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Permalink Reply by Terry Lambert on August 10, 2007 at 5:35pm

Very good. Stay safe out there.

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Permalink Reply by Huw Jones on August 11, 2007 at 8:45pm

One with great meaning from my part of the world for about five months,

Rolling Frozen Hose

Of all the tasks in a Firemans life
The polishing, scrubbing, washing and strife,
Like cleaning the windows and polishing brass,
Rolling hard frozen hose is a pain in the ass.

The temperature’s zero, the snow is quite deep,
And it’s four freaking hours since you woke from your sleep,
You’ve lost all the feeling in most of your toes,
And that’s when you start in to roll frozen hose.

Your fingers are numb from knuckle to tip,
And your nose is so runny it drips on your lip.
You’re tired and hungry like nobody knows,
And that’s when you start in to roll frozen hose.

You’re coated with ice from helmet to toe,
You hear yourself crack every time you bend low.
Then someone says, “Hey Bud! You’ve frozen your nose”.
And that’s when you start in to roll frozen hose.

You start in to roll it the best that you can,
But it never rolls straight,…..it goes on a cant.
But roll it you do, through rubble and glass,
Yes, rolling hard frozen hose is a pain in the ass.

And when you are finished on the earth here below,
And you go to that place where District Chiefs go,
You won’t hear any harps, and no trumpet blows
You can bet your sweet ass, at least there’s no frozen hose!

Taken from the Brampton firefighters history book
Author unknown.

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Permalink Reply by Craig Hamer-Mathew on August 12, 2007 at 1:17am

Awesome Huw, Love It.
Tells a real story doesn't it.
Cheers

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Permalink Reply by Kevin King on August 12, 2007 at 1:33am

COOL,I like it.

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Permalink Reply by Kevin King on August 12, 2007 at 1:35am

Hits close to home,very good

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Permalink Reply by Kevin King on August 12, 2007 at 3:22pm

That aint nice,good story but to cut off like that aint nice

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Permalink Reply by Huw Jones on August 12, 2007 at 5:47pm

