The Story Behind Our Unit Citation of Valor

The Eye of the Needle

Check out the personal gear, give the rig the once-over, pick up the need to know stuff from the off-going firefighter, vaguely discuss a few items at muster, drink a couple of cups of coffee and get ready for the shift. It was another day at Fire Station 6. I had been a firefighter on what was then called the Las Vegas Fire Department for fifteen years. I hadn’t a clue that this was going to be one of the most significant days of my career.

At 7:37am, a few minutes into our shift the tones came in. “Fire in a building. Two story apartment building, smoke and flame showing. We have multiple calls.” Pulling on my boots, I was reminded of the previous shift by the dampness and lingering smell. My hood, although dry, also carried the scent of a “worker”. And it was damned sure time to go to work again.

My name is Allan Albaitis. On January 18, 1982 my father pinned my badge on me and an adventure began. It is now a new millennium and I am in my 19th year on Las Vegas Fire & Rescue. It’s been several years now since then rookie Ken Teeters and myself sat aboard that Pierce TeleSquirt pumper with acting Captain Cal Henry and Engineer Mike Amburgey and pulled out of the fire station toward a working fire. But, in some ways, it seems like yesterday.

En route, we were advised that someone was attempting to extinguish the fire with a garden hose. We shrugged looking at each other as we cinched straps, and felt the tightening in the gut that comes when you know you’re going in. Then the headsets brought the message. It was a double shot of grim reporting. “We have reports of at least one occupant jumping from the second floor and… and a confirmation of a person trapped inside.” Now all systems are pegged. The thoughts are a swirl. As we neared the complex, it became clear that we, Engine 6 , were going to be first in. Simultaneously doing last second checkouts and going through a menu of tactics and strategies I agreed with the Captain’s plan. We would pull the front cross lay giving us 150 ft. of 1-3/4” attack line. Since it was a one way in one way out apartment there was no attacking from the unburned side. We would walk into the blaze head on.

As we rounded the last corner we saw the source of the column of smoke. There were dozens of onlookers, some transfixed, some wildly waving, many shouting and pointing. There was a hydrant close by so a water supply wouldn’t be a problem. My seat is behind the Captain and the fire was on the right side so I grabbed the nozzle and Ken grabbed the loops. There was a crowd encircling a woman lying on her back and we had to make our way around her. A sooty-faced civilian was still directing a pitiful stream through a broken window. We flaked out the line and, crouching at the open door, waited for water.

What happened next wasn’t out of the book. Many of the neighbors were yelling some in English, some in Spanish, “She’s still in there, we know she’s still in there.” There was still fire but it mostly seemed to be venting out of the window. From the doorway I could see that to the right the way seemed passable. We waited and still had no water. There was a problem. The cries from the crowd were louder and I knew that someone was inside, dying. It was time to go against all professional wisdom and take a chance. This is exactly the kind of thing that I would read about and think, “Those idiots, what were they thinking? It’s guys like that that give us professionals a bad name.” I told the Captain that I thought I would be okay doing a quick life search and that if I didn’t find her in two minutes we would back out. I went in with Teeters and no hose line.

We crawled beyond what little light the doorway provided and were soon in a hallway to the single bedroom and bathroom. For some unknown reason, I went past the bedroom door and went straight to the bath at the end of the hall. I had Teeters on my heels at all times. With my helmet light and a handlight I had less than a foot of visibility. I tried to push open the door but it was blocked… by a body. I pressed my mask against the six inch wide opening. We had found her. But was she alive? I figured that all the door needed was a good shove and it would allow me to slip through. Not to be. The door moved an inch or two but I needed ten times that to get in the doorway. I just couldn’t get a firm purchase on the carpet. I tried again and the door just sprang back. The clock was ticking.

I needed a foothold, a doorway or a piece of furniture against which I could brace my foot and put some real force behind. Suddenly, I got the idea. I quickly explained to Ken that I would need him to lie on his back and brace his feet in the doorways of the bedroom and closet across the hall. I then could place my feet on his shoulders and push against the wedged body in the bathroom. The clock was still ticking.

I was about to give up and try something different when, with a dull thud, it slipped opened almost a foot. I think her arm rolled under her and instantly I had enough room to squeeze through the opening. Once inside, I had to drag her several feet to my right to allow the door to open completely enough to drag her through. She was not a small person and the effort of the initial search, trying to open the door, the ambient heat, and now the awkward job of moving an unconscious person in a cramped, smoky, dangerous environment was kicking my ass. I managed to move her enough to allow the opening of the door and Teeters was waiting. Now to get her out. It seemed that hours had passed.

Teeters took her arms and I, using the waistband of her pants, drug her down the hallway toward what we thought was the front door. The smoke was still thick and somehow once we cleared the hallway we started to angle away from the front door toward the kitchen. Then, out of the haze, Cal reached out and pulled Ken toward the faint glow of sunlight coming in the doorway. There we were met by Paramedic Tommy Grayson and then Firefighter Mark Robles. They dragged her onto the lawn where, assisted by the AMR ambulance paramedics, they began advanced cardiac life support.

The pumper problem had been fixed and the remaining fire extinguished. While Ken and I were regrouping I glanced at the cluster of rescuers around our patient and to my sad disappointment realized that full blown CPR was in progress. As any experienced first responder will attest, it’s hard to suck a soul back into a body. I looked at the heart monitor and saw what was nearly a flat line. In twenty three years I’ve never seen a pattern that slight brought back to a normal rhythm. After the third defibrillation shock I had to look away. Our gal was going into the light and her days of laughing and crying were coming to an end. She was shortly whisked away, compressions and ventilations in progress. Sweaty and filthy, stinking of the smoke that not long ago was Lucy's home, Ken and I watched her being loaded into the ambulance for what was sure to be the last ride of her life.

We assisted with overhaul and, while standing in Lucy’s bedroom, I saw a photograph on her dresser that caused me to feel a heavy sense of sadness. It was a fairly recent photo of her receiving her high school diploma. It struck me that here was a person who had felt that it’s never too late. As a senior citizen she had returned to school and was not,like so many, just enduring life, she was participating. Or, had been. Now it was indeed, too late.

We removed charred furniture, pulled some ceiling, and soaked any suspicious debris. The atmosphere was heavy and somber. More than just an empathetic response it was a feeling that we had failed. All the rationale and logic and toughness of an old fire dog didn’t help. Oh sure, on the surface you could say, “Well, it was the old gal’s time”, or, “It was meant to be. We did our best, screw it.” But, the firefighters I know, the ones there that day and whenever a life is lost can fake stoicism all they want. But I’ll call bullshit on that every time. I know it hurts. We are in this to win, not to lose and when someone dies, rational or not, logical or not, we feel like we’ve lost. And that’s a hurting, helpless place to be.

As we were wrapping up the scene, the reality of the day hit me. It was still morning. This was only the beginning of the shift. It was going to be a long day. I checked my refreshed air pack which Amburgey had thoughtfully changed out. As I hoisted it into the jumpseat I thought back on how, less than an hour ago we were blasting through traffic headed toward a column of smoke and flame, supercharged with adrenaline and so damned sure we were going to win. Now, the fire is out, the crowd is dispersed and there wasn’t anything left inside but a tired, hollow feeling. All of the, “If only…” and ”I shoulda…” or “If I coulda…” thoughts were doing their sadistic parade in my head. Just let ‘em go, I thought. They’ll be gone in a few days. How long can a parade last? Hose and hand tools were loaded, the building was secured, units were returning to service and just as command was about to be terminated , I caught Tim Syzmanski our PIO on his cell phone.

I could imagine that he was briefing the media and that he was sadly reporting that the national fire death statistics were just increased by one. Instead, I heard something quite different. “Yes. Yes. Oh yes…I’ll tell them. They’re standing right here.” Ken and I were only a few feet from Tim and looked at each other wondering what in the hell he could be talking about.

“Attention all hands. Hey, everybody, listen up.” All of the remaining firefighters, paramedics, engineers and captains stopped what they were doing and looked at Tim. The next words out of his mouth were almost difficult to believe. He must’ve sensed our shock because he said it again. “Your gal is sitting up talking in the emergency room. She’s gonna make it.”

