Trivia Questions (Answers @ end)
- Who said, “The best way out is always through.”?
- In what movie (and who said it), did we hear, “Everything ends badly, otherwise it wouldn’t end.”?
- In what song (and who sang it), did we hear the following?
Blame it all on my roots, I showed up in boots
And ruined your black tie affair
The last one to know, the last one to show
I was the last one you thought you’d see there
“Engine One, Engine Four. Vehicle crash. West University Avenue and 22nd Street. Respond.”
I’m in the conference room downstairs, studying for a Physics exam the next day. Most of the other firefighters are reading, watching TV, or playing pool or ping-pong. It was after hours, so their family visitors had already left.
Like all emergency calls at the Gainesville Fire Department, we drop what we’re doing and sprint for the truck. I’m assigned to Engine #1 at Fire Station #1, located downtown on Main Street.
Larue & Freeman are the hose men—they were playing pool. They ride behind the driver in the cab. Wayne’s driving and Lt. Don rides up front in the cab with him. Herb and I are the new kids—about four months out of training—so we’re on the tailgate.
I’d left the US Navy earlier in July 1977, after serving one day short of four years. Since I’d flunked out of college at F.S.U. in 1973 (one reason I enlisted), I had decided to return to school. But this time, I started at Santa Fe, the local community college. Working one day on and two days off is ideal to attend college full-time while working full-time.
And… I’m bringing in a whopping $9,600 a year. Not bad for a bachelor in the Fall of 1977.
I always keep my gear next to the truck. My trousers are rolled down around my boots, so I just kick off my shoes and step right into my boots, pulling up the trousers and yes… I wear red suspenders. My coat is next to me, hanging on the handrail, so I slip that on, along with my helmet. Herb is a couple of seconds behind me—he was watching TV. He nods that he’s ready, so I let Wayne know we’re good to go and ready to roll. Wayne already has the red lights flashing. Lt. Don hits the siren and we are out of the fire station less than 30 seconds after receiving the call.
Out onto Main Street, down four blocks, turn left (west) onto University Avenue; 22nd Street is about two miles down the road—a straight shot. We’ll be there in less than five minutes.
This is a lot different from riding on the back of a Crash fire truck on the flight deck of USS Kitty Hawk (CV-63), an aircraft carrier. Back then, we’d already be on the truck & geared up, just waiting until… you know… an aircraft crash. And… when needed, we were there within a few seconds. Not a lot of room on the flight deck to maneuver a fire truck with forty plus parked aircraft.
On a city fire truck, you have time to think through and process the possibilities, even though you don’t really know what you’re going up against. In this case, all we know it’s a vehicle crash. We don’t know how many vehicles, but we’ll soon find out.
Even though it’s ten at night, traffic—both cars and foot—is beginning to pick up. It’s a school night, but the University of Florida students are making their way out to party. The Gators are on a winning streak, so it’s “party central” all week long.
Wayne’s a great driver/operator. I’m confident he’ll get us there quickly and safely. There’s something about riding on the back of a fire truck, speeding down the road, lights flashing and siren blaring, traffic pulling over on both sides… it gets the heart pumping, heading into an unknown, and knowing I have the confidence to tackle anything and everything.
The Navy taught me that.
I glance behind us and am glad to see there are no other crashes. That’s not always the case. Rubberneckers, people fiddling with their car radios or cassette tape players… distracted people not watching their driving. That happens way too often.
I can’t see much ahead of us. Even though I’m 6’4”, it’s hard to peer over the cab of the truck. We carefully pass through the 13th Street intersection, a major intersection with four lanes of traffic stopped both ways. Lt. Don’s got the full siren blasting and Wayne’s laying on the horn: music to my ears, but it’s damn loud. I carefully peer around the side of the truck and still can’t see the wreck. No flames in the air, so smell of fire… that’s good.
