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”.