What's the Worst That Could Happen?

“I need a shower, think I have time?”

“What’s the worst that could happen,” I answered.

Ed was working overtime and wanted a fresh start to the day. I was filling in for a rescue officer who was off on an injury. It was my first experience in charge of a fire department vehicle. Rescue 3 is quartered at the Branch Avenue fire station. It is a workhorse; five thousand runs annually the norm. All of Providence’s advanced life support vehicles are workhorses, the call volume dramatically increases as the years’ progress.

“Keep your radio on in case we get a call,” I said as the door to the shower room closed.

This should have been my first day back on Engine 9 after a six month detail to the rescue division. I enjoyed my time on Rescue 1, learned a lot and considered going back eventually but I missed the camaraderie at the fire station and, of course, the firefighting. Providence rescues still respond to fires but for the most part stay outside and tend to the wounded.

I was looking forward to the old routine, the discussion around the coffee pot, the housework, polishing brass, checking the trucks, rechecking the trucks, making lunch and with any luck, fighting a little of the red devil.

I didn’t get a chance to walk in the door of the Brook Street Fire Station.

“Welcome back, Morse, you’re going to Rescue 3, in charge,” said Tim, my truck mate from Engine 9 from the second floor kitchen window.

“See you tomorrow,” he said, laughing and shut the window so as not to let the cool air from the air conditioner out. I didn’t take it personally, I knew Tim was looking forward to my return, we got along pretty well. I would just have to wait another day.

I knew there was a possibility of being sent back to the rescue but I didn’t think it would happen so fast. The division is in desperate need of bodies. Not many firefighters are willing to be permanently assigned to the little white truck when the big red one is available. I put my gear back in the wagon and started toward the Branch Avenue fire barn and Rescue 3.

The shower water must not have had a chance to get hot when the bell tipped.

“Rescue 3 and Engine 2; respond to Route 95 North for an accident involving a school bus.”

Great.

“Rescue 3, responding.”

I heard Engine 2 roar out of the station. Thirty seconds later, Ed appeared from the shower, soaking wet and getting dressed while walking toward the stairs.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” he said, shaking his head.

“I should know better,” I responded as the overhead door let the warm summer air into the bay. There are certain things that should never be uttered when on the clock. “It’s quiet.” “Things are so peaceful.” “What’s the worst that could happen?

“Engine 2 to fire alarm, we have a school bus into a tractor trailer, heavy damage to the school bus, we’ll keep you informed.”

“Here we go,” I said to Ed as we sped toward the incident.

“Engine 2 to fire alarm, advise rescue we have a pediatric trauma code, expedite.”

The school bus driver drifted from her lane of travel at just the wrong time. A flatbed truck had stopped in the breakdown lane. The bus slammed into it, first smashing the windshield glass, then tearing into the passenger compartment, ripping the metal like a tin can. The baby didn’t have a chance. She was in an infant seat at the door when the back of the flatbed crashed into the passenger compartment.

We approached from the south, the roof of the bus was torn off the body three quarters down the passenger side. I saw another Providence rescue just ahead of the bus. Brian took a bloody, still infant away from a woman who had stopped to help and started CPR.

The mind has a way of slowing things down during crisis. In what seemed slow motion, Ed pulled Rescue 3 past the wreckage while I assessed the situation from the officer’s seat. I fully expected mangled bodies of school kids inside the bus. The bus appeared empty when I looked through the shattered windows. The truck stopped, I stepped out and approached the wreckage, not really prepared for what lay inside but forging ahead anyway. The driver of the bus sat slumped over the wheel, trapped. Another woman was trapped in the seat behind the driver. I forced myself to look down the narrow corridor for more victims. There were none. The bus had finished its morning route and was headed back to the garage.

Special Hazards arrived on scene and began extrication procedures. The State Police blocked the highway while we worked. I watched the firefighters work like madmen during the extrication. I felt helpless standing on the highway, waiting. Fifteen minutes into the operation the infant’s mother was freed from her temporary prison. We lifted her out, using the freshly opened roof of the bus as an extrication route. She was unconscious, deformities to her extremities and in shock. We got her into the rescue and rolled toward Rhode Island Hospital, the area’s Level 1 Trauma Center, about ten minutes away. She lived. He baby did not.

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

Don’t ask.

And so began the second part of my career in the fire service. I’m still a firefighter; once a person experiences that life it never leaves, it’s in your blood. For now, I spend my time on the rescue, EMS a second calling. I got off to a rough start, and the road hasn’t gotten much easier to travel but for all the pain, lost sleep and time away from my family I can’t imagine doing anything else.