There are certain days at the Academy when we feel like we're on a trivia show—except that we're not playing for money, we're playing for the privilege of not running the Tower.

First and foremost, congratulations to everyone who donated to, participated in, or otherwise supported the members who did the Polar Bear Plunge this weekend! The Department raised almost $12,000 in total for the Maryland Special Olympics, and we had a blast doing it. 

Okay,
good-news/bad-news time. Good news? I brought the camera along today, and
snapped some great photos. I’ll be retro-fitting blog posts with relevant
pictures of the academy or our apparatus, as needed. I also have some nice
atmosphere shots that provide a frame of reference for the complex that we
recruits spend so much damn time in.

Bad news? I’m
so bogged down with digging through JPGs that it’s certainly not going to
happen tonight. PhotoMechanic (the digital media organizational software used
by some photojournalists) is definitely my friend, though.

We’ll see if I
have some keeper shots in here!

_____

The recruits
did more of the same work today. Checking out the engines, re-fitting tools,
etc. The only welcome interruption was right after morning lineup, when the
remaining recruits (only a handful) were allowed to PT if we so desired. Myself
and two other recruits devised a sickening Tower routine that had all three of
us heaving for air and clutching our sides.

First, run a
5-4-3-2-1 (as in, run to the fifth floor, run back down, then run around the
tower; then go to the fourth floor, down, around the tower… continue in this fashion
until you’ve done every floor from the top down).

Then, run a
1-2-3-4-5.

Lastly, you’re
going to run the half-mile course around the complex, with a hose rack (remember those big,
heavy, duct-taped hose bundles you pile on your shoulder for training?) and in your full firefighting gear.

When we came
back around, one recruit dropped his rack and walked off. Another started
running up the Tower in a burst of inspired strength, but stopped at the third
floor and came down to recover. And the third sucked it up and dragged his ass
all the way to the top in full gear, shouting floor numbers at each landing.

(Well, I
couldn’t very well let Bill show me up, now could I?)

(N.B. – Friday's post is one below, and it's a good one. I know, I know… it was a busy weekend. Cut me a break, would ya? It's worth the wait.)

______

Over the weeks,
you find that every so often DCFD gives you a gift. It has no price, nor any
substance; but it’s one of the most beautiful things in the world to the
battered body of a fire recruit.

“Alright, guys…
no PT today.”

Instead, we
were assigned to work details for things that needed to be done before the
Inauguration on the 20^th. Some recruits went to the Special
Operations Division, some went to Engine 2’s house to help assemble and deliver
cots (certain firehouses will have more units stationed there, and thus more
sleepy personnel), and others stayed at the Academy to bring our training
apparatus up to minimum standards.

Sure, we have one ladder truck and two engines at
our disposal; however, they’re pretty much useless at an actual incident.

The ladder
truck is worse off, by far; on first inspection, we found: one 50’ roll of 3”
hose, one pipe wrench, and one out-of-service extension ladder.

Yep, we’re on
top of it.

Now, this is
because all we do with the vehicles right now is drive them out of the bay in
the morning, and re-park them in the afternoon. Once we get into firefighting,
we’ll be checking and using damn near every item on each piece of apparatus.

_____

I feel like now
is a good time to clear up any confusion regarding the vehicles used by the
fire department. There are two main kinds of apparatus: engines and ladder
trucks (or just “trucks”).

Engines are the
shorter ones with all the hoses and tanks of water, whose staff actually
extinguish the fire by “putting the wet stuff on the red stuff” (this particular
cheesy maxim annoys me, but some instructor decades ago uttered it to a hapless
class of wannabe firemen—and the department just will not let go of this boneheaded phrase. It’s sort of like
“righty-tighty-lefty-loosey.” Really?)