“Gonna make it…” “Sitting up…” For a full three seconds we just looked at Tim, stunned. Then we “heard” him. I felt a feeling almost like a physical warmth followed by a bewildered nearly giddy feeling. Looking back it was somehow similar to the way I felt when I heard, “Congratulations, You have a son.” That may sound strange, actually it sounds strange to me, but I remember that was the feeling. There is a soul alive who, but for your efforts, would not be. Maybe that’s the connection. I certainly wasn’t in an intellectualizing frame of mind. I, we were suddenly shot from some sad dim place to that so important moment. Ken and I were literally off the ground in a school kid high five and grinning like juvenile delinquents on nitrous oxide. It was like the day I was told I was going to be in the next fire academy. You know, one of those grins that just doesn’t go away. There were cheers and clapping and animals sounds. All of the crews were pumped. We did what we are trained to do and it all went right. “She’s gonna make it.” Man there aren’t too many phrases that can squeeze a firefighter’s heart like that. “Gonna make it,” wow!

Soon we were back at the station and after loading fresh hose, refueling the blowers, and restocking supplies it was nearly lunchtime. The phone rang as we sat down to eat. It was Tim. Being the consummate PIO that he is he had been in contact with the hospital and was reporting that our patient was being put on a ventilator and moved to ICU but that this was standard and all was well. The second patient, the one who had jumped from the second floor had suffered a broken back and although she was full term pregnant, had no permanent damage and a week later delivered a healthy baby boy. Cal, Mike, Ken and myself decided that we would stop by ICU that evening and see our miracle girl.

When we introduced ourselves to the nurse in charge of ICU she lit up and said, “Oh yes, Lucille Frenz. Follow me. She's right down the hallway.” We had all seen the array of high tech gadgetry that is the core of Intensive Care so that wasn’t what provided the jarring shock upon seeing her. It was just seeing her… alive. By then we knew what incredible odds she had overcome just to be in this room.

Back at her apartment before we cleared the scene, Tim pointed out the kitchen light fixture. Bear in mind that I found Lucy not more than 15 feet from there.The plastic dome had melted hanging to the floor and created what almost looked like a distorted old firehose. It is over six feet tall. As a matter of fact, Tim still has it in his office today. He pointed out that the heat necessary to do that would not have been survivable even at 15 feet. The riddle became even stranger after Xrays and tests in emergency revealed no damage to the lungs. But the Colomboesque E.R. doc solved the mystery after deciphering blood gasses, cardiac enzymes and additional Xrays. “She wasn’t breathing when the temperature climbed to that untenable range.” He went on to explain, “For whatever reason, probably because all the oxygen had been used up by the fire, she went into respiratory arrest. So when the room became superheated she wasn’t breathing. If she had been, her lungs would have been destroyed. This was probably happening just as you were arriving on scene. Her only chance to survive was not to be breathing. Then she had to have someone show up, find her, drag her out, and deliver her into the hands of a team capable of reviving her and doing just that in a very narrow time window to avoid permanent brain damage. This had to happen within four to six minutes.The odds of all of this happening the way they did are astronomical. It would make the eye of a needle look like the St. Louis Arch. This one was a million to one.”

Her eyes were only opened slightly but when the nurse explained, “These are the firefighters who saved your life, Lucille,” she looked right at us and in spite of the tube, silently mouthed the words, “Thank you”. It was a moment I don’t think any of us will forget.

As if the day hadn’t been enough, back at the station a news crew was assembled and they took a sound bite from each of us for the 11pm news. The headline was, “Local woman survives blaze.” The newspaper had a small article (small when they live… big when they die) These are a couple of lines from the article:

Upon learning Frenz was going to live, firefighters at the scene high-fived each other and slapped backs in celebration. “To tell you the truth, she didn't have much longer to live,” said Allan Albaitis, a 15-year veteran of the Las Vegas Fire Department who went into the burning apartment to rescue the woman with Capt. Cal Henrie and rookie Kenneth Teeters. “It's a great feeling, but it wasn't just one guy doing it. Everything had to go just right.”

Yep, She’s gonna make it. We slept well that night.

It was a couple of weeks later when I called back and spoke to her. She had no neurological deficit (fancy for brain damage) and only slight burns to her hands. She was going home that day, Mother’s day, 1997. And a life continues.

Because of the incredible outcome of that event the five of us were presented with the Unit Citation of Valor and received a Special Congressional Recognition. The ceremony was top flight. Entering a huge formal luncheon awash in VIPs to bagpipes and a standing ovation was a one of a kind feeling. But the most special part of the entire experience was the silent response from the lips of Lucky Lucy, “Thank you”.

Thank you, Lucille for having the will to survive and giving meaning to this sometimes thankless job. From all of us at Las Vegas Fire & Rescue, AMR, UMC and your caring neighbors, Happy Mother’s Day.

Happy life.

---

Fire Down Below

Very Superstitious

The photo accompanying this story was taken as we were leaving the scene of what we thought was going to be a "routine" fire. I was looking at the house that had nearly cost two firefighters their lives. To be sure, it took years off of mine.

I don't think of myself as a superstitious person but as I was getting ready for work the morning of Friday, the 13th of July 2001 I had a moment of uneasiness. It passed in a flash but later in the day I recalled that I had actually "felt" that this wasn't going to be just another day at work. Until the day played out as one of the most frightening of my 19 year career I didn't give it another thought.

Midsummer in Las Vegas is a real treat. That is if you are a mad dog or an Englishman. An ambient temperature of 112º, 60 pounds of gear, and a working fire make Hell seem like Lake Tahoe in May. The mid afternoon alarm wasn't particularly alarming except for the fact that it was 112º. I don't know about anywhere else but in Vegas a "smoke investigation" is one notch above an "odor investigation." 99.9% of the time it is a Bar-B-Q, a mist system, a dust devil or a "concerned citizen" on a cell phone reporting a diesel startup. 99.9% bullshit. That means that one in a thousand is... not... bullshit. I was feeling the heat.

There was even a little lighthearted conversation about it en route to the call. My Captain, Ray Bogle an experienced firefighter and company officer made the comment, "Really, how often do these turn out to be anything?" I agreed, not many. But the few that I've been on included Our Lady of Las Vegas Catholic Church… burned to the ground. A unique spa/motel called Spring Fever… burned to the ground. And I've heard that the first call from the MGM Grand came in as a smoke investigation… 83 fatalities in the second deadliest hotel fire in U.S.history. But, of course those are one in a thousand.

As we casually rolled toward no big deal a radio update caused ears to prick. "Truck 9, be advised, P.R.called back and reports that there is smoke coming from the chimney." In January, even in Las Vegas it gets plenty cold enough to warrant a fire in the place on occasion so that update really wouldn't mean much - in January. But in July... The kid in my usual partner's seat was 24-year-old Craig Cooper a three-year rookie. I made a move for my helmet and mask indicating that it was showtime. This was going to be that one in a thousand. Thirty seconds later we were in front of the house.

It took no scrutiny to ascertain that we had a working fire in progress. Dirty brown smoke curled from the chimney and the eves of the single story slab home. Ray got the full dispatch rolling while Craig and I stepped off runnin' and gunnin'. As we grabbed hose and tools, Captain Bogle barked,
" I want a running blower at the door before anyone goes in." It gets a little iffy when there's no one around to tell you how long it's been burning. A flashover is a very real possibility and although rare, a true backdraft on entry, could cause major casualties. While Barry Stevens, our ship-in Engineer did his cab work and handled the blower assignment, Craig pulled the line and I grabbed a couple of pike poles, a Haligan and an axe. Ray made a quick recon loop around the house, knocked out the utilities, made sure we had a rear egress and met us back at the front door.

