Step 1: Put all your gear on, but reverse your hood.

Ah, yes. One of the essential tools of the firefighter: hose. To be perfectly honest, there's not a whole lot to be said about hose; it's ultimately designed to get water to the fire. There's some math involved in pumping it, but it really boils down to a simple plumbing problem. We've got all sorts of adapters, couplings, gated valves, nozzles, and other "appliances" that help with it, but it's been the same concept since bucket brigades and leather hose: get water from Point A to the much hotter Point B. Now, we just have more efficient tools with which to do it.

"Get it on your shoulder, Probie! It's not a football!"

I'm sure everyone in the recruit class will be an expert in dragging hose up and down and out and back and every which way before we're out of here. Engine 34 and the Tower will ensure that we are well-trained Jedi masters when we leave. 

But hey, even sweating it out in the drill yard is better than being in the classroom, right?

(It's like a firefighter iPod commercial.)

I decided to take a small break from studying to add a few things about last week, as well as a few fun items to look forward to in the coming days.

Every morning
at the Academy, a handful of recruits gather together in a circle for morning
prayer. Some are half-asleep, dreaming of coffee through half-closed eyes;
others are bouncing off the wall so violently that they can barely keep
themselves in one place long enough to conclude the activity.

Today, there
was a lot to come together for; one of the recruits is having some problems at
home, and we’re all empathizing with his troubles. Suffice it to say, it’s
something that nobody should ever have to go through—he and his son will surely
be in our hearts.

It’s comforting
to know that for as much joking around as we do and as much shit as we might
dish out in a given day, if any of us were to really need help, we’d be there
for each other. Like someone said today: “We’re a pretty tight-knit family. I
mean, not all the brothers and sisters get along all the time, but we’re a
family nonetheless.”

———

The bookwork
has been coming steadily; quizzes are guaranteed every day, along with a full
test every Friday. It doesn’t yet seem like anybody is struggling to keep up
with the first five chapters, but we’ll see if that changes as time goes on.
One can barely walk down the hallway without being bombarded by a recruit with
flashcards asking questions, or hearing an argument between two members of 994
over the technicalities on how to define any one of the dozens of terms already
learned.

We’re beginning
to see more and more of Sergeant Woodward; technically the “Lead Instructor”
for 994, he had functioned mostly in the background until this past Monday—he
promptly assumed his role as our primary educator and launched right into
Chapter 1 of our textbook. He’s very animated as a lecturer; based on our quiz
scores, the class seems to be responding well to his teaching style.

———

We have two new
recruits, also paramedics, who are from the same state down south. We thought
us four new guys had it bad back in December? These brave souls are being
launched right into the thick of it, even having to play catchup on the first few chapters. One nice facet of their introduction is that items that took us weeks to receive
(bunker gear, nametags, PAT tags, etc.) have come rather quickly to both of
them.

Just as I’m
sure it was interesting to see where the four of us fit in when we arrived
eight-plus weeks ago, it’ll probably be a pretty entertaining ride to see how
these two new guys pan out. Nothing to do but hope for the best, I suppose.

As mentioned in previous posts, there are
certain items that are to be either a) on our person at all times, or b)
immediately available while seated at our desks. Incidentally, “on our person”
includes items that are to be committed to memory; the mission statement of the
Department, the names of various high-ranking officers, etc.

The list probably won’t be stopping
anytime soon.

Meanwhile,
we already have a small collection of things that all the recruits should have
(most of them are uniform-related, but there is a strong emphasis on properly
presenting yourself as a recruit within 994).

First
and foremost, our PAT tags. These flimsy, laminated pieces of inkjetted paper
are our primary means of identification. 

We’re
actually given two: one is on a clip, so we can wear it on a belt loop, and the
second is just the card. As far as I know, when you report to your
company, this second card goes up on a board somewhere to let everyone in the
house know that you’ve arrived and are working that day (it’s an accountability
thing—who is going on this run with us, is it supposed to be the off-going or
oncoming shift, etc.) [Can any readers help me out with clarifying this?]

Any
departmental uniform would of course be incomplete without collar brass. 

