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CDP, Day 2.

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"Jesus Christ, this feels like the Marines again. 'Here's your boots, here's some clothing, now go do some dangerous shit.'"


George's southern-Maryland twang made me laugh as I turned around to face him in line.

"No, I'm serious, y'all! 'Course, they weren't this godawful ugly color."

I looked down at the ridiculous boots we were issued and wondered why in the hell anyone would want to climb into a set of plastic footie pajamas and do Hazardous Materials work within their Fire Department.

—————

The backboards just kept coming down the line, the limp figures strapped atop them only serving to make us work faster. As we pulled the next body down the lumber-mill wheeled track set about waist high, I grabbed a sponge and began wiping off whatever particular contaminant was on this one. Someone else pulled a spray nozzle hanging from the ceiling, and we watched the water run down around the elevated platform inside "the hot zone." Our suits were covered in contaminated water, but there was no time to try and clean ourselves off—other team members were busy dragging victims towards us as fast as they could triage them and cut off their clothing.

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Not too far away, more Tyvek-clad figures moved with the slow deliberation of astronauts as they spun in circles to be washed down. Their shift was over, and they were being decontaminated by the rest of our team. Scrub brushes and hoses were scattered around the "warm" (contamination reduction) area, and eventually the outgoing team was cleared to take off their gear and recover inside the "cold" zone.

—————

This was our first exercise for the day, as we learned how to decontaminate (or "decon," for short) both civilians and fellow team members after working in an area exposed to a simulated chemical or biological agent. 

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The second half of the day also felt decidedly military in nature. Apparently, manufacturers of chemical agent testing devices (think the strange looking devices you see on TV) are unable to call anything by a brand name. The M256 Chemical Agent Detector Kit. M8 colorimetric paper, and it's stickier counterpart, M9 tape. The CAM (a 1987-era Chemical Agent Monitor), as well as it's 21st-century big brother (the APD2000). And of course, who could forget the AP2C: the only portable chemical agent detector in the world that can identify solids, liquids, and gases with no currently known false positives.

The facility they bussed us to today was an old military storage warehouse, which has been converted into an indoor training location complete with faux railroad tracks running through it and wall-sized prints of storefronts to add a small-town authenticity.

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Our instructors are top-notch, and we're continually being hyped up about Thursday's live-agent training. We received a briefing today about our time at the COBRA facility, and we're all excited by the opportunity to experience something of this caliber. I mean, you can learn how to scrub someone down almost anywhere; Thursday is what will make this week really stand out from anything we've ever done.

Edit: Ugh, sorry about the colors on these. Not only are the boots really weird (they're more pink or salmon-colored than the vibrant orange seen here), but it was also a pain in the ass to adjust white balance for the off-color fluorescents that bathe the entire facility. I just couldn't get it right!

CDP, Day 1.

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"Well, good morning, everyone."


The question, usually answered with first-day mumbles, was instantly blasted out of the air by a resounding "Good morning, sir!"

Yes, our recruit class is here, and we've made our presence known. I think we've scared the remaining nineteen in our class of 60, perhaps by sheer numbers alone. However, it is beneficial (you'd agree if you knew us) that everything at the CDP is planned down to the minute. For example, breakfast is at 0530. From 0755 to 0800, the bus is loaded. It arrives at 0805, and we're to be seated in the classroom at 0815. 

The facility itself is rather large, with lecture halls and scenario rooms lining the hallways of the two story structure. We spent the entirety of today in one room, engaging in 2-hour classes until our dismissal at 1700 hrs.

The cadre of instructors we had today had some pretty impressive credentials: a helicopter pilot shot down several times in Vietnam; the recipient of a Doctorate degree with a thesis on The Terrorist Mind; a military consultant who hunted terrorists throughout Germany in the 1970's. 

That was all the same guy.

The rest were no less impressive, with a few ex-Army chaps with decades-long NBC (Nuclear, Biological, Chemical) operative and instruction records. 

I would additionally like to add to the record that hearing a man with a thick Alabama drawl rattle off phrases like "portable isotopic neutron spectrology" and "the criticality of the radioisotope" is extremely entertaining (he was the chief physicist of the protection engineer of the Army's Radiological Facility that used to be housed right around Anniston before it closed). So: imagine if your grandfather was 1) Ron White's twin brother, 2) a great storyteller, and 3) a fucking rocket scientist.