We were set. Hose and anchor to the door, flaked out charged and bled, a huge blower fired up and moving air, lots of air, positioned at the front door, all tools handy and two coiled firefighters ready for action. (Or so we thought)

It was the moment of truth. We anticipated a forceable entry but all it took was a twist of the knob and the door swung open into that same murky brown smoke. Not the churning black, ultra dense, ten degrees cooler than fire kind of smoke, but a weird dirty looking crap that still reduced your sight to near blindness. No blast of fire, no rolling crest of orange. Just a patient looking wall of thick mud-colored smoke. "Let's kick some ass," I said. We stepped into the entryway and began our advance.

I am a fanatic about staying low in a fire. I may be as bad about seatbelts but probably not. Get down! Get down! Get down! Any rookies will testify to that. It surprises me that I even have to mention it to them. Ask Cal Henry (he still has the scars). On one of his first fires Lionel Newby dropped a little quicker and avoided them but now he knows what I mean by "low". The point being I was nearly standing up as we moved through the house. Me, the king of the low crawl. As thick as the smoke was, it was not superheated. Maybe a clue I should have noticed.

We moved deeper. I almost toppled ass over teakettle due to the eight-inch drop into a family room. Where is the goddamned fire? Nearly 40 feet back there was still no trace of the seat of the fire. Sunlight tried to penetrate the smoke through a rear window but made it maybe a foot or two. I was getting concerned about how deep we were. If it all suddenly cooked off we would have no chance of getting out without serious injury if at all. My suggestion was to head back toward the front door and try the hallway to the left (now on our right), as it probably would lead to the bedrooms. And it would put us closer to a known exit. We made a loop and backtracked. Where is the fire?

Just as we reached the hallway, Coop and I noticed the old familiar glow to our right. What I could see of it was at floor level and that seemed a little unusual but I figured I was seeing fire through the lower part of a doorway. My first thought was that a fire had started in a pantry or closet and was just now burning through. We were positioning ourselves to better direct a stream when Coop turned to me and said something that stopped me in my tracks. It was a phrase that for days afterward would just pop into my head and the next moments' events would replay like a tape loop. "IT'S UNDERNEATH US!"

It did not compute. How can a fire be underneath a concrete slab? Just slightly less than 20 years of wading into similar fires and I can count on two fingers the times I have even encountered a basement. It would be like telling a firefighter in Siberia to watch out for the swamp cooler. I cocked my head like a curious dog and repeated Coop's words in question form, "underneath us?" In the split second between those words and my understanding of what he meant, the world dropped from beneath our feet.

Firefighter Craig Cooper was gone. He seemed to have been snatched into an underground den of nothing but fire and smoke. In my mind the suddenness of it still seems exaggerated. There was no spongy feeling, no sagging or tilting. No clues, no warning. It was a high-speed express elevator straight to oblivion. But for less than a foot of distance we both would have gone down. When Craig took out the first five stairs there was nothing to stop me from doing down too. Except the railing. With a desperate stab I reached out and caught the section of railing that ran from the front door to the top of the stairs. It was reflex. The smoke was still too thick to see anything. It was reflex and luck. It was one of those forever moments. I quickly got my other hand on the flimsy railing. I pulled myself back up to floor level and looked down in disbelief. He was gone. Craig had just become another heartbreaking statistic. Another LODD. (Line Of Duty Death) God, no! This can't be happening. But he was gone. There was only the pulsing black-orange mass of a Hell-born creature… feeding.

I started to reach for my radio since I would have to be the one to call a May Day. But the blower in the doorway was much too loud and besides our Captain was only a short distance away. So I bolted for the door. When I broke into the daylight Ray was holding his radio to his ear completely unaware of what had just happened. If we had both fallen through the floor long minutes would have gone by before the he would have known anything was wrong. As far as Ray knew we were simply on a routine house fire and would shortly announce a knockdown.

There's no way I could sound normal. Yelling and running I approached Ray shouting, "He fell through a hole. Coop just dropped through the floor! Jesus Christ, he fell through the stairs!" Now Ray did the curious dog thing. "What? What hole?" I knew that, like myself, he was hit broadside by the fact that this was not your typical Las Vegas house. In Vegas you just don't think basements. (Note: I sure as hell do now, however.) Even Captain Bogle, a seventeen-year veteran fire captain had missed it. I blurted out, "It's a basement fire! Coop fell into a basement fire!"

According to our Battalion Chief, Kenny Ong, it was at this point that Ray's voice went up an octave as he asked for an ETA on the dispatch he had requested earlier and announced that he had a firefighter down. Having delivered the message and still being the only other suited up firefighter on the scene I ran back inside hoping and praying as I ran.

Although less than a minute had gone by it seemed like ten. I crawled to the edge of the hole making sure the remaining floor was strong enough to support me. The blower had moved enough of the smoke that I could see a little deeper into the dark, glowing opening. My heart was beating so hard my eyes felt bloodshot. What was Coop going through? By myself with no special gear there simply wasn't much I could do. In a way I felt like I should be down there with him but jumping in was not an option. Looking over the edge something caught my eye. It was a light, his helmet light. It moved from side to side and as much as I fought it the thought came to me that I was seeing him writhing in horrible dying side-to-side agony. For a very brief moment I thought, please God. Don't let him suffer. Take him now. Let him die now! Hurry. As awful as it sounds those really were pleas for mercy. So this is what it feels like to lose your partner.

A thousand thoughts fought each other. Son-of-a-bitch, there was no warning!
This can't be real. I'm glad I didn't know him better. I've seen men die. I've watched the last bubbling breath from the lips of a gunshot victim. I've heard the rattling in the chest of a CHF patient as they rattled off into eternity. I held my brother's hand as he finally exhaled for the last time. My mother and I pressed our hands to his chest until we could no longer feel his heart beat. Death isn't new to a firefighter of twenty years. But the death of a partner…? A thousand thoughts. This can't be real. God help me, I'm glad it's not me down there. What did we do wrong? Why didn't we notice there was a basement? What will we tell his family? This can't be real. Where is everybody else? God, take him now. It's underneath us! IT'S UNDERNEATH US!

Then a burst pipe squirted water across my mask. It pushed my head back. Damn! That's a heavy stream of water. It moved away for no reason at all and then came back and hit me again. Some part of my mind was so convinced that Coop was gone that I was ignoring the evidence. The third blast across my mask and all of the defenses were taken with it. Burst pipe my foot!! It was Coop. Coop's light was movin' because Coop was movin' and Coop was movin' because he was fightin' the freakin' demon!! The fire fightin' fool had the nozzle and was ten feet below me kickin' the fire's ass.

I slid further along so I could be extra sure. By God he was down there all right, sure as the Pope wears a big hat. He was down there, alive and fightin' that bitchin' widow-maker fire for all he was worth!! Good Lord I could have kissed the son-of-a-gun!! (not on the lips) I was glad I was crawling cause my knees felt too weak to hold me up. Man, I don't need this shit. My nerves can't take it. Sitting back on my heels I just hung my head and consciously slowed my breathing. The adrenaline drained from my pores and I grinned a weak smile as another jet of water shot out of the hole.

Just then, the units from the full dispatch arrived. Engine 42, Engine 9, Rescue 9, Battalion 4, Rehab 1, and our PIO arrived almost simultaneously. I had to know how Craig was so I decided to join him down below.

The blower had moved a lot of smoke and I could now see that the remaining two-thirds of the stairway were good to go and visibility below that was acceptable. To be as sure as I could I checked them with a pike pole and decided that it was solid enough. I leaped from sitting on the floor with my legs dangling into the breach and dropped perfectly on the landing. Coop hadn't heard me because he was a little startled when I tapped his shoulder.

"Damn," he said, looking none the less for wear. He was tossing some furniture and hitting spot fires. He looks at me and asks, "Where did you come from?" Where did I come from? Now there was a true Yuk. I, my good man, just jumped over the hole you created and risked life and limb just to make sure you weren't an illusion. In fact I was here all along. You, on the other hand, were roasted alive and died a ghastly, hideous, gyrating death while my life flashed in front of my eyes. You had an unfair advantage in the game of freak-out. You knew you were alive. I knew you were dead. But rather than get into all of that, I just said, "After you checked it out and made sure it was safe, I just figured you could use a little help. By the way, you've still got a little fire in the magazine rack under the table."

