PEARLS, OYSTERS, PHOENIX, ASHES
BY TOM BRENNAN
What do the words in the title have in common? Each is a benefit that is given forth from a “mess.” The beautiful phoenix has been known to be given birth to by the ash residue of fire disaster. And I am sure that the first person who opened an oyster knew beforehand that a pearl would follow.
We, too, have our personal disasters–those moments when we feel our lowest and perceive that everyone else is going to be forever pointing at us. This is the time to gather the lesson(s) from that experience. They may not come immediately and may require some primary search tactics on your part, but they`re there. And when found, they kind of alleviate the pressure of failure that you have put on yourself. Let me share some random thoughts on what I mean.
Outbreak! While sitting in a social atmosphere at the end of the day, my pager sounded alerted–a major hazardous material release at one of our newer housing developments. “…the area is isolated, Chief. It is declared a level two, the high school is the evacuation site, and area hospitals have sent medical staff.” I don`t care how long you`ve been in this business–you are pumped and hope that you will see the “right stuff, ask the right questions,” and what you have on arrival is much less than the vision in your mind.
On arrival, I had a feeling I was the last one to get the message. Every acronym in the state and federal government was on the scene clamoring for authoritative “space.” “What are your next moves?” asked the mayor from the protective center of a collection of staff members. It was reported that 20 civilians were removed with skin rash, that 30 people were removed to shelter, that two square blocks were cordoned off and evacuated, that historic site plans were being reviewed for land use prior to excavation, that…, that….
Every department head has one person whom he or she looks for in situations like this–and he was on his way. People were calming down, groups were sorted and matched, command was semicentralized, questions-answers-actions were in one location. With the arrival of my haz-mat wizard came his first question: “Is this rash spontaneous or chronic?”
Bingo! A few more questions revealed that neighbors had organized a work party to clear out the underbrush to the rear of about 12 homes (the now-defined haz-mat location) last week. The rash that erupted on everyone “all at once” that evening was poison ivy!
I can fill the rest of this column with lessons learned from this one. The only thing we have to learn for ourselves here is, “What do I tell the media now–after the last two on-site live releases?”
What does a shaft fire really look like? New lieutenants should be given a minimum of three “Get out of the ____” ducats that can be exchanged for another spin after you hit a “bankrupt” space like on “Wheel of Fortune.” The lesson I want to reinforce here is that before you transmit calls for additional assistance, look at what you have. I vividly remember coming over a hill and seeing a great deal of ascending, columnar, black smoke just over the next dip in the road. I had just reviewed the articles and tactical bulletins on shaft fires in tenement buildings and was sure I was seeing exactly that. After I asked for a second alarm to be struck and received acknowledgment, the source of the great column of smoke came into view–a fully involved, abandoned Cadillac convertible!
After you see it, get water on it. Another instance of embarrassment occurs when you need to learn another lesson: After you see it, get water on it before you mentally lose it and spend your last ounce of calm screaming for more help. As a new lieutenant, I was reassigned from ghetto firefighting to midtown Manhattan for one night. A large, all-glass facade, public assembly building 100 feet high and 400 feet long was standing amid a construction site that was walled from public view. The entire building showed active flame–fully involved. “Second alarm for this box,” I screamed proudly into the quiet 4 a.m. Manhattan radio frequency. You could hear the responses begin all over the city. After nudging open the padlocked gates with the nose of the Mack pumper, I was awestruck to see two fully involved construction trailers reflected in the 40,000 square feet of glass! That was the last night I was assigned to midtown Manhattan and the first night of my new lesson that would last for the next 25 years.
Use the ladder. As a firefighter assigned to the roof, I thought I knew all I needed to know. I did my size-up into the block, and the apparatus stopped in front of a row of four-story, attached brownstone buildings. I raced to the adjoining building that I knew would take me to the roof areas, opened the door, went into the scuttle enclosure, went up the ladder, popped the scuttle, and scrambled onto the roof. Now for the fire building: Oh, it was the only five-story building on the entire block of four-story structures. The roof never was opened–at least not by me.
At the company critique, in front of the structure, immediately after being told to “take up,” I voiced my mistake and reiterated that there was nothing I could do. One of the team stated very matter-of-factly, “You needed to use the ladder.” He said the ladder and not a ladder. “Just reach back and pry off the 10-foot ladder in the scuttle you just climbed out of,” he muttered. Through the years the ladder proved invaluable–borrowed for down as well as up and as a source for smiles and nods as I passed the lessons on to others.
Another roof operation lesson, expensively taught. After I made the roof of a fire building that had obvious fire located three floors below the roof, I opened the bulkhead, chocked open the door, and checked the smoke condition–it was very light. I then checked the rear, looked back to the bulkhead with its wispy smoke, and descended the fire escape to the fire floor. I later found that the interior team had to back down more than once, as the vertical vent was not enough for the amount of fire within the apartment. What happened? I said the roof had only light smoke. Ah, another lesson: The interior team had difficulty getting to the second floor–a lot of difficulty with the locks. I had finished the roof assignment and left before they had opened the fire apartment door! Communication and understanding of fire behavior were the lessons for that critique.
So, remember the following lessons:
Never think you know enough in this job.
Build your adaptability and adoptability every day.
When things look personally at their lowest, pick the lesson as a positive outcome and think, “At least I showed up!” And next time, make “them” better off because you did.
TOM BRENNAN is chief of the Waterbury (CT) Fire Department and a technical editor of Fire Engineering. He spent more than 20 years in some of the world`s busiest ladder companies in the City of New York (NY) Fire Department. He is coeditor of The Fire Chief`s Handbook, Fifth Edition (Fire Engineering Books, 1995).
