3425 Stickney Ave. Mayday

by BARRETT DORNER

This is being shared with the sole intent of providing perspective on the thoughts and experiences a firefighter goes through while on the scene of this kind of incident.

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I called a mayday today. It was the second mayday I’ve heard on the job, and it was mine. The first was the voice of my classmate, Jamie Dickman, on January 26, 2014. Sadly, that was the last time any of us heard Jamie’s voice. We lost him and Stephen Machcinski at that fire. I share my account to share what I and my crew learned in hopes that you can take something, anything, away from it that will make you a better prepared firefighter. For those who aren’t firefighters, I share it to give you a glimpse at a day in our shoes, where a slow, lazy day that may make the taxpayers question why they’re even paying us can turn into a spine-chilling level of fear in just minutes.

A Quiet Day

I woke up for the 0600 tones and, after an amazingly runless night on Medic 19, I excitedly rolled back over for another half-hour of uninterrupted sleep. I was relieving at Engine 19’s Company, the term we use for a two-piece, five-person crew here in Toledo; 2-person BLS ambulance and a three-person engine. To get as much sleep as I did on this 24-hour shift was

nothing short of a holiday miracle. I almost felt guilty that we were so slow: one cancelled regular alarm and two transports.

Around 0605, my phone buzzed alive with an alert from the PulsePoint app. As soon as a fire’s entered into the computer in dispatch, before apparatus are assigned, it comes out over the app. A quick glance: “3425 Stickney Ave., Toledo.” For a second, I thought my mind was playing tricks on me, so I rolled back over. Engine 19 is on Stickney, right next to the Jeep plant. This was most definitely going to be our fire. And with that, my brain clicked and I sprung out of bed, sprinting to the medic unit as the phone rang — the alert from dispatch, pre-station-tones — and Emily Montri called out “Structure!” over the station PA.

With the exception of our lieutenant, the crew all came from the class of 2013. We’re all close and work together often.

High Level of Suspicion

I turned to my driver, Adam Bevier, and read off the rig-mounted computer that police were on scene — so take a right turn and look for the blue lights. We pulled past the story-and-a-half, early 1900’s house, light smoke drifting through the street, and landed our rig in the parking lot of an old KFC.

I hopped out and threw my SCBA on, but my waist strap was tangled and I couldn’t quickly solve that puzzle, so I tightened my shoulder straps, grabbed the irons and headed for the door. I wasn’t going to fight with it and leave one guy on the nozzle by himself.

I masked up as the engine pulled the line, and met Nick Smith at the enclosed porch. Our officer gave his arrival report, and specifically mentioned that there was a basement while giving his 360 report, walking around the entire house. As I threw my gloves on before I forced the door, I turned to Nick and said something along the lines of, “let’s consider this a basement fire until we know otherwise.” We tend to kill damn good fireman going in above fire without knowing it. So much, it’s a frequent topic of discussion with my brother and several close friends on the job. As a department, we’ve gotten much better at avoiding this since January 26, 2014.

I forced the door and the fire was clearly right in front of us; stairs to the right, visibility perfect with flames illuminating the whole living room and into the dining room. My level of suspicion that this was a basement fire dropped upon seeing what appeared to be simply a couch or two burning in a living room. This fit, in my mind, as an isolated contents fire.

Nick knocked it down, I gave the benchmarks to command, then the line went limp. I asked for more pressure — not that there was any rush, but Nick later told me he didn’t want to advance without a fully-charged line if we didn’t have to. Incredibly smart decision, especially with the basement fire considerations.

The lieutenant of Rescue Squad 7 came in and asked to squeeze by to do a search; as we got water, I started looking around to give the room a once-over, realizing the furniture, a coffee table, and whatever else all made the house look lived-in. Instead of walking the straight line to the back right corner of the room, I walked the Alpha wall, turned at the Bravo wall, clearing the area quickly and expecting to be slamming my halligan in a wall in just a few seconds to check for any hidden fire.

Instead, I took a step and everything else peeled away. In my head, I pictured every other object, the floor, the furniture, flying away from me, leaving me in a void of black air. As I fell, I felt like I could fall forever. Irrationally, I was convinced I was going to. Like falling was somehow going to be the rest of my life.

The landing brought me back to reality.

In the Basement

I landed on my back. I felt like I was almost sitting up, on a pile of debris — pieces of plaster, some mattress springs. I quickly looked around; “If there’s fire down here, I’m fucked,” I thought to myself as I whipped my head around and simultaneously grabbed my mic.