Within minutes there were another ten guys in the basement bumping into each other, and just checking out the scene of the almost tragedy. Amazing how fast news like that travels. We climbed out on a 14-foot ladder and immediately three or four guys jumped on us like an Indy pit crew and stripped off out gear. I was a little pink but Craig was lobster pink. Our "pit crew" threw cool, wet towels on the back of our necks and handed us bottles of water. I gave Coop a, "glad you're alive, but man don't you ever scare the poo out of me like that again" hug. It was when he lifted his arms to return the hug, that myself and the six or seven guys next to us saw the waxy looking flesh hanging from both of his wrists. Brother Craig had taken a pretty good shot of heat and not so much as a whimper. The medics wrapped him up and within a few minutes he was kicked back on the bed in Rescue 9 and on his way to University Medical Center.

I guess it's just human nature to analyze, and re-analyze and re-analyze again. For a long time I played it over and over wondering what I could have or should have done differently. If Craig hadn't made it, rational thinking would have been slow in returning. It didn't take much to imagine how I would have been merciless on myself, right or not. And tragedy was so close. I could see all of the possibilities. If he had snagged a nail or wire on the way down and become inverted. Landing on the back of his head from nine or ten feet could easily have knocked him out cold or jarred his mask off. Probably not survivable. Or landed on something that tipped or flipped losing the line. Or not having it when he went through. Not survivable. I never knew there could be so many voices and images in my head at once.

We were at the scene for another hour and a half; overhauling and helping a family member secure the property. A few times when I found myself close to the same spot, as I was when Craig dropped through I heard an echo of his voice saying, "It's underneath us." It wasn't the last time. For days and for no apparent reason I would hear those words again and a QuickTime movie would play in my head. That helpless feeling of loss would rise again like bile as if to remind me that life is fleeting. It's been months now and I finally stopped hearing that voice.

The sun was getting low and as we broke up the party and headed back to our respective stations I looked back at the house that had come so close to being the one. For some reason, I wanted to keep some part of that moment. Not the pain, not the sadness or the sheer terror. I think I wanted to keep the humility. I set the timer on my camera and took a photo of one badly shaken, been to the bottom of the well, firefighter.

When you roll up on a fully involved gasoline tanker, or flames blowing out of the fourth floor of an old, wood apartment building, or the eightieth floor of a high-rise, you know you could get hurt or killed. But when a single story, nothin' shakin', nickle-dime do it all the time, house fire comes within a hair's breadth of taking the lives of two firefighters it will make you humble. And that's the kind of humility that will keep you alive.

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The Origin of "Guardians"

Moment of Truth

Faith, like so many other things in life, means different things to different people. It ultimately depends, I suppose, on our experiences and philosophies. So I can only speak for myself about that often-elusive notion called faith.

It seems that most of the time the word, "trust" can be used in its place and the meaning's the same. I have faith in the abilities of my captain and crew. I trust them to be there when the goin' gets tough. When I'm in a burning building wondering how much more the soles of my boots can take and I hear chain saws overhead, I have faith that my brothers will get the job done and that we'll all go home to our families.

But faith meant something very different in Las Vegas in the spring of 1992. It was the second day of the Rodney King riots and in an attempt to mimic Los Angeles mobs, groups of troublemakers were on an arson rampage. The call came in at 01:42.

"This call is for Engine 1, Engine 10, Truck 1, Squad 1, Rescue 1, Battalion Chief 1, Rescue 3, Engine 3, Engine 30…Fire in a building." It was a bizarre sounding dispatch. Normally, there are three engines and one rescue on a single story structure fire. But because of the fact that there were already reports of previous fires in the area and shots being randomly fired the assigned units were subject to change. We were in the "Civil Unrest" mode and as such were rolling in a "Task Force Group." In this case we had an additional engine, rescue, and a fully manned squad. Four police escorts, two fore and two aft of the rolling battlegroup provided armed guard. All of the huge doors at Central Station opened and 44 men surged into a night that would soon change our lives.

We approached in the stealth mode… no lights, no sirens. There were abandoned, gutted cars everywhere. The streets were strewn with broken glass and debris. As we made the turn onto E. Owens I could see the squad cars leading the pack. In each of the forward units all three passenger doors were peeled back revealing the most heavily armed officers, outside of Special Weapons And Tactics teams, that I've ever seen. Surreal. There is no other word for it. And as we neared the "Out Of Bounds Lounge" the equipment flickered with the bright, dancing orange of a rapidly advancing fire. We came around the final corner bringing the blaze into full view. The Shotguns and automatic rifles protruding from the patrol cars were silhouetted by the glow looking like the masts of bizarre four-man gunboats. From somewhere across the street two shots cracked the night. We wouldn't be issued our Kevlar vests until the next day and as I heard several more random shots ring out I felt extremely vulnerable.

Engine 10, one of the true workhorses of the Las Vegas Fire Dept., had been my assigned unit for just over a year at that time. With the addition of extra engines and rescues, callbacks were made to augment the manpower. One of the callbacks was firefighter Jerry Jones. Jerry was a national champion rodeo cowboy 6'4" and tough as nails. It was his destiny to be in the jumpseat next to me on that fateful night completely unaware that the next time E-10 rolled out it would be returning without him.

The Station 3 units had beat us in by two minutes and by the time we were positioned, they had charged lines at the front door and were making entry. Our initial assignment was to assist Engine 3 and Engine 30. Jerry and I proceeded to the crew and were instructed to begin a primary life search. Once away from the main blaze visibility cleared up to about five feet and we could see that we were in the bar area of a bar/restaurant. As we groped on our hands and knees we proceeded around the perimeter of the area and inadvertently put ourselves in line with the hose streams of the fire attack team. A squall of water, steam, fire and debris ripped through a doorway leading to the main fire area. We both dove to get out of the direct blast. I went one way, Jerry went the other. That's all it took. We were separated.

It's always amazed me how something like a restaurant or even a residence can turn into a monstrous maze of obstacles, twists and turns, tunnels and caves. After the fire you look at where you were and it looks so benign. How could I have been lost in this room, you wonder. Or, how could we have gotten turned around? But there we were, lost, turned around and separated. The buddy system was shot to hell. There was no line to follow out, air was running low and an ominous, creaking sound rolled overhead.

Outside, the chief officers were listening to the rage of an angry neighborhood. Engineers manned the panels wondering if someone was lining them up in their sights. The police in a semicircle formed a gauntlet of protection in the front of the building, staring into the glowing night. They were endangering their lives so that we could endanger our lives in an attempt to save someone's business. As it turned out, a business someone intentionally set ablaze.

During the riots many unscrupulous businessmen saw the unrest as an opportunity to collect an insurance check. Many of the fires allegedly set by "rampaging rioters" were actually set by cold, calculating, "respectable" business owners. The very people whose property we were trying to rescue may have been the ones who started the blaze. Of course, the primary concern is life and the theory is that we enter these buildings to search for "life". But the fact is that many firefighters' lives are lost because we don't want to lose a building. In the case of the "Out of Bounds" fire we will never know. But there was strong evidence that someone weakened the structural supports of the roof. Someone, some heartless, murderous son-of-a-bitch was responsible for the catastrophe that was only moments away.

I kept one hand on the wall and crawled in the direction that I was sure was toward the rear of the building and away from the main fire. Actually, I was crawling parallel to the front of the building, not toward but not away from the fire either. Then I heard the yelling. The shouting was confused but I did make out, "Get out… everybody get out! The roof's coming down!" This was relayed information from Truck 3 Captain Bill McCandless. Bill had been under a previous collapse himself so when he saw the sickening sagging and all of the telltale signs of eminent failure he called "emergency traffic" and radioed the words, "Abandon the building, we have structure failure. Abandon the building!" He then flew down he ladder and repeatedly sounded the alarm to get everybody out. I owe ya one, Bill.

