06/01/2020
Duet (Tribute To The PFD)
It’s after 2am, there is the sound of gunshots nearby, sirens are constant, growing louder, then fading into the distance. I check on my daughter Audrey, who can’t sleep tonight either. I go to the kitchen and turn on the Philadelphia Fire Dispatch scanner, there is something comforting and reassuring in the back and forth patter.
As I listen to the radio calls, I can tell a lot about who’s speaking; for example I know their race because I’ve been in Philly long enough to be familiar with the nuances of culture and upbringing. Tonight the dispatchers are mostly black women; the fire commanders out in the field are mostly older world-weary white men but there’s some younger guys too.
The back and forth is music to my ears; it’s like a duet. Street names like Erie and Allegheny, Germantown and Tioga, names as old as the city itself. And the terminology. Who ever said “fire ground” isn’t a beautiful phrase? (It’s beautiful because I know the good guys are on scene and have established a command post).
And all those numbers, special meaning behind each one, men and women that I know personally on some of these trucks, been in their kitchens, grieved with them when one of their own was lost.
Battalion 10, stand by. Release 35. Ok. Affirmative. Releasing 35. Staging at 10th and Clearfield. Affirmative.
A long tone sounds.
Engine 901. What’s your location?
On it goes, hour after hour. Call and response, seasoned veterans sending brave knights on their missions into the darkness and chaos. Little jobs like rubbish fires, occupied row home conflagrations too. Looted businesses showing heavy smoke, single alarm fires that escalate to three alarms. And multiple times tonight I hear firefighters requesting dispatch notify police because looters are present. At one point a Battalion Chief advises the dispatcher to tell the crew to stay in their truck with the doors locked.
Tonight, companies are shifted all over the city at the last minute to cover one another. Runs are interrupted, additional alarms struck. Three-digit apparatus numbers starting with a 1 or 2 indicate standby or relief units, older rigs pressed into service because of the volume of runs or equipment breakdowns.
And through it all, as they go from emergency to emergency, solving complex logistical problems, putting themselves in harm’s way, there is no trace of resentment or “attitude” on either side.
Because there aren’t any “sides” and there never were. All parties on the radio, in the dispatch center, on the fire ground are on the same side and always were—the side of civilization.
That’s why this mutual respect and spirit of cooperation between seasoned professionals is so humbling tonight, it’s what brings me to the verge of tears.
This is what it takes to manage a disaster. This is what it takes to protect a large, complex metropolis, in good times and bad.
This is what it takes to live in a complex, diverse society.
Outward focused, selfless. In service to humanity, regardless of race, color or creed.
Can we be more like them?
