A Few More Memories from Station 54

Can't really leave Lenni Heights behind me without mentioning a few other highlights. I must admit, I certainly chose the right place to start my career as a volunteer firefighter. Not only were they all aggressive firefighters, but they also enjoyed their time off from the firehouse as well. That doesn't mean they would leave the station and do their own thing, we would often be found together enjoying outside activities as well. We challenged other firehouses to softball games, played mud football after a snowfall in the firehouse field, ate countless meals out together and attended many family birthday parties and events at our members' houses. All of this brought us closer as a family, than just a bunch of volunteers who happened to like to ride firetrucks.

There were the many rides upon Rescue 54. Peel off the red and white paint, gold leaf lettering and remove the flashing red lights, and you would have a normal old bread truck. And many times, thats how it was referred to as. The engine was no bigger or powerful than a bread truck, and therefore, after piling thousands of pounds of rescue equipment on it, than having a crew of six or more firefighters climb on, it was a miracle we were able to get that truck to the top of the hill. As an occasional driver, I can remember holding the accelerator all the way to the floor as the crew in the back would yell, "want us to push?"

On a dreary middle of the night run across town to a car accident reported with entrapment, I could barely see the road in the dimly lit headlights. A unit arriving on scene reported a serious accident and asked for us to "expedite with the Jaws of Life." I always found that request humorous. Were they assuming we had been taking our time? We weren't responding as quickly as we could already? A minute later, as I steered the swaying truck through windy rainy roads, the Chief next to me finally said. "You hear them say expedite right?" I explained this was as fast as we could go without running off the road and then illustrated our high beams. With each press of the button under my foot, the headlights would come off the road and high into the trees. That's what it meant when you wanted "high" beams in this truck.

There was another time on Rescue 54, when we had just been out of the station less than a minute, and cruising at a decent pace, down hill, when the crew looked out the rear side windows and started yelling. "Hey! is that ours?" "We lost a tire!" Sure enough, after winding quickly through an S-bend, one of the dual rear wheels spun off, and trailed off the side of the road next to us, keeping up with us for a bit before bouncing into a neighbors yard.

Another highlight involving Rescue 54  came one night as most of us gathered between the game room and TV room. Only one, Keith, needing to be up early for fire school the next day, had already slipped into the bunk room. Outside a freezing rain had been falling for for a few hours and we were just waiting for the inevitable accident call. Instead, we heard a knock at the front door. With the hopes of it being someone reporting an emergency, a few of us left the TV room, craning our necks to see who was knocking. As the door opened, we were surprised to see a nurse from the local emergency room standing in the cold. She was driving home and started sliding on the ice near the firehouse. She safely pulled into our lot and wanted to spend some time with us until the roads were salted. So, we took our new guest inside, offered her a soda from the machine and showed her the TV room.

About twenty minutes later, the call we were waiting for finally came in. As the pagers beeped and the siren outside began winding up, the TV room quickly emptied out, except for the nurse. We had dropped everything and were now pulling on fire gear, shoulder to shoulder, behind the fire apparatus. The driver fired up the truck as the rest of us jumped into the back. Someone yelled, "Is Keith in?" We all looked at each other realizing Keith was in the bunk room. Suddenly the door to the TV room flew open and Keith came running out in his underwear, carrying his bunker pants. He stopped briefly to grab his coat and helmet from his rack, and jumped into the rescue truck behind us. As soon as he pulled the door shut behind him, we pulled out. We were only a block or two away from the firehouse when Keith, pulling on his fire gear as we responded, asked... "was that a nurse sitting in the TV room?"

Driving a fire truck was something I didn't even think about doing when I first started. But if I wanted to be a Lieutenant or any other officer in the company,  I would have to be qualified to drive. This meant attending a Pump School class, and an Emergency Vehicle Operator's Class, and then get passed on the specific apparatus I wanted to drive.

 First there was the Rescue truck, or bread truck. It was overweight and you could feel it on every turn, hill and stop sign. It took a while to get used to, but after a few runs around the township, a few set up obstacle courses to negotiate and an equipment location quiz, I was blessed as a new driver. This menat I could move on to the Brush Truck. After passing the certified Pump Operator's Class at the Delaware State Fire School, I was out on the road driving this old 4WD Dodge Power Wagon. It had a front step with a steel guard and was always told it could cut a path right through the woods, nothing ever stopped it. And looking at the guard, it sure looked like a few paths had been cut. One problem I had with driving this truck was its stick shift. It wasn't even close to positioned like the stick in my Ford Ranger. And for some reason, I just couldn't catch on to where thrid gear or fourth gear was. I did my fair share of gear grinding, had my share of yelling from the officer teaching me, until one day I drove the entire obstacle course and negotiated all the hills in the area to his satisfaction. I was finally a fire truck driver for the first time, a small one, but still. However, to be qualified for Lieutenant, I had to be fully qualified on one of the pumpers as well.

So off I went, on to the Class A pumpers. The first one I had to drive was an American La France. It has since become one of my favorite trucks. It was 1984, but this pumper was old school. It was a manual transmission with a double clutch, manual steering, two rear facing open bucket seats for two firefighters, midship pump panel and a large back step behind about 1,000 feet of hose. (Give or take a broken section of hose) The pumping part was just about the same as as the pump on the other truck, and the equipment I knew from years of riding as a firefighter using it all.  I just had to take it out on the road and drive it. So I thought.

