yells “82 goes too. Get out 82.” I look down as I slide the brass pole, and make sure
of my footing as I hit the floor. Benny slides the pole behind me. Kelsey, Knipps, and Royce come from the kitchen. The clock
reads three-thirty.
Engine 85 and Ladder 31 are going to Southern Boulevard and Jennings Street. We have been special called to Hoe Avenue and
172nd Street, and we follow them up Southern Boulevard. Suddenly, the pumper screeches to a stop. Ladder 31 has stopped before
us. But we have to go up to 172nd Street. As we pull around the Ladder truck we see that it has crashed into the back of Engine
85. Bob Beatty is lying in the street, blood gushing from his forehead. The pumper stops momentarily, and then races toward
172nd Street. Evidently Lieutenant Welch ordered the chauffeur to keep going. We all want to stop, to help Bob, but we know
that we have to get to the box on Hoe Avenue and 172nd Street. Every second will count if there is a fire.
There is a man at the corner of Hoe Avenue waving to us. He runs into a tenement house, and we follow closely behind. “What’s
the matter?” yells Lieutenant Welch. “Is there a fire?” But the man doesn’t speak English “Meda, meda,” he keeps saying. Come,
come. Here, here.
Lieutenant Welch and I follow up the stairs. The others wait below in case a hose line has to be stretched. The man leads
us into a bedroom on the fourth floor. A woman, I guess his wife, is lying under a sheet on the bed. She is sweating, and
breathing irregularly. The room is wet with heat, and the radiator is steaming. The place is stuffy, like the back of a saloon.
“We’ll have to wait until a Chief gets here with a resuscitator,” the Lieutenant says. “It looks like she may have asthma,
or it could be an emotional attack.”
That’s true, I think. I have seen many Spanish women gasping for air, only to be quickly revived when an ambulance attendant
puts smelling salts under their noses.
“Let’s get her to a window,” Lieutenant Welch says. “This place is like an oven.” He puts a chair in front of the window,
and motions to the man that we want her to sit on it. The husband understands, and pulls the sheet from her. She is naked,
but for a pair of panties.
Lieutenant Welch and I lift her to the chair, and her husband wraps her in a blanket. She is a young girl, about twenty-five,
and her breasts are full and erect. The blanket is draped over her shoulders, and opened at the front. I pull one end over
her bared breasts, and across her arm. How strange that the first rule of administering first aid to women is to cover them
up, because no matter what their injury might be, no matter how severe, they may worry more about their modesty.
Lieutenant Welch opens the window, as I wipe her forehead with a towel. The night air hits her, and she begins to understand
where she is. It looks like she’s all right, but that’s not for us to determine. I wish the hell we could get out of here.
I wonder how Bob is. Is he hurt bad? Will he live? Will I get to see him before he dies? Why do we always think of the worst
when a friend is involved?
The Chief of the Eighteenth Battalion arrives. He sends his aide down for the resuscitator. Lieutenant Welch and I carry the
woman back to the bed. She doesn’t speak English either, but it seems as if she is telling us that she feels all right.
The Chief asks her, “Do you need an ambulance? Do you want to go to the hospital?”
“No! No!” she says. “No ambulancia.” She understands that. The Chief says that our job is done here. The woman lies back on
her pillow, and is breathing quite regularly now. “Gracia,” she says. “Gracia, gracia,” her husband says.
We race back to the scene of the accident. Chief Niebrock has already taken Bob to the hospital in the Chiefs car. John Milsaw
is sitting on the curb. He is shaken. Charlie McCartty finds himself in a role he has played
of my footing as I hit the floor. Benny slides the pole behind me. Kelsey, Knipps, and Royce come from the kitchen. The clock
reads three-thirty.
Engine 85 and Ladder 31 are going to Southern Boulevard and Jennings Street. We have been special called to Hoe Avenue and
172nd Street, and we follow them up Southern Boulevard. Suddenly, the pumper screeches to a stop. Ladder 31 has stopped before
us. But we have to go up to 172nd Street. As we pull around the Ladder truck we see that it has crashed into the back of Engine
85. Bob Beatty is lying in the street, blood gushing from his forehead. The pumper stops momentarily, and then races toward
172nd Street. Evidently Lieutenant Welch ordered the chauffeur to keep going. We all want to stop, to help Bob, but we know
that we have to get to the box on Hoe Avenue and 172nd Street. Every second will count if there is a fire.
There is a man at the corner of Hoe Avenue waving to us. He runs into a tenement house, and we follow closely behind. “What’s
the matter?” yells Lieutenant Welch. “Is there a fire?” But the man doesn’t speak English “Meda, meda,” he keeps saying. Come,
come. Here, here.
Lieutenant Welch and I follow up the stairs. The others wait below in case a hose line has to be stretched. The man leads
us into a bedroom on the fourth floor. A woman, I guess his wife, is lying under a sheet on the bed. She is sweating, and
breathing irregularly. The room is wet with heat, and the radiator is steaming. The place is stuffy, like the back of a saloon.
“We’ll have to wait until a Chief gets here with a resuscitator,” the Lieutenant says. “It looks like she may have asthma,
or it could be an emotional attack.”
That’s true, I think. I have seen many Spanish women gasping for air, only to be quickly revived when an ambulance attendant
puts smelling salts under their noses.
“Let’s get her to a window,” Lieutenant Welch says. “This place is like an oven.” He puts a chair in front of the window,
and motions to the man that we want her to sit on it. The husband understands, and pulls the sheet from her. She is naked,
but for a pair of panties.
Lieutenant Welch and I lift her to the chair, and her husband wraps her in a blanket. She is a young girl, about twenty-five,
and her breasts are full and erect. The blanket is draped over her shoulders, and opened at the front. I pull one end over
her bared breasts, and across her arm. How strange that the first rule of administering first aid to women is to cover them
up, because no matter what their injury might be, no matter how severe, they may worry more about their modesty.
Lieutenant Welch opens the window, as I wipe her forehead with a towel. The night air hits her, and she begins to understand
where she is. It looks like she’s all right, but that’s not for us to determine. I wish the hell we could get out of here.
I wonder how Bob is. Is he hurt bad? Will he live? Will I get to see him before he dies? Why do we always think of the worst
when a friend is involved?
The Chief of the Eighteenth Battalion arrives. He sends his aide down for the resuscitator. Lieutenant Welch and I carry the
woman back to the bed. She doesn’t speak English either, but it seems as if she is telling us that she feels all right.
The Chief asks her, “Do you need an ambulance? Do you want to go to the hospital?”
“No! No!” she says. “No ambulancia.” She understands that. The Chief says that our job is done here. The woman lies back on
her pillow, and is breathing quite regularly now. “Gracia,” she says. “Gracia, gracia,” her husband says.
We race back to the scene of the accident. Chief Niebrock has already taken Bob to the hospital in the Chiefs car. John Milsaw
is sitting on the curb. He is shaken. Charlie McCartty finds himself in a role he has played
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