With every new topic (from chemical hazards to terrorist mindset), we found our recruit class discussing D.C.'s weaknesses and how terrorists might infiltrate our fine city. What tools could they use to do it? How could they do they most harm to the most amount of people, using the fewest materials? It was kind of creepy initially; but we realized that in order to combat their efforts, you have to think like they do in order to mount a decent response.

It's some pretty serious stuff—but while some of us have had classes before in WMD/Terrorism Response topics, I doubt that any prior class can hold a candle to the depth and breadth of instruction we'll be receiving this week.

God help Alabama.

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It's 8am, and I'm seated in an airport awaiting a flight to Alabama. I figured I could at least throw a quick post up while I'm here (damn airport doesn't have free WiFi… can I write this off on my taxes as a business expense?), since there's nothing to do until our flight takes off. 

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N.B. – The photos interspersed throughout the post are unrelated, but are from last week when we finished up our hoseline/pumping practicals.

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Not all of the practicals went smoothly. "The Oh Shit Moment," or why you don't let go of the hoseline!

—————

We, as a recruit class (yes, all of our 36 hellraisers plus instructors) are headed to the Center for Domestic Preparedness in Anniston, AL. From their website:

Train at the nation's premier all-hazards training center! FEMA’s Center for Domestic Preparedness (CDP), located in Anniston, Alabama, is the United States Department of Homeland Security (DHS)'s only federally chartered Weapons of Mass Destruction (WMD) training center.
The CDP began operations in June 1998 as the only all-hazards training center, offering training on Chemical, Biological, Radiological, Nuclear, and Explosive (CBRNE) weapons. While the training tempo has increased dramatically, the CDP’s training programs provide the very best in advanced hands-on training for America's emergency responders. On March 31, 2007, the Noble Training Facility (NTF) was transferred from the U.S. Fire Administration (USFA) to the CDP. NTF is the only hospital facility in the United States dedicated to training hospital and healthcare professionals in disaster preparedness and response.


That should about sum it up. Assuming internet access is available, pictures and posts about the trip are soon to follow (I'll have to double check on whether or not I can write about certain things… discretion will be utilized.) Even if I have to blog from my iPhone, dammit, the writings will continue.

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Spaghetti.

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"Do not ever let go of this!"

Sgt. Paulson's voice boomed through the burn building, echoing menacingly off the concrete walls. He dragged about ten feet of hose towards him, and held the nozzle in the face of the recruit standing before him.

"Treat this like a baby! If you were a cop, you wouldn't tell someone 'Hey, hold my gun for a second, would you?' Do not ever drop your nozzle! It's yours."

The recruit's facemask bobbed up and down twice, signaling that the message had sunk in. We had all been dragging hoselines up and down stairs, through rooms, and then re-racking all of it for several hours. Techniques are being learned, speed is being improved, and it looks like a bunch of us might actually become D.C. firefighters. However, we still have a long way to go.
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The past few days have been extremely fun, albeit exhausting. We're all covered in hose grime (as I write this, I'm noticing that I still can't seem to scrub off some of the dirt and sludge on my hands), but the scenarios are interesting in that they're taxing us both mentally and physically.

—————

I felt someone's hand brush against my feet. Whoever it was kept going, and for a second, I thought they'd passed me. The sound of my PASS device (designed to alert those around me that I had been motionless for more than thirty seconds) was shrieking through the pitch black and reverberating off the walls, making it confusing for the rescuers to tell where it was initially coming from. Quickly, a disbelieving hand slapped back against my boot and grabbed hold of the thick cloth that comprised my bunker gear. 

"I got something here!"

Two more hands arrived, announced by a mechanical breathing sound and the thump of boots near my head. Without delay, I felt the straps of my SCBA harness and my running pants pull tight as two people lifted me clear off the ground. 

I hung limp, mutely aware of the light blinking in front of my face that indicated I had less than half a tank of air left. After being dragged through several feet of darkness, I began to see shafts of light cutting through the dirty air. A large cellar door was open several feet above the basement level, and I felt the hands around me shift positions to lift me up the steps.

As my SCBA cylinder caught on each stair, I took several jarring shots to the spine before I landed safely on the asphalt outside. The sun shone through my mask, only to be blocked moments later by the face of another recruit. 

"Annie, Annie, are you okay?!" 

I couldn't help but burst out laughing at the age-old saying from CPR classes, intended as a way to check the level of consciousness of a plastic mannequin named Rescue Annie. 

