Rescue 1 Responding: Chapter 17, a Book by Michael Morse

Monday, September 19, 2016

Michael Morse, Author

 

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I always thought that a day in the life of a Providence Firefighter assigned to the EMS division would make a great book. One day I decided to take notes. I used one of those little yellow Post it note pads and scribbled away for four days. The books Rescuing Providence and Rescue 1 Responding are the result of those early nearly indecipherable thoughts.

I’m glad I took the time to document what happens during a typical tour on an advanced life support rig in Rhode Island’s capitol city. Looking back, I can hardly believe I lived it. But I did, and now you can too. Many thanks to GoLocalProv.com for publishing the chapters of my books on a weekly basis from now until they are through. I hope that people come away from the experience with a better understanding of what their first responders do, who they are and how we do our best to hold it all together,

Enjoy the ride, and stay safe!

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Captain Michael Morse (ret.)

Providence Fire Department

The book is available at local bookstores and can be found HERE.

A Note from the Author

People who are not first responders wonder why the people who wear the uniforms that represent their piece of the public safety puzzle are so close. They will never understand the complex emotions that surface when a life hangs in the balance, like the man in this chapter who was buried alive. It is impossible to feel the bond that develops without being part of an emergency response. We put our fears away when there is a dangerous job to do, each of us drawing on the strength of the others, all of us aware that everybody else is moving forward, digging deeper, finding the courage that we didn’t know we had and getting the job done. It doesn’t always end well. Those are the times that the bonds between us gain strength, when the adrenaline is gone; the silence suffocating as we lose ourselves in our own thoughts, doubts and regret. When it seems that the weight of what just happened will crush us, we look around, and see that we are not alone. Then we do it again, and again. Years pass, then decades, with the passing of time and experience comes the camaraderie that few will know.

Part III

Saturday Night

Chapter 17

Saturday Night.  I’m going in sleep deprived and cranky with a long night ahead.  I remember a time when Saturday nights were considered “date night,” with Friday more of the “party” time.  Here in the Capitol City, Saturday nights are a no holds barred slugfest.  I try not to jinx myself with negative thoughts, but I’ve found that no matter how positive my outlook, Saturday nights in Providence are a night in a torture chamber.

So far, we’re off to a great start with the double stabbing and without a doubt things will spiral downhill from here. Years of experience have taught me to expect the worst.  For now though, nothing can touch me. I have time to relish the peace, quiet and solitude the old wagon offers during the trip back to the Allens Avenue Fire Station.  My car is my fortress; nobody can touch me here.      

There have been times that the solitary ride wasn’t so great.

Early Winter, 1992.  

“Attention Engines 12, 2, 7, ladders 3 and 7, Special Hazards, Rescue 3 and Car 23, respond to the corners of Dorothy and Charles for a cave-in with a man trapped.”

This is what I lived for, what I trained for, what I would do for the next twenty years at least; rescue people. I hit the pole while the echo from the loudspeaker still filled the station, stepped into my bunker gear and climbed into Ladder 7’s tiller cab.  Steve Rocchio was already in the driver’s seat, Lieutenant Healy was “getting dressed,”and almost ready to climb into the officer’s seat.  I squeezed into the tiny seat in the tiller man’s compartment, and immediately pressed the button that enabled the truck to start. I heard the familiar cranking from the doghouse, then the whine of the powerful Mack engine as the truck came to life.

I pressed a different button, one next to the start switch.  This was my only communication with the driver of the ladder truck.  One ring meant STOP immediately, two rings meant go forward, three was for backing up.  The tiller man rang first, letting the driver know all systems were go.  The driver would respond with a like number of rings and the truck would roll.  Two rings and Steve knew I was ready, he responded with two rings and we sped out the door. I slammed the bubble windows on the tiller cab shut which did little to keep the freezing December wind and chill from the inside.  It didn’t matter, though how cold or hot it was in the tiller cab, there was nowhere I would have rather have been.  My turnout gear and the thrill of being a Providence Firefighter sitting on top of the world in a tiller cab were enough to keep me comfortable.

 It takes a while to get the hang of the tiller, but once you do you never forget. It really isn’t that hard, as one firefighter infamously stated, “any asshole can tiller,” right before he crashed  the tiller truck into the fire station. 

The setting sun on the horizon offered little warmth on this cold winter's day; only the light when it disappeared would be missed, fleeting by the minute. The red and orange hues mixed with the grey winter sky as darkness seeped relentlessly through the brilliant colors, eventually replacing the beautiful canvas with black.    

A mile away, two men frantically dug at the earth where their friend was buried alive.  They were finishing up for the day when tragedy struck.  They were excavators, digging a foundation in a hilly embankment in the city’s North End. The backhoe that they had been using sat idling at the crest of the enormous hole they had spent the day creating, never once considering it would become a tomb.  The two men stood on the spot they last saw the victim before one of the walls collapsed, burying him under twelve feet of earth.  They were afraid to use the machine that made the hole in fear of crushing or cutting their friend in half.