Wayne slows the truck down and eases into the intersection. Blue lights—the police are here. Red lights—there’s the fire department paramedics; they drive a little faster in their smaller truck. I still can’t see the vehicle accident, but I know something’s going on. I climb down off the tailgate and walk around the right side of the truck.
“Jesus Christ” is all I can say. There’s a car—a late model Buick—literally wrapped around a utility pole. I’ve never seen anything like this before. Sure, I’ve been to lots of wrecks, lots of fender benders, but this… the pole looks like it’s growing out of the engine. Both sides of the front of the car are wrapped about a foot around the pole. My mind thinks back to those “Death on the Highway” videos we watched in high school Driver’s Ed classes.
The first thing I think is, “whoever’s driving is long gone.” But… I’m wrong.
The paramedics are working frantically. They’ve only been there for a few minutes, but I can see Butch’s legs sticking out the back window—half his body is inside the car. He and his partner, Jimmy, managed to get the rear window out. Jimmy’s a part-time boxer with broad shoulders. Strong as an ox, but too big to fit in the car. Butch is smaller. I can see him holding the driver’s head and neck carefully.
The driver is still alive. Holy Shit!
The fire chief arrives. Just two weeks earlier, the department received a new tool. We call it, “The Jaws of Life.” I’ve only trained on it once—this would be our first “live” cut-out.
Greenville Recorder photo/Mike Phillips (Greenfield, MA)
The tool is about the size of a chain saw, at least in the late 1970s, and weighs just about as much. The “jaws” connect via twin six-foot hoses to the engine, which sits on the ground. It’s designed to be used to either cut metal (compress with sharp blades) or used like a car jack (expand with metal braces). Powered by a gas engine with some pretty powerful hydraulics, it’s truly an amazing tool for first responders.
The car’s windows are all smashed from the impact of the crash. No one knows how or why the driver hit the pole. It doesn’t really matter right now. What matters most is to get this guy out and hopefully, save his life.
We have to make at least two cuts on the front metal frames that hold the car’s windshield. After that, we’ll figure out if we can bend the car top back and get the guy out or if we need to cut all four frames and totally remove the top.
The term “time is of the essence” is in the back of my mind. My dad’s a lawyer in town. He uses that specific phrase in his legal documents all the time. Somehow, I think the meaning is a little more crucial here. Here… tonight… time is of the essence is crystal clear to me.
Butch is still inside the car with his legs poking out. Jimmy’s got a hand in from the driver’s window. I guess he’s doing whatever it is that paramedics do. But I can hear him and Butch talking. They’re a good team, two of the first paramedics in the department. There’s a pair on each of the three shifts.
Freeman’s got the Jaws of Life—Larue is his backup, operating the engine. He’s got the blades on, so he’ll cut through the driver’s side frame first. Larue is beside Jimmy on the driver’s side—he’s holding a long metal bar in the car as a brace so the top won’t collapse on the driver and Butch. All Herb and I can do is to stand by with the hose in case a fire breaks out. Wayne’s by the engine pump, primed to send water our way if needed.
A crowd is gathering. Curious groups of students trying to see what’s going on. Fortunately, the police are there to help keep them back. There’s no telling how this may turn out. The police also have traffic stopped in all directions, since our fire truck is directly in the middle of the intersection. Engine #4 just arrived, so we’ve got some extra hands. There’s not much they can do at this time, either, except watch and wait.
Freeman’s got the first cut through in about five seconds and moves over to the passenger side. Larue slips another bar inside, securing that side, too. Lt. Don holds the bar on the driver’s side so it won’t slip out. Jimmy and Butch are still with the driver. He looks stable. I thought I saw his head move slightly, but that was just Butch changing position.
Freeman finishes the second cut, sets the Jaws of Life on the ground, and holds the top of the car steady. He peers inside the car and talks with Butch. Butch isn’t going anywhere—he’s staying with his patient. Lt. Don calls me over to hold up the car top on the passenger side.