I sat up and looked over at Gibson, who was huffing from the effort of hauling me out but grinning just the same.

"You motherfuckers. That shit hurt! Take me up the elevator next time, dammit."

—————

Split into teams, our recruit class has been running scenarios inside and around the burn building. Yesterday, some of us (myself included, obviously) acted as "victims" for rescue teams; today, we even filled the structure with a bit of fake smoke to simulate real-life visibility conditions while you run hoselines into it.

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We're forced to think on our feet. Much more so than the classroom, we're beginning to see everyone's true work ethic out in the drill yard. Some get it; some don't. 'Nuff said. 

As backbreaking as it can be, it's exciting and fun. You've got your ups and downs, to be sure (my team once missed a rescue dummy in a fire coat lying in a dark stairwell we ran up… oops), but this is definitely the way to learn this stuff. You can sit in a classroom all day and listen to the step-by-step of how to connect to a hydrant or pull a hoseline, but only by doing it over and over will you learn the ins and outs of each movement. Everybody has something that works for them, and we're in the early stages of development. 

The most useful part may be the debriefing after each scenario; then, we can take something away from it that we might need to remember next time. Each person has screwed up a few times in the drills—some of them are kind of hilarious.

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"Spaghetti," or hopelessly tangled hoseline that becomes worse when charged with water.

Either way, I find it hard not to think about the scenarios again and again, even on my drive home. What went well? What could I have done better? What did I do that was fucking awful? (Yes, in one scenario, the hose on my shoulder became so entangled with stuff that I lost the nozzle somewhere behind me. Apparently, watching Sgt. Paulson yell at the other recruit didn'
;t quite drive the point home yet. Never let it go!)

Someone said yesterday that it's like we get to put on our costumes and play fireman this week. This kind of stuff certainly makes it feel like our goal is getting closer; but rather like little kids, we still don't fully know what we're doing. 

All we know is that it's fun as hell to learn it.

Did you ever play “Pipe Dream?”

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It was a Windows 3.1 game from 1991. The screen looked like this: 

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…and the purpose was to place enough properly-positioned pipe so as to not allow water to spill out. 

That's what today felt like. This entire week, in fact, will be spent on hoses, water supply, pump operations, etc. Given the multiple permutations of hydrant locations, where the engine is coming from, types of hose lays, couplings/appliances, and other variables, it seems a daunting task to try and keep it all straight—but we'll give it a hell of a shot. As it's been explained to me, once we have the basic ideas down, we can begin "putting the pieces together" to solve the water supply problem. 

And what a problem it can be. No two situations or locations are the same, but the required end result is the same: make sure you get water to your crew inside. 

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We pulled and re-racked the hose too many times to count today, and hooked up to the hydrants over and over again. Dragging all that shit around the drill yard can get exhausting, but it's only by sheer repetition that we'll be able to do this stuff in our sleep. We even ran through and around the burn building with some of our attack lines, just to get a feel for navigating with a hose line. 

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This whole week should be a lot of fun. As with every new skill that we learn, I look forward to our class being competent enough to follow a single order, such as "lay out" or "throw a ladder to that window," without having to be reminded about the step-by-step process. It'll just take time, and I'm excited to see it all culminate with Burn Week. 

This is my ladder.

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This is my ladder.

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There are many like it, but this one is mine.


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Without me, my ladder is useless.


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Without my ladder, I am useless.

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The past week has been spent solely on ladders. Maintaining them, learning how to carry them, throwing them up against a building, and even draggin one ladder up another ladder (crazy, huh? Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.)

On Tuesday, the first day that we were playing outside near the burn building, we actually had enough ladders to go around for each group of three to have one. That means that I was perpetually raising and lowering them, without a break to step aside and snap a picture—it figures that I wouldn't have a moment to visually capture the very event that this blog is named for. 

Damn you, irony. 

Fortunately, good images abounded all week. I'm not sure what tomorrow will bring, but it is wonderful to be outside. The days are starting to pass a lot more quickly, and we're starting to go home a lot more beat up. Fuck it; I say bring the pain. We're all hurting, but again: there's very few jobs where you can truly feel like you put in an honest days' work when you come home. We're lucky to be busting our asses like we are now. Do you know how many people go to a job every single day that they hate? If I ever end up stuck in an office building, please take me out of my misery.

