before. He’ll be O.K., John.
Don’t worry.
Marty Hannon tells us the story. Matt Tunney was driving Engine 85’s rig. They were going to Jennings Street, but they saw
a man waving wildly one block before, at 170th Street. Matt jammed on the brakes, but Ladder 31 didn’t have enough time to
stop behind them. John Milsaw tried to avoid the guys standing on the back step, but couldn’t. Beatty tried to jump out of
the way, but got caught between the back rail of the pumper, and the front of the truck. It was just his arm and leg though.
If his chest had been hit, it would have killed him sure. The alarm at Jennings Street and Southern Boulevard was false.
“What about the guy waving?” I ask.
“Drunk,” Marty says sadly. He spreads his hands, and says, “What can you do?” His Irish face looks like it is going to be
wet with tears.
It is now seven-thirty, and daylight is shining on the South Bronx. We are all sitting in the kitchen awaiting news of Bob.
I have had five cups of coffee in the past three and a half hours. We’ve all sat here since the accident, except for the two
false alarms and the one rubbish fire.
Bob limps slowly into quarters, being held up by the Bronx Borough Trustee of our union. It is the trustee’s job to look after
all seriously injured firemen, or their next of kin. It’s a rotten job.
The trustee says that Beatty refused to be admitted to the hospital. He wanted to go home. He doesn’t like hospitals. The
doctors were furious, but there was nothing they could do to detain him. The trustee says that Bob made a lot of noise at
the hospital.
The Beast looks dead. There is dried blood all over his clothes, his head is bandaged, his arm is in a sling, and the side
of his face is completely scraped. He must have hit the ground hard.
I can tell that he is still in great pain. He gives Marty Hannon the keys to his locker. “Just get my clothes, Marty. All
I wanna do is go home.” Everyone wonders why his leg isn’t broken.
The trustee says that the X-rays showed no breaks. He tells us again how mad the doctors were. Marty comes down the stairs
with the Beast’s clothes, and he puts them in the trustee’s car. It takes great effort for Bob to get into the car. He shouldn’t
have gotten out of it to begin with. He grimaces as he bends his leg to put it in the car.
“So long guys.”
“So long Bob.”
“All I want to do is go home. The trustee will drive me home.”
I’m anxious to get off duty and to get home. I’m tired, and I need to sleep. I shouldn’t have drunk all that coffee.
5
I T’S 2:30 A.M. We’re spraying 250 gallons of water a minute at the fire and it seems like the wind is driving each cold drop back into our
faces. With each bitter gust I swear to God I won’t stand another one. But, I do—another, and another. We’ve been here over
an hour now. The fire is still burning freely. If we could only go inside the building and get close to the heat. The Chief
says it is too dangerous—that the roof might collapse at any moment. I’m breathing through my mouth, because the cold has
penetrated beyond the roof of my nose and my head aches. The wind picks up and now the water is hitting us like pellets shot
against a plastic surface. Icicles have formed on the protective rim of my leather helmet, and they break off as I move to
reinforce my grip on the fighting hose.
“Why don’t we get some relief here?” I yell to the men supporting me from behind, the men of Engine Company 82.
“Do you want a blow on the line, Dennis?^ Benny Carroll yells over the wind and the noise of the fire. Benny was once a student
at the Fort Schuyler Merchant Marine Academy, and I wonder as he approaches if he ever thought that his life with the sea
would be realized by directing hundreds of gallons of water through a brass nozzle.
“Yeah, Benny, you take it for a while,” I say, as he grasps the hose, “but what I really
Don’t worry.
Marty Hannon tells us the story. Matt Tunney was driving Engine 85’s rig. They were going to Jennings Street, but they saw
a man waving wildly one block before, at 170th Street. Matt jammed on the brakes, but Ladder 31 didn’t have enough time to
stop behind them. John Milsaw tried to avoid the guys standing on the back step, but couldn’t. Beatty tried to jump out of
the way, but got caught between the back rail of the pumper, and the front of the truck. It was just his arm and leg though.
If his chest had been hit, it would have killed him sure. The alarm at Jennings Street and Southern Boulevard was false.
“What about the guy waving?” I ask.
“Drunk,” Marty says sadly. He spreads his hands, and says, “What can you do?” His Irish face looks like it is going to be
wet with tears.
It is now seven-thirty, and daylight is shining on the South Bronx. We are all sitting in the kitchen awaiting news of Bob.
I have had five cups of coffee in the past three and a half hours. We’ve all sat here since the accident, except for the two
false alarms and the one rubbish fire.
Bob limps slowly into quarters, being held up by the Bronx Borough Trustee of our union. It is the trustee’s job to look after
all seriously injured firemen, or their next of kin. It’s a rotten job.
The trustee says that Beatty refused to be admitted to the hospital. He wanted to go home. He doesn’t like hospitals. The
doctors were furious, but there was nothing they could do to detain him. The trustee says that Bob made a lot of noise at
the hospital.
The Beast looks dead. There is dried blood all over his clothes, his head is bandaged, his arm is in a sling, and the side
of his face is completely scraped. He must have hit the ground hard.
I can tell that he is still in great pain. He gives Marty Hannon the keys to his locker. “Just get my clothes, Marty. All
I wanna do is go home.” Everyone wonders why his leg isn’t broken.
The trustee says that the X-rays showed no breaks. He tells us again how mad the doctors were. Marty comes down the stairs
with the Beast’s clothes, and he puts them in the trustee’s car. It takes great effort for Bob to get into the car. He shouldn’t
have gotten out of it to begin with. He grimaces as he bends his leg to put it in the car.
“So long guys.”
“So long Bob.”
“All I want to do is go home. The trustee will drive me home.”
I’m anxious to get off duty and to get home. I’m tired, and I need to sleep. I shouldn’t have drunk all that coffee.
5
I T’S 2:30 A.M. We’re spraying 250 gallons of water a minute at the fire and it seems like the wind is driving each cold drop back into our
faces. With each bitter gust I swear to God I won’t stand another one. But, I do—another, and another. We’ve been here over
an hour now. The fire is still burning freely. If we could only go inside the building and get close to the heat. The Chief
says it is too dangerous—that the roof might collapse at any moment. I’m breathing through my mouth, because the cold has
penetrated beyond the roof of my nose and my head aches. The wind picks up and now the water is hitting us like pellets shot
against a plastic surface. Icicles have formed on the protective rim of my leather helmet, and they break off as I move to
reinforce my grip on the fighting hose.
“Why don’t we get some relief here?” I yell to the men supporting me from behind, the men of Engine Company 82.
“Do you want a blow on the line, Dennis?^ Benny Carroll yells over the wind and the noise of the fire. Benny was once a student
at the Fort Schuyler Merchant Marine Academy, and I wonder as he approaches if he ever thought that his life with the sea
would be realized by directing hundreds of gallons of water through a brass nozzle.
“Yeah, Benny, you take it for a while,” I say, as he grasps the hose, “but what I really
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