Trucks are the
longer ones you see on the street, with the big extendable ladder on top and
the guy driving in the bubble in the back (the “tillerman” steers the rear
wheels so that the oversized red monstrosity can turn down normal-sized
streets). I’ve heard them referred to as big rolling toolboxes; they carry
saws, axes, hammers, prybars, ladders, and any other item you might require to
a) break into a building, b) cut a hole in a building, or c) get victims out of
a building. Essentially, the primary responsibilities of a “truckie” are
forcible entry (to give the engine guys access to the seat of the fire),
ventilation (which allows hot gases to escape and cool the structure down) and
search-and-rescue (locating and extracting ordinary citizens from places they
shouldn’t be). 

_____

So as it turned
out, there were actually two huge metal boxes in the garage next door that had
all the items required of a truck company. We wheeled them in, inventoried
them, and then labeled the hell out of them (tools go missing all the time. All
firefighters, as they say, love to “acquire” things.)

We were hauling
saws, drilling mounting brackets for axes, and cleaning and stocking
compartments. We coiled and packed rope, fueled generators, and tested vent
fans and floodlights. It was, I’m told, the same checks that every truck
company does at the start of their shift.

“Alright,
enough. Pack your shit; let’s go home.”

Sgt. Paulson
caught me in the middle of mounting a pick-head axe in a convenient location
within the passenger compartment. I stood and stretched, welcoming the end of
the day with a large sigh.

Our backs hurt
from hauling boxes of gear. Our hands were dirty from machine oil and old metal
tools. Nevertheless, we could clearly see the results of our handiwork, and we
were damn proud that this old reserve truck would be used for some good on
Inauguration Day—we only wished we could be working on it to experience it.

Tired, dirty,
and happy at the end of a day’s work. Isn’t that what everyone wants out of a
job?

God, I love
getting paid for this.

“Ah, fuck this
classroom shit. Let’s go light something on fire.”

…and thus our
Friday began.

Sgt. Paulson
revealed to us that there really was no agenda for this particular Friday, as
everyone had already passed their EMT tests and it was too early to start
firefighting bookwork. He quickly grew tired of telling stories and bullshitting, and
that’s when he uttered the music to everyone’s ears that you see above. 

“Get your gear
on, and be outside in the junkyard in ten minutes.”

Three minutes
later, thirty-six eager recruits stood at the ready, next to cut-up cars and big
piles of scrap wood. Most (those of us who had not been firefighters anywhere
before DCFD) moved with the energy of someone who was out of their element, yet
excited to be there; nervous laughs and occasional deep breaths punctuated the
cold air as we hopped from foot to foot.

The more experienced
of 994, at the direction of Sgt. Paulson, began loading wooden pallets stuffed
with hay into what used to be a sedan, a pickup truck, and a white delivery
van. 1¾” hose lines (a standard for interior firefighting) were pulled off the
Academy’s two engines, and began snaking over the sooty ground. Unbelievably
large-diameter hose (6”, I think—I could fit my arm inside it easily) was run
from a fire hydrant to the front of the engine, rapidly becoming rigid as
mysterious pressure from underground coursed into it with the twist of a
wrench.

There were
three “stations,” if you will, set up over the drill yard. I followed what seemed to be a logical progression, starting with an instruction on
how to handle a pressurized (or “charged”) hose.

As we stood in
line to take our turn at the nozzle, someone whispered towards me “…you really
gotta lean into it. I mean, like, really
lean. If you’re about to open it up, and you think you’re all set?—lean a
little more. Then you should be alright.”  

They weren’t
lying. Imagine you’re standing with your arms stretched out in front of you,
and they’re placed on the shoulders of a linebacker. Have him start falling
towards you, and try to hold him up.

And this is the smallest line we use, sir?

Step 1: Clamp
the hose up inside your armpit, with that hand supporting the nozzle from the
bottom.

Step 2: Pull
open the bale (the handle-doohicky on top) with your other hand.

Step 3: Direct
the nozzle where you want the water to go: in controlled, clockwise-directed
circles, as rapidly as possible.

The first time
you use it, only the first two items happen correctly. Water roars out the
front of the nozzle, and it goes wherever it damn well pleases. A second later,
though, you can recover and send it in the general direction of forward. As
for the neat circular sweeps… yeah, we’ll get it eventually.

Advancing with
a hose is an entirely different story. Combine all the new stuff you just
learned in the last minute, and keep it straight in your head while you walk
forward against the aforementioned linebacker.

