 | The Cavalier daily Tuesday, February 13, 1973 |  |
Friday Nite At The Fires: Just Like Fishing
By DAVE FOSTER
When I grow up– assuming
I eventually do, in fact, grow
up– I think I'd like to be a
policeman...or a garbage-man,
or a secretary, or a nurse, or
anything but a fireman. After
spending an evening with the
Charlottesville. Fire
Department, I've concluded I'd
have neither the patience nor
the stamina, the strength nor
the courage, to adequately
safeguard myself, much less
Charlottesville. Without
intending any poor imitations
of "Dragnet" (a poor subject),
the log for the night of Friday,
February 9, went something
akin to the following.
7:30 p.m. I quite typically
managed to arrive at the
station 15 minutes late, even
after racing over at full speed
in hopes some cop would pull
me and ask whether I "was on
my way to a fire, or
something?"
As first order of business,
Fire Supt. Tallaferro presented
me with a full-page release,
stating, as far as I could tell,
that "I, David Foster," would,
in effect, not blame the City of
Charlottesville if I should
strangle myself with a water
hose.
We then proceeded to the
upstairs kitchen to meet
Smiley, Pee Wee, and about 7
other of the most amiable, if
occasionally down-home, guys
you'll ever meet. I was
immediately offered a cup of
coffee, and even invited to try
a pan of rice pudding which
had only been cautiously
delved into. The coffee I
welcomed; the other I passed,
upon unanimous advice. The
gentleman who had prepared it
couldn't understand: "It was
pretty good when I cooked it
last week..."
7:50 p.m. False alarms are
apparently as immense a
problem as I had suspected,
despite maximum penalties in
the vicinity of a year
imprisonment and a $500 fine
"We use to get a lot of them
from the University," added
Capt. R.L. Shiflett. "It's
calmed down some now." I
jokingly blamed that (the
University calming down) on
co-education; he less jokingly
agreed.
The nuisance of a false is
only half the problem; the
other are the casualties which
could simultaneously occur in
a major fire elsewhere.
Actually, explained Supt.
Taliaferro, it's mostly children
and juveniles. "It's damned
meanness, really."
8:25 p.m. The things an
undergraduate degree will do
for you. Apparently several of
the fellows knew a common
friend with a University degree
in geology. He's now doing
wonders with the shoe-sale
business. Everybody seemed
quite amused that the degree
should be a "B.S."
Another universal problem:
Scotch vs. Bourbon. Seemed
one of the men was attempting
to auction off a half-gallon of
Scotch one of his enemies had
given him for Christmas.
"I tell you, they're both
bad for you," said one. "And I
tell you something else that's
bad for you," holding up his
cigarette, "is this right here"
"Yea, that's why I don't
smoke."
"I know–You drink all the
time."
8:40 p.m. Learned
something about coon-hunting,
as well as my home state.
"Ya see, there was this
coon-hunter from North
Carolina who was looking for a
good coon-dog. So he comes
up to Virginia and finds this
fellow with a $600 dog, and
even a trained monkey to go
up the tree and bring down the
coon for you. So the North
Carolina man takes the
package-deal for $600 and
heads back south.
"Well, 'bout a week later
he's out hunting, and his new
dog gets a coon on the run.
The dog finally stops at a tree,
just barking and yelling up the
trunk, so the monkey heads up
the tree and goes all over it
looking for that coon. Finally,
the monkey runs back down
the tree, grabs the pistol from
the hunter, and blows apart his
new $600 dog.
"Well the North Carolina
man's obviously a little upset
at having his $600 dog shot, so
he rushes home, calls the man
in Virginia and demands an
explanation.
"'Oh yea,' comes the reply,
'I forgot to tell ya; That
monkey don't take to those
hound dogs lyin' to him.'"
9:05 p.m. Charlottesville's
two fire stations – the main,
on Ridge St.; the other on the
250 Bypass, – answered
around 830 calls last year. New
York City, by contrast, may
handle 200,000 in the same
period. NYC also loses one
fireman about every six weeks.
"What most people don't
realize is that more firemen are
killed each year than
policemen.."
9:10 p.m. No one enjoys
himself like a Wahoo.
"I remember when they
used to have those parties at
U.Va.," Capt. Shiflett
remarked. "You'd better watch
out –... You'd go down there
and find the students fighting
students, students fighting
policemen, policemen fighting
firemen, everybody fighting.
"We wiped 'em out one
time, though. We were trying
to put out a fire at the old
ROTC building on Emmet St.,
where the new overpass is now.
And they were standing up on
that hill across the street, just
hurling beer cans, whiskey
bottles, anything.
"Until finally they got one
of the men across the forehead,
and the Rescue Squad had to
take him away. So we just
turned around and put those
big two-and-a-half-inch hoses
on 'em...we we picking 'em
off as fast as they could get up
and head back up the hill.
Naturally, they were loving
every minute of it."
"But there's a limit to
everything, you know."