It starts with a quiz by the Cheif Engineer about pumping, equipment location, equipment use, and general operation of the truck. Then we finally get to climb inside the cab. I slowly pull the truck out of the bay and we make our way successfully up the hill that leads from the firehouse to the main road. I follow the Cheif Engineer's instructions as if I was getting my driver's license for the first time. I don't take my hands off the wheel, until I have to shift, and my eyes are stuck on the yellow line to make sure I am not over to far. Occasionally I glance in the side mirrors to peek down the length of the truck to make sure I am not drifting. He direcsts me into the campus of the Delaware County Campus of Penn State. It's a Sunday so the lot is deserted. He now directs me to use two parking lot islands to do a figure eight around them. Success! I dont take them too wide, and I dont hit anything. We're pleased, and I am feeling more comfortable by the minute.

 But that only lasted a minute.  He then directed me to do the same figure eight, around the same islands, but this time in reverse. I looked at him across the cab to see if he was serious. He was. I checked my mirrors, shifted into reverse, and eased the truck back toward the first turn. I never stopped staring into the side mirrors as I swung thr truck one way, then the other. After several nerve wracking minutes, I finished it, and never once scraped the curbs. It was a success. By the time I drove home, with an occasional tough turn or hill negotiated correctly, I was passed. It was official, I could now drive the rescue, the brush truck and now one of the pumpers. I had met my requirements to be eligible for holding an officer position. My mission was complete.

I was appointed as Fire Lieutenant shortly thereafter, and held the position until I left about 18 months later.

Moving on...

With Station 54 in my past, it became apparent I picked the right department to have on my volunteer firefighter resume when I decided to continue my fire service career. It wasn't difficult to decide to continue. I knew I  just couldn't get enough of the adrenalin that pulsed through my veins every time the pager beeped, or that firehouse siren wailed, calling us all to the apparatus for someone in need of assistance. The adrenaline and feel of heroism is what got me started, but it soon became the teamwork and comraderie that kept me there. A brotherhood was born which would last forever.

Moving forward, as I have said, was easy. So, I became an active member at the Brookhaven Fire Company, my local fire department, after having been a firefighter for several years where my friends had been running. Unfortunately I joined Station 52 with only my experience and knowledge from the many fire training schools I had already attended. Unfortunately, I didn't have the advantage of having friends at this station. I decided I wanted it bad enough, I went into it alone. It was at this station where I started attending their training nights, and more importantly, the small bonding sessions that followed in the firehouse bar. After a few of these bar nights, it became apparent who I was going to be close to, who would recognize me for my experience and not just treat me like the rookie off the street, who I could trust and who I had to watch out for.

Fortunately for me, the Fire Chief was a regular fixture at these bonding sessions. It didn't take long for the two of us to become good friends, trading war stories from our past responses. I couldn't top the number or excitement level of his, but I had enough from my years in the service that I could hold my own, as well as the attention and admiration of the others listening. It didn't take long for them to realize I wasn't just another new guy, and they began asking me questions about my past calls.

A note about these nights spent at the firehouse bar. It wasn't a case where all the firefighters would pull up a stool and drink until they couldn't walk. It was usually a one or two beer night after an exhausting training night, filled with laughs and good stories. We would all learn a little bit more about each other by the end of the evening, before we were all called back home by our wives, girlfriends or moms. And with each night spent there, we all began cementing the brotherhood that has lasted a lifetime.

My early days with Company 52 was filled with excitement. I just couldn't get enough of that place. The look, the feel, the smell, the men, the apparatus... I needed it all. It was my drug of choice, and I would stop everything to do it. Everything came second to responding to calls. Looking back on it many years later, I remember when the pager beeped, or the dispatchers on the scanner began announcing a call for Station 52, I was gone, immediately. I never waited to hear what the call was, I hit the ground running and never stopped until I was hanging off the back of a firetruck. Quite often, it wasn't until someone yelled over the wailing siren that I would realize it was a house fire, or car accident or brush fire. But back then, it didn't matter. If there was a call, I was going.

One day, while out in the car after being sent to get milk for my mother, I took the long way. Sure, I lived about three blocks from a 7-Eleven, but I drove across town to the store closer to the firehouse. And sure enough, as soon as the cashier handed the gallon to me, I heard it. The first of six cycles of the firehouse siren began winding up. I couldn't get to my car fast enough. I fumbled for the keys, scratched up the entire dashboard trying to find the ignition, then finally sped toward the station. As I sped down the back raod to get me there faster than the busy highway, I leaned down and began unlacing my shoes. I came to a screeching stop in the lot, pulled my shoes off and grabbed my milk. I can still see the look on the face of the guy to arrive right behind me, and the feel of the firehouse floor in my socks, as I ran the milk to the refrigerator in the firehouse kitchen. Afterall, I wasn't sure what kind of call I was going to, and how long we'd be there. Mom would already be disturbed that I wasn't home right away, I didn't want to aggravate the situation with warm milk.