I have tried twice to post this entire story, third time lucky?
Friends and Neighbours.
I have been a shift worker from as long as I can remember. The worst problem about working shifts is not getting the right amount or the right type of sleep. So when I had the chance, I built in my basement a small, double insulated, fully darkened room for myself to get that sleep. Consequently when I am on the night or afternoon shift this is my sleeping area, no noise, no light, no day, steady night, also, no wife to wake you up in the morning. I had worked a late afternoon shift the previous evening so my day was starting off very gently as I lay in this room. My bed side radio had come on at about ten after eight and as I lay there I thought of all the people in their cars trying to get to work, struggling through the cold and slush of a winter come early. I pondered this until I almost felt sorry for them. Then I thought, too bad for them, even though it can be hard, shift work does have its advantages and a lie in like this is one of them. I thought that eight forty-five will be a good enough time to get up, or then again, maybe later would be even better.
I thought wrong.
The shrill strident tones of my pager cut through the pleasant fog around my brain and pulled me out of bed. I pulled on the tee shirt and sweat pants hanging on a wall hook, put there for this exact purpose, slipped my pager into my pocket and legged it up stairs. Slipped into my runners, laces inside the shoes to allow them slip on and off easier, grabbed the keys and out of the door. No bothering with a jacket, adrenaline is a very warm drug. I threw open the garage door and made it to my car just as the pager went off for the second time. Every time there is an alarm the same call goes out twice with a minute between pages. Dressed and outside in a minute, hmm I’m on form this morning. The car took off like a scalded cat, my green strobe light bar reflecting in the windscreen. Pulled up at the stop sign, very nicely waved through by someone who was there first, smile a thank you, then down the avenue to the station.
Good run for the time of day, forty-five seconds to the station, no school buses thank goodness, I had a twinge of pleasure that I was first in to the station as I slammed the car into a parking spot, out and ran for the crew door, punched in the combination, thanking the chief once again for doing away with keys, and across to where my kit hangs. I kicked off my shoes and slid my bare feet into the big boots hauled out from the rack. Then a quick pull up of the bunker pants and over the shoulders with the braces. Clicked the snap and thank you Velcro. I saw another body sprinting across the floor, and another. Let me see, yes, I had time, so I struggled in to my bunker coat, as it is easier to put on in the open than in the cab while moving, then grabbed my helmet and clumped over to the pumper. Just as I pulled myself in to the back of the cab Jim the driver hauled himself into his seat and I saw James throwing his gear into the officers side of the cab. As I settled into the middle seat I feel dry mouthed, excited and I wonder, for a moment as I always do, if the others are feeling what I feel on every call, anxiety, fear, excitement, whatever the emotion is I am not sure, but it is there, from day one it has been there, dry mouthed, heart pumping, fast breathing there, no matter what the call, no matter when the call, it is there. In two or three minutes it will be deep down and conquered, but now it is making it’s presence known. Two other bodies heaved their kit and themselves in. I looked over at them and said a cheery morning to Johnny and Pete, and we started rolling through the now open main bay door, the red revolving and strobe lights reflecting off the station walls. My eyes are caught by the momentary reflection of our lights mirrored in the widows of the house in front, I wonder if the people living there see us any more or are we now just part of the surrounding scenery of every day life.
Just as we pulled out I saw a driver jumping into the tanker that was alongside, so, not a medical call anyway, car accident maybe? We are supposed to read what the page says, and one of these days I will, but that would only slow me down, and at fifty I need all the time savings I can get. I figure that I will know where we are going soon enough as it is, Besides, with the crew that is on the pumper for this call, I don’t really care what the problem is, we can handle it. Not that there is anything wrong with any of the other guys in the station, but the five riding the pumper today seem to work well together.
As we pulled out James radioed fire control that we were on the way, fire control called right back with an update, “Called in by neighbor, smoke coming out of the kitchen window”, Well, that tells me why all the excitement. Could be something, probably steam or something, drive by callins are notoriously inaccurate
Normally I take a great pleasure in riding in the back of a fire engine on the way to a call. There is something very basic and almost child like in that pleasure. That is, once the frantic pulling and struggling into your unyielding coat is done, the pulling on the balaclava and rolling it down around your neck is accomplished, the last of the hasty fumbling with the metal snaps to close up your coat, and finally the unsnapping from your coat of your ID tag and handing it to the boss in the front, all this done in the swaying, blaring, confusing, speeding cab, all done while two other guys are trying to do the same as you. Once these tasks are done then, yes, the ride can be enjoyed somewhat, banter and conversation will flow between the guys in the back, we usually spend the journey looking in to the cars that we pass, blurry faces looking back, commenting if a driver is particularly pretty and or curvaceous. Commenting on our drivers talent, or perceived lack of driving skill, seeing the occasional wave from people. Sometimes we wave back, usually if waved at by kids in a car or on the side of the road. Definitely if the person waving is one of the particularly pretty and or curvaceous drivers commented on, but mostly we are gone before we can respond. We all enjoy the ride, but we are also steeling ourselves for what could be at the end of that ride.
