Chief Smoky Joe Martin - FDNY - 1884-1930
"Catch your fire early and hit it hard"
1884 - Appointed Fireman
1889 - LT
1892 - CAPT
1900 - BC
1905 - DC
1911 - AC
1930 - Retired
?Smoky Joe Martin - Last of the Breed? by Kieran O'Leary NEW YORK DAILY NEWS
Thursday, May 27, 1999, 12:00 AM
ON A BITTER winter's night in 1899, the firefighters of Engine Co. 31 in lower Manhattan rushed to a blazing warehouse on West St. The fire had started in the cellar, and the Red Devil was in full fury. Led by their commanding officer, Capt. Joseph Martin, the firemen descended into hell. Facing heavy smoke and roaring flames, they retreated, then mounted a second assault. The blaze quickly went to three alarms. Exhausted, gasping for air, man after man was driven from the unendurable basement. Thirty of them collapsed and had to be carried out. Chief Edward F. Croker arrived to take command and ordered a head count. One man - Capt. Martin - was missing. The firemen plunged back in, desperate to find him, fearing the worst. The conditions remained brutal and Croker ordered everyone out. Then he went back in alone. Crawling on his hands and knees, he found Martin with a line of hose, wedged between two crates of furniture, fighting the fire by himself, barely conscious. Croker grabbed his collar and hauled him to the street. Newspapermen crowded around. "Gentlemen," announced Croker, "this is Smoky Joe Martin, and he certainly does love it."
The reporters loved it, too. The next day's papers trumpeted the tale of the newly nicknamed hero. A New York City legend was born. JOE MARTIN'S love affair with the Fire Department began when he was a boy. His home on E. 13th St., in the old Gas House District, was back to back with Engine Co. 5 on 14th St., and he regularly ran errands for his fireman pals, and when the bells sounded and the horse-drawn wagons clattered out into the cobblestone streets, young Joe was usually running right behind, and he would watch with awe as the brave firefighters battled the lower East Side infernos and spread out nets to catch people leaping from upper floors. At 18, he tried for a time to work as a clerk, but such a life was just too boring. In January 1884, at age 22, freshly appointed fireman Joseph B. Martin reported for duty at Engine Co. 27 on Franklin St., earning $66 a month. Promotions came quickly - to lieutenant in 1889, captain in 1893, battalion chief in 1900, deputy chief in 1907 and, in 1910, assistant chief, the department's second in command. To many, it was a miracle that Martin had lived to make the climb up the career ladder at all. Fearless and stubborn in the face of danger, he had suffered many broken bones and serious burns on many occasions. He was on the job for 46 years, and over those years he was hauled away from fires in ambulances nearly two dozen times. Told in 1898 that a watchman was trapped inside a burning warehouse on Walker St., he and several comrades rushed in, climbed through licking flames to the fourth floor, kicked through a door and found themselves in a room whose floor already was burning through. "That floor won't hold you, Cap," a fireman warned. But Martin went in anyway. And indeed it did not hold, and neither did the ones below it. Martin plunged in an avalanche of burning debris 65 feet to the basement floor. There was barely a flicker of life in his broken body as he was carried away to the Hudson Street Hospital, still clutching a piece of a brass lamp he had grabbed when the floor beneath him gave way. He came to the next day. "When can I go back to work?" he inquired. The answer was four months later.
AS ASSISTANT CHIEF, Smoky Joe was a fixture at most every big fire the city ever saw. With his aide, Daredevil Dan Healy, at the wheel, his red car showed up everywhere - at the four-day Standard Oil depot blaze in Greenpoint in September 1919, at the enormous "Greenwich Village Volcano" at Jane and W. 12th Sts. in July 1922. Two firemen died in that explosive warehouse fire, and Martin himself collapsed at the scene after working several days without sleep. A department doctor ordered him home, but Smoky Joe would have none of that. Laid out on a cot at the window of a nearby building, he continued to bark out orders, then arose and charged up to the roof to join his men again. But the fact was that in 1922, Smoky Joe was 60 years old, and modern times were arriving. In December of that year, the City of New York retired its last remaining horse-drawn fire wagon. It fell to Martin to ceremoniously send out the alarm from Brooklyn Borough Hall and call out an Engine 205 steamer pulled by faithful Penrose, Smuggler and Bal Griffin on its last run. Then the horses, the last of their breed, were put out to pasture. Certainly Smoky Joe Martin would not be far behind them.
