Angry Old Man

(Or, Why I Felt It Necessary To Break Down Your Door)

Several weeks back, I responded at three in the morning to a report of smoke coming from the roof of an apartment complex. This wasn’t anything too unusual, as this apartment complex still had several wood burning fireplaces. I took my time getting out of bed, then drove lazily into the fire station. I heard the Captain getting on the air and could hear the tiredness in his voice, trying to shake the sleep out of it.

I get about a mile from the station when the Captain gets on the air again, “3105 on scene. Heavy smoke showing, call a working fire!” He was awake now.

Oh boy! I’m thinking as my foot stomps into the gas pedal. (I keep it under control; I’m not one of those volunteers that wants to wreck his care because I was doing 90 to granny fell down. But this was a fire, and there was some quickness in my driving).

The ladder (really a quint in our case) is out the door while I’m still a few blocks from the station. I arrive and see my brother and another firefighter getting into their turnouts. I sprint into the station, clamber into my gear and make my way to the officer’s seat of the truck. The Captain has reported that there is not an all clear on the building, so we roll with the three of us.

Our assignment is to supply the ladder that arrived first. As we round the corner, our strobe lights, LEDs, and wigwags bouncing off neighboring homes and business, the entire apartment complex parking lot is obscured by smoke. We pull into the thick of it, spotting on the hydrant in the parking lot. My brother gets out to take the hydrant and set the pump, while I assist the other firefighter hand stretching supply line to the ladder across from us. We’re done in less than 2 minutes.

I can hear the sirens from the mutual aid engine in the distance. Local PD had showed up, their blue lights mixing with our red. The smoke, still rolling out from under the eaves of the roof, stings my eyes a little. The pumps and diesel engines on the trucks are spun up, providing pressure on the hose lines. The complex residents are out in the parking lot in their pajamas, wrapped up in blankets, watching us go to work. It’s this whole feeling that I love about being a firefighter.

My backup firefighter and I have pulled a second line from the ladder and we’re kneeling at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the fire apartment. A resident reports that the neighbor across from the fire apartment isn’t outside yet and the Captain has told us to conduct a search. I’ve checked the nozzle on my line, and I’ve taken my helmet off to put on my SCBA mask. I’m giving instructions to my backup firefighter when I see the crew from the mutual aid engine come barreling up—and I do mean barreling up. I have never seen a group of people scream volunteer firefighter more than these six firemen that had just bumped their way up to me.

And sure enough, as my partner and I pick up the hose line to advance up the stairs, the mutual aid company barrels their way right up them. There are now six 250-pound fireman standing on a narrow apartment stairwell, blocking my access to conduct a search. While I’m frustrated at these guys, I also have a morbid desire to see the steps collapse underneath them.

I watch as one of the firemen tries the door handle to the apartment I’m supposed to search. Finding it locked, he brings up his ax to give it a blow and knock it open. But he stops short. There seems to be a conversation going on at the top of the stairs, something animated, but I can’t make it out. The ax is passed off to another firefighter, and again I see him ready to knock open the door. Again, he hesitates, stops, and conversation ensues. What the hell? I’m thinking.

“Just get the hell out of the way!” I shout up to them.

Now, all six firemen from the mutual aid company pile into the fire apartment, mind your there’s already three other firefighters operating a hoseline in there from the first in ladder company. I signal to my partner and we make our way up the stairs. Again, checking the door knob and finding it locked, I get ready to take the door. I crouch a little, bring my shoulder in, and give the door a good solid hit.

Boom! The whole door swings violently in, splinters of the doorframe scatter across the entryway. Immediately I drop to my knees as my partner comes right up behind me. “Fire department!” I shout. There’s no smoke though, so I get to my feet, only to meet the now very angry resident of the apartment.

Here I am in full fire turnouts, plugged into my SCBA, hoseline in hand, standing next to a 70 year old man in pajamas and slippers, yelling at me for breaking down his door. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Oh darn. “Get your ass downstairs!” I hear from behind me, “all of you!” The Captain the followed the first hose team in, was shouting at my partner, the mutual aid company, and me.

Oh double darn. See, I had been told by command to conduct a search of the second floor apartment, that there was a report of the resident still inside. But, unbeknownst to my partner and I, the ladder company Captain had already made contact with the resident and made sure that he was okay. The resident had gone back to bed when I decided it would be a good idea to bash his door in.

I’m sure that it looked quite comical to those observing: myself looking confused and abashed, while being yelled at by an angry old man and a fire Captain.

So, angry old man, I do sincerely apologize for bashing in your door and ruining your night. But feel comforted that I did it in an effort to protect your life and property. I was just trying to do my job.