of our time, Philip Seymour Hoffman was dead. He would never see his shadow again…
I then realized the front of my pants were soaked. Had I pissed myself? That had never happened before. I slid out from under the picnic table, and
realized it was from the drizzle. I sat
up. I looked around, seeing nobody, 2-legged or four-legged, but recognizing
the scenery. I was home in Buckeye, in
Veteran’s Park.
“Hey!” I heard some collar tags shaking, from
different directions. I could see Abbey
looking at me from under the Birds of Paradise a fathom away, her eyes
reflected in the light, but her curly black fur making the rest of her
invisible. She started working her way
over, in that rebellious, terrier manner that she often used.
I heard a bark.
Belle. I looked toward my left,
and there she was, looking at me through the wooden railing of the dimly-lit
gazebo, the queen of the crew having taken refuge from the rain. “Come.”
She started down the ramp on her three legs, having lost one to her
maternal genes that produced fabulous pups, but often cut their lives
heartbreakingly short.
Suddenly, I was hit in the back by a short, brown
torpedo, almost knocking me over.
Max. The bundle of energy that
transitioned to my lap could have powered a nuclear submarine! Half Dachshund, half American Bulldog-
buahahaha!
“Ok, let’s go home.”
I looked at the white van sitting there, and decided it could stay until
morning. It was my second van in as many
years, the first having been stolen and burned from in front of my house during
California’s Proposition 8 campaign.
Somebody took exception to my “God “heart” Gay” license plate, and I
still occasionally get anonymous hate mail.
We headed home, walking past the house that my estranged
wife still lived in, the house where my girlfriend lived, the French Catholic
Church where Father Mike was likely asleep, and the City Council chambers where
I had sat for the last 12 years as councilman and/or mayor. Those same chambers were where I also took
the written exam for Deputy Chief, as they brought the test to me in my
hometown because I was fighting a case of pneumonia. For the first time, in memory at least, the
same person, me, was at the top of the promotion list for both Battalion Chief
and Deputy Chief- me.
The last thing we passed before we got home to my little
2-bedroom rental on a huge lot, and all tumbled into bed, was the newspaper
machine on the corner, with the headline of “Transient Dies As Arsonist Hits
Local Shop”.
All the rhetoric we heard 12 years ago about qualifications to be president are out the window, quite obviously — or they only apply to Black-Muslim-Socialist-Terrorist-Kenyan candidates.
