What About Bob?
A message for those firefighters who shun the job but take credit for the work
By Scott Cook

I recall my very first fire when I joined the Rendon Volunteer Fire Department here in Texas, circa 1988. I’d been through the fire behavior classes, the burn house, PPE instruction and all those things that prepare you for your first one. But these classes teach how it’s supposed to go.

For the actual call, three of us showed up, so there were three of us on the engine: the driver, this call’s company officer (let’s call him Bob) and yours truly. The officer tells me, “You got the nozzle.” And being all gung-ho, I shout back “OK!” My first fire, I’m going to be first-in and on the tip. What more could a rookie firefighter ask for?

Smoke rolls out of the manufactured home as Bob opens the door. I wait, crouched, masked up in the old Scott SCBA, ready to go in my rugged ¾ boots, 1970s vintage helmet (like the ones worn in the TV show “Emergency!”) and worn-out hand-me-down bunker coat. Bob says, “It looks like it’s down there. Go get it.” So off I go, dragging the hose down the hall. I notice the hose is getting heavier as I go but think nothing of it. Sure enough, there’s the fire. I yell back to Bob that we’re on it and I open up.

Long story short, a small room-and-contents in a remodeled manufactured home gets put out. I’ll spare you the details; you know what it’s like inside when you put the fire out, so I crawl out. Bob isn’t pulling the hose out—someone else is at the door ready to work.

He doesn’t high-five me or say, “Great job rook!” Nope, instead he says, “I see you learned your first lesson about Bob.”

“Yeah, is he OK? I didn’t crawl over him, did he already get out?”

“Out? He never went in. He was pushing hose to you until I got here, then he went back to the truck for a break.”

I was too new to be upset. I was amped up. It was a small fire, but it was my first. You can’t take that feeling away.

But enough about me, what about Bob? Well, you know … it goes without saying.

In Every Generation
I ran into this generation’s “Bob” a while back. He’s been in for a year, year-and-a-half or so, but still only has 2 weeks of experience. He doesn’t know how to be “the new guy,” and keeps repeating the first 2 weeks of his practical experience over and over. He knows everything, and doesn’t do anything. It’s gotten so bad that all Bob does now is drive the ambulance (the medics don’t trust him to work unsupervised in the back of the ambulance during transport).

No one wants him watching their back because he does it via radio from the safety of the apparatus. If he’s found on a call, he’s got a hangnail or a hair out of place and simply can’t go on for one reason or another.

But the worst of it is that Bob “Monday morning QBs” the call to the nth degree, explaining how he would have done it differently, and been back in the recliner in less than half the time. He’ll throw out a line he heard at rookie school: “Ya know, what you do in the first 5 minutes determines what you do for the next 5 hours,” but never steps up in the first 5 minutes to help at the call. He disappears.

Oh yeah. After the big one, he’s the first one up in the morning when the next shift shows up to tell them all about it, and how awesome he was at it. At least he makes the coffee then…

The Problem Perpetuates
And no one cares anymore. This is Bob’s fourth department in his short career, and he’s been on all three shifts. He’s all of 23. The crew he works with won’t even ping on him in the station. He’s in the dayroom; they’re in the kitchen. He’s in the kitchen; they’re in the dayroom (funny how there’s one less chair in the dayroom than needed). He’s an outcast and refuses to admit it to himself.

What’s Bob’s secret? He doesn’t have pictures or secret tapes of anyone. His poor performance has been brought to the chief’s attention, but everyone gets the same response: “Do what you can, soon he’ll get tired of it and quit. It’s what he’s done everywhere else he’s worked.”

The other firefighters try to get Bob out to train, and he does just what’s required, with the attitude “I can perform the skill, I don’t need to retrain on this.” He’s been pushed by the crew, but he still does the shift drill half-assed, complaining under his breath the whole time. After all, he could be doing something important like playing “Call of Duty 2” on the X-Box, or pontificating from the kitchen table about how things are going to be different when he’s in charge.

I can hear the chief from Bob’s current department when HR from the next place Bob drifts to calls for a reference: “I wouldn’t think twice before hiring that guy!” What that really means is, “Hell no, you shouldn’t hire that guy.” But it’s said in a tone that conveys, “I sure hate to lose him,” so that Bob is no longer that chief’s problem. And the cycle goes on…

I’m Talkin’ to You
So this message is for Bob and all the Bobs out there. You deny who you are, but deep down you know. Step up to the plate. If you’ve let the crew or department down because of your attitude, laziness, or yes, even cowardice, admit it. Ask for their forgiveness, and then ask for their help.

See those guys in the dayroom (or working the call if you’re sitting in the apparatus reading this on your cell)?
They want to help you. They can help you. If you’re claustrophobic in an SCBA, they can help you get past that. Afraid you’ll get lost in the house? They can teach you how to reduce the possibility of that. They want you out there pulling your share of the load. Right now, they’re pulling your share.

It’s going to be tough at first. You’ve got a ways to go. Relationships have to be rebuilt, but they can be. Start with the company officer or senior man in your station. Confess to him your transgressions toward the crew and ask him to help you find your way back. A good officer will help you do that, so long as you do the work. After all, the more you step up, the less the officer hears from the rest of the crew.

If you have to drill by yourself, then you do it. You must demonstrate that you’re going to step up. The others on the crew owe you nothing. You’ve not earned anything with them; you’ve only taken from them.

You may even need to pull their share of the load around the station for a while, turning off the Madden or Call of Duty and getting out and doing stuff that someone else is supposed to do later. Show them you’ve had a change of heart.

Fair Warning
Choose not to heed my advice, and I promise you, when you move to your next department, things won’t be better or different. The only thing that will change is the faces and the name on the apparatus. Because in all of your drifting from one department to the next, you—yes you—have chosen not to see the forest for the trees: You, Bob, are the common denominator in all of your problems at each department.

Scott Cook is the former chief of the Granbury (Texas) Volunteer Fire Department and a fire service instructor. He’s also a member of FireRescue’s editorial board.


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