Turning out - late 1960s (a composite from tours spent with my dad)
It was a routine summer night. Through the screen door from the kitchen, you could see the new proby listening to the the 2nd alarm progress report, which was now under control. He was disappointed. Neither company had responded. Everyone knew he was anxiously waiting for his first big job to prove himself. Other members displayed no interest in the fire they knew they would not respond to. Most had had a few jobs and several runs their last tour. This 6x9 night tour would be no different. There was a card game, Gin Rummy, being played at the kitchen table by the two senior members working the shift. The other members were watching the Mets on the large, 24 inch, RCA color TV. Neither the Mets or the Yankees were doing well in those years. Like NYC in general. The kitchen went immediately silent as the bells started to ring. You could see everyone counting, lips were betraying an outward nonchalence. A kitchen "mute" button seemed to be hit. When the second set of bells on the telegraph alarm indicated this was not a response box, it was back to normal. The housewatch quickly reassured with an "OK engine, OK truck, OK chief". This was repeated rapidly, two or three times for different boxes, over the next 15 minutes. The card game and baseball arguements continued in the kitchen. A few more jokes. When the next box came in, the engine whip, still playing cards, announced matter-of-factly, "that's a bad box". A quick story or two about a job on that block, bad building, lack of hydrants. 7 or 8 minutes later, the 7-5 signal bangs in for the bad box. The kitchen remains silent this time as the housewatch yells for the battalion to turn out as the all-hands chief. Without emotion, the aide and chief quickly walk down the stairs from the chief's office, get in the plain red station wagon and wait for the member on housewatch to stop traffic for them. They already had 7 or 8 runs this tour since they relieved the day shift at 4:30. Most were 10-92s, false alarms, but they had a trash fire, food on the stove and an ADV (abandoned derelict vehicle). The chief has his white dress hat on and is reaching for his turnout gear folded on the back seat. He has the radio to his ear waiting for the next progress report. The siren from the chief's vehicle becomes harder to hear and then vanishes in the early evening sounds of a busy neighborhood. The senior guys in the kitchen calmly agree that the truck is first due on the second and that the engine goes, too. The housewatch makes the same announcement holding the assignment card in his hands. The lieutenants, who were studying upstairs for the upcoming captain test, slide the pole and start a quiet discussion at the houswatch desk around the department radio. There is talk about best route to take and who else could be responding in at different intersections. Is the squad responding? The proby in the kitchen asks a question and immediately gets told he "better not f--- up" as everyone laughs. The proby silently leaves the kitchen and heads for the housewatch desk. One of the truckies makes a quick sandwich, wraps it up and sticks it in his pocket. There a few quick glasses of water gulped. One-by-one, the members watching the baseball game leave the kitchen. A few stop by their turnout gear, one goes to the john, most head to the housewatch desk. There is a quick cigarette lit. The Gin Rummy game continues at a quicker pace. The radio is louder now and the deputy's request for another truck is heard. The truckies walk to their riding positions on different sides of the rig, kick off their shoes, put on their turnout gear and mount their 85 foot all-red tillered apparatus without saying a word. The tillerman signals he is ready. The housewatch man runs out into the street and waves the truck out of quarters. They are already heading out the door before the dispatcher taps out the 5 bells and bad box signal announcing the special call. The proby's early smile is gone and he has a nervous look on his face as the lieutenant talks to him. Everyone is silent as the chief's aide gives the next progress report. "Two lines stretched and in operation...Occupants being removed...Heavy fire condition...Exposures... Checking extension to cockloft...Doubtful will hold." Another two minutes go by. Members are silent, faces are confident. This is a good crew. It's like watching a baseball team before they take the field to start a game. The division aide is now back on the radio and out of breath. The senior member is already walking over to the driver's position. He could tell by the new excitement in the aides' voice. "The fire has extended into the cockloft - transmit the second." Members put on their black and yellow-striped rubber turnout coats and leather helmets. Shoes are kicked off. Everyone slides into their boots. The red Mack's engine cranks and spits out exhaust across the apparatus floor. Two guys are already out in the street to stop traffic. The officer hits the air horn as the engine rolls into the street and stops for members to mount the back step. The doors are closed by the proby and he mounts the rear step as the member next to him says "first real job, don't f---up kid." Air horn and siren slowly become silent as the engine responds into the summer night. The cards were left on the kitchen table with two coffee cups, Ralph Kiner was summarizing how the Mets lost on the big 24 inch RCA color TV, the engine's exhaust fumes lingered across the apparatus floor, 10 pairs of shoes and a few drip pans remained where the rigs were located only a few minutes ago. And I listened to the department radio at the housewatch desk and waited for my dad to return. It was a routine summer night.