BY 1925, young Turks in the Department were tired of waiting for its grizzled veterans to step aside. Chief John Kenlon was a 38-year man, and Joe Martin had 41 years in. A group of aldermen proposed a bill that would force Kenlon, Martin and three dozen other officers to retire. The older men survived this effort to turn them out - but the handwriting was plainly on the wall. Smoky Joe's day of reckoning came on April 14, 1930. Fighting a midtown blaze, he suffered a heart attack. Priests from nearby St. Stephen's Church gave him the last rites, and he was carried home, presumably to die. But he rallied again. "I hadn't changed from my winter woolens," he explained. "It was the sudden change in the weather. I wasn't dressed for it." He spent the spring and summer recuperating, then sought to return to duty, insisting he was fine. Dr. Joseph Smith, the Department's chief medical officer, disagreed. On Oct. 2, Smith ordered Assistant Chief of Department Joseph Martin to retire, declaring him "unfit for duty." The words hurt him more than anything the Red Devil ever had dished out. Like the old firehorses he'd loved, Smoky Joe was through. '
HE HAS WATCHED the fine, big, intelligent, glossy horses, pets of the engine houses, depart one by one, to be replaced by the flashing, roaring motors," wrote the New York Sun. "He has seen the simple, crude old equipment replaced by the complicated and highly technical modern apparatus of the finest fire department in the world - bar none. He has seen the department made over and for that matter has watched all New York made over - watched it grow from a squat town of brownstone and red brick to the incredible dream city of leaping towers whose pinnacles catch the sunlight a thousand feet above the streets. "Nobody in all New York is more typical of the town than this wise, brave, grizzled warrior with the fighting heart." Smoky Joe's fighting heart gave out for good on Oct. 25, 1941
- www.nydailynews.com/archives/news/smoky-joe-martin-breed-article-1.828147
Joseph B. ?Smoky? Martin - Find-A-Grave
Joseph B. Martin was born in New York City one year after the start of the Civil War. He grew up on East 13th Street. On January 18, 1884 he was appointed to the Fire Department of the City of New York. Amongst his brother firefighters he was unique having attended two years at City College. He studied, took promotional examinations and on November 19, 1889 was made a Lieutenant. Just four years later, he advanced to Captain.
As Captain of Engine 31, the company responded to a warehouse fire seated in the building's cellar. At a time long before breathing apparatus, Martin and his company fought vigorously with member after member retreating due to the intense smoke and heat. Martin stayed in place at the nozzle. Chief Croker, realizing the futility of the attack, ordered all members out of the building. But Captain Martin did not leave the knob . Croker went in after him and, after forcing him to leave, introduced the Captain to reporters by saying, "Gentlemen, this is "Smokey Joe" Martin." The nickname stuck and, as legend has it, was the basis for naming the mascot of the National Forest Service, "Smokey Bear" who was created by New Yorker and Advertising Council executive Harold Rosenberg in 1944.
Martin was promoted to Deputy Chief on January 1, 1906 and briefly fulfilled the role of Acting Chief of Department when Chief Croker retired. He was appointed Assistant Chief on January 1, 1919. This was the highest rank he attained.
Chief Martin was well known for getting into the fray. In 1922 he responded from his Manhattan quarters out to Arverne on the Rockaway peninsula, where the entire summer resort town was in flames. He took the fire to a fifth alarm, often taking the line himself. One of the City's most unusual blazes, known as the "Greenwich Volcano" where Lieutenant John Schoppmeyer made the Supreme Sacrifice. Chief Martin was literally blown through the door of a building by one of the explosions. When Mayor Hylan asked the Chief how he felt, Smoky Joe said, "fine" only to crumble unconscious at the Mayor's feet. He refused Dr. Archer's plea to go home. Instead, he commanded the fire from a stretcher placed in the window of an undertaker's shop across the street
On April 16, 1930 at the age of sixty-six he was so exhausted at a three-alarm fire on East 33rd Street that he collapsed. Dr. Archer wanted him to go to the hospital but he refused and continued to command the fire from a stretcher. The next day he was designated disabled by Chief Medical Officer Joseph Smith leading to his eventual retirement as of November 1 that year.
- https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/88461562/joseph-b.-martin
"Smoky Joe" Martin & The "Greenwich Street Volcano" - Firehouse - by Paul Hashagen
October 1, 2004
The morning of July 18, 1922, started as a beautiful day in New York City. The summer sun was just peeking over the top of the Manufacturer?s Transit Company?s seven-story warehouse on Jane Street in Greenwich Village.