The feeling is there, of speed and the need for speed, a drive of mercy, a crew of white knights of to do battle with an evil, beautiful, majestic enemy, knowing that at the end of the road there is someone really waiting for, really needing, you and the others. Traveling down the wrong side of the road, watching the oncoming cars pull in to let you by, overtaking the cars that have pulled over and stopped, waving a quick thanks to the drivers, for your driver is way too busy to acknowledge their courtesy, mouthing insults at the ones that had to be reminded, some several times, by imperative blasts of the air horns, insults that are at once forgotten as those white faces in the cars look up at you as you go past. Marveling that a huge, bright red engine with more lights than a Christmas tree and making enough noise to wake the dead can remain un-noticed in some people’s mirrors.
But today that feeling is strangely absent from me, and judging by the quite from the other two in the back the feeling seems to be missing from them as well. As we clear the station day goes from yeh, rock and roll to an Oh shitter, for as we are rolling fire control updates us further, informs us that there have been several 911 calls for a structure fire with possible persons trapped, not only that but the address is recognizable, friends I had been talking to just days ago live there, last week we had dinner with them, and today what will we share?
James called back, “You guys catch that”? “Pack up”.
Trying hard to keep my struggles to myself and not smack the other guys as they struggle I slip my arms into the straps that are hanging on the seats, fasten the cross belt, pull the take up on the straps, make them as comfortable as possible, I give my buddy on the left a hand with his cross belt and check his dressing, he checks mine. Then I check my right hand buddy, make a small adjustment, good to go then bend over and pull out face masks from the compartment under my seat, pull on the mask and pull those straps tight, hand over the air hole in the front and feel the slight dry mouthed panic that comes with the vacuum on my face as I try to breath, no matter how many times that I do this, there is still that little knot of panic inside that has to be suppressed. Then quickly pull my balaclava up from around my neck and arrange it around the hard plastic mask. Finally the helmet, adjusting the head band to fit, cinching it on a little tighter, I am as ready as I ever will be. I rise slightly in the seat only to be pulled down sharply, what the…… oh stupid…stupid…stupid, I forgot, a quick pull on a cord and the retaining straps holding the damned air bottle to the damned seat drops away, and I was free. Hoping none of the others saw, no, looks as if I got away with that one.
I watch the frozen fields flash past as if in a dream, who is trapped, how bad is it, all these questions slipping through the dream sequence. The weak winter sun has only just risen, no warmth or cheer there. The stupid thought goes through my mind, at least it is not snowing and not freezing too badly. Ahead can be seen a grey black haze rising lazily over the stark bare trees, that bodes ill for…..the radio comes to life, it’s our district chief already there, the thought goes through my mind that it must be very scary to be at a fire scene without anyone else, Crackle, crackle,……..heavy smoke,……….not all persons accounted for…….all crews to mask up before arriving…….. Well now, that starts another round of activity. Our boss James in the front starts to pull on his bunker coat, then I help the boss slide his straps on the best as I can as we wheel into the long drive way leading to the mist shrouded farm house.
Evil blackish gray smoke is pouring out from the open door, again the chief came on the air….fire is in the back…… pumper 307 do a driveway lay then pull up in front……two to search for missing child in back upstairs bedroom……..tanker 307 drop your porta tank in front and fill…….Squad 307, you are water sector…….fire control, dispatch second pumper and tanker.
Quickly James did a sum up of the situation and tells us what we have to do, Johnny, you and the Huwman, hop out and do the driveway lay, then you guys are fire sector, take a 48 mm line from the side and hit the kitchen, go in through the front door, Pete, you and I are rescue sector, we will do the primary upstairs. Stopping just long enough at the bottom of the driveway to drop of the portable pump two lengths of suction and then pull off the Hi Vol , the pump carried on up the long driveway, paying off the big red hose as it went. We followed on, past the shocked weeping couple standing at the side that we have to ignore and clump around to the side. Climb up, grab the prelaid 48 mm hose line and pull it out, lay it out in a wide curve, keepingt it off the driveway, notice out of the side of my vision that our tanker is just thankfully pulling in at the bottom the drive way, if I had been listening I could have just heard the squad still fighting the rush hour traffic, but I was way too busy to listen. Johnny turns on his air bottle, fits the regulator into his mask then grabs the nozzle, I feverishly turn the knob at the base of the tank until I hear the hiss and click of the regulator, at that sound I twist it into the mask, Click on the man down alarm on my harness, hear the beee-eep beep beep as it turns on, hear the same beee eep beep beep as Johnny turns his on. I positioned myself behind Johnny, gave a thumbs up to the pump operator and got ready to enter an alien world.
