Common Sense

I read a great article recently by Jerry Knapp http://www.nxtbook.com/nxtbooks/naylor/NFCQ0211/index.php#/36 in Size Up (Issue 2, 2011) He is emphatic in his interest in firefighter safety, but argues quite persuasively--at least to me--that perhaps we have moved away from common sense, personal responsibility, and managing our people instead of expecting technology to do it.

He begins with a discussion of a New York state law requiring fire departments to purchase bail out bags for their firefighters if they handle buildings over one story (and who doesn't) high. This gets to the root of a politically incorrect opinion I have held for years; namely that many of the firefighter survivial classes are incorrectly focused primarily on techniques instead of something more important--situational awareness and size-up. Let's teach how to avoid getting into trouble in the first place rather than simply how to get out of it. As one who has done the head first ladder slide for real, I can tell you that if you have to do it to stay alive, it comes real natural.

Knapp's seat belt discussion is a good one as well. I full agree that seat belts make things safer. However, instead of coming up with workable user friendly designs, the apparatus instead now has bells, buzzers, and interlocks to make us use them. This raises a few issues. Not forcing the manufacturers to come up with something practical, they add costs (and profit) to pieces by the addition of bells and whistles. It also challenges some of our bright young firefighters to come up with ways to by-pass said safeguards; a lose-lose situation. Lastly it shows our difficulties in managing our own people and culture. As Jerry points out, if the Lieutenant in the seat turned around and made sure everyone was buckled in before the wheels turned, would we need a computer to tell us the rig shouldn't move? Will this change? Definitely, but it will take some time. An analogy would be the path taken to mandatory SCBA usage and the equipment we have today versus thirty years ago. I suspect some of our more "seasoned folks will nod their head at their memories of this.

While there is nothing more important than safety, common sense needs to come along for the ride.

Justice? I don't think so.....

As a teenager, riding the ambulanced educated me first hand to the ugly side of human nature. The baby's name was Bucky; one that I remember even though the call was thirty plus years ago. His little body was bruised, battered, and covered with cigarette burns. He stopped breathing on us a couple of times, but we got him going again, at least in the short term.

Bear, the guy driving that night, had all he could do not to punch the mother right in the face as she sat along side him for the run to the hospital. We knew what had happened to this kid and who had done it.

Bucky died the next die. We were told the parents got eighteen months; one for each of his. Didn't then and doesn't now seem like justice to me...

Country Mom's

The boy sat on the ground next to the barn, holding his injured arm. He had been directing his father, who was backing up a horse trailer, and somehow his arm had gotten caught between the trailer and the building. His dad quickly realized and pulled the vehicle forward, freeing him. They called for the ambulance, and being only a short distance away, I took a ride over.

The injuries didn't look serious. There was no laceration and no obvious deformity, and otherwise, the boy was in good shape. Naturally his mother was frantic.

"Is it broken?" She asked me.

"I don't know, Diane, I didn't bring my x-ray glasses with me," I joked trying to calm her and lighten the mood. "He needs to go down and get a few pictures taken. He's going to be fine."

"He's okay?" She looked for further reassurance.

"He's going to be fine," I answered.

She looked at him sitting there.

"Get up," she told him. The boy, his father, and I all looked at her quizically. She grabbed a nearby hose.

"Strip," she told him.

His dad and I tried to dissuade her, without success.

"He's been working with the pigs all day," she explained to all of us. "No son of mine is going to the hospital smelling like that. Strip," she told him again.

He did, right down to his boxers, and she hosed him down right there. His father and I could only grin at each other. Just a country mom.

Get in the boat!

The recent flooding in the northeast reminds us of a regular problem in such incidents; the refusal of some people to heed evacuation warnings. They wait until it is too late and then call 911, forcing emergency responders to risk their lives unnecessarily.

One story I've heard, and I'm sure the same or similar conversations were conducted hundreds of times this past week, went like this. A rescue boat pulls up to an isolated residence with a couple of occupants who ignored earlier evacuation orders.

Responder 1: You need to leave now. We're not sure we'll be able to get back in to get you if you don't.

Occupant 1: We'll be fine and you can't make us leave. (This is just one of the myriad responses, most dependent upon the blood alcohol content of the occupant.)

