Saturday Night, Sunday Morning It is an ordinary shift: restless and adventurous, heroic and mundane, true and false. And because of it, one man owes his life to the men of Fire District No.3. Saturday night Jim Callahan and his men slopped sewage in the rain. Later they spent five hours sleeping on the job, after which they walked straight into Hell for some guy who may never know their names. On a bad day they get hit with bricks, bottles and undeleted expletives, they have to dig through smoldering, rat infested garbage dumpsters and false alarms come raining in like bee stings on a honey bear. But on a good day they may manage to save some luckless humanoid from a terminal case of personal combustion, or give a little kid another chance to grow up. A few days are great and some are just rotten. Saturday, April 3,1982 was a little of both. 6:00 p.m.   Deputy Chief Jim Callahan begins his 14 hour shift in Fire District No. 3. It is raining and windy, a mixed blessing. The wind will make it more difficult to control any prospective inferno, but on the bright side, rain will discourage the locals from lighting the usual rash of garbage dumpster fires. Callahan is a veteran of World War II having toured Europe on foot with an M 1. He has what appears to be an unbreakable face backed up by rawhide vocal chords and a life threatening handshake. He’s been a Hartford fireman for 31 years. The chief’s driver and assistant is Ray Kasey, a 10 year veteran with a boyish face and a deceptively mild demeanor. He is all too familiar with the Chief’s sore spot.” You were in WWII, huh Chief?” he says smirking. “Hell you must beat least...” “Awright Kasey,” Callahan growls. “I’m gonna put a check after your name.” Chief Callahan operates out of the fire station at Westland Avenue and Clark Street. The station also houses Engine Companies 3 and 7.Each company consists of one fire truck, one lieutenant, one driver pump operator and two firemen. Behind the building is a parking area surrounded by eight foot high chain link. The gate is locked. 7:30 p.m.   It is raining steadily. Company 7 responds to the report of a water leak. The problem is at a 30 year old two story apartment complex. Four apartments are flooded with water and effluent. Kitchen sinks are floating with human feces as the firemen attempt to overcome a gush of liquid backing up through drains and washing machines. The trouble stems from a blocked sewer pipe in the crawl space below. For an hour the firemen help residents plug overflowing drains and squeegy out the septic deluge. Finally a Housing Authority plumber arrives. He opens a cap on the sewer pipe allowing the effluent to pour into the crawl space. The Chief watches closely, knowing that this problem will no doubt recur on a regular basis. After the firemen have finished their cleanup, the Chief checks each apartment to be sure the situation is under control. For a moment, before leaving, he stands in the rain looking into the lighted doorways as the area regains an appearance of normalcy.” To these people,” he says, “these places and their contents are just as important as a house on the hill is to some big shot. It’s still home.” The men of Company 7 begin putting up their gear and the Chief starts to walk away. A black woman straightens up with her mop and looks out at the departing firemen. “Thank you,” she says. 8:40 p.m.   A fire station on North Main Street houses Engine Company No. 2 and Ladder Company No. 3. Their new Mack fire trucks have earned them the nickname Mack Attack. Chief Callahan stops for a visit after the sewer fiasco. The men of the Mack Attack are drinking coffee, playing chess and arguing politics. 9:01 p.m.   One of the chess players is about to have his mate checked when the alarm sounds. “Saved by the bell,” he shouts as he scrambles across the concrete floor and onto Engine No. 2.In an instant the huge diesel roars to life and No. 2 lunges out onto the rain soaked street. It is windy and slippery and dark as the 36,000 pound machine travels rapidly north. In any emergency operation a few seconds can mean a life. Unfortunately the cowardly hand of blind malice has struck again: another false alarm, another dangerous exercise for nothing, another blow to morale and another waste of the city’s preciously scarce revenue. Ironically, the greatest abuse of fire department revenue and personnel comes from the section of the city where that revenue and personnel are utilized most often. The chess game continues till the next emergency or the next idiot manifests his grudge against civilization. 9:45 p.m.   The chief returns to his home station on Clark Street. District 3 is quiet and will stay that way for several hours. 11:00 p.m.   The fire house is still. Most of the men are in their bunks hoping for a whole night’s sleep. Only Nate Baker remains in the TV room trying to stay awake through The Postman Always Rings Twice. Baker’s toothy and infectious grin is temporarily subdued as he watches Jessica Lange and Jack Nicholson wallow through an inconceivably contrived morass of ill fortune. 4:52 a.m.   