I was conscious of my sharp excited breathing, that will never do, slow breath in, Short quick breath, release it, and again, slow breath in, Short quick breath, release it, and again. The boss and Pete have already pushed past us and we see them on the first stair, then they are gone, swallowed up in the swirling, forming, evil grey black moving cloud. We are ready, we feel the hose swell up as the water surges through, quick breath out of an old habit and we go in. Turn right, keeping really low, shuffle down a passageway that seems endless, at the end of the corridor is a red glow that seems to grow and pulse, we turn a corner into a miniature hell, hissing, dripping dancing flames that hang from the ceiling, grow like stalactites from the floor, waving and beckoning to us from counters and table. All this is seen in a micro second of forever and we stop and listen for a few seconds, nothing that sounds out of the ordinary, if the sounds of hell can be described as ordinary, but we listen anyway. Johnny radios for permission to put the water on, then I felt the snap and pressure as Johnny opened up the nozzle. First a jet, knocking down those dancing devils, I feel Johnny fighting the force of the water and I lean in to help take the pressure, then he switches to a mist to cool the surroundings, then short sharp bursts of jet, hitting the flames where they live, but always they reappear, we sweep around in a figure of eight, killing the flames above us then below us, praying they stay dead, all the time pushing slowly, slowly in and on, then a wondrous sight, next to us a second jet appears, our tanker crew in action.
The room turns black, and with the exception of a few glowing hot spots stays black. I feel a thump on my back and two helmeted masked figures tell us in clumsy Darth Vader words that they are our relief. We give up our positions, and back out of the room into the completely black corridor, after the intense workout I have just had I get completely disoriented, then remembering what I have been taught, and have done before, I drop on all fours and crawl out, hand on the hose, letting the rigid pipeline be my guide to freedom. All of a sudden I bump into Johnny’s ass, he had done the same as me so I don’t feel to bad about being lost. He points, and I see a rectangle of light, the front door. We both straighten up, both feeling it is really not cool to crawl out of a fire that’s knocked down, and walk into the blessed clear daylight just in time to hear the low air warning sounding on our tanks.
With great satisfaction I pull off my helmet, loosen up the straps of the mask and off it comes. Almost on auto pilot we make our way over to the squad to get new bottles. We bend over so one of the guys can uncouple the old air bottle and drop in a new bottle, ready just in case we have to go in again. Good job guys, this from the big chief, you got it in time, good knock down. Holy shit, we had a compliment from the chief, usually he doesn’t say too say too much. Especially to guys from our station, we have a certain, reputation, in the chiefs eyes.
As I straighten up I became more aware of the surrounding activity. What was a few seconds ago a background of confusion now gels into a series of vignettes, the central tableau consisting of a still form being lifted on to a stretcher, oxygen mask on it’s face. After looking for a few seconds I can recognize the pallid features of my friends thirteen year old son Brian, with some relief I notice his chest rising and falling. From the pleased but haggard looks of the guys surrounding him and the defib pads still on his chest it had been a hard fought battle to keep him with us. Behind this group in the middle of several people I saw my friends, clutching each other with their other child, a ten year old girl, holding on to her mummy’s dress, face pressed in to the material as if this could keep the world away. Already the neighbours have shown up and were giving as much comfort as they could.
I wandered over and looked at James and Pete, “good save”, Pete replied, the words still holding the excitement, “found him at the top of the stairs, he was VSA for a while but it looks good now”. It’s funny how we talk in code on things like this, VSA is the short form for vital signs absent, not good, it means no breathing, no pulse and no circulation, dead in fact, as I say not a good thing. As for Pete saying “looks good”, well that meant that Brian was breathing, we won’t know if there is any damage or smoke inhalation, his parents have a long worrying time ahead but, breathing is looking really good compared to VSA I suppose.
The paramedics wheeled him away and the doors at the back of the ambulance slammed shut. Then slowly, picking their way down the now congested driveway they moved off, their red and white lights cutting through the still of the morning.
As they left another truck pulled in, our command truck, bringing new air bottles, more lights and most importantly coffee. Ahead of us was at least another two hours work, finding and killing the hot spots that lie hidden behind the walls, draining the freezing cold water out of the stiff near frozen hose lines so we can load them on to the back of the pumper. The thought of all that work was bearable as I stood beside the engine, viewing the scene of organized chaos over the rim of a piping hot cup of coffee, knowing that we had made a difference, a very real difference between life and death. And we had won this one.
Then it was, C’mon Huwman, back to work..