Worn on
the tips of your uniform shirt collars, ours simply read “FIRE” and “EMS.”
There’s a whole section of an inordinately large binder we were given
describing the wearing of collar brass, along with all sorts of rules about
dress uniforms.

Oh, and
that reminds me; the brass insignias that officers wear (Sergeant all the way
through Chief of the Department) is another recall-on-demand piece of
information.

Bulletin 81 is an official Departmental document outlining everything that recruits are to do (or not do) while at the Training Academy. 

 It’s the rulebook, and we’ve absorbed
most of the information quite quickly. After all, you only get two strikes
before you’re drummed out.

Certain
recruits make a game of reciting Bulletin 81 regulations to other classmates;
for example, if someone asks “Hey, can I borrow your pen?,” the only (apparently)
acceptable response is “Recruits are to have a pen on them at all times as part
of their uniform while at the Academy. Read your Bulletin 81, shitbag!”

It’s
said in a very official, yet jocular manner; the recipient has usually done
nothing wrong, but it’s part of the rules for the
“whose-buttons-can-I-push-today” game… but that’s a topic for another post.

And
lastly, everyone’s favorite item that we were issued: our Probationer badges,
known casually as our “Red Badges of Courage.” 

 A slim 3” by 1”, this small rectangle of
red plastic will haunt our uniforms and our dreams until we’re officially off
probationary status.

It
oh-so-helpfully informs everyone we encounter in the Department that we’re
brand spankin’ new. How nice.

We’ll
receive more information on this later, but our probationary period should last
approximately one year; it will be punctuated by regular drilling and testing
while we’re at our assigned companies.

Outside
of everything mentioned above, we all have to be sure to shine shoes and press
uniforms. “The way you wear your uniform is an outward representation of the
pride you take in this job and this department,” as the instructors tell us.

Some
friends I spoke to recently were almost disturbed by my descriptions of the
Academy. They said that when I talk about being a recruit, it sounds like I’m
blindly swallowing a bunch of institutionalized, good-little-soldier kind of
stuff. They, however, have never attended anything even remotely close to a
large urban training academy like ours.

Two
years ago, I might have agreed with them (time spent with the liberal arts
tends to do that to you. Damn the man, anyone?)  

Today, I
don’t think I can. Especially not when I love this job so damn much.

And to think: this is only the training
for it.

“Uh… he’s the
Assistant Chief of Services, right?”

We all knew the
answer was wrong, yet we sat silent and uncomfortable in the hot classroom. It
was unsettling, like watching someone screw up the $250,000 question on Who
Wants to Be a Millionaire.

A slow grin
crept across Sgt. Paulson’s face as he stared back at Carl. He never broke eye
contact; one arm eventually uncrossed itself and pointed in the general direction
of the Tower.

Thirty-three
voices sighed inwardly in relief; a thirty-fourth was audible, even over the
sound of his boots slapping pavement.

The first
official week of fire school started today, and so far it has lived up to the
reputation that preceded it.

“This kind of
screwing around won’t fly when we get to fire school.”

“When we start
fire, I better not see any more of that shit.”

True, we’ve
been stuck in EMS wonderland as of late, awaiting certifications and tests and
all sorts of things completely unrelated to actual fire suppression. We were
warned countless times not to become complacent, that soon discipline would
fall hard and swift upon any recruit unlucky enough to be in the way.

It's all true.

(Just F.Y.I., don't ever get caught sitting on a table; these deceptively heavy and awkward pieces of furniture will accompany you on your lap around the facility.)

From today
onward, we are to stand straighter and yell louder. We are to run faster and
push harder. This is the entire reason 994 is here, and it is not to be taken lightly. The attitude of
the entire facility has turned a one-eighty, and that means it’s time for real fire school.

I foresee a Tower run becoming commonplace in response to even the slightest infraction. I see
flashcards worn thin with worry, tucked next to notebooks filled with the rushed chickenscratch that is lecture notes. (Oh, and lest we forget: more sweat-stained PT gear and institutional-sized bottles of Advil.)

Like
I mentioned in an earlier post; this is the show, and you’ve got to prove
yourself here. The pace is
going to pick up very quickly, and it’s time to see if 994 can keep up.