I think the best part so far is the ubiquitous mentality of "just get the job done." I was always a proponent of it, but the Academy has forced me to go further out of the box than ever before. I mean, there's definitely a proper way and an incorrect (usually injury-causing) way to do something like throw a ladder, but it seems like everyone will find their own little tweaks in the method to do what needs to be done. Will your officer really wait for you to go through every single textbook step of how to run a hoseline or get a ladder up? Nope, you're just going to be expected to get Item A to Point B and function as part of the team. It's just another thing that makes me excited to go out into a company and be on this job (frankly, I've lost count of them all). 

A thought that struck me on the drive home: when I was a teenager, my Dad and I used to paint the house, fix stuff, and hang Christmas lights with a 24' extension ladder we had in the garage. 

After this week, I'll never be able to look at that ladder the same way ever again. 

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National Fallen Firefighter’s Memorial

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The grounds of the National Fire Academy were peaceful and near-silent when we arrived. Except for the occasional bird chirp, or the curt greetings of those passing us, the four of us wandered the memorial in reverent silence.

It's hard not to be struck into speechlessness when you first step onto the Walk of Honor in Emmitsburg, MD. Names are carved into the bricks with a rich, obsidian blackness; the sheer volume of names and sentiments is overwhelming. 

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The listings range from friends and family to companies and recruit classes, all honoring those who have fallen in the line of duty. As we walked down the pathway, we approached a large, circular memorial space with a dedication obelisk surrounded by bronze plaques with the names of those lost from every year since 1981. An eternal flame burned just in front of the obelisk, and a series of flags (forever kept at half mast) framed it from behind. 

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Just to walk around and look at the plaques from different years was sobering; tokens and trinkets (mostly coins) were placed on top of the knee-high structures by those who had come before us to pay their respects.

Particularly moving was a sculpture just across the lawn from the Walk of Honor. A massive bronze statue depicting Raising the Flag at Ground Zero (Thomas E. Franklin's instantly recognizable photograph from the afternoon of September 11th), it had a flag flying proudly from the flagpole amidst the debris. 

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As the four of us began to leave, we noticed a small bronze eagle placed in another memorial area. I'm not sure if it's a recreation or an actual second work by the same artist, but the eagle we saw was identical in appearance and title to the "Bex Eagle" located at the corner of Pennsylvania Ave. and 15th St, NW (the plaques are even the same). The inscription intrigued me, and I snapped a quick photo so I could remember the text:

Freedom is the right to one's soul; the right of each person to approach God in his own way and by his own means. It is a man's right to possess his mind and conscience for himself. To those who put their trust in freedom, the state can have no sovereignty over the mind or soul — must be the servant of man's reason, not the master.
Free men must re-dedicate themselves to the cause of freedom. They must understand with a new certainty of conviction that the cause of freedom is the cause of the human individual. Human individuality is the basis of every value — spiritual, moral, intellectual, creative — in human life.


There was no author attributed, nor can I find one at this time. 

—————

We exited the gate of the National Fire Academy that day with a sense of pride. Pride in those who have come before us, as well as those who are to come after us; however, the level of camaraderie we felt that day belied the fact that we were most proud of each other.

Here we were: four complete strangers to each other only months before. Now, they're men that I can call brothers. If I took anything from the memorial, it was the feeling that that we'll do everything in our power to get each other home safely—but the one thing we'll never do is allow them to be forgotten. 

With a proud and dedicated heart,
/RL

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Playing with tools.

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I'm only posting a couple of photos from today, since I have plans tonight and I'm too damn tired to write something anyways. The combination of morning PT and day-long practical instruction has everyone feeling like they were hit by a truck. 

This is going to be a long week—but at least the weather is holding nicely and we're working outside!

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Searching.

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"Mayday, Mayday, Mayday!"


The words came screaming through the pitch black. Already several rooms deep into a deceptively small-looking house, with no visibility to speak of, I frantically tried to remember where my last viable point of egress was. Outside, I heard a prolonged blast of every air horn on the fireground—it sent a chill down my spine, despite the temperatures within the building.

With my right hand sliding along a wall, and the heat intensifying with every passing second, I began backtracking towards what I hoped was a window in this sparsely-furnished room. 

"Fuck, this place is gonna flash! Get out right now, goddamnit!"