9:19 p.m. The hotline from CD/Jim Brunetti We're Off!
250 rang...only once. The
tapes, the joking, everything,
stops immediately, as if to
imply professionalism in its
sincerest sense. Within seconds,
a dull but imposing alarm
sounded; if it was to cease
Boots, Helmet, Trousers, Sweatshirt, And Sixty Professional Seconds:
I don't remember it. I think
out of pure formality. I must
have asked if there was a fire. I
know no one stayed to answer.
Finally, I dashed to my
room, struggling all the way
with a tie I'd forgotten to
dump somewhere. Everything
had been carefully
pre-arranged: the boots on the
floor before the bed, the
trousers neatly rolled up on
top with the legs over the
boots, and a sweatshirt rolled
up and placed on top of that.
Theoretically a matter of
seconds. Over a minute later, I
stumbled downstairs where the
engine was already waiting,
while someone tried to get rid
of the excess suspender and
someone else literally threw a
helmet at me. Finally, someone
shoved me in the cabin and
we're off.
The speed and the noise,
first-hand, can be appalling.
Yet a fireman can probably
handle 40 feet of water,
weight, and equipment better
than most teenagers can a
Volkswagen. On the way, with
lights flashing and siren
walling, some lady eases
halfway into the intersection.
A little superfluous vocabulary
and we miss her.
Within minutes, we're just
into the county and ostensibly
at the scene. No fire, no
smoke, not even a respectable
cookout Still, I stand and
shiver an additional twenty
minutes while assistance above
and beyond is rendered, noting
that every dog in the
neighborhood – and every kid
– was obviously euphoric.
Turned out to be a burning
odor from an overloaded
circuit. The radio is still
requesting Engine 10
occasionally, but not knowing
any jargon beyond "10-4", and
deeming that still a bit
premature, I let it go.
Meanwhile, I had a chance
to look the engine over, a vast
elaboration on the prototypes
my Christmases had been
accustomed to. The potpourri
of dials, pressure meters, and
other hieroglyphics vaguely
resembled, at least to a
simple-minded Government
major, my vicariously-achieved
image of Houston Control.
You gather that they know
what they're doing.
Upon its return to the
station, every engine is cleaned
around the tires and underside.
If the weather's at all nasty,
the whole thing's washed
down. A sizable blaze can
turn into an all-night project.
I had discovered in the
meantime that my helmet was a
little small; either that, or my
head is even larger than I've
been told. Someone eventually
informed me that it was on
backwards. My helmet, that is.
10:15 p.m. The stations'
professional mechanic left last
December, and hasn't been
replaced yet. I guessed they
were all pretty good mechanics
anyway? "We are now."
Each fireman has to
memorize every street,
hydrant, and firebox location
in the city or county,
respectively. (The two share
the same station). He now goes
through, in addition, 120 hours
of basic training before his "in
service" experience. I suppose
the barbells lying in the
recreation room speak for
physical conditioning; the job,
at any rate, does.
10:30 p.m. Photographer
Jim Brunetti took everyone
except yours truly (who
doesn't play) in a game of
pool. "Just being nice to the
company." But wait until
there's some money riding on
the game. At least the table
came from University Pool
Hall.
Speaking of sports, as
Howard would say, you can
occasionally look out the back
window (except the one that's
fallen out and been replaced by
cardboard) and watch the
Friday Night Fights. Not the
most affluent section of town,
it seems.
10:50 p.m. 1959 might
have witnessed Charlottesville's
most catastrophic blaze: an
apartment complex on 14th St.
that went up in flames along
with seven people.
"I got one lady off the
roof," remembers Capt.
Shiflett, "...and the police got
credit for it...
"Sometimes there's people
in there, nothing you can do.
That is hell."
Rescue always constitutes
the first priority.
Unconditionally. Then, finding
the source of the fire and
bringing up the water supply.
Smoking in bed, as expected, is
about the biggest problem,
particularly when compounded
by alcohol. As one noted, "A
mattress puts off one helluva
smoke."
"I remember one fellow we
found... Nothing left but his
chest. That's a smell you never
forget."
11:20 p.m. "The trouble,"
explained Capt. Shiflett, "is that
you may sit here one time, like
we're doing now, for 24 hours
without doing anything. And
then within five minutes, you
may start going for the next 24
hours straight. You may even
be called back on."
The engine usually pulls out
about 60 seconds after the
alarm. Yet a two-hour working
fire may necessitate another
two-hours of work afterwards
– cleaning the truck, cleaning
and loading the hoses, etc. Two
such blazes can kill an evening
fast, particularly if the weather
conspires against you. "A
thunderstorm or a cold, windy
night can give you a fit."
They work every other 24-hour
shift, for $600 a month,
starting.
The unofficial motto:
"Doze But Never Close."
11:45 p.m. Arson remains a
serious problem, despite
continually improving methods
of detecting it. In the case of
an occupied structure, it's a
| The Cavalier daily Tuesday, February 13, 1973 | |