Fresh from our
tutorial, we advanced to the next area, where an instructor was piling pallet
after pallet into what I can only describe as the ugliest warped metal
shithouse I’ve ever seen. It’s about eight feet tall and four feet wide, with
two windows and a front door cut out of the ¼” steel plates it was constructed
with. The metal is blackened and twisted with years of burning, and it was
currently cooking so hot that the water around
the structure was steaming off.

Our assignment?
Approach with a hose line, crouch down “just when you feel the heat,” and give
a one-second blast into the top of the doorway. The goal was to see how well
steam actually puts out a fire; when directed towards the interior roof of the
structure, the water turns to steam so rapidly and explosively that it banks
down the roaring flames just long enough for the next recruit to move up in
line.

Even from about
six feet back, it was pretty toasty. Wood, car cushions, plastic running
boards, tires—anything that would burn was tossed in to show us how different
materials burn. For example: foam couch cushions burn fast and smoky, and don’t
really contribute to the perceived temperature of the fire. Wood, on the other
hand, burns slower but jacks the heat up immensely (it’s better fuel).

Excited at our
first taste of smoke, the heavy-breathing cadre of inexperienced recruits
proceeded to the final area: a roaring, groaning, tire-popping pile of metal
and rubber that sort of looked like a pickup truck.

For this, we
had received a half-hour instruction on Self-Contained Breathing Apparatus (SCBA) usage earlier in the day, and so
we donned our air cylinders and waited for our partners to do the same. The
instructor would wait for the fire to grow to a reasonable size, tell us where
he wanted us to attack, and follow beside us as we did so with the hose.

Being so close
to fire (whether one found it mesmerizing or terrifying) made one forget
everything we had learned not hours ago; we constantly heard order barked at
us, which sounded tinny through the respirator but lacked none of the intensity
of Sgt. Paulson’s usual voice.

“Closer! Get closer! Crouch down now!”

“Tight circles, tight circles! Whip that
nozzle around!”

“I said clockwise, goddamnit! Clockwise!”

We didn’t care
that we were doing it wrong. We didn’t care that the experienced guys were
probably sitting on the bumper of the engine laughing at our newly-acquired
awkward movements. We sure as shit
didn’t care that we actually knew nothing about putting the conflagration out.

But we were
fighting fire—and that’s what we all came here to do.

Recruit Class 994 was dismissed that day dirtier, sweatier, and only a tiny bit more knowledgeable
about our careers than when we had arrived that morning. However, it was a
common feeling from the very moment that masks were lifted from faces, and the
first cold breaths of un-bottled winter air were sucked in: everyone was beaming, eagerly looking
forward to a weekend of telling somebody (anybody!)
about how we just might be firefighters someday.

EDIT: A commentor has brought it to my attention that DCFD doesn't use 1 3/4" lines like I mistakenly stated in this post. Whoops! I guess I should include a disclaimer that any firefighting details given may be incorrect due to my current naivete of the DC Fire Department. I stand corrected… thanks, fmbill4!

Firefighting
starts on January 26^th.

At least,
that’s what we’re told will happen to the rest of 994. As for the medics? Yes,
that’s right—nobody knows!

As of today, the
orders came down to start the fire suppression section of the academy early,
and then send the EMTs out for “mentoring” with either ambulances or engine
companies after it’s been completed. I don’t know the logic behind it, but
hopefully they’ll have something for us to do in the meantime.

It’d be neat to
start firefighting this month… but damn, is that textbook big and heavy.

More good news:
they’ve given the recruits the 19^th and 20^th off, so we
won’t be working ridiculous shifts during Inauguration Day! Either way, the
entire city is going to be a madhouse from Saturday to Thursday, so it doesn’t
really matter. I’ll probably stay in my apartment anyway, as far from the
masses as possible.

Tomorrow a
small group of our recruit class will be assisting with (read: shoveling debris
out of) Fairfax County’s second round of flashover training. Unexpectedly, Sgt.
Paulson came up to me in the hallway and asked if I had any fire experience.

