Rescue 1 Responding: Chapter 2, a Book by Michael Morse
Monday, June 20, 2016
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!
GET THE LATEST BREAKING NEWS HERE -- SIGN UP FOR GOLOCAL FREE DAILY EBLASTCaptain Michael Morse (ret.)
Providence Fire Department
The book is available at local bookstores and can be found HERE.
Note From the Author
Overtime looks great on paper, and the extra money sure comes in handy, but nothing in life is as easy as it looks, and overworked firefighters are exactly that; overworked. As the hours away from home add up, tension begins, and cracks appear in relationships that appear rock solid. It wears on both the firefighter and the family. Excessive time spent away from home is not healthy, balance is essential for the well being of everybody, not just firefighters. When I wrote the books, the hours were difficult, but managable. A lot of the overtime that I worked was voluntary, some of it forced. The Providence Firefighters working today are being forced to spend far too much time at the station and away from their families. Sometimes the politics of firefighting seep out of City Hall, mayors and union reps and into the homes and hearts of the people doing the work, missing their families and wondering if the job is all its cracked up to be.
Chapter 2
“I wonder what they’re making for dinner,” I ask Mike, as we cruise through the streets of Providence. The work force has abandoned the city in droves. They have returned to their suburban retreats leaving mostly the people who live here and us, for the time being. Later, the crowds will return to frequent the restaurants and maybe catch a show. As the night progresses, the nightclub scene takes off. Friday night belongs to the thousands of young people who inhabit the downtown clubs looking for fun.
“I saw Steve bring in some grocery bags. That can only mean one thing,” he says.
“Mexican Chicken,” we both say at once. “Again.”
Most firefighters have at least one meal that they can put together; Steve’s is Mexican Chicken, which he makes regularly. Normal people who have a hot meal prepared for them are thankful and appreciative. Not us. If Rachel Ray came to the station and made us a feast, somebody would complain.
“Do you think Venda is still open?” I ask Mike.
“Let’s take a look,” he responds and we head toward Federal Hill.
The truck phone rings.
“Rescue 1, Lieutenant Morse,” I answer on the first ring. It is the Chief looking for people to work overtime. Easter Sunday is in two days, there are a lot of positions open. The fire department is required by contract to have ninety-two firefighters on duty at all times. If enough people don’t volunteer for overtime, the Chiefs are forced to order us to work. When holidays approach, the maneuvering begins early as people jockey for position and try to get the day off. Substitutions, personal days and unused vacation time come in handy around the holidays. If you are not at work, you can’t be ordered to stay goes the conventional wisdom.
“Mike,” asks Chief Cochrane, “do you want to work tomorrow?”
He has a lot of calls to make and doesn’t appreciate any nonsense or chitchat. Normally he will talk with “the guys” for hours. Most of our chief officers came up through the ranks, making Captain before being considered for advancement to the Chief’s position. Those that make Chief are held in high regard by the people who once worked side by side with them. If you fight a fire or two with somebody bonds form that last a lifetime. Promotions to management usually can’t change that.
“Yes sir."
“How about Leclaire?”
I hand the phone to Mike.
“Rescue 1, firefighter Leclair.”
“Mike, can you work tomorrow?”
“Yes sir,” he says. That seals our doom. We’re stuck here for thirty-eight hours on a holiday weekend. The cab of the truck should be a barrel of laughs by Sunday morning. There is method to our madness. The Chiefs are reluctant to have anybody work more than three shifts in a row. If things go according to plan, we will be going home on Easter morning.
The Chief tells Mike our assignments. I’m going to Rescue 3 on Branch Avenue and Mike is going downtown to Rescue 4.
“I thought you weren’t going to work,” I say to him as we turn the corner onto Atwells Avenue.
“I need the money,” Mike replies saying all that needs to be said. We travel up the Hill lost in our own thoughts. We will miss our families. The radio has gone silent for now. We find that Venda closed and head back to the station. I call Cheryl on the way.
“Hello.”
“Hi babe, bad news, Venda is closed.”
“I knew I should have gone myself. Why didn’t you go yesterday?”
“I didn’t have time; we’ve already been through this”
“You didn’t have time to feed the dogs either. Or fix the sink. I told you it was leaking three days ago. It would only take a second if you would just do it. I may as well live by myself.”
Here we go
“If you’re so smart, why don’t you fix it yourself? Or call a plumber,” I say.
“We can’t afford a plumber. And you know I can’t fix it.”
“We should be able to afford a plumber, all I do is work, where is all the money.”
“If you’re so smart why don’t you handle the bills?"
“Because I don’t have time.”
“Well I don’t have time for this bullshit.” She hangs up the phone. I only got beat by a second. I wish they had a sound effect of a phone slamming on cell phones. Pushing the off button hard loses it's impact.
“Trouble in paradise?” Mike asks.
“I thought you were leaving,” I say.
“Couple of weeks.”
“Great.”
Two days ago I started my four-day work cycle. The morning I left home everything was great, life returned to normal after a four-day stretch with twenty-four hours not at work. Sleep deprivation plays tricks on your mind and puts a real strain on relationships. My family depends on me, but I’m seldom there, and when I am I’m either sleeping or wishing I was. The first half of my four-day shift is over, two nights and an overtime shift and I’ll be back home. Easter Sunday is upon us, I’m supposed to get some homemade manicotti from the local Italian delicatessen. Not a big deal but it is my only contribution to the feast. Cheryl is certain I’ll forget, and history is on her side. Will I forget? Never happen.