I stayed as low as I could but got up on my feet to make better time. That's when I heard a sound that made my skin crawl. It was the splitting report that thunder makes before the boom. There were three or four quick cracking shots and then the sky fell. With an ear-splitting, tearing sound tons of timbers, bracing, roofing and ceiling as well as car-sized air conditioning and heating units, ductwork, conduits and wiring became a tomb. Not with a sudden slam but with an irresistible push the mass from above collapsed my knees and the hazy light that had been around me was gone. When the crush subsided there was still some popping and creaking, but it soon stopped and all was quiet … and dark.

By the grace of God neither lasted long. I soon heard muffled shouts and reaching up I realized that my helmet light had simply been knocked back out of position. I located the handlamp that I had dropped and was soon able to size up my situation. I found myself in a long lean-to tunnel formed by the length of the bar and the ten-foot deep pile of rubble. Shining my light directly ahead I saw the feet of another firefighter crawling the length of the bar and out of sight. I thought it was Jerry and I breathed a sigh of relief that he had gotten out. I was about to crawl out myself when I realized that although much of the building was flat on the floor some of it was stopped just short of it by tables, chairs, and other furniture. The entire room other than my "bar tunnel" was maybe 12" to 18" tall and I could see back under it approximately 15 feet. I remember thinking that there wasn't enough room for a person under there, especially a big person such as Jerry.

As I shined my light into the dense tangle my heart stopped. I could see the top of Jerry's helmet and part of a gloved hand outstretched as he lay on his side under the weight of a building. I could hear muffled sounds as I crawled toward him. He was alive, but for how long, I wondered. He had to be just crushed. As I approached him I heard him yelling, (trying to, anyway. he couldn't get enough air in his lungs to really yell) "Help! Help me, please." Of course we all have a tough time of it when children are injured but to see this bull of a man laid so low and helpless and to hear his plea for help when right at that moment there was nothing I could do tore at my chest no less than any of the heartbreaking child calls I've been on.

I called out, "Jerry, Jerry are you alight?"

"Who's there? Who is that? Albaitis, is that you? Help me. I can't move. Get me out. Please help me."

I can't tell you what that felt like.

"Yeah, Jerry. It's me. Albaitis."

I gave a moment's thought to staying with him until someone found us but dismissed it. There was no telling what was going on outside. These were the days when only the captains had radios. I needed to report the situation and get something to work with.

"Jerry, I have to leave. I can't do anything without tools. I'll be right back, I promise."

"Is the fire out," he barely controlled the panic. I felt it too. From where I was there was still a glow but I couldn't tell for sure.

"Yes, Jerry, it's out."

Since I had to leave him crushed and trapped the last thing he needed was the thought that he was going to be burned alive.

"Don't worry Jerry. They've got it. It's out."

Please let it be out. God, please let it be out.

I wasn't real sure that I could get out but I knew I couldn't do any good unless I tried. My bottle got hung up twice as I crawled in reverse but I backed out to where I could at least get on my knees. From there I could turn around and in a few minutes made it to a rear door and out.

When I rounded the building panic was everywhere. Bill McCandless who knew better than anyone what the crews were going through was furious. In his mind the message took too long to get to the men and he was enraged. Everyone was in a confused freaked out state of mind. Chain saws were starting. Bull bags were being positioned. The disciplined structure of RIT was years away at this point. It was barely controlled hysteria. From the front it didn't look like anyone could have survived the collapse. To this day the people who weren't there refer to Jerry being crushed by an air conditioner that come down. It was much, much more than an air conditioner. Three quarters of the whole damned place had come down on us. It really looked fatal. Between the fire, smoke, the dozens of officers, and the screaming frenzied chopping and tearing at the wall of rubble that had been a building the scene was from a firefighter's nightmare.

I tried in vain to get the attention of a couple of the captains but there was so much shouting and arguing that everyone had the "best" plan that I gave up and decide to crawl back to Jerry.

In front of Fire Station #3 is a most unique sculpture. It appears to be a giant fire hose frozen in a jumbled configuration that, at a glance appears abstract. But as the viewer moves around the composition it finally falls into place as the hose, in three, large connected letters spells, "Art". Not bad. Engineer John Banks is the artist who bent, welded, and painted many feet of heavy pipe to create the illusion. It was John Banks who handed me two heavy-duty hydraulic jacks. No illusion. A friend of ours was still inside a collapsed, burning building, and as I turned to make my way to the back door and retrace my route back to Jerry, two more shots rang out. No illusion, but it didn't seem real either.

With the jacks at least I could take some of the weight off of him. I grabbed another air bottle and headed for the back. The rear side of the structure was still about 50% intact. The doorway I had come through almost looked undamaged. It was considerably quieter in back. Most of the shouting was muffled. The Squad had set up an array of lights in the front of the building. In combination with the haze of the smoke, it created an eerie "Close Encounters" looking glow above the silhouette of the building I was about to enter. Spooky as hell.

I knew it was freelancing. Everything was wrong with the whole scenario. But I felt as though I had no choice. I didn't know when the effort would become organized. I didn't know how much longer the remaining roof would stay up. I didn't know a lot of things. I did know that a fellow firefighter, a friend and my partner was trapped inside and his air was running low. I was alone and scared shitless but I was going back in. Freelancing or not, wrong or not, there wasn't time to be right. Just before stepping through the door I paused and leaned against the wall and said a quick prayer. "God, please let Jerry live. Just let him live." I turned to go in and looked up at the strange sky and added, "Oh yeah… me too".

The first few yards were easy, if you call going back into the lion's den easy. I only had to think of how hard it was for Jerry and what I was doing didn't seem so tough. Just as I dropped to my knees to begin the crawl into the worst of it something groaned. A low sound that built to a grind was topped off by a terribly loud crack. The timbers above me dropped several inches and I lost it. I swear I had to stifle a scream. It took all I had to keep from bolting. The space wasn't more than two feet in height. I was reminded of basic training and the low crawl that we were taught. It's amazing how low you can get with machine gun fire over your head. The difference was that then you could roll over on your back and at least look at the sky. No sky here, only a long sagging, creaking, burning coffin. What the hell am I doing here? Just then Jerry called out.

At a fire in a building few years previous Frank Munoz, my partner at the time, and myself were assigned to cut a ventilation hole in the roof of a new bank. A vagrant had accidentally set fire to his "condo" in the attic of a strip mall bank. It was summertime and over 110 degrees. By the time the hole was cut we were both spent. But what really added insult to injury was looking through our textbook 4'x4' vertical ventilation hole and seeing another crew walking around in the guy's quarters. Seems they had found the door that the vagrant used and simply walked in. Frank and I don't talk about that much.

Well, this was kinda like that. As I low crawled to Jerry I realized that he was moving away from me. You guessed it. Someone had found another way to reach to him and was getting him to his knees in an area of the building that wasn't flattened. Damn! As he tried to stand he casually informed us that his legs were broken. He leaned on Andy Anderson, the genius who found another way in and me. We bore most of his weight as he repeated over and over," Get me out of here, guys. Please, just get me out." After about the fifth time I said, "Jerry, look up. It's the sky, man. We're out. You're safe."

We all looked up at the sky and it was the most beautiful thing we'd ever seen. The lights of downtown Las Vegas melded with the fire and smoke of a neighborhood under siege and it was beautiful. As the three of us breathed in a deep, free breath my thought at that moment was that someone is looking out for us. There are guardian angels up there. By rights, at least three of us should have lost our lives that night. I didn't realize it at that moment but part of the inspiration for a future painting had just taken place. Nearly five years would pass before a suggestion by firefighter Sheri-Lee-Bass would recall that feeling and the images from that night would coalesce into the concept that became the painting, Guardians. Funny how things happen sometimes.

The warm fuzzy feeling abruptly ended as four shots rang out and I remembered that there was a bit of civil unrest about. The action was in the front of the building where the apparatus and chiefs were. We were in the back so I felt a little safer. By then half a dozen firefighters had come to the back and a rescue unit had been sent around. By the time we had Jerry's gear off and quickly splinted both legs it was time to exit stage left.

