Hard Landing

My friend, Ryan is twenty-three. He’s been a Providence Firefighter for about a year. When Adam left the rescue for Engine 7 on North Main Street, Ryan took over. We had only worked together for a month or so when I injured my back, but in that short span of time I learned we have a lot in common; love for the job, compassion for our patients and the desire to do the best job we can.

Two days ago, a man ripped off his seat-belt and slammed his car into a bridge abutment as his girlfriend sat in the passenger seat. We will probably never know what caused him to do it, only that he did. When the crash didn’t kill him he ran from the car, onto as overpass and jumped into the northbound lanes of Route 95 North. Four cars hit him.

Ryan and Dave were first on scene. It should have been me and Ryan, and for Ryan’s sake I wish it was. Nothing against Dave, he is more than capable, but at incidents like these it helps to be with your regular partner. The scene Ryan described to me as he drove home from work, alone in his truck for the first time since the incident was horrific, to put it mildly.

I’m sure Ryan will be fine, he’s a tough kid.These things do have a way of hanging around the subconscious though. The whole thing made me think of a chapter I wrote in the sequel to Rescuing Providence.

excerpt from Another Day in Providence, all rights reserved.

Early Winter, 1992.

“Attention Engines 12, 2, 7, ladder s 3 and 7, Special Hazards, Rescue 3 and Car 23, respond to the corners of Dorothy and Charles for a cave-in with a man trapped.”

This is what I lived for, what I trained for, what I would do for the next twenty years at least; rescue people. I hit the pole while the echo from the loudspeaker still filled the station, stepped into my bunker gear and climbed into Ladder 7’s tiller cab.  Steve Rocchio was already in the drivers seat, Lieutenant Healy was “getting dressed,” almost ready to climb into the officer’s seat.  I squeezed into the tiny seat in the tiller man’s compartment, and immediately pressed the button that enabled the truck to start,  I heard the familiar cranking from the doghouse, then the whine of the powerful Mack engine as the truck came to life.

I pressed a different button, one next to the start switch.  This was my only communication with the driver of the ladder truck.  One ring meant STOP immediately, two rings meant go forward, three was for backing up.  The tiller man rang first, letting the driver know all systems were go.  The driver would respond with a like number of rings and the truck would roll.  Two rings and Steve knew I was ready, he responded with two rings and we sped out the door. I slammed the bubble windows on the tiller cab shut which did little to keep the freezing December wind and chill from the inside.  It didn’t matter how cold or hot it was in the tiller cab, there was nowhere I would have rather have been.  My turnout gear and the thrill of being a Providence Firefighter sitting on top of the world in a tiller cab were enough to keep me comfortable.

It takes a while to get the hang of the tiller, but once you do you never forget. It really isn’t that hard, as one firefighter infamously stated, “any asshole can tiller,” right before he crashed the truck into the fire station.

The setting sun on the horizon offered little warmth on this cold winters day; only the light would be missed, fleeting by the minute. The red and orange hues mixed with the grey winter sky as darkness seeped relentlessly through the brilliant colors, eventually replacing the beautiful canvas with black.

A mile away two men frantically dug at the earth where their friend was buried alive.  They were finishing up for the day when tragedy struck. They were excavators, digging a foundation in a hilly embankment in the city’s North End. The backhoe that they had been using sat idling at the crest of the enormous hole they had spent the day creating, never once considering it would become a tomb.  The two men stood on the spot they last saw the victim before one of the walls collapsed, burying him under twelve feet of earth. They were afraid to use the machine that made the hole in fear of crushing or cutting their friend in half.

Once our crew had assembled we took over the rescue operation, sending firefighters into the hole in three man teams to dig.  We set up emergency lighting giving the scene the look of a movie set.  This, however was no scripted story, this was real life, and sudden death.  From inside the hole the silhouettes of firefighters holding tools resembling ancient weapons gave comfort to those digging.  I trusted those shadows on the rise with my life should the earth shift and I become entombed.

We all had a turn. The ground was recently turned by the backhoe and easy to move. It was also potentially deadly.  I looked at a twenty-foot wall of instability, waiting to crush us while I took my turn with the shovel, ever mindful of how fast a cave-in happens.

As the minutes pressed on the digging became more frantic.  Eventually Chief Ronny Moura had the backhoe operator carefully remove bigger mounds of earth, knowing every second was vital to the buried man’s chance for survival.  After taking a few scoops from the hole with the backhoe, our guys returned.  My friend, Nate Sweet was in the hole when we found the body.  Just an arm, but we were revitalized.  The digging picked up steam as we tried desperately to free the man.  Minutes flew by, oxygen was passed into the hole, eventually a mask put on the man’s face.  We all watched as the three in the hole finally freed the victim, limp, lifeless from his grave.  We placed him in a stokes basked and raised his body, passing him through us to safe ground.  He never had a chance.

There was no transport, the medical examiner took over.  We silently picked up our gear and went back to the station.

It was my first meeting with death.  There would be many, many more.  I’ve never gotten used to it.

It’s different being with your friends and co-workers after living through a traumatic event.  Strength in numbers comes to mind.  Back at the station we talked about the incident while washing down the dirt covered shovels and portable lighting, feeling sympathy for the man who went to work that morning and never would come home, wondered if he left a wife or children.  It makes it easier to share your thoughts with people who have lived through the same experience.

That was our last call of the day.  We went our separate ways shortly after returning to the station.  I had a half hour ride home. The incident was still with me all of the way. The emptiness of my car was suffocating; I couldn’t wait to get home.  Eventually I made it, looked at Cheryl, kissed her, hugged her and broke down in tears.  I don’t think I cried for the man who died in the hole, I’m not even sure why I cried.  All I know was it was good to be home and there was nowhere I would rather be.

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