Sunday. The warm and peaceful cocoon of sleep is split wide open by the urgent warbling of the alarm signal and the blinding lights in the bunk room. Semi conscious fire fighters leap feet first from their dreams into their boots then onto the shiny brass poles that pass through the bunk room floor. In less than 60 seconds Company 7 is on its way through the empty streets. Juan Rodriguez turns his face into the early morning air as he hangs on the side of the truck. The firemen arrive at the scene and find nothing, just quiet apartment buildings and another waste of time and material. Momentarily an ambulance arrives, also the victim of a closet revolutionary or some other nurdle with a grudge and a telephone. As Unit 7 pulls away, frustration gets the best of one of the firemen. He sounds a long blast on the truck’s horn and growls an angry threat at his unknown adversary. His anger is justified, roughly half their emergency calls are false alarms. 5:05 a.m.   Unit 7 returns to its bay. Tired heads hit still warm pillows. The lights go out. 5:09 a.m.   The lights go on. The alarm goes off. Firemen scramble and try to believe that the same fool isn’t at it again. This time it’s the real thing. The ground floor of a three story apartment building is ablaze. A bright yellow inferno roars from a rear side window. People are trapped on the third floor. Thick black smoke is everywhere. Engine 7 arrives first. Rick Fiddler stops his truck just before the building. Someone jumps off and grabs the hose end then Fiddler roars past the flaming structure as 200 feet of canvas line strings out neatly behind. Engine 3 is next. Phil Beaudoin pulls up next to a hydrant and mans the pump while Miguel Sanchez grabs an axe and an air tank then heads into the fray. The chief is shouting orders. Hoses, trucks, and ladders cross and recross. Thorough training prevails as what appeared to be frantic chaos quickly matures into a precision exercise. Firemen on ladders reach a third floor window and begin the evacuation while others attack the roaring flames that engulf the Southeast corner of the building. The sickening smell of burning plastic fills the air. One burning telephone can kill a roomful of people. Ray Kasey charges up the dry rotted wooden stairs to the second floor balcony at the rear of the building. While others strap on air tanks and masks Kasey tries to kick open the apartment door knowing that any occupant would soon be dead from the smoke. Just a few seconds could make the difference. The lock shatters, but after each kick the door slams shut again. Something must be leaning against it on the inside. Kasey removes his left glove then puts his shoulder against the door. With all his strength he can push it open just enough to slip his left arm inside. His eyes are burning from the thick smoke that pours from the apartment. He knows there is very little time as he gropes in the darkness behind the door. He is trying not to breathe the chemical laden fumes and having little success. Suddenly his hand makes contact with a familiar shape: A human face. “Oh shit,” Kasey says aloud. With a superhuman effort Kasey manages to shove the inert form away from the door then crashes into the smoke filled hallway. It is a young black man. He is large and heavy and unconscious. Kasey struggles to move the big man in the heat and the smoke. He shouts for help just as it arrives in the persons of Juan Rodriguez, Louis Fortson and acting lieutenant Dennis Haberman. There is no time for fancy firemen’s carries or special equipment. Like 200 pounds of hopefully not dead meat, they wrestle the victim out the door and down the burning stairway. After laying him on the ground behind the building the others get back to business as Louis Fortson treats the rescued man. “I’m gonna give you a little oxygen,” Fortson says gently as he puts the plastic breather over the man’s nose and mouth. There is no reply, only deep breaths from a man who is very lucky to be alive. 6:15 a.m.   The fire is out, but the cleanup continues. Smoldering debris is watered down and spread out to prevent a rekindling. Lt. Wayne Bindas starts asking if any of the firemen has found a puppy. Yes, he is told, it’s dead in the second floor bathroom. His soot and sweat covered face registers the depth of his disappointment. Three young Hispanic children wrapped in blankets and huddled in the back of a U Haul truck, burst into tears when they hear the news.” It could easily have been them,” Bindas says grimly. 7:45 a.m.   Filthy, exhausted firemen put away their gear at the Clark Street station. Another shift has ended. Another battle in the never ending war has been fought and won. I spot Ray Kasey at the bottom of the stairwell. “Ray,” I say with admiration, “you’re a hero.” Kasey appears amused by my comment. It seems to remind him that most of us don’t routinely risk our necks to earn a living. “Nah,” he says, more from conviction than modesty, “I was just doin’ my job.” With luck, Ray Kasey will continue to do his job and not be overcome by the false alarms or the flying bricks. At some future time we may have fireproof buildings and idiot proof fire alarms. In the dangerous years between now and then all we have is Callahan and company: on the good days and the bad.