The only other firefighter to sustain injuries was Russ Hubbs, the guy I saw crawling out ahead of me. He had taken a pretty good blow to the head and was going in for x-rays. Rescue 3 left with Jerry and Russ while the rest of us made it around to the front of the building just in time to hear two distinct and attention-getting sounds. The first was the staccato clack of no less than 30 rounds from a high-powered assault rifle. The second sound was the amplified police order to abandon all lines and get the hell out. No one had to hear it twice. I literally dove into the back of Engine 10 while putting on the headset to let Bobby Baxter, our engineer, know that I was in the rig. Quite unnecessary. When I opened my eyes I realized that we were leaving the scene at a high rate of speed. The Chief was so close to our bumper that the slightest deceleration would have put him into our hosebed. That departure was mimicked across the fireground. Engines, truck companies, rescues units, squads and chief officers blasted out of that "hood" like the devil himself was in pursuit. As we pulled onto the freeway and made the wide loop back to the station I could see the glow of the Out of Bounds Lounge. The fire regained its rage and the would-be death trap crumbled in a plume of red-orange and black.

It was a long night. Back at the station we regrouped and before long we were out again on other fires. We checked on the guys throughout the night. Morning finally came and we were replaced by the oncoming shift. Russ was released with a minor concussion. Jerry returned to the floor after more than a year and a half of convalescence and rehab. He would retire seven years later. Everyone came away a little wiser, a little more mortal feeling. We joked about the bullet indentation on the bumper of Engine 10 and had another hair-raising episode to add to our war stories.

But something happened to me that night in 1992. I found a faith in something bigger than our day-to-day lives. Death had been a shot away and somehow we all went home to our families. A belief was forming and although it was vague and uncertain it had to do with the feeling that we had not just been spared but rescued somehow. It was as though we had unseen help. Hard to explain really. More of a feeling than anything.

As I mentioned, it all came together five years later in 1997 during a gallery showing of my first published piece, Return To Glory. I was approached by fellow firefighter Sherri-Lee Bass (Her maiden name is Lee and that's the name on her helmet in Guardians ). She described her vision for a future FireArt painting. "How about this," she started. As she laid out the details it began to feel familiar. When she said, "… and up in the sky are the old firemen", I was hit with a flashback that brought me to June 30, 1992. In an instant I was there again. The gallery suddenly smelled of smoke and I felt hot and sticky. It wasn't totally unpleasant just unexpected. And, closing my eyes, I remembered. In startling, extreme detail I could "see" myself, Jerry and Andy. The rear doorway leading from the Out Of Bounds Lounge was vivid and I could see the smoky desert outside as well as the lights of Las Vegas. Involuntarily I turned my head up and I remembered… that sky, that rescued feeling and the Guardians who I know were there.

I said, "Yeah Sheri. I think I can do something with that idea." Six months later Guardians was finished. On July 28th, 1999 I appeared at the opening ceremony for a new courtyard at the training center for the San Diego Fire Department. Guardians was chosen to be laser-etched into a granite monument, the centerpiece at the base of the colors around which special events, formal ceremonies and graduation exercises would take place. A year later the last lithograph was sold and Guardians became the first FireArt piece to sell out.

I've come to believe that Guardians have watched over me my entire life. Although I didn't know it then their work with me was far from over. It was a bit of a surprise how soon they would again be needed, but that's another story.

The fact is I'm not anyone special. We all have guardians looking out for us. Somehow it's all part of the plan. I can't explain it, I just know that it's all about faith.

It always has been.

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The bay doors at Las Vegas' Central Fire Station rolled up like hanger doors. Although we didn’t know it, the doors on that day were nearly those to eternity.

It looked like a Hollywood fire stunt. A cloud of fire laden smoke nearly blacked out the sun and darkened the several blocks from Station One to Haycock Distributing, a major distribution point for area filling stations. Not a place you want to see on fire. Bad juju.

Only twice in my fire/rescue career have I actually experienced an overwhelming sense of foreboding. The other was the MGM Grand fire in 1981. Looking at the towering pinnacle of fire I felt true dread. But, as so many of us know, that’s when you suck it up and like the ad says, “Just do it.” My attention turned to the two rookies with me and as we closed on the roaring blaze I put the bad feeling away somewhere and checked over our gear knowing we were going into some real shit. Rookies Eric Thomason and Jack Schlaff were my partners that day and in spite of the fact that I had almost eight years under my belt I still felt like it was a case of the blind leading the blind. There was just too goddamned much fire.

For years we had to endure the minute or two of getting off the rig, opening a compartment door and donning an air pack while people screamed at us. This was much mo bettah. In the short time we had to ride the few blocks we were geared up. Engine 10, an enclosed cab Pierce, allowed for us to step off the rig ready for a fight… but not ready for what I saw. We opened the captain’s side door and found ourselves less than 50 feet from this widowmaker firestorm. What in the hell were those guys thinking? It looked like the “DON’T” example in any book of tactics and strategies concerning tanker fires. When they blow they blow at the welded seams. These seams are around the circular front and back of the tank. We were perfectly lined up behind a raging gasoline tanker fire looking directly at the end of the rig. It was the worst place we could have been. The feeling of dread washed over me like a hot wind.

In seconds we were pulling off a couple of hundred feet of 2 1/2” line. Even though we were close I wanted a lot of line just in case our engineer got his mind back and moved the unit to a sane location. It never happened. We flaked out a shit-load of hose and positioned ourselves to the side of the time bomb thinking all the while, this is bad. This is bad. We’re in a tight spot.

The tanker was one thing but the exposure danger was supreme. Within spitting distance of the dock there were several 25,000 gallon above ground fuel storage tanks. Pipes, and valves were everywhere, and directly beneath us were several 25K underground tanks making the area a monster bomb ready to rock. We were in a real tight spot.

I-15 passes over Bonanza Rd. right at Haycock Distributing. I’m sure it was an interesting view from above. At least a dozen vehicles had pulled off to watch the fight. Onlookers were lined up like sparrows on a telephone line. Although the churning cloud of fire I’m sure was a sight to see, I got the feeling that they were waiting for more action. They didn’t have to wait long.

I’ve never considered myself to be faint of heart. I certainly have backed away from a few and once told a captain to kiss my ass when he tried to get me to cut a hole in a sagging, creaking roof. (As he was telling me my career was over for refusing an order, it collapsed.) I’ve even heard it said, “Ya got balls, Albaitis. Not much sense, but balls.” There’s no doubt in my mind that the Haycock fire marked the beginning of a change of heart for me. Maybe I got smarter that day.

I was starting to realize that we were far too close for the magnitude of that blaze. We had just opened the nozzle when I glanced back and saw a press photographer about fifty feet behind us clicking off shots like crazy. As it turned out, one of those shots was the front page of the Las Vegas Review Journal. Turning again to the fire I was about to open my mouth to tell Thomason and Schlaff that we should move our line back when it happened.

There was no warning. No time for a "This Is Your Life" flashback. Not even time for an, "Oh, shit!!!" There was only a tremendous shock and a sound so loud it was off the scale. Like a dog whistle that is so high pitched that it is almost beyond hearing, this was so loud that it nearly couldn’t be heard. But it sure as hell could be felt. A mind banging concussion slammed into us and we were hammered through the air skidding across the pavement for almost twenty feet. Not a Guinness record but a record in this fireman’s book. The next thing I was aware of was that we had survived a substantial gasoline tanker explosion. Afterwards, the driver said that the compartment that blew was a small one. Only 500 gallons. We had been jacked up by the equivalent of ten 50 gallon drums of gasoline popping off at the same time.

Chaos was running the show. In the distance I heard shouting. Jerry Douzat was the E-10 Captain that day. He was screaming at our rescue guys. “We got three men down. Get in there and get them, goddamnit.” At the time I didn’t understand that he was talking about us. Like I said it was a real loud noise. Glancing up at the Interstate I realized that the crowd of passersby was gone. Just gone. Out of the corner of my eye I caught the unattended nozzle starting to rise from the pressure and threatening to turn the hose into a lethal whip. At the same time Erik and I dove for it and shut it down to a manageable flow. It took a few seconds to take in what was happening. There was a mass exodus taking place. All I could see was the backsides of firefighters and civilians! What had been a scene of aggressive firefighting was now a confused tangle of people beatin’ feet as if Lucifer himself had just reared his head. We’re talkin’ a serious about-face! I’m not mentioning names but someone on the deck gun of Engine 10 was determined to pass firefighter Mo Higgins as she climbed down and stepped directly on her head while beatin’ a hasty retreat off the top of the rig. If I hadn’t just had the livin’ shit scared out of me it would have been funny.