A little after 8 A.M., warehouse workers were busy loading wooden cases filled with powdered magnesium into the building?s freight elevator. A number of the cases were stacked on the sidewalk adjacent to the opened elevator. Despite the fact that the air was still relatively cool, the workers were building a good sweat as they moved the heavy crates into the building. The huge warehouse, which ran through to the next block, contained large quantities of combustible materials. Stored in the basement and on the various floors were crates of photographic flashlight powder, bonded whiskey, tons of rubber and quantities of rolled paper.
For some unknown reason ? maybe a spark caused by friction ? one of the cases of magnesium powder suddenly exploded, throwing several of the workers across the cobblestone street. Scrambling to their feet, they were horrified to see flames spreading among the stacked wooden crates. Most of the workers ran for their lives, while several brave men dashed back toward the fire and tried to smother the flames with pails of sand. The sand had no effect and the fire spread from the crates on the sidewalk to those in the freight elevator. A second explosion toppled the remaining workers and spread the flames to other parts of the warehouse. A Greenwich Avenue merchant watching the activity from his store across the street decided he?d better call for help. He hurried to the nearest fire alarm box and pulled the handle.
At 8:15 A.M., the alarm was received in the Manhattan Fire Dispatcher?s Office. The first firemen to arrive found that the flames were already out of control. The wooden crates of magnesium powder were burning briskly on the sidewalk, spewing fountains of white sparks. The fire was roaring up the open elevator shaft of the seven-story building. One after another, fire engines descended on the scene with wailing sirens. The engines stopped at hydrants, where the men quickly connected to the water supply. Hoselines were dragged into position and water quickly filled the hose. The acting chief of the New York City Fire Department, Joseph ?Smokey Joe? Martin, arrived on the scene and took command of the firemen. At first, he encouraged his men to bring their fire hoses as close to the flames as possible.
Heavy streams of water bored into the wall of flames, but whenever the firemen moved the stream to another part of the burning building, the flames returned to the place they had previously doused. Sparks and sheets of white-hot flame continued to pour from the wooden crates on the sidewalk, endangering nearby buildings. At times, the plume of burning magnesium, which resembled pyrotechnics, actually reached over the roofs of the three- and four-story houses fronting on Jane Street. Martin directed his men to hose down nearby buildings. This prevented the fire from spreading, but within the burning warehouse the fire seemed unaffected by the torrents of water that the firemen were pouring into it. With flames bursting through the roof of the warehouse a dense, black, acrid smoke arose and settled on each side of the building until it became so dark on Jane and West 12th Streets that firemen had great difficulty picking their way forward.
At about 8:45 A.M., Lieutenant John Schoppmeyer of Engine Company 13 led a group of men with a hoseline into the warehouse through a door on the 12th Street side of the building. Suddenly there was an explosion that far exceeded the magnitude of any of the previous blasts. A huge section of the wall, 15 feet wide and extending from the fifth floor to the roof, was blown out, and the entire roof was lifted off by a massive gush of white-flames. Martin found himself slammed against a building across the street, his face burned and the wind knocked out of him. Schoppmeyer and his men were also hurled backward by the explosion. A large section of elevator machinery and roofing, blown into the sky, fell to the street, crushing Schoppmeyer. He was pulled, unconscious, from the debris, but he never regained consciousness, and died several minutes later.
Martin ordered more manpower and resources to the scene. The detonation had driven cases filled with merchandise through the warehouse windows and walls, littering the street with an eclectic assortment of dolls, toys, fancy electric light bulbs, dried peas and other small items that were quickly washed away by the rivers of firehose water cascading down West 12th and Jane Streets.
The thick acrid smoke of the Jane Street fire was so dangerous that city officials ordered 2,000 people evacuated from the neighborhood. Despite this precaution, several residents were sickened by the smoke. They were treated at first-aid stations set up around the fire area by the local chapter of the American Red Cross. Scores of firemen and police officers were also overcome by smoke and had to be treated at the Red Cross stations. A battery of six pulmotors (crude resuscitators) were in use at one time at the corner of Greenwich and West 12th Streets, with a score of unconscious and semi-conscious people laid out on the sidewalk. The street resembled a battlefield.
