they could raise the ladder. He knew his lieutenant was right. A fire scene, like a battlefield, sometimes demands triage. There is no sense in trying to save the ones already out of danger. Once a body is out of the building, regardless of how it got there or in what condition, it becomes a concern for the medics. In any case, no one can save the dead.
Worcester firemen got twenty-two people out of 728 Main Street that night. For the next thirty minutes, they moved ladders along the perimeter of the building, setting them against the searing bricks, one man climbing up into the smoke and coming back down with a body slung over his shoulder. After the left side was clear, Mike was routed to the other end on a crew working a forty-five-foot ladder, one so long that it requires men to use long rods, called tormentor poles, to guide the tip into place. Once the ladder is raised, two men—or one if they're short-staffed, which the Worcester Fire Department was in the middle of the July vacation season—haul on a rope to raise the extension. Metal clasps, called pawls, eventually catch a rung to lock the whole contraption in place.
A young voice, a teenager at most, yelled from above. The ladder crew couldn't see through the smoke, couldn't see where the screams came from. They triangulated by the sound, put the forty-five-footer beneath where it seemed to be the loudest, and started raising, clipping the poles into place.
“Get rid of those fucking poles!” The district chief was next to them, hollering orders. “Put the poles down and get that fucking ladder up.”
The tormentors hit the ground and the ladder was manhandled into position, brute strength and adrenaline forcing it up. Less stable, less precise, but faster. Smoke swallowed the tip. Mike pulled on the rope, wrestling the extension. He felt a tug, then a deadweight. The ladder started to tip, lurching twenty degrees to one side. Someone, the screaming kid, was on it. The clasps hadn't set. The extension started to slide down. Mike fought the weight from above. “Get on this thing,” Mike yelled. “Someone get on this, the pawls aren't locked. The fucking pawls aren't locked!”
Another set of hands grabbed the rope, held it firm, pulled. A firefighter named Dennis Collins flashed past them, put his boot on the first rung, scrambled up into the cloud. As soon as he touched him, the kid passed out cold. Dennis caught him, lugged him to the ground.
Once the windows had been cleared of survivors, the lieutenant from Rescue 1 grabbed him by the arm. “I want you to come with me,” he said, leading Mike toward the front door. The rescue guys were working the inside of the building, like they usually do, crawling through the smoke and flames searching for anyone who couldn't get to a window. It was perilous work, performed without a hose or a ladder. Rookies normally didn't work the rescue squad.
Mike followed the lieutenant and two other firefighters up the stairs to the third floor. The clouds, dark as a new-moon midnight, wrapped around him like a steaming sheet, and the heat forced every man down to his knees, almost to his belly. Just inside the hallway, maybe six feet from the stairs, the lieutenant leaned in close to Mike. “I want you to stay here,” he shouted, straining his throat to force the words over the roar. “Turn your light on”—each man had a lamp powered by a brick-size battery clipped to his belt—“and stay in this doorway.”
Mike nodded, switched on the light by his belly. He was going to be the beacon man, the faint point of white shining through the smoke. The rescue guys crawled off into the murk, and Mike was alone in an inferno. The sound was deafening, as if a thousand thunderheads had dropped from the sky and surrounded him, enveloped him, and erupted all at once, rumbling and popping and snapping. He waited only five minutes, maybe six, long enough for the point men to scuttle through a handful of small rooms and
Worcester firemen got twenty-two people out of 728 Main Street that night. For the next thirty minutes, they moved ladders along the perimeter of the building, setting them against the searing bricks, one man climbing up into the smoke and coming back down with a body slung over his shoulder. After the left side was clear, Mike was routed to the other end on a crew working a forty-five-foot ladder, one so long that it requires men to use long rods, called tormentor poles, to guide the tip into place. Once the ladder is raised, two men—or one if they're short-staffed, which the Worcester Fire Department was in the middle of the July vacation season—haul on a rope to raise the extension. Metal clasps, called pawls, eventually catch a rung to lock the whole contraption in place.
A young voice, a teenager at most, yelled from above. The ladder crew couldn't see through the smoke, couldn't see where the screams came from. They triangulated by the sound, put the forty-five-footer beneath where it seemed to be the loudest, and started raising, clipping the poles into place.
“Get rid of those fucking poles!” The district chief was next to them, hollering orders. “Put the poles down and get that fucking ladder up.”
The tormentors hit the ground and the ladder was manhandled into position, brute strength and adrenaline forcing it up. Less stable, less precise, but faster. Smoke swallowed the tip. Mike pulled on the rope, wrestling the extension. He felt a tug, then a deadweight. The ladder started to tip, lurching twenty degrees to one side. Someone, the screaming kid, was on it. The clasps hadn't set. The extension started to slide down. Mike fought the weight from above. “Get on this thing,” Mike yelled. “Someone get on this, the pawls aren't locked. The fucking pawls aren't locked!”
Another set of hands grabbed the rope, held it firm, pulled. A firefighter named Dennis Collins flashed past them, put his boot on the first rung, scrambled up into the cloud. As soon as he touched him, the kid passed out cold. Dennis caught him, lugged him to the ground.
Once the windows had been cleared of survivors, the lieutenant from Rescue 1 grabbed him by the arm. “I want you to come with me,” he said, leading Mike toward the front door. The rescue guys were working the inside of the building, like they usually do, crawling through the smoke and flames searching for anyone who couldn't get to a window. It was perilous work, performed without a hose or a ladder. Rookies normally didn't work the rescue squad.
Mike followed the lieutenant and two other firefighters up the stairs to the third floor. The clouds, dark as a new-moon midnight, wrapped around him like a steaming sheet, and the heat forced every man down to his knees, almost to his belly. Just inside the hallway, maybe six feet from the stairs, the lieutenant leaned in close to Mike. “I want you to stay here,” he shouted, straining his throat to force the words over the roar. “Turn your light on”—each man had a lamp powered by a brick-size battery clipped to his belt—“and stay in this doorway.”
Mike nodded, switched on the light by his belly. He was going to be the beacon man, the faint point of white shining through the smoke. The rescue guys crawled off into the murk, and Mike was alone in an inferno. The sound was deafening, as if a thousand thunderheads had dropped from the sky and surrounded him, enveloped him, and erupted all at once, rumbling and popping and snapping. He waited only five minutes, maybe six, long enough for the point men to scuttle through a handful of small rooms and
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