I don't know what made me crawl faster: the shouting around me or the sense of impending doom that followed me along that wall. I had lost my Halligan bar somewhere in the bathroom, I could only hope that the two others on my search team had made it out already, and I was reaching in every direction to find some object—some landmark—that gave me a tactile reminder of where I had been only moments before. I crawled forward, always moving.

My glove skipped briefly over a small wooden ledge and then punched out into open air. I had no time to ponder my predicament any further—I grabbed the sill, launched myself up, and tumbled out of a window into weightlessness.

I hit the ground, hard. I rolled forward in the best semblance of a ball I could manage (given the gear I was wearing) and slowly rose to my feet amidst the laughter of classmates.

"Holy shit… you just took a header out of that window! Nice moves, Superman."

I took off my mask and peeled the Nomex hood off my flushed face, already thinking about what the hell had happened inside. 

We were training in the RIT building, a small structure up the hill on the grounds. Our instructors ordered us to enter and search for "victims" with teammates at their back and lightproof covers over their masks. The radio traffic and noises had been simulations, nothing more.

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The building itself was very unforgiving. Rooms had ropes strung from surface to surface, recalling flashbacks from "the tube" out in the drill yard. Some of us had them catch on their SCBA cylinders; others were less fortunate and found their limbs and helmets entangled while attempting to move around.

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Our three-man team even found a "victim," inside the bathtub. Unfortunately, while the Rescue Randy doll made it outside with one recruit, the other two became disoriented in the ensuing fray of trying to re-group and get out when the instructors began screaming at us to evacuate. I felt someone pulling me into a doorway, and that's how I ended up like this:

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Note the grinning sonofabitch in the background. Yeah, real funny, right? 
(Haha, okay, it was kinda funny. Thank God someone 
grabbed my camera and snapped a photo.)

Lifting Ladders. (That phrase just doesn’t have the same ring to it.)

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[Friday, March 6]

The damn thing was so close to my face I could smell the mix of aluminum, dirt, and machine oil. As I hefted the beam onto my shoulder, three of us spun 180º in unison and grabbed ahold of the nearest rung. We waited for the next command, which Instructor Rogers boomed out over the yard:

"Now, we're going to go for a little walk!"

Today's instructor (who, by the way, would actually have a little picture of him holding a ceiling hook if you were to look up "salty old truck company guy"* in any dictionary) had us learning how to lift and carry ladders. There were extension ladders spread all over the asphalt near the burn building, and we were (once again) mastering new things to make our hands and limbs do. 

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The hardest part was easily the "in unison" bit. With two of my group of three never having done this before, our attempts at getting this 30-foot bastard into a useful carrying position were put to shame by the fluid, almost bored movements of the third. We'll get there eventually, I'm sure—Instructor Rogers will make damn certain of that. 

At some point this week, I'll be posting some images from the National Fallen Firefighter's Memorial in Emmitsburg, MD. Myself and a few other recruits made the trip on Saturday. All I'll say right now is that it's a very moving memorial, and the grounds of the National Fire Academy are beautiful. 

This week should definitely hold more excitement than the last; Forcible Entry and Ventilation practical instruction is on the schedule. 



* It's a compliment, I promise you. Our recruit class recognizes that he has 30+ years on the job, with (I think) 27 of them on a ladder truck. If there's anything that looks more natural than him with a hook in his hand or an extension ladder on his shoulder, I don't know what it is. We're lucky as hell that someone with that much experience is here to impart his knowledge upon us. 

Smoke and Mirrors.

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Long time, no post. This week has just
been very monotonous, with a lot of classroom lectures. Plenty of PowerPoints…
very few practicals.

The tedium, however, was broken today.

“Don’t let it hit the ground!”

Sgt. Paulson walked out to the recruits
clustered near the burn building. We were bullshitting and fidgeting—wondering
if we’d be able to get out early today—when we raised our eyes to a
quickly-growing speck outlined in the blue sky. It was a hand light, tumbling
towards a mass of regulation blue. Like so many bridesmaids reaching for a
bouquet, a few managed to get their hands on it (I think we still managed to
drop one, though).

We had one goal this afternoon: to fill
the burn building with cosmetic smoke and then empty it out with fans and smoke
ejectors. The concepts of positive/negative pressure ventilation can be quickly
explained, but seeing them in action seemed to help solidify our understanding.

A small machine on the floor kicked into
overdrive, sending clouds of fake smoke swirling around us (we were in the
“kitchen” area of the burn building, if the two rusted-out stoves were any
indication). 

