You're the Chief

First In, Last Out: Leadership Lessons from the New York Fire Department
by John Salka

(Page 2 of 4)

I've been working on this book for more than twenty years, ever since I stepped down from the cab of 11 Truck's apparatus and came face-to-face with a big fire that was gutting a ConEd plant on Manhattan's Lower East Side. I was a young man then, twenty-two years old, and I was, like all young men, worldly, wise beyond my years, and fearless.

I'd been on the job only a little while, having been appointed back in 1979. After graduating from the academy, I was assigned to 34 Engine, but that was too quiet for me, so I worked the system and got over to 11 Truck, on the Lower East Side. Our firehouse was on East Second Street, between Avenues B and C. Alphabet City. I loved it. I loved everything about being a firefighter. Not only that, but I figured I was getting pretty good at it. I had already made up my mind that there wasn't much a fire could throw at me that I couldn't handle.

The call came in during a day tour. As I said, I was on 11 Truck then, which shared quarters with 28 Engine. Most of the firehouses in New York house two units, both an engine and a truck company. Sometimes you'll hear a truck company referred to as a ladder company. Same thing. In the fire service we refer to the various firehouses by the units they house, so my firehouse at the time was known simply as 28 & 11. Engines carry the hose and pump the water, and the firefighters who man the engine rig are the ones who'll stretch the hose to the location of the fire and literally crawl right into the room that's burning and smother the flames beneath water that exits the nozzle like a pile driver, at three hundred gallons per minute. The ladder company firefighters, or truckies, force open doors, vent windows, cut the roof, and perform search-and-rescue. These two units complement each other perfectly; together, they manage all the key jobs that must be accomplished to fight a fire successfully.

On the day the call came in, I was the junior man on 11 Truck. Most of the other men in the company had worked there for years, and being the new guy, I was usually assigned one of the positions, like the can or irons, that for safety and training reasons would keep me close to the officer. Wherever that officer went, I went. In addition, all around me were some of the best firefighters in the city. I could learn more from them in a day than in an entire week at the Fire Academy.

I had grown up in the quiet suburbs of Long Island, so the neighborhood around 11 Truck seemed almost exotic to me, and as we'd go to and from calls, I was mesmerized by the endless rows of bodegas that flew past as we raced down Avenue B, or the blocks of vacant tenement buildings that stood quietly by as we shot along the streets of the Lower East Side. But it wasn't even the buildings I was interested in, so much as the people. This was 1981, a time when this neighborhood was sort of a freaky place, known mainly for its drug addicts and bohemian types, a combination that provided plenty to look at.

Lately, however, I'd decided to start acting like the hardened fireman I was sure I was becoming, and now, riding to the call, I didn't even bother to look up from my gear. I imagined myself a seasoned smoke eater, just taking care of business. But then we pulled up at the fire, and suddenly I felt like it was my first day on the job again.

The fire was at the ConEdison building on Fourteenth Street, near the East River. We were the second-due truck there, after 3 Ladder (second-due means we arrived after 3 Ladder; our job was to back them up), so several other units were already there when we pulled up. As I hopped down from the apparatus, the first thing I noticed about this building was its size. It was gigantic. It sprawled across an entire block, and its thick walls stretched high above the sidewalk. There were hardly any windows. Looking up from the foot of the building, I saw nothing but the sheer concrete wall, and then the sky; but from across the street I could see the smokestacks rising above the power plant like watchtowers. Here was a fortress at the edge of the East River, and somewhere inside it was a fire. Smoke was in the air.

Although there was obviously a serious problem inside the plant, things were not moving that quickly. Usually, in ordinary fires (if there is such a thing), companies arrive and instantly go to work in their assigned areas. These assignments are predetermined and well known to every firefighter on every rig. The first engine and truck to arrive go to the fire floor. The second truck company reports to the floor above, to search for people trapped by the flames. The second engine assists the first engine, and so forth. These jobs apply to a fire in a multiple-residence dwelling (MD). There are other configurations for different types of MDs, as well as for private homes and commercial buildings, but there was no specific protocol for the ConEd plant.

Since we were second-due, we "stood fast," or waited with our apparatus as our officers got a handle on the incident and worked out a strategy. The chief was talking to the ConEd people, trying to gather as much information as possible before putting companies into the building. At the same time, engines were connecting to hydrants, truck chauffeurs were positioning their apparatus for access to the building, and both officers and firefighters were assembling with tools, Scott Air Packs, radios, and other equipment, ready to go to work.

Now, this particular fire turned out to be a hydrogen fire, an oddball kind of fire, and there's nothing that puts a guy on edge like a fire he's never seen before. We really couldn't see the beast yet, and the ConEd people had been a little sketchy about what exactly was wrong, but we could clearly identify the sharp cracks and deep roaring sound so common to large conflagrations. Everyone was a little nervous; you could see it in the looks we exchanged with one another, the way some of us fumbled around with our equipment, the sudden silence that fell over us.

Approaching the fire, its heat lunging at us, we could dimly see a huge cylindrical tank at the inferno's core. Superheated by the frenzy all around it, its contents were making a tremendous noise - a shrill, piercing whistle that made you, the instant you heard it, just want to get the hell out of there.

While I can't say exactly what the other guys were thinking or feeling, I know what hit me as I stared at that snarling orange whirlwind. It was fear, but not like any I'd experienced before. It was a cold, coiling fear that took my breath away. By some unspoken consensus, we had slowed almost to a halt when our lieutenant turned around, looked each of us in the eye, and said, "Follow me." Turning around, without looking to see if we were behind him, he plunged toward the flames. And we followed.

Copyright © 2004 John Salka. All rights reserved. This excerpt, or any parts thereof, may not be reproduced without permission.

About the Author

John Salka rose through the ranks of the New York City Fire Department from firefighter to lieutenant, captain, and now battalion chief (the second highest command), a position in which he manages more than 150 men. He also teaches leadership to other fire departments across the country and to outside organizations like the U.S. Marine Corps.