Once our crew had assembled we took over the rescue operation, sending firefighters into the hole in three man teams to dig.  We set up emergency lighting, giving the scene the look of a movie set.  This, however was no scripted story, this was real life, and sudden death.  From inside the hole the silhouettes of firefighters holding tools resembling ancient weapons gave comfort to those digging.  I trusted those shadows on the rise with my life should the earth shift and I become entombed.       

We all had a turn.  The ground was recently turned by the backhoe and easy to move.  It was also potentially deadly.  I looked at a twenty-foot wall of instability, waiting to crush us while I took my turn with the shovel, ever mindful of how fast a cave-in happens.

As the minutes pressed on the digging became more frantic.  Eventually, Chief Moura had the backhoe operator carefully remove bigger mounds of earth, knowing every second was vital to the buried man’s chance for survival.  After taking a few scoops from the hole with the backhoe, our guys returned.  My friend, Nate Sweet and two other firefighters were in the hole when we found the body.  Just an arm, but the team was revitalized.  The digging picked up steam as we tried desperately to free the man.  Minutes flew by, oxygen was passed into the hole, and eventually a mask put on the man’s face.  We all watched as the three in the hole finally freed the victim, limp and lifeless from his grave.  We placed him in a stokes basket and raised his body, passing him through us to safe ground.  He never had a chance.     

There was no transport, the medical examiner took over.  We silently picked up our gear and went back to the station.

It was my first meeting with death.  There would be many, many more.  I’ve never gotten used to it.   

It’s different being with your friends and co-workers after living through a traumatic event.  Strength in numbers comes to mind.  Back at the station we talked about the incident while washing down the dirt covered shovels and portable lighting, feeling sympathy for the man who went to work that morning and never would come home, wondered if he left a wife or children.  It makes it easier to share your thoughts with people who have lived through the same experience.    

That was our last call of the day.  We went our separate ways shortly after returning to the station.  I had a half hour ride home. The incident was still with me all of the way.  The emptiness of my car was suffocating; I couldn’t wait to get home.  Eventually I made it, looked at Cheryl, kissed her, hugged her and broke down.  I don’t think I cried for the man who died in the hole, I’m not even sure why I cried.  All I know was it was good to be home and there was nowhere I would rather be.

Funny what runs through your mind when left on idle.

 I park my car on the side of the building and let myself in.  One shift to go.  I don’t feel like socializing so I sneak up the stairs into my office.  The portable is on the desk, my leash, waiting for me to put it on my belt.  It’s going to have to wait a little longer. 

I call fire alarm to tell them Rescue 1 is back in service then head to the shower.  A good hot shower is equivalent to four hours sleep, and I can sure use some of that.  The adrenaline rush from the stabbing is gone.  I have one foot in the stall when the tone hits.

1847 hrs.  (6:47 p.m.)

“Rescue 1 and Engine 10 a still alarm.”

I must be tired.  If I were thinking clearly I would have taken a shower then called fire alarm.

“Rescue 1 and Engine 10, respond to the corner of Niagara and Ontario for an MVA,”

“Rescue 1, responding.”

Reluctantly I pull my dirty uniform over my tired and dirty body, grab my radio from the bathroom shelf and slide the pole.  Mike is waiting, engine running and the same grin on his face that he started with last night.  

“I called the chief and put in the paperwork.  Your transfer has been cancelled, you have been permanently assigned to Rescue 1.”  

“Too late, this is my last shift, it’s official,” he says. We pull out of the station and head straight up Baker Street toward Broad.      

I look over at him as he drives.  I’m going to miss that goofy grinning, bald headed, fart machine.  Well, maybe not the gas, I think and roll down the window.

“Right back at you,” I say.  He breathes deeply and basks in his deadly aroma.

Traffic is light so we keep the siren off during most of our response, only giving little squeals while driving through intersections.  Engine 10 arrives on scene and gives their report.

“Engine 10 to fire alarm, inform rescue that we have an SUV wrapped around a utility pole, two ambulatory occupants possibly refusing treatment.”

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“Rescue 1, received.”

“That’s good, maybe we won’t have to do anything,” I say to Mike as we turn onto Ontario.     

“Once they see the rescue they’re going to see dollar signs.  Guaranteed they suddenly have neck and back pain.”

“Who are they going to sue, the utility pole?” I ask.   

“They’ll find a way,” he says as we arrive on scene.     

A black Jeep Cherokee has crashed into a pole, steam comes from the engine compartment.  A crowd gathers; this is better than TV.  I get out of the rescue and survey the damage, looking into the passenger compartment to see if there are any victims inside.  Dan, Engine 10’s officer, greets me.  

“The guys over there say they’re all set. People on the scene said they were the only two people in the truck.”

 “How do they look?” I ask.

