Welcome Back

by Karen Hobbs

I stand at the door to the vehicle bay, kit bag in hand. I have arrived early for my shift wishing to ease myself in gently, to collect my thoughts before the hustle and bustle of a typical day with the LAFD. I take a deep breath to calm myself, breathing in the familiar mixture of ash, gasoline and antiseptic that pervades the air. It's the smell that rookies take some getting used to, but to us veterans it is the norm.

In the locker room I open my locker, I am pleased to see that my replacement had the decency to remove all his gear before my arrival. I unpack my kit bag and hang my spare uniform up on the hanger. I change into my uniform, performing the ritual placement of name tag, fire badge, pens, scissors.

"Why am I here?" I ask myself. Friends who are not part of the Department ask me how I can go back to a job that nearly killed me. I shrug, "I know nothing else" I tell them, "It's just one of the hazards of the job". A fire-fighter, ever since I was a kid I wanted to be one. Used to chase the fire engine in my hometown to stare at burning buildings, watching as the fire-fighters tackled the blaze, marvelling at their speed and efficiency, hoping one day I might become one of them. A dream that came true and four months ago nearly ended in a nightmare. It was a night I will never forget. I absentmindedly rub my shoulder, thankfully fully healed now.

I cross to the sink and splash water on my face to clear this momentary funk. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, the scars are barely noticeable now. Doctor Brackett says that they will fade completely in time, but what about the mental scars?

My partner arrives. "Glad to see you're so early!" he comments.

"Just couldn't keep away, pal," I quip.

My partner - I doubt that I would be here today without him, he has stood by me through the months of convalescence. He has weathered the storms of my anger, frustration, pain and grief. He has listened, never judgmental, to my fears and doubts, he is a true friend. We are like brothers, an invisible bond exists between us that cannot be broken.

The rest of the shift arrives and the good natured banter typical of a firehouse begins. I can tell, however, that they are nervous in my presence. Role call, Captain Stanley issues each of us with our tasks for the day. I have drawn kitchen duties, no cooking thankfully. The Captain is mindful that this is my first day back, I am grateful that no special allowances have been made for me.

We embark on the timeless Stationhouse rituals. My partner and I start to check out the supplies carried on the Squad. It is important that every piece of equipment is in full working order. I snap open the Trauma Box.

"Brice was here," I comment.

"Yeah, how did you know?" my partner asks, he knows he has not told me.

"All the labels are to the front," I reply, laughing at how one man could be so precise as to structure the trauma box.

Our first call is to a heart attack victim. I am surprised that I can still remember everything. I take vital signs, relaying them to Rampart, hook up the heart monitor, establish IVs. Straightforward stuff - I am still sharp after 4 months off the job. I follow the ambulance to Rampart Hospital, back the Squad into the bay and enter the Emergency Department. Last time I was here it was as a patient, critically injured and hanging desperately onto the thread between life and death, not that I remember it, I was comatose by then.

Dixie McCall is at the nurses station, she greets me.

"How are you doing?" she asks. We both know that there is more to that question then pleasantries.

"Fine" I reply, "Just fine".

"Any problems?" I am not sure if she is referring to me personally or to the patient we have just brought in.

"Nope, " I reply in answer to both versions.

Dixie smiles, "Good, I'm glad to hear it," she says.

Dixie McCall is my favourite nurse, she was the light in those dark times shortly after I had come out of the coma. She was there when I blamed myself for what had happened, made me see that it wasn't my fault. She encouraged my in physiotherapy, chided me when I overdid things, made me laugh when I was feeling down - she is a truly remarkable woman. Dixie knows my mind better than any analyst.

We head back to the Station. "How do you feel?" my partner asks.

"Look, I'm okay!" I say sharply. Suddenly everyone is enquiring after my health. I consider posting a notice on the station bulletin board '11.15 patient responding well'.

"I'm fine, just fine," I assure him in a more conciliatory tone. He smiles and pats me on the shoulder.

It's a quiet day, a few minor medical calls, nothing too strenuous. In fact, just what the doctor ordered. I know I still have to face the ultimate test - fire. My burns have healed well, but the psychological scars still remain deeply hidden from the post traumatic stress counsellors that I was sent to see. I answered their questions, gave them the answers I knew they wanted to hear, whilst inside I fought the demons in my own way.

I went to the cemetery last week, Dixie came with me, for moral support she said. It was a wet and windy day, the dark clouds matching my mood. Dixie held me as I cried at the graveside. I don't normally do this, but this was different. Mike was a friend and I had watched him die, unable to help. He was buried with full honours, I was too ill to attend, but Captain Stanley told me about it once he judged I was well enough to hear. That was just before the bravery citation. I almost sent it back, how could I be cited for bravery when a fellow fire-fighter had died? Once again, Dixie was the firm voice of reason, reminding me that three other fire-fighters owed their lives to me. It didn't make my grief any less, but helped put it into context.

I feel an outsider even here with my extended ‘family'. Four months is a long time. My ‘family' pick up on my melancholy mood, they try to laugh and joke, Chet does a comedy routine with Henry, the station hound. I smile and laugh, but they can tell my heart is not in it.

Captain Stanley calls me into his office. I worry that he is going to send me home, declare me unfit for duty, but all he wants to do is check that I'm feeling okay, I assure him that I am.

"Just need to get up to speed that's all, Cap," I assure him with a smile.

"Okay, Pal, but if you need to talk..."

"I know, your door is always open," I finish for him.

It is evening, I have finished the dishes, we are like one large family. We settle down to watch the TV, read, play cards. The Be-Bop alarm goes off, instinctively we all drop what we are doing and hurry out to the vehicle bay .

"Station 51, Station 36, Truck 127, warehouse fire, 1522 Wilmington Boulevard, One-Five-Two-Two Wilmington, cross is South Street, time out 19:55"

"Station 51, KMG-365"

I sit in the Squad as we race through the streets lights ablaze, siren wailing, closely followed by the Engine. We traverse intersections against the lights, both of us wary of other road users, hoping that the sound of our sirens will make them stop in time. The rig helps, no one can fail to see ‘Big Red' as it thunders down the street, Chet is proud of that fact.

We round the final corner, my stomach tightens as I catch sight of the flames. I have been here before, a cold trickle of fear runs down my spine, I know I have to face this - alone. We screech to a halt, the engine sails past, playing out its hose lines.

I exit the squad, grabbing my turnout coat. I pull on the heavy jacket, immediately aware of it's newness. Automatically I snap the buckles, one, two, three, four, tighten the belt. Check my equipment, axe, flashlight. I reach for my air tank, holding it high so that it drops easily onto my back, I shrug to adjust to its weight.

"Gage, DeSoto, we have reports of two men trapped," Captain Stanley hollers. We wave to acknowledge our orders and run towards the entrance. Chet and Marco are already in position at the door, their hoses stretching out behind them like two well fed snakes winding their way across the parking lot to the engine.

At the entrance I kneel, knocking my helmet back I fit my air mask against my face, my partner does likewise. The respirator kicks in, all sounds are muffled by the loud whispers of my own breathing. We exchange glances, give a thumbs up and disappear into the pitch blackness of the burning building.

Smoke does funny things to you, rookies are often disorientated by it. You are cut off in your own little world, unable to see more than a few feet at most. I swallow hard, trying to calm my breathing - ‘quit hyperventilating' I tell myself sternly, I know that I have to find the victims before my air runs out - I must not waste a single breath. Flashlight on I work my way into the gloom, ahead and to the right I see my partner's flashlight bobbing as he searches.

I look around, the smoke is clearing, up above other fire-fighters are starting to ventilate the roof. I take a deep breath, time is running out. My partner waves, I cross to him taking care on the uneven floor. He has found one of the men, I look around trying to find the second victim. I can discern a strange heap about ten yards away in the gloom. I go to investigate, it is the second man, I pull a glove off and place my fingers on his neck ‘He's alive'. I am grateful, I don't think I could deal with another death so soon.

I bend down to pick the victim up, he is a big man, I grunt with the effort as I hoist him onto my shoulders and start to head for the door. My partner does likewise with his patient - ‘Why did he get the little guy?' I ask myself as we dodge falling debris for the safety of outside. A spray of water from the inch-and-a-half's stationed at the door hits my air mask, obstructs my view for a moment, I stumble on intent on getting my patient out.

I lay my patient on the ground by the squad, my partner does likewise. I throw off my helmet and rip off my face mask, unsnapping the buckles that hold my air tank, letting it fall to the ground. Seconds are vital now, our equipment is out ready. We both start to take the vital signs of our respective patients. Mike Stoker, the engineer, hovers nearby one eye on the pressure dials of the Engine, ready to assist should we need it.

An ambulance pulls into sight just as we have established the IVs ordered by Rampart. The fire is under control. We load the patients into the ambulance, my partner hops in and I close the door, knocking on the side of the ambulance to signal to the driver to pull away.

The adrenaline that has kept me going despite my fear is now waning, I feel tired, not just physically, but mentally. Fire has that effect on you. As I gather up the equipment strewn across the parking lot Captain Stanley comes over.

"Well done, Pal," he says, knowing how hard this call has been for me. He too has fought the demons of his own fear in similar circumstances. He pats me on the shoulder.

I grin triumphantly through the soot that streaks my face "Thanks, Cap," I reply.

"Welcome back, Johnny".

Authors Note: Thanks to Mady and Charli for proof-reading this one. How many of you thought I'd killed someone off?

"Welcome Back" ©1999 Karen Hobbs. "Emergency!" and its characters © Mark VII Productions, Inc. All rights reserved. No infringement of any copyrights or trademarks is intended or should be inferred. This is a work of fiction, and any similarity to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.