“Rescue 1 a still alarm.”
1850 hrs. (6:50 p.m.)
“This will get your mind off of things,” says Mike as we wait to hear what we have in store.
“Rescue 1, respond to Roger Williams Park in the vicinity of the Temple to Music for a two year old with blood and glass on his face. Unknown injuries.”
“Rescue 1 responding.”
We pick up 95 south from Atwells Avenue. The response time should be about five minutes. The sun has already set, but light is visible on the horizon casting an eerie glow. Pitch-blackness is hours away.
Roger Williams Park is full of activities for everybody. It is clean, well managed and nationally known and respected. There you will find one of the oldest zoos in the country, paddleboat rides, a carousel village, ponds, fields and woods. It is a safe place and a nice family destination. It is a good place to escape the rigors of city life and relax. Of course, there are exceptions. Now and then somebody gets murdered, or worse.
We leave the gritty neighborhood of South Providence behind, turn into the park and drive through the winding, hilly roads on the way to the Temple to Music. My parents' wedding pictures were taken there. Sometimes, after I’ve been up for a day or two, I can see them standing in the middle of the temple, just as they were in July of 1957. A lot has changed since then, I wish I could say for the better. I wonder when the seemingly endless decline of our society will finally hit bottom and start to climb, and if we will even notice when it does.
At the bottom of a rolling hill, on the edge of a spacious pond, sits the Temple. It is an open-air, marble structure of Greek-inspired architecture. Concerts are performed here as well as numerous other activities. My old friends, The Dropkick Murphys, perform here now and then. For decades this was the site of the state’s finest Fourth of July fireworks display.
As we reach the crest of a hill overlooking the Temple it becomes apparent that fireworks of a different sort happened here. A two-year-old child being held in his mother’s arms by the side of the road is screaming, his face a bloody mask. A car sits close by, all of the windows smashed. A young man - himself covered with blood - is talking to the police, who are doing a good job of calming him down. Mike pulls the rescue into the fray.
“What’s going on here?” he asks as I walk toward the mother and child.
“We were driving through the park on our way home,” the mother begins, while I look at her son’s injuries, “two boys were getting beat up by about twenty people. My husband stopped the car and tried to help but they turned on him. They hit him with a baseball bat then smashed all of the windows in our car.”
I’ve looked the boy over and can’t find any injuries. Mike is checking the boy’s father.
“Where did all of this blood come from?” I ask.
“His father was holding him after the crowd ran away. He was kissing him and he got his blood all over him.”
“I don’t see any injuries but let’s go to the truck where I can clean him up and look a little closer.”
I help the mother and child into the back of the rescue and moisten a towel with sterile water, gently dabbing the boy’s face as he sobs. His mother, who has held herself together until now, finally lets loose a river of tears.
“I was so afraid, I thought they were going to kill us,” she says between sobs.
“Your husband was very brave trying to help out like that. It’s a good thing he only got beat up for his troubles, he could have been killed.” I try to compliment her family while pointing out the danger they were in. I’ve finished checking the boy and find no injuries. He was sitting in the back seat sleeping in his car seat when the fracas began. Glass from the shattered windows landed on him but his mother was able to shake it off. The father is another story. I leave the two in the back of the rescue to check on the dad.
“Did you hear this one?” says Mike. “This guy’s a hero. He beat off twenty armed attackers to save two kids he didn’t even know.”
The man’s face is bruised and bloody. He has welts on his forearms where he must have fended off the bat attack. He is wiping his face with a towel Mike gave him while telling the police the story.
“We were just driving home through the park when I saw two kids, they couldn’t have been more than fourteen, getting chased by a bunch of other kids, only the other kids were a little older. I thought they were fooling around, but they caught the little kids right next to my car and started beating them up bad. I couldn’t just sit there so I got out, locked the car and tried to stop them. I stopped them all right. The boys ran away while one of the guys in the crowd attacked me with a baseball bat. Another one smashed all of the windows of my car. I think they ran off when they realized I had a baby in the car.”
“Very chivalrous of them,” I say.
“Can you describe the assailants?” The police officer asks.
“They were young, Hispanic guys. Probably Dominican,” he says. I notice a Puerto Rican flag hanging from the destroyed car’s rear view mirror.“Do you want to press charges?”
“Do you think you’ll catch them?” asks the man.
“Were going to try,” says the officer. I can tell that he means it. Nobody wants to see good people getting attacked for trying to help somebody else. There is no reason for a nice family to be put through the torture these folks have endured. The police in Providence are a tough bunch, but their hearts are as big as the park we’re in. Innocent people have been traumatized and that is unacceptable. Somehow, in some way the people responsible for this will be held accountable.
“They fucked with my family,” says the man, “I want them to pay for that.”
“Good man,” says the cop. "We’ll let you know when we have somebody to identify.”
The police have their report, now they are going to get the bad guys.
“You should go to the hospital,” I say. “You took a pretty bad beating.”
“Are my son and wife okay?” he asks.
“Not a scratch,” I tell him.
“That’s good. I’ll go to the hospital when I get them home and safe. I’ll have my brother take me.”
“Make sure you go. You might have a concussion.”
“I’ll be all right. I just want to go home,” he says.
“That’s what we all want.” I tell him. He signs a refusal form for him and the boy. I shake his hand and wish him well as we go our separate ways.
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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