Jason A. Borton - Memoirs of a Volunteer Firefighter

T his book is dedicated to several people. I would like to thank my mother and father for their support and belief in me throughout the years. Thanks also go to my Grandma Borton, whose many trips to the fire station with me fostered a childhood interest that fired an adult passion. I would also like to thank my wife Sue and my children Alannah, Zander, and Zackary for their patience and support. I am truly grateful to have each of you in my life. Lastly, and most importantly, this book is dedicated to the women and men of the past, present, and future who have volunteered and who will someday volunteer to put their own lives at risk to fight fire and make a positive difference in the lives of their neighbors.

A thin veil of acrid smoke enveloped us as we entered the house. Our labored breathing was muffled by our breathing apparatus as we wrestled with a water laden hose, searching for the still elusive fire. As we entered a large room, three doors confronted us. Fred Chilsholm from the career department stopped us, Wait here. he said, disappearing to the left. Duncan Fanners, who had been a volunteer five years longer than me, looked to the right. He had told me many stories of the interior attacks on fires that he had made in the past. My heart churned as I wondered if he knew that this was my first time inside a real house fire.

I stared at the two doors directly in front of us, wondering if Hell itself was waiting behind one of those portals. A third door stood to the left. For some reason I was drawn to it. I felt it with the back of my partially gloved hand. The skin on my hand retained its protective barrier as the door was cool. I crouched down as I twisted the doorknob, wary but also curious as to what venture I was about to encounter. A bright light radiated towards me from above. Not flame but sunlight illuminating a stairwell. I shouted out to Fred and Duncan the news of my find. Fred took the lead up the stairs and stopped on the fifth step. A flat hand in our faces warned Duncan and me to step back. Freds axe met the wall with a thud, and a narrow jet of flame burst across the stairwell impinging on the opposite wall. Duncan quickly doused the flame with a cooling spray of water. Fred took a couple of more chunks of drywall out with the axe, but finding no more fire, he ascended the stairwell.

At a landing, the stairs made a one hundred and eighty degree turn up to the second floor of the house. I remained on the landing feeding hose up to Duncan and Fred who had both disappeared into the darkness of the upper floor. I struggled to catch my breath as I was feeding hose, wondering what had ever made me become a volunteer firefighter. Twenty minutes earlier I had been dozing off in front of a Saturday afternoon sports show. Now I was in an unfamiliar building that was on fire, doing a job that usually claimed the lives of just over one hundred firefighters in the United States each year, and I was volunteering to do it. My mind raced as my task of feeding hose had ended. What would I do next? Did I have something to do right now? Were Fred and Duncan alright?

The sound of two ringing bells interrupted my chaotic thoughts. Fred and Duncan appeared at the top of the stairs, their low air pressure alarms still ringing. Fred pulled me over as he walked down the stairs. Follow the hose up to the nozzle and wait there, he said. I nodded my understanding and crawled on the floor, gripping the hose as if it might be my only chance of getting out of the house alive if something bad happened. I heard new muffled voices of firefighters about twenty feet behind me. They were searching for fire at the front of the house. I reached the nozzle and gazed at the back of the house. Blackened walls released steam upwards and it felt like I had to be in the hottest part of the house. Duncan and Fred had found the fire.

As I stared at the walls, two small orange embers fell to the floor beside me and caught my eye. I looked up and saw that the ceiling was an eerie orange color. I heard the unmistakable sound of crackling wood above me. Then it appeared. A ball of fire that had been hiding in the attic raced to the back of the house. Half frozen from fear, I shouted out at the top of my lungs, Ive got fire back here!

Someone must have heard the desperation in my voice as a hand touched my shoulder within seconds.

Whats the matter? the calm voice questioned.

Ive got a lot of fire up above me, I replied.

Calm down and take a deep breath. Its a simple concept and you can do it. Put the wet stuff on the red stuff. Thats all, he said.

OK, thanks, I said as I regained my lost composure.

I felt the power of the hose press into my body as I opened the nozzle. I directed the water straight up to cool down the ceiling over my head. As that cooled down I shot the water right into the center of the fireball. Within seconds the fire had disappeared and it was replaced by a scorching blanket of steam that enveloped me. I continued to spray water until I was confident that I would not see the menacing face of the fire again. The ringing of my breathing apparatus low pressure alarm startled me and I shut down the hose. I left the nozzle behind me and walked towards the stairs. The group of firefighters that were at the front of the house had just pulled down a part of the ceiling with a pike pole. Looking up into the attic I saw nothing but a sea of orange flame. I stared at it for a second and felt that I had somehow conquered fire that day, even if conquered only meant being able to control it for a short while.

I descended the stairs and the two doors that I chose not to open before now stood wide open. Their previously hidden interior surfaces were heavily charred. The walls of the rooms concealed by the doors were heavily blackened. I wondered how the fire attack would have been different if I had chosen to look behind one of those doors.

I stepped off the front porch and removed my helmet and mask while I turned off the main regulator of the air tank. The air felt refreshing like a cold Buffalo winter day, even though the calendar declared it was late in the month of June. Hoards of people had gathered on the street to watch the battle of man and the physical world that was taking place in their neighborhood. Two years earlier, I would have been one of those people: watching, standing by, and making no difference at all. Today I was doing something, being somebody in a dedicated group of bodies that had shown up on this Saturday afternoon to bring some relief to a devastated family in the small city of North Tonawanda. I felt great, but a small voice within my head still made me feel uneasy. Why did I hesitate when I was confronted by the fire? Would I freeze up again? The answer to these questions would be uncloaked a few days later while I was at the fire hall.