As Martin?s men held their hoses close to the fire, they were being pelted by hot ejected materials, and they risked being scorched by bursts of flame. To protect his men, Martin ordered them to remove doors from nearby buildings and use them as wooden shields. His men continued fighting the fire in this manner for several hours. The constant eruptions resembled volcanic activity and the fire quickly became known to both firemen and the public as the ?Greenwich Street Volcano.? By 2 P.M., the fire had been raging for six hours, but it seemed hotter than ever. Martin and his men were absorbing considerable punishment.
The building?s contents continued to flare up, showering the area with blossoms of super-heated sparks and flaming debris. Rumbles and explosions from deep within the structure finally caused Martin to rethink the dangerous position he and his men now occupied, so close to the building. ?Smokey Joe? decided to change tactics. The breast-works of wooden shields were abandoned and Martin redirected his firefighting efforts to an aerial water assault from the roofs of the surrounding buildings. Additional alarms were sent to bring fresh firemen to replace men suffering from exhaustion, smoke inhalation or wounds. After a number of firemen were injured while operating from the rooftops, Martin pulled his men back farther from the fire.
At 4 P.M., Martin was standing in the street, wondering what he could possibly do to put out the amazingly persistent fire, when he was joined by Mayor John Hylan. The mayor looked at the exhausted chief. Martin?s face was burned; his eyes were bloodshot and almost closed by swelling; his breathing was labored; his shoulders and arms were limp from exertion. The mayor asked, ?How do you feel, Chief?? ?I feel fine,? Martin replied, and fainted dead away at the mayor?s feet. Martin was rushed to a first-aid station, where Dr. Harry Archer, the fire department?s honorary chief medical officer, worked on the injured fire chief. When Martin regained consciousness, Archer told him to go home. Martin flatly refused. Archer knew that Martin had recently led an exhausting attack on a conflagration along the Rockaway peninsula. ?Listen, Chief,? said Archer, ?you?ve been taking an awful beating. You?re still weak from the Arverne fire, and you?re past 60. You?ve got to go home.? Martin stood up and placed his dented leather fire helmet back on his head. ?A man don?t get his full strength till he?s past 60,? he told the doctor. ?I got work to do!?
A compromise was reached and Archer let Martin return to the fire under certain conditions. ?Smokey Joe? was placed on a cot in a shop window near the fire, and he continued to direct his men?s operations from that location. After a few hours on the cot, Martin came up with another attack strategy. Instead of having his men aim hoses from rooftops, where they were vulnerable to showers of debris from explosions in the burning building, Martin decided to send his men to new positions inside the buildings surrounding the burning warehouse. At 8 P.M., Martin arose from the cot and returned to the streets to redirect the attack. Hose after hose was repositioned under Martin?s direction until water poured from every window and fire escape overlooking the burning building. Eventually, 64 streams of water were directed into the fire from different vantage points. More than 216,000 tons of water were pumped into the burning warehouse ? the largest volume of water directed at a single fire in the history of the New York City Fire Department. After a bulging wall fell on the Jane Street side of the building, water could more easily reach the seat of the fire.
By midnight, the fire was clearly diminishing, although it continued to burn. At that point, over 200 firemen and police officers had been treated for smoke inhalation, and an additional 61 men had been hospitalized with burns, bruises or lacerations. Two firemen had been killed: Schoppmeyer, killed by falling debris, and Fireman James H. Malone, who had fallen from a truck racing toward the fire.
LT John Schoppmeyer, Engine 13, LODD
FF James H. Malone, Engine 219, LODD
The fire was declared under control 34 hours after it started, but it continued to burn for five days. Finally, one last eruption of the ?Greenwich Street Volcano? occurred on the afternoon of July 23, sending walls crashing outward and destroying two houses. The fire was finally out. ?Smokey Joe? Martin recovered and returned to work battling blazes throughout the five boroughs of New York City until he was forced to retire in 1930, when he was in his late 60s, after suffering a heart attack at a fire and collapsing in the street.
Martin passed away on Oct. 25, 1945 ? 15 years after he ended his 46-year fire career. His legend transcended the New York City Fire Department, and his moniker became immortal in 1945 when the U.S. Forest Service named its fire prevention mascot ?Smokey the Bear? in honor of ?Smokey Joe? Martin.
Paul Hashagen, a Firehouse? contributing editor, is a retired FDNY firefighter who was assigned to Rescue Company 1 in Manhattan.
- https://www.firehouse.com/home/news/10508916/smokey-joe-martin-the-greenwich-street-volcano
Chief Martin briefing NYC Mayor 1914:
Chief Martin wishing LT happy birthday: