It was well past midnight when I left the downtown university medical center on a warm spring night. Opened the sunroof and lowered the windows on the hot-rod Honda, I was leaving work issues on the DC side of the Potomac River. The darkness of a Lee Highway commercial corridor was disrupted by the spilling of light from an open bay door at Fire Station 8.
Looking in the bay I saw an exhaust hose gently swinging from the ceiling. A blinking yellow light was announcing the imminent closure of the bay door. Engine 8 was on a run. All I could smell was a faint diesel exhaust. I mumbled “Medical Local” and continued home.
A pumper responding with purpose leaves a unique sound print, even if the siren and air horns are silent. There is the growl coming from a huge diesel exhaust pipe, the clinking of the automatic snow chains, groaning as the cab and hose body flex over the uneven roadway.
The electronic siren makes a slight whine, reminding me of sitting in a concert hall with the speakers powered-on and waiting for input. Sitting in the front of the cab, you hear the spinning of the Roto-Ray light and the pulsing of a strobe light transformer.
This square metal box of tools, talent, and hope pushes a lot of air while going down the road. I heard none of that as Engine 2 approached Lee Highway. I did hear the staccato of an engine brake and rude blat of the air horns.
My mirrors and interior filled with explosions of red and white as Engine 2 turned onto Lee Highway. Then that distinct “GE Powercall” style siren as Engine 2 passes me.
Right behind Engine 2 was the battalion chief. As soon as they drove past me they turned right into a single-family subdivision. So did I.
A community that was built between the World Wars, the hilly neighborhood had narrow, winding streets with single-family dwellings sitting on 1/3rd acre lots.
Hearing more sirens, I did not want to get stuck in a fire truck parking lot. I turned left. At the next intersection down, Engine 8 was hooking up to a hydrant.
I followed the supply line up the hill, where Engine and Truck 6 had lit up the front of a cape cod house like a movie set. I could see smoke coming from the eaves.
A crew was using a halligan and a flat-head ax to force open the front door. I felt every strike in my chest. My heart sang when I heard the saws rev-up. Opening the front door, the neighborhood filled with the odor of Class A smoke.
It has been a long time since I was that close to a first arriving company at a structure fire. My god do I miss it.
Elements, identifiers, and sequence of events may be altered in “war stories” to protect the innocent or work better as an example.