In a matter of maybe thirty seconds Jack, Erik and myself were the only firefighters in my field of vision. Erik looked at me with eyes probably as wide as my own were and asked, "Should we run?" Oddly, it was the same question I was asking myself. I looked back at the south side of the property where another crew had been getting set up on a foam line. Foam is the only way to put out a gasoline fire. Son-of-a-bitch! They had regrouped and were getting ready to wade back in. My thoughts were all over the place but one thing stuck in my mind. By holding our position we were somewhat buying time for the rest of the guys. Although there was no effective extinguishment from our line it had to offer an amount of cooling and, hopefully hold off a potential large scale detonation. Could I live with being the cause of the death or injury of fellow firefighters if I bolted just because of a little explosion? Maybe I didn’t give it enough thought. Or maybe I gave it too much. I figured that there hadn’t been enough time to heat up a full tank of gas enough. But what if it wasn’t full. What if… My answer was, no. I couldn’t live with it. I reached for the line, looked at Jack and Erik and yelled, ”We don’t get paid to run. Hold your ground. Let’s put this bastard out.”

I have since mentioned this to those rookies (now veteran firefighters) and they both tell me they thought I was crazier than hell. They were probably right. If you look at the photo from the front page of the RJ you will be able to make out the front wheel of the truck just to the right of Erik’s air bottle. Using that as a scale I put the distance between us and the tanker at just over thirty feet. Thirty feet from a fully involved gasoline tanker that had just boiled 500 gallons of petrol and knocked our wicks in the dirt. Crazy? Oh yeah, I’d say so. And in this case, also very lucky.

Little note here: Since I’ve been asked by no less than 50 of the guys and gals on our department the answer is no! I did not soil my bunker pants and unless they are lying to me neither did Jack nor Erik. Actually, it was quite the contrary. As my old Gramps used to say, “He was so scared you couldn’t pull a banjo string out of his butt with a D9 Caterpillar Tractor.” I wasn’t that scared. I think a 9400 John Deere would have worked just fine.

It wasn’t until the foam hit it that the tanker fire actually started to go out. What a welcome sight! We also moved our line in closer and our Battalion Chief soon announced a knockdown. I think that is when I finally breathed again. That was also when I realized that I wasn’t nearly as secure in my decision to stand as I tried to appear. For a moment I truly thought I had gotten us killed. The foxhole prayers were flyin’. Maybe it wasn’t luck at all. Maybe it was my Guardians again. Whatever it was we were victorious and back in the days before a real Public Information Officer we didn’t mind braggin’ about it on camera. A local TV anchor cornered Erik and I and asked us what it felt like to be launched through the air.

An hour and a half later we were watching our answer on the 6 O’clock news back at Station 1. There was some pretty good video followed by a dramatic jolt at the moment of the explosion. Cut to: Two drenched with sweat firefighters with microphones stuck in their faces grinning like idiots. "Well, I tell ya," the older one pronounced. "For a minute I didn’t know if I’d live to see tomorrow. But that’s the way it is with this job. Ya never know." The guys were saying things like, "Right on, Albaitis,” and "Tell it like it is." But I knew. I knew that for all my bravado and phony rhetoric we had dodged a major bullet. One spinning piece of steel could have punctured an above ground tank and turned the complex into Hell itself. In a classic training video probably watched by every fire academy since 1973 a railcar explosion killed the entire 13 man Kingman, Arizona fire department and injured 95 others. I couldn’t help but think about that.

While the guys whooped and watched another channel’s coverage I walked outside. A warm wind from the west furled the flags in front of the station. I looked at the lights of downtown Las Vegas. The clock/thermometer on the top of the Mint read 6:18 and 71 degrees. A few blocks away Vegas Vic waved his huge arm and said, "Howdy, Podner."

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FireArt: A Dream Evolves

It's been a long and winding road from my first idea to create firefighter artwork over a decade ago, to now. However, my personal hard work is only a part of what it has taken to launch FireArt.

In 1994 I created the first FireArt piece, Pullbox (very soon to be made available again.) Actually, it was my final exam for an illustration class I was taking at the behest of Fire Engineer, Randy Marsh (also a climbing guide and excellent photog). In November of that year, I was asked if I had a piece that I could donate to the Festival of Trees and Lights, a Holiday season Downs Syndrome charity fund raiser. I matted and framed Pullbox. Several firefighters were present when I gave it to Pat McAllister, one of the coordinators of the event and the wife of Fire Captain Jim (Jaws) McAllister, an academy classmate. A few asked if it would be possible to get a copy of Pullbox. Chief Bill Whealan, another academy classmate, suggested that if I were to sign and number them he would also buy one. FireArt was born.

The beginning of FireArt was humble to be sure. There was only myself and then girlfriend, Isa. She believed in me probably more than I did. Her spirit and sense of prosperity (as well as her excellent bookkeeping) was an essential part of the project. I was working in my 500 sq. ft. apartment selling mostly to other guys on my department. Today, it has grown into a business which relies on the input and assistance of many others. From ad agencies, publishers, gallery owners, printers, suppliers, advertisers, software designers, attorneys and legal consultants, web designers, accountants and bookkeepers, to computer techs, public relations consultants, media liaisons, sales and distribution people, packaging and production personnel, ground & air freight companies and message/answering services as well as the brotherly help and support of my fellow firefighters and administrative personnel of Las Vegas Fire & Rescue, the list is long.

Special thanks also go out to retired Firefighter/Paramedic Larry Wrangham, Firefighter Frank Muñoz, retired Firefighter David Helton, Captain David Arenaz, Captain Mark Fleischmann, Captain Dean Fletcher, Captain Rusty McAllister, Captain Angelo Aragon, PIO Tim Szymanski, and Former LVFR Fire Chief Mario Treviño. I thank the officers and members of the LVFBA , the IAFF, former General President Al Whitehead and Local 1285 for believing in FireArt.

Without the thousands of people who now have my work hanging on their walls there would be no story to tell. I can’t express my degree of appreciation. My promise is to strive to make each new painting worthy of such honor. Hang in there folks. There are many more works to come.

Without the hard work of my immediate staff I would have orders strewn about like confetti, and prints would be falling out of every available door and window. Much thanks goes out to my brother-in-law and original Office Manager, Michael Ricigliano, who, in the early years, kept the insanity at a minimum and put out those “other” fires that, at times, had me on the threshold of a primal scream; my (now) wife, Isa January-Albaitis, who originally managed the FireArt database from the beginning (and has had to endure an obsessive/compulsive, manic/depressive, hyper-critic perfectionist in the throes of pentagenarian decline, depression and desperation); and the other FireArt crew members, which include and have included Melody Helmick, Diana Walthers, Summer Finch, Matt Schmitt, Andrew Lundin, Firefighter Dustin Skoff, Captain Mike Evans, Firefighter/Paramedic Carl Combado, Firefighter Kelly Doran, and true-believer Pete Pederson. I can’t omit our super-cool UPS driver, Joel Topping who has gone out of his way many times to make sure that the orders get out. If these folks can handle my elation/despair roller-coaster (artists can be like that) they can handle anything. Thanks, everybody. You’re the best.

Last but certainly not least of the mortal beings, my family has been there for never-ending moral support. To my father Alex, my mother Olga, my son Aris who has been updating the website, and again my wife Isa, thank you all. I couldn't have done it without you.

And, of course, I thank the Old Master Painter himself for all the blessings that have turned FireArt from a dream into a reality.