“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. We have a firefighter who fell through the first floor into the basement about 10 feet in. I’m okay, there’s no fire in the basement, I just need help out.”

My crew heard the mayday and spotted my flashlight shining straight up out of the hole. I stood up and, to the best as I can recall, my eyes lined up with the floorboards. I’m 6’6, so I was hoping it was a short basement so I could just grab something and get out. The hole was about 6x4’, and there was only one floor joist remaining. Nick got on his stomach and tried to pull me up. I tried using my halligan across the joist and the floor, grabbing both to try and pull myself up. I tried finding a piece of furniture in the basement to move and stand on to pop out. Another firefighter tried to get me to grab a pike pole, instead inadvertently hooking and pulling the hose leading to my mask-mounted regulator. That’s when those attempts stopped.

I stressed to these guys that there was no hurry, and to just bring me a “dinky” — Toledo’s quirky term for a 10’ folding ladder, usually used to get up in the attic. As Bevier returned with that, I looked to my left and saw two members of 7’s crew coming down the basement stairs. I honestly hadn’t really thought about stairs at that point; I didn’t see them when I looked around (they were behind me), and I decided to stay where people could see me to avoid any confusion or unnecessary stress. If they see me standing, I thought, they know I’m okay.

7’s crew led me up the stairs and out the Delta-side door. As I went to take my helmet off, I realize I didn’t have it. It fell off, despite my religious use of the chin strap. I was directed to talk to our ALS ambulance (Life Squad) crew, told them I was fine but also promised to let them know if that changed. Matt Brooks, another from the Class of ’13, and I chatted for a bit as I made sure nothing started to hurt as my body returned to a comparably normal state.

Ultimately, someone retrieved my helmet and I rejoined my crew, going back to work opening up ceiling in the enclosed porch where some fire hid from us. After helping knock that down, Bevier and I took Medic 19 back to the station to switch out crews, as it was nearly 0700 and B-Shift was due to take our spots.

“On the drive back, make sure you guys avoid that hole at Manhattan; you know, don’t fall in it,” my lieutenant quipped. This was the beginning of a long day of genuine concern and ball busting, often in the same breath. Coping mechanisms in full effect for a department that recently felt the full brunt of tragedy on the fireground.

Back in Quarters

As we sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee, waiting for the rest of the crew to return to complete Mayday-related documentation, Bevier asked me if I heard about Hamilton, Ohio’s line of duty death. I had glanced at it quickly just before he asked me. Five hours before our tones dropped, Firefighter Patrick Wolterman fell through the first floor into a basement. He’s 28, I’m 27. He died, I was fine. A sobering thought, indeed, while my heart hurt for Wolterman, his family and friends, and his department.

What Happened

As best we can piece together, there was carpet but no subfloor. I’m waiting to learn if they were burned out somehow, cut, or what the hell the situation was.

Lessons Learned

In terms of what I took away:

• I wish I brought my 4’ hook in to be able to sound the floor as I went. I’ll make more of an effort of that, even if it means carrying the irons and my hook.

• I shouldn’t have let my guard down as much as I did. The visual evidence was there, but my gut told me at the door something was off. I started suspicious, but should have stayed suspicious. Gut feelings are absolutely a trustworthy sense; listen to them, always.

• Self-rescue and crew-rescue techniques are critical. We’ve trained on those techniques over and over, but talking about them when we got back to quarters after a real-world event reinforced what options we could have used in the context of “what-if” the incident played out differently.

• If there had been fire in the basement, I have full faith Nick would have either knocked it from above or handed down the line and given me the chance to survive. My first priority if this

happens again with a conscious, separated firefighter is quickly getting the line in a place to defend him.

• I should have created a better mental picture of the home in my head. I knew where the first to-second floor stairs were, but didn’t think about the location of the basement stairs until 7’s crew appeared. This is something I could have done earlier. Knowing the type of home and location of the other stairs, this should have been a no-brainer, but wasn’t.

• Maydays don’t have to be LUNAR — just get out the information you need to, usually where, what, and who. Keep that mic open as long as you have to, because once you let go, the shitstorm of radio communication may quite literally ‘bonk’ you to death. Talk and keep talking until you’ve got it all out.

• Enjoy life. A slow day can turn in an instant. And while we’re still more likely to die in a car accident driving into work, we have a job that guarantees we’re going into harm’s way and gives us no guarantee of coming out.