Responder 2 then hands Occupant 1 a pen.

Responder 2: Okay, then write your name and age on your arms.

Occupant 1 and 2 together: Why?

Responder 2. So we'll know who you are when we pull your bodies out after this is over.

The occupants got in the boat.

Country vs City

Roger R was a part time cop for the township, but a full time fire fighter, and later officer, in the City of Scranton. About 3:00 AM one weeknight early in his tenure as a cop, he called us out for a dumpster fire down from the Country Club.

I got up and muttered my way to the car, not particularly happy to be woken up for this. He was waiting when I arrived on scene.

“What’s going on, Roger?” I asked him when I got out of the car, ignoring the dumpster blazing away.

“The dumpster's on fire, Chief” he answered apparently dumbfounded I apparently hadn’t noticed the dumpster on fire in front of us. I could almost see his thoughts through his eyes. “Damn, these guys in the country aren’t too bright.”

“Let me explain a few facts of life to you, Roger” I proceeded calmly, still ignoring the dumpster. “You’re not in Scranton tonight. This is the country. This is how people get rid of their garbage out here. Don’t bother us with this shit again!” I raised my voice at the end.

He looked sorrowful. “We’ll put it out for you this time.“ I smiled so he wouldn’t think I was pissed, and a bit chagrined, he got back in his patrol car and went on his way.

He learned. We never got another call for a burning dumpster from Roger again.

Not Deja Vu All Over Again....Luckily.

In the aftermath of Irene, thoughts turn to an earlier storm. In June of 1972, Hurricane Agnes wreaked havoc throughout large portions of the northeast, including little old West Corners. Dad and the rest of the department worked for well over twenty four hours straight during and following the storm rescuing trapped people, pumping flooded cellars, and various other incidents.

The department had what looked like a pretty decent-sized boat; at least it looked decent before Agnes came. It was a V-hull with three rows of seats and an outboard motor. There was only one pond of any size in town and, on a normal day, the boat wouldn’t even float in Nanticoke Creek, which flowed through town. The boat was plenty big to serve the community.

When Agnes arrived, Nanticoke Creek didn’t stay small for long. It raged over its banks and flooded a big swath of the surrounding area, including a nearby trailer park, trapping a number of folks who had ignored evacuation orders.

Dad and the crew got the boat ready to launch. There was no problem floating it now; plenty of water was available. Not a strong swimmer, he was nervous, but he had a job to do. They got the boat in the water and started upstream. That’s when the trouble began. The boat and its motor were no match for the now rampaging creek. At full throttle, the boat would do little more than stand still. The boat would go cross stream, if angled properly to handle the current, so they adjusted.

There were no swift water rescue teams or Gumby suits then. Thick hemp ropes, hip boots, and waders were the primary tools to get these people out. Going cross current, they walked in to the stranded folks by holding onto the side of the boat operating cross current. Not a textbook maneuver, but it worked. Nobody died, but there were a whole lot of very tired firemen after that.

The boat? Well, shortly after the floods were over, a “For Sale” sign went up on it.

A Shaker Makes New Memories

It’s not often the east coast experiences an earthquake, 1897 by some accounts being the last one in the Virginia environs. The DC metro area including sections of Maryland and Virginia are used to major incidents, other than snow, an inch of which cripples the entire area. I waited an hour and a half before trying Mike to see how things were first hand. A fast busy was followed by a connected call, which surprised him as he couldn’t make calls at all, so busy were the circuits.

“Did you feel it?” I opened.

“Oh yeah, you could say that. I was riding the squad and we were on New Hampshire Avenue on an 8 inch high pressure gas main leak. “Montgomery County Squad 15 is a heavy rescue with a 32 ft. walk-in box, not a small rig.

“I was putting my airpack back in the bracket when the squad starting shaking. I thought somebody was screwing around in the back until I stood back and could see the whole thing moving.”

The officer was Fitz, a captain. “He came around the rig and yelled for everyone to get dressed again.” If the gas main ruptured, it could get interesting real fast.

Luckily it stayed quiet after that, Mike told me. I’m sure 5.8 is nothing to get excited about on the west coast, but it’s different back east. This will not rise to the level of where were you when Kennedy was shot or on 9/11, but a lot of people will remember it for a long time.