“No, sir.”

“Alright, well
we’re going to mix it up a bit. You’ll be in the can tomorrow.”

“Uh… yes, sir.”

I had no idea
why he had done that; during the last round of training, only those with prior
fire experience (particularly knowledge of the Self-Contained Breathing
Apparatus that we’d be using) were allowed to help out in “the can,” as the
flashover simulator was known.

Ah, screw it.
It’ll make for some good stories tomorrow, I’m sure. 

Lest we begin
to feel comfortable in our academic setting, DCFD is always sure to remind us
that we can at any time be used for cheap labor.

Fairfax County
is coming back on Friday to use the flashover box again, and a handful of
recruits (myself included) were tasked with cutting and loading all the particle
board needed for the walls.

Little did we
know that it was more an exercise in leadership and decision-making than it was
grunt work. Sure, we had fun with the saws and got all sorts of dirty outside,
but Sgt. Paulson had a nice recap with us after we had tried 994’s patented “too
many cooks in the kitchen” theory without success.

“Command” for
this ostensibly simple operation went from recruit Holden at the beginning, to
me about halfway through. Holden was being too indecisive about things, and Sgt.
Paulson decided that it was time for someone else to give it a shot.

I’m always the
first to admit that I don’t know anything
about fighting fire. But I’ll be damned if I can’t have grunts move firewood.

Sure, my
methods may not have been the most efficient. Okay, I can see why the class
leader might have tried to step on my toes and start giving some orders of his
own. And yes, I understand why there were some grumbles when I told everyone
where to stack each different size of particle board after we cut it. I think
most of them were probably just miffed that they weren’t in charge, since a
large part of this class is know-it-all loudmouths who are always telling other
people how to act (there was a great moment today that wiped a self-satisfied
grin right off one of those recruit’s faces; we all had a great laugh over it,
especially after his “yeah, of course
I know how to use this saw!”)

Regardless, the
point of the exercise was twofold:

One, whoever is
in command is in command. Don’t
question it; you might not like it, or you might do it differently, but you’re
not in charge right now. Shut up and follow orders.

Two, if you are
in command: whether it’s a good decision or a bad decision, make a decision. Sgt. Paulson had a very
good explanation regarding why making no decision is the worst one of all. Know
your situation, know your resources, and give informed orders that will achieve
the ultimate goal.

Sounds like common
sense, right? Well, you’ve obviously never seen nine male recruits take twenty
minutes to move ten pieces of particle board, because everyone is doing something
different.

Sometimes the
lack of communication between classmates during simple tasks is mindblowing. I
sure hope we lock this up before fire suppression starts, otherwise we’re all
in for a very long Spring. 

Well, we were
disappointed. Or relieved, depending on how comfortable you are with having a
very short man screaming in your face all day. Apparently four people aren’t
worth the effort of strapping on a drill instructor’s hat and trying to scare
the shit out of them, so our morning routine lacked any sort of excitement.

It was a day
like any other, except for the textbook-worn attitude of most of the recruits
and haggard thoughts of tomorrow. This past weekend, draught lists were
replaced by protocol manuals; tequila shots lost the fight to flashcards. We
reviewed the poorly-scored tests, skipped PT, and proceeded to spend the rest
of the day studying. Those of us who had passed on the first go-around,
however, twiddled our thumbs and begged for the day to be over.

Although, the
day wasn’t completely without interruption; around 0800, one more recruit
showed up. The DC Fire Department now had one more confused, poorly-informed
paramedic with which to toy.

“The names I
just read off were the only ones who passed the protocol test. Now, to anyone
who failed it: you have one more shot, or you’re going to be dismissed. Not
recycled to the next recruit class, not put on hold… dismissed.”

A collective
shudder went through the approximately half of 994 who had not passed the
protocol test we took not an hour before. It had been a good day, filled with
lots of cooking and joking around. Now, a large group of recruits could feel
their weekends slipping away as they imagined cramming endless medical
algorithms and protocols into their brains instead of relaxing and partying.