As soon as I get over there, it hits me. The strong odor of beer and urine—unmistakable; like I’d experienced in so many of the bars in Hong Kong and the Philippines as a Navy airdale. I also spot a few beer bottles in the back seat. Thank God there’s no one else in the car.
Then I get a close look at the driver. A kid, really. Probably a student. Smooth face, no acne, but he’s got a nasty bloody nose. His black hair is slicked back, but I can’t tell if it’s a overuse of Brylcreem or doused with a bit of his own blood from smashing into the windshield.
Larue grabs the Jaws of Life and cuts through the rear frames. We’re all holding the car top, so it doesn’t fall on Butch, Jimmy, and the drunk driver. We simultaneously lift the top—it’s not as heavy as I thought it would be—and walk it back behind the car, setting it on the ground. Geez, what a waste.
The ambulance is on scene now. The EMTs bring a stretcher over. Jimmy can get in with the driver now. Butch’s arms are aching from being in an unnatural position for a long time, holding the guy’s head steady. But he won’t take a break. No sir, not Butch. Like most firefighters, he’s focused on the task at hand and he is dedicated.
Together, Jimmy, Butch, and the two EMTs from the Alachua County Ambulance slowly maneuver the driver out and gently place him on the stretcher. I see no bone protrusions, at least, nothing obvious. But I’m close enough to smell that deadly combination of beer, followed by a lot more beer.
Jimmy reaches down and checks the driver’s pupils. Or at least that’s what I think he’s doing. The guy’s eyes flutter open and sees all the commotion. He reacts but luckily, doesn’t go into convulsions or shock. He’s drunk as a skunk, talking incoherently, almost angrily. But Jimmy keeps reassuring him he’s going to the hospital to be checked out. Jimmy’s voice is calming, even for me. This is not his first alcohol-related vehicle crash and it won’t be his last.
The EMTs strap the driver onto the stretcher, wheel him over and load him into the ambulance. I see Butch and Jimmy talking with Lt. Don, but I can’t hear anything. All three are looking down at the ground, shaking their heads.
The tow truck arrives about the time the ambulance leaves. Cecil Shannon’s been in business for years and in a college town during football season, business is always good. There’s not much else for us to do. But we stay around and help the tow truck driver sweep up the broken glass—there’s a lot of it scattered about.
The city utility crew is there, though fortunately, there are no downed power lines. They’re examining the utility pole and I hear them say they’ll need to replace it. Thank goodness the pole didn’t snap in half from the impact of the car, otherwise we’d have to deal with live power lines jumping around and that would be no fun at all. I’ve danced with electricity enough times to last a lifetime.
Finally, the tow truck hoists the mangled sky blue Buick Skylark onto a flatbed truck and slowly drives away. Before leaving, Cecil said this was his third wreck today. I think to myself, Yeah, business is good, but not the good kind. The police make their rounds and finally release us. The traffic lights are working fine and traffic beings to flow again.
We’re back at the fire station after about two hours. It’s a little past midnight. I’m tired and I didn’t finish studying for my exam. But I need a quick shower before going to bed.
Hopefully, that’ll be the only run we’ll have tonight. I’m glad the driver is still alive. I have no idea who he was, where he was from, or why he’d been drinking. I’m just glad he wasn’t dead.
I’d cut two more people out of their cars before I left the fire department after 2½ years in May 1980. This one was lucky, if you can call it that. The others… not so lucky.
As I write this today, 46 years after, the events, the people, the places, the smells, the sounds… well, those are things I will never forget.
Until we meet again,
Andy Adkins
Answers
- Robert Frost.
- Cocktail (1988), Brian Flanagan (Tom Cruise).
- Friends in Low Places (1990), Garth Brooks; written by Dewayne Blackwell & Earl Lee.
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Andy Adkins is a US Navy veteran (’73-77) and the author of several books. His newest novel, NEVER FORGET, is the story of A Vietnam Veteran’s Journey for Redemption & Forgiveness. NEVER FORGET is FREE (eBook, PDF) for all veterans. Download your FREE copy HERE.