 “One of the guys looks a little dazed, the other one looks alright.  The air bags didn’t deploy so they couldn’t have hit it that hard.  You might want to get them to sign a refusal.”    

 “I’ll get it.  Thanks.”     

Mike is talking to the occupants and has the story when I get there.     

“These guys were driving to their friend’s house when the steering wheel locked up.  The driver says he tried to stop but couldn’t so he swerved into the pole instead of going into the intersection.  He’s a hero!”  

“If the steering wheel locked up, how did he swerve into the pole?”  I ask Mike.  It seems a simple enough question but the guys from the car appear mystified by it.  

“I ain’t going to no hospital,” says one of them.

 “Me neither,” echoes the other.     

They are wearing the uniform - baggy jeans, white sports jerseys and expensive sneakers.  One of them has a Yankees hat tilted on his head.     

“You don’t have to go anywhere,” I tell them.  “If you are feeling any pain later you should go and get checked out.  Sometimes it takes a while to feel any injuries.”

 “I don’t have insurance,” one of the guys says.  The other nods his head.

They probably don’t need medical attention but I wanted to give them the opportunity to refuse treatment.  I get their names, put them on the state report with a brief description of the accident and document their refusal. 

“I need you to sign this form.  All it is is proof that you refused treatment,” I say to them.   

“I ain’t signin nothin.”

“Me neither.”

They cross their arms and glare at me, as though I put the pole in front of them then drove their vehicle into it. One of them spits, just missing my foot, the other continues to glare.

Why me?  These must be the biggest morons to ever walk the face of the earth.  I have had enough.      

“Quit being douche bags and sign the report!”

That woke them up.  Lessons learned from Wayne have stuck with me when interacting in the inner city.  Just because I’m a big dumb white guy from the suburbs doesn’t mean I have to act like one.

They sign.  I thank them and walk back to the truck, waving to Engine 10 as they pull away from the scene, headed back to the Broad Street Station and steaks on the grill.  A police cruiser arrives, I give him the rundown and head back to the rescue, refusals in hand.

“Your people skills are remarkable,” says Mike.

“Years of practice.”

This is the perfect opportunity to give myself a break.  We’re heading back to quarters where I plan on basking in a luxurious shower in a leisurely fashion.  It is Saturday night in the city.  Things could get out of hand and probably will.  It’s just a matter of time.  I want to be presentable for whatever the night has in store.

Back at the station dinner is being prepared.  Art brought in some T-bone steaks and has them on the grill; the aroma of smoke and cooking meat has permeated the station, making me forget my misery, at least for a little while.  I finally get into the shower, my portable radio close in case I need it.  I haven’t gone back in service and don’t plan on it until after I’m done, and I am not hurrying.  The water is as hot as I can bear and I let the spray hit the back of my neck.  I just stand there for a few minutes and let the water work it’s magic as my body starts to relax.  I’ve only got about twelve hours left before I go home but it seems like an eternity.  The radio continues to send rescues into the city for different reasons, none of them dire emergencies.  As the hours grind on the radio becomes background chatter. All I can do is block out the transmissions and try to relax.  My mind and body is numb from the days of abuse I have put it through, the shower helps me become clean again.  If I can get through the next half hour without a run, I’ll breeze through the rest of the night clean, well fed and refreshed.  

“All Hot!” blares from the PA system as I’m drying off.  I quickly get dressed and head for the steaks.  The T-bones look as good as the smell advertised, thick, juicy and seasoned just right.  Huge baked potatoes with sour cream and chopped chives are on the table; steamed broccoli sits on the stove waiting for us to dig in.  The other guys let me and Mike go first; they know our time is short.  I make a plate, sit down and get ready to feast.  The first bite is delicious.

"Engine 13 a still alarm with an out of town rescue.”

The guys drop their forks and knives and head for the poles.  I just sit and look at my meal and think of what could have been.

“Rescue 1 to fire alarm, we’re available.”

“Roger, Rescue 1, respond with the 13’s to 1332 Broad Street, in the plaza for a possible heart.”

“Rescue 1 responding.”

We wrap the plates in foil before we respond, leaving them where the guys were sitting.  Mike and I put ours in the oven to keep warm.  We won’t be back for a while, Engine 13 should return before the food gets cold.

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Michael Morse lives in Warwick, RI with his wife, Cheryl, two Maine Coon cats, Lunabelle and Victoria Mae and Mr. Wilson, their dog. Daughters Danielle and Brittany and their families live nearby. Michael spent twenty-three years working in Providence, (RI) as a firefighter/EMT before retiring in 2013 as Captain, Rescue Co. 5. His books, Rescuing Providence, Rescue 1 Responding, Mr. Wilson Makes it Home and his latest, City Life offer a poignant glimpse into one person’s journey through life, work and hope for the future. Morse was awarded the prestigious Macoll-Johnson Fellowship from The Rhode Island Foundation. 

 

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