We had done a
breakfast for the entire class and all the instructors, and the smoke-filled
kitchen was rivaled only by the smoke-filled train car that Fairfax County was
using outside. They had shown up as part of a morning training exercise
utilizing the “flashover box,” a big metal crate that you can heat up until
everything in the room suddenly combusts in an instant. Anything that can burn,
will burn—and the purpose of putting
firefighters into it is to teach them the signs of when a room is about to go
off (you’ll have about two steps to dive out a window before you’re toast). The smell of a house fire hung heavily in the apparatus bay and the drill yard for the entire day. For some, it was a familiar smell; for others, it simply offered a strange olfactory foreshadowing of the academy. 

The four
paramedics were told that anywhere from five to eight new medic recruits would
be showing up Monday; as far as we could tell, that’s the start of Recruit
Class 995.

Original
members of 994 speculated that this would be the week we’d meet Sgt. Alvarez,
who was explained to as a former-drill-sergeant-turned-firefighter who showed
up in Week 1 to scare the shit out of new recruits. My three comrades and I already have
uniforms and knowledge of marching, so we’ll be light-years ahead of the “new”
new guys—but nevertheless, my boots are polished extra-shiny and my shirt is
pressed sharply. No sense in having him call me “lower than whale shit” any
more than he has to. 

“Jesus Christ,
recruit. What’d you shine those shoes with, a brick?”

The rest of us
stood at attention and tried to stifle laughter. Carl, on the other hand, was
frozen in place so rigidly that I thought DCFD had slipped a uniform onto a
terra cotta warrior. 

“Uh… no sir?”
was all he could eke out.

Instructor Lang
shook his head theatrically and moved onto the next recruit. Every so often
when he dropped a good one-liner that elicited some laughs, we would see the
beginnings of a smile peek out from under his moustache.

Today was not
one of those days, and he was letting us know it. Nobody was off the hook (my
sweatshirt was a bit rumpled near the waistband), and we stood at attention in
the apparatus bay for the better part of an hour while Lang scrutinized each
and every recruit in 994. 

Just before he
dismissed us for PT, he offered us a few bits of advice that would be unwise to
ignore. As I’m sure anyone who is in the military can tell you, it’s a sobering
experience to have an entire group shouting in response to a single voice.

“Nine-nine-four,
am I understood?”

“YES, SIR!”

He walked out,
and the only sound that followed him was the hum of the apparatus bay heater.

 _____

Seeing as the
majority of 994 had only just recently attained their EMT-Basic certifications,
DCFD’s medical director decided to pay the class a visit.

Assistant Chief
and Medical Director Dr. Augustine was one of those people who simply oozed
confidence and good humor. He spoke with the affable demeanor of a man who was
not only extremely competent at his job, but also loved every one of the
twenty-three years he had been doing it.

Growing up and
becoming a firefighter in Ohio, Dr. Augustine was involved in some of the
largest and most complicated incidents that happened in the US in the 1980s.
Speaking about the Miamisburg Train Incident in 1986, he described the large-scale
evacuations required of the Dayton Fire Department after a train containing
white phosphorus derailed and caught fire.

“There is
absolutely nothing like having someone come up to you and say ‘Hey, you appear
to be in charge. I need you to evacuate the city. Can you do it?’”

Up until this
point, the logistics required for evacuating 50,000+ people within several
hours had never been explored. The difficulties of sealing up hospitals, moving
nursing home patients, and dealing with the public’s demands were all crafted
on the fly. 117 paramedics from six surrounding counties were called in to
help, but it was still a command scenario modeled after a nightmare.

The real
problem came two days afterwards, when the not-yet-extinguished train car
exploded again. It sent another cloud of white phosphorus reeling towards the
city, and the evacuation had to be repeated a
second time.

The burning
train wasn’t the most fascinating part, however. Dr. Augustine had such a
soothing, colorful voice that he made incident command sound like a bedtime
story (complete with gruff voices for the bad guys and gentle high pitches for
the little old ladies). The entirety of 994 listened with rapt attention; we
were too engrossed to even shift in our seats, for fear of losing a detail in a
squeaky chair.