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Smoke began finding its own way to the remainder of the building,
and we walked around in a quick orientation of the various levels and rooms.

Back outside, we watched the Sergeant haul
an exhaust fan onto the window ledge from the inside of the second floor; when
turned on, smoke could thus be sucked out through those roaring fan blades.
Alternatively, you could pressurize the entire building with a fan aimed into a
doorway from outside and let it vent out the upper windows; either way
increases visibility for firefighters and helps clear the air for victims stuck
inside.

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More on ventilation later, as it’s a
comprehensive topic that we’re not nearly done with (next week is all practical
instruction about ventilation and forcible entry).

The burn building is a fascinating setting
for pictures, just as a side note. The slight mist of a not-quite-fully
ventilated building, dark shadows cut by beams of light, and silhouettes of
recruits provide yet another surreal setting. Again, I felt like I was enclosed
in another world, but was able to step safely back into the afternoon sunlight
of my home planet.

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The Can; Round 1.

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Even through all the noise and smoke, you could feel the energy pulsing outside "the can." The recruits were talking, but most of it was muffled through our masks and we soon gave up trying to hear each other. After a bit of instruction, we were packed into the small corrugated box along with a few instructors (and some of the experienced recruits, who acted more as helpers than as students).

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Initially, our masks were fogged up (we were standing outside for about ten minutes with our masks on but no regulators; the moisture from our breath blurred up the inside surface). We shuffled inside, unable to make out anything except rough shapes through the polycarbonate lens that was our only window to the world. After everyone was inside, and the doors were closed, Sgt. Paulson lit a flare while Sgt. Woodward began giving us a running commentary of what was happening around us.

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"Alright, click in!"

We obliged, our gloved hands now beginning to perform certain movements without the awkward hesitation we had embodied several weeks ago. With regulators firmly in place, and all of us on air, we sat and listened to the hiss of each other breathing (I remember thinking it sounded like a Vader family reunion in there).

At first, all we could see was a figure outlined in the neon red of a road flare, his figure shifting around the box and moving towards an irregular pile of wood. He touched the flare to some straw-like tinder inside a big metal drum, and the iridescent red was soon drowned out by a growing flash of yellow and orange. Although our face pieces were slowly de-fogging from the air flowing from our regulators, the interior of the can still had an eerily surreal quality.

The fire began growing inside the drum, and smoke began to bank down inside the can. Lit only by the dancing fire from the front of the container, layers of black began to form in the air, obscuring our vision even more. Occasionally, Sgt. Woodward would order one or both of the doors to be cracked open, allowing smoke and heat to escape for a bit.

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After one such instance, he ordered us to all take a deep breath and hold it; as we knelt on the floor in complete silence, it was simultaneously the creepiest and coolest moment that I've had in the Academy yet. There was absolutely no noise except for a gentle snapping and popping from the fire, and we could just barely see tongues of flame showing through the smoke—it was performing for us on a darkly lit stage.

"If you're crawling down a hallway and you can't find the fire: just stop and listen for it. It'll tell you where it is."

The instructors had told us that we wouldn't be experiencing any real heat for a while; and while the can was slightly warm (think of wearing a parka on a summer day), it wasn't by any means unbearable or uncomfortable. I think most of us were too fascinated by the fire and smoke gathering around us to care, to be honest.

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That's actually me crawling out of there; thanks to D.R. for camera duty while I was inside.


As we exited and allowed our gear to cool off, another group loaded more fuel into the upper chamber of the can for the next burn.

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One recruit even had a helmet-mounted video camera that he took inside; he said he'd be sharing the footage with us on Monday. I've not figured it out yet, but I'm determined to figure out a way to get either a still or video camera into a fire somewhere. I mean, there must be some way that they take all those photos that are in our textbooks, right?

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"Places I'd like my camera to be able to go," list item 1.

After everyone had cycled through and all the burning material had been extinguished, we had a demonstration from Rescue Squad 3 about how they cut up cars to extricate patients. It was short, but visually interesting for those of us who haven't seen the process up close before (you can always tell which of us has experience as a firefighter by the bored, half-asleep look on their face as someone explains what this or that tool is used for).

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It was another sweaty, dirty, body-beating end to the day—and that's on top of the six miles we ran for PT that very morning.

This just gets better and better, doesn't it?

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