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FIRE FIGHTERS ARE WAY OVERRATED! After having received links to many of last year’s massive wild fire photos I ran into a quote by a motor mouth who had his back up about how great we all have it. In response, there were tons of irate comments from firefighters and from our friends and relatives. This is what the fury was about and I could damned well see why those feelings were being expressed:
259. FIRE FIGHTERS ARE WAY OVERRATED! I'm so sick of hearing them called "altruistic" and "angels." It's a JOB to them. They don't wake up every day with big, benevolent smiles, aching to protect your house and your car. They love what they do because it's FUN. They are boys who get paid very well to spend almost all their time to working out, playing cards, and cooking chili. They love to play with all the expensive toys that the government (we taxpayers) give them. Half of them would be arsonists if they didn't have an acceptable way to play with fire. They are not heroes. But they sure don't shy away from all the glory or girls bestowed upon them by you sentimental dummies. Hardly any of them die or get hurt. Posted by Dave B. November 21, 08 06:21 PM
When I first read it, I was livid. Beyond pissed, I wanted to choke this oxygen stealing microbe until his tongue unfurled like Bart Simpson's, and his eyes boiled out like Marty Feldman’s. It took a while but I calmed myself. (So calm, I would have settled for the Rodney Dangerfield degree of eyeball extrusion ) The fact was that I had been so furious with that comment that I had to examine myself and discover why I would have such an enraged (albeit internalized and relatively brief) response.		Personally I, like all of the firefighters I have worked with, met, or known through my FireArt contacts, appreciate those few and far between notes, calls or visits of appreciation from someone whose situation was made better because of what we do. But we all also know that praise and adoration couldn’t be any further from the reason we have made the choice to do what we do. (it’s common knowledge that it’s really for the occasional drop off of pies and cookies )
Yeah, when it all goes right, and we use our skills, training, guile, and teamwork to come out on top, it's a great feeling. Regardless of the type of call, when our mission is successful, when we see tears dry, when a family stops by the station with the grandfather that, without our intervention, they would not have had, we are being told that we are on track. We are doing the right thing, and who doesn't want to hear that. It's an affirmation that the horrific side of our job, images that will be with us until our dying day, the countless sleepless nights, and, literally the blood sweat and tears are worth it! It's been said that while many know what it takes to be a firefighter, very few know what it costs. We know. The truth is that, with very few exceptions, only we CAN know. Only those of us who have worn the badge, can really know the agonizingly helpless crush of losing a brother "soldier" in our unending war. Only we can feel the deep cut of failure when our best isn't enough and we watch the light from a child's pleading eyes flicker out. These are things that only we know, and that's okay. Because when the light doesn't go out but brightens and, sometimes right in front of our eyes, strengthens, focuses and becomes a beacon... we know with an unquestionable certainty that what we do is a good thing. This is the "preaching to the choir" cliche if ever there was one. We've all had those long stretches when you start wondering if you even want to keep doing it. You know, the codes that become... that become nothing and you second-guess if you should have even started CPR. Or the out of town family is advised that their home has been saved by firefighters. "Our Heroes", they say and four hours later you respond to a rekindle and complete devastation of their home and possessions. Yeah, when it all goes right, we might bask in the glow for a moment but it’s not about, "Ain't we cool". It's about finding our way again. To me it seemed that the compass needed recalibration. Just about when I wasn't sure if I could trust it... BAM! Along would come Bright Eyes or Grand Father and the old compass was readin' true again and I knew it would keep me on course for a time to come. It's a feeling that... well, you know. We know. We all know. Just when you were wondering why you were even bothering anymore. It's almost like hearing a voice saying, "Now, do you see"? Yes, I do. I know why I stayed with it for 30 years... Moreover, I know why Dave B.'s comment infuriated me to that degree. It was because he was wrong. Not just wrong but so, so far off the mark that I wanted to shake the hell out of him and scream, "You have no idea! You rude, contemptible son-of-a-bitch! You have no idea, goddamn it!! You couldn't rise to lick the boots of half of the caring, dedicated people I've worked with! Don't you get it?" But Dave B. doesn't get it. Dave B. will never know and that is what it is all about at the very most fundamental level. When it really hit me, I kind of felt sorry for him. Unless, he somehow is allowed a true look into what our profession entails, he will always be the guy embarrassing himself by talking loudly about something he doesn't even come close to understanding. I could be wrong but I get the feeling that Dave B. wouldn't be there for anyone but Dave B. Yet, to a man/woman every firefighter I've ever known would unquestioningly be there for him. Sleep well tonight Dave. We've got your back. Maybe someday he will understand the way we understand. Maybe he will "get" what it takes to wade against a tide of people running to escape Hell. Not to be heroes but to be there for someone in need. But of course that will be the day that he makes a lifetime commitment to work with and for his fellow man to make this world a better place. That will be the day that he pins on his own badge but somehow I don't think he's got what it takes. It takes caring. We all care for something, of course but I'm talking about a caring of the rarest kind. There is no explaining it in terms that can be understood by someone who doesn't possess it so it may be an exercise in futility. But, the quality that is essential is that we see others as part of ourselves and in those critical moments at a subconscious, primal level we are rescuing our own family members - the larger "family" of man. I don't think a sane person could risk his/her life for someone he or she doesn't know unless that quality, that rare caring is within them. Do not construe this as a platitude elevating those who would do such a thing to some angelic status. That's not at all what I am saying. We are all different and just as there are many things I wouldn't do (being a police officer comes to mind) the majority of people would not want our job, and that's a good thing. It's all good. So, now that I've calmed down a bit, sorry for ranting Dave. Maybe at the end of this day we can all be less judgmental as we deal with our differences. If each understands the other a little better we can get beyond what amounts to name-calling and the predictable backlash of resentment. Firefighter Allan Albaitis, Ret.

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Thoughts on the Worcester Memorial

As all of the world now knows, our family of firefighters suffered a tragic loss on the evening of Dec. 3, 1999. Six courageous, gallant men met their deaths doing what we all have chosen to do. We have followed our hearts and taken the path less traveled. It is the path of those of us who step to the front when duty calls and do so with a joyous and willing spirit. Although the loss is great and the sadness nearly overwhelming, there is a part of me that feels a boundless joy that there are such men and that I am, in every sense, one of them. This is my family and words can not express how proud I am of my brothers. God, how we will miss them.

While on duty on the morning of December 9, 1999 I watched the memorial services with other firefighters, captains, engineers and paramedics from my department, Las Vegas Fire & Rescue. Our training group was assembled and since I had already had the module I was able to sit with the station 8 crews and watch this incredible event.

As the dignitaries, clergy, and IAFF brothers spoke, as the choir sang, as the pipes played and as taps echoed through the tens of thousands of firefighters, a special feeling came over me. I found myself glancing around at other guys in the room, guys I've fought fire with. Some, nearly died with. Some I've known for over twenty years. The words of IAFF General President Whitehead lay on my heart as I looked outside at the gathered units. The war horses at rest,  Engine 30, Engine 3, Truck 3, Truck 7, Rescue 9, Rescue 8, my own Engine 2 and a few other rigs sparked a flash of mental images. In a playback montage I recalled the many blazes and rescues we've handled over the years. The feeling was and is a combination of pride and brotherhood. Not an arrogant pride of being better than but a fierce loving pride of being one of.

As vastly different as we all are, when the alarm comes in and we step into our boots we become one. Totally united in purpose and will, we connect with the best part of our humanity and, at a deep level, prepare to stand in harm's way to defend and protect our brethren. "Greater love hath no man than this, that he would lay down his life for his fellow man." I can't imagine a higher calling.

If Dec. 3 will always be a dark day of heavy heart, Dec. 9 will, to me, be a day of light. It is the day the world, for a brief moment, got to see an intimate view of the family of the professional firefighter. The entire world saw what we mean to each other and got to be uplifted, as was I, by the very thought that there are such souls among us.

Brothers Lucey, Spencer, Lyons, Jackson, Brotherton and McGuirk your ultimate sacrifices will never, never be forgotten. Well done, my brothers. Well done.

Firefighter  Allan Albaitis
LasVegas Fire & Rescue - IAFF local 1285.