water-dropping helicopters dove at the hottest flanks of the fire, unleashing over 350 gallons of water each time they swooped down. . . . The big Hueys looked like dragonflies in slow motion, skittering over a pool of fire.
Engine companies arrived from every jurisdiction in the San Gabriel Valley and from the rest of the Los Angeles basin, as a blizzard of ash and soot, whipped and propelled by the Santa Anas, covered the ground for miles around with charred debris. Eventually, engines, trucks, and police units blocked every street and were parked helter-skelter like so many bumper cars at a theme park. And it seemed that every street was crisscrossed with hose lines manned by firefighters in yellow or red helmets.
The cops were manning barricades, and in many ways were the most frustrated and helpless, as houses all around them were burning to the ground and residents of College Hills were racing home through red lights and stop signs, ignoring all speed limits, frantic to rescue irreplaceable belongings, precious pets, and children.
Susan Raggio worked all the way across Los Angeles in Century City. She was the mother of six, including thirteen-year-old twin daughters and fifteen-month-old triplets. She had employed a nanny who left her the previous weekend, and her twins had to stay home that Wednesday to mind the three babies. Sometime after 3:00 p. M., Mrs. Raggio received a call from Jennifer, one of her twins, who said that she was frightened because there was a fire somewhere nearby and the entire sky was orange.
Susan Raggio phoned her husband at his job and he said he'd leave work and go home. And she phoned the Glendale Fire Department, but was told not to worry because the fire was on the other side of the freeway from her home. She then called her daughter to reassure her.
But Jennifer could see that vivid, violent sky, could smell the smoke in the air, could see the ash swirling, and she said to her mother, "We're really afraid."
Her mother replied, "Get the babies all together and listen for the firemen if they come. I'll be there as soon as I can."
She hung up and hit the freeway, but on any weekday afternoon in Los Angeles the traffic at 3:30 p. M. is horrendous. Couple this with the continual radio updates about a growing brush fire in the Glendale area and the traffic was worse. Then one of the helicopter newscasters announced that they could see flames around the Foxkirk area, and that was her street!
By the time Susan Raggio reached Glendale the streets were closed off, so she took back roads and detours, and drove up Chevy Chase right through a barrier where she explained to the fireman, "My children are up there!" Then she saw houses burning all along the ridge.
There were fire department engines and trucks on her street pumping water through a dozen lines, and she just drove over those charged lines and parked, and ran to the house that stood in front of hers. A fireman was hosing down the neighbor's house and she couldn't see her house at all through the wall of black smoke, but she sensed that her house was gone.
She asked the fireman if he had seen two little girls and three babies, and the harried firefighter looked at her desperate face, left his hose line, made a call on his radio, but then shook his head.
The fireman said, "You can't go back there where your house was. You can't go back there. Just stay where it's safe and look around for them."
He returned to his duties, and Susan Raggio did not know if her children had perished in their home.
Now the road behind her was blocked by more trucks, and she didn't know what to do or where to look so she just started walking up the hillside, just walking, perhaps for an hour but she couldn't say for sure. She walked until her skirt caught on fire.
After she beat out the flame, she continued along the streets in all that chaos, past those other properties that firefighters were trying to save. By then, seventy-four emergency vehicles
Engine companies arrived from every jurisdiction in the San Gabriel Valley and from the rest of the Los Angeles basin, as a blizzard of ash and soot, whipped and propelled by the Santa Anas, covered the ground for miles around with charred debris. Eventually, engines, trucks, and police units blocked every street and were parked helter-skelter like so many bumper cars at a theme park. And it seemed that every street was crisscrossed with hose lines manned by firefighters in yellow or red helmets.
The cops were manning barricades, and in many ways were the most frustrated and helpless, as houses all around them were burning to the ground and residents of College Hills were racing home through red lights and stop signs, ignoring all speed limits, frantic to rescue irreplaceable belongings, precious pets, and children.
Susan Raggio worked all the way across Los Angeles in Century City. She was the mother of six, including thirteen-year-old twin daughters and fifteen-month-old triplets. She had employed a nanny who left her the previous weekend, and her twins had to stay home that Wednesday to mind the three babies. Sometime after 3:00 p. M., Mrs. Raggio received a call from Jennifer, one of her twins, who said that she was frightened because there was a fire somewhere nearby and the entire sky was orange.
Susan Raggio phoned her husband at his job and he said he'd leave work and go home. And she phoned the Glendale Fire Department, but was told not to worry because the fire was on the other side of the freeway from her home. She then called her daughter to reassure her.
But Jennifer could see that vivid, violent sky, could smell the smoke in the air, could see the ash swirling, and she said to her mother, "We're really afraid."
Her mother replied, "Get the babies all together and listen for the firemen if they come. I'll be there as soon as I can."
She hung up and hit the freeway, but on any weekday afternoon in Los Angeles the traffic at 3:30 p. M. is horrendous. Couple this with the continual radio updates about a growing brush fire in the Glendale area and the traffic was worse. Then one of the helicopter newscasters announced that they could see flames around the Foxkirk area, and that was her street!
By the time Susan Raggio reached Glendale the streets were closed off, so she took back roads and detours, and drove up Chevy Chase right through a barrier where she explained to the fireman, "My children are up there!" Then she saw houses burning all along the ridge.
There were fire department engines and trucks on her street pumping water through a dozen lines, and she just drove over those charged lines and parked, and ran to the house that stood in front of hers. A fireman was hosing down the neighbor's house and she couldn't see her house at all through the wall of black smoke, but she sensed that her house was gone.
She asked the fireman if he had seen two little girls and three babies, and the harried firefighter looked at her desperate face, left his hose line, made a call on his radio, but then shook his head.
The fireman said, "You can't go back there where your house was. You can't go back there. Just stay where it's safe and look around for them."
He returned to his duties, and Susan Raggio did not know if her children had perished in their home.
Now the road behind her was blocked by more trucks, and she didn't know what to do or where to look so she just started walking up the hillside, just walking, perhaps for an hour but she couldn't say for sure. She walked until her skirt caught on fire.
After she beat out the flame, she continued along the streets in all that chaos, past those other properties that firefighters were trying to save. By then, seventy-four emergency vehicles
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