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Permalink Reply by Tom Kenney on August 12, 2007 at 10:12pm

The Worcester Six


We came to be known
as the Worcester Six
but we were just firemen
the ones God had picked

We were called to respond
to a fire one night
when we arrived on the scene
there was no one in sight

A fire in a warehouse
the dispatcher said
we were told it was empty
we thought, victims, instead

A faint wisp of smoke
hung in the air
the fire lay waiting
deep inside, somewhere

A cold winter’s wind
cut through the cold
we assume someone’s inside
no matter what we’re told

Engine-men were stretching
their hose up the stairs
as Ladder-men gathered tools
getting prepared…

…for the task lying before us
to search and to vent
this is our responsibility
it’s why we’re sent

As we entered the building
looking up toward the sky
no windows were visible
we’d have to vent high

So we climbed up six flights
to access the roof
light smoke in the stairway
serving as proof

That a fire was present
not yet too intense
these measures we employ
are the proper defense

They allow us more time
For search, and for rescue
Before the fire gets rolling
Cutting off our escape route

After we vented the roof
We descended one floor
To begin searching for victims
Entering through a door

We’re in a windowless room
Our lights cut through the haze
From one room to another
Soon we’re lost in this maze

As we’re searching for victims
And for the exit
The fire suddenly intensifies
As oxygen reaches it

In what seems a blink of an eye
The smoke’s black and thick
We don our masks with urgency
We need to get out quick

Desperately, we look for the stairs
but can’t find our way out
fumble for our radios
“Mayday, Mayday”, we shout

Crawling through this labyrinth
from room to room
only twelve minutes of air
between us and our doom

We try to relay our location
to our brothers outside
in hopes that they’ll find us
before we have died

Enveloped in the darkness
time seemed to be frozen
suddenly aware of the risks
of this profession we’d chosen

It takes but a moment to realize
we may not survive
we’re now sharing our air
trying to stay alive

Meanwhile, desperation outside
as we lay dying
a rescue plan put together
two brothers are trying

Trying to reach us in time
and pull us to safety
but their effort’s in vain
it just wasn’t to be

They crawl through the darkness
and become lost, too
now the rescuers are victims
so they start another crew

No shortage of volunteers
outside the building
to risk his life for his brothers
every man is willing

The only thing that mattered now
was finding their brothers
for it’s their unwritten code
to depend on each other

As the third crew fell victim
to this hellish structure
whether more crews be sent in
was up for conjecture

It was then that the Chief did
what had to be done
he pulled everyone out of there
the building had won

It had swallowed our bravest
and was not giving them up
in a last act of bravery that night
the Chief said, “Enough!”

For more than two weeks following
as the world looked on
the city of Worcester, Massachusetts
recovered their brave sons

There were funerals and memorials
and a Presidential proclamation
the bravery and valor of these men
was beyond imagination



God keep you Paul, Tim, Tom, Jeremiah, Joe, & Jay



Copyright 2004 - Tom Kenney

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Permalink Reply by Craig Hamer-Mathew on August 12, 2007 at 10:15pm

Tom,
Awesome mate.
May they REST IN PEACE.

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Permalink Reply by Kevin King on August 13, 2007 at 1:51am

That is an awesome story.I really dread the thought of one day having to answer the call to a friends home.I've had to run MVAs on friends that was FUBAR.Just got back from a mutual aide structure,I'm beat.Later bro be safe.Remember Everyone Goes Home.

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Permalink Reply by Kevin King on August 13, 2007 at 10:34am

I like to believe that from the six lost,six more good ones were born from fire.Any loss is tragic for all hopefully we will gain from the sacrifice they made and get us all a little closer to everyone goes home everytime.

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