"I Called A Mayday Today"

[x635 4,066]

Definitely an interesting read, and very, very good and well written, informative article.

By Barrett Dorner, Toledo (OH) Fire & Rescue Department

PDF Document: https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B2d_Use5WcrQMWNiN1B4QU5Db0E/view

December 28, 2015 Mayday

I called a mayday today. It was the second mayday I’ve heard on the job, and it was mine. The

first was the voice of my classmate, Jamie Dickman, on January 26, 2014. Sadly, that was the

last time any of us heard Jamie’s voice. We lost him and Stephen Machcinski at that fire. I share

my account to share what I and my crew learned in hopes that you can take something,

anything, away from it that will make you a better prepared firefighter. For those who aren’t

firefighters, I share it to give you a glimpse at a day in our shoes, where a slow, lazy day that

may make the taxpayers question why they’re even paying us can turn into a spine-chilling level

I woke up for the 0600 tones and, after an amazingly runless night on Medic 19, I excitedly

rolled back over for another half-hour of uninterrupted sleep. I was relieving at Engine 19’s

Company, the term we use for a two-piece, five-person crew here in Toledo; 2-person BLS

ambulance and a three-person engine. To get as much sleep as I did on this 24-hour shift was

nothing short of a holiday miracle. I almost felt guilty that we were so slow: one cancelled

regular alarm and two transports.

Around 0605, my phone buzzed alive with an alert from the PulsePoint app. As soon as a fire’s

entered into the computer in dispatch, before apparatus are assigned, it comes out over the

app. A quick glance: “3425 Stickney Ave., Toledo.” For a second, I thought my mind was playing

tricks on me, so I rolled back over. Engine 19 is on Stickney, right next to the Jeep plant. This

was our fire. And with that thought, my brain clicked and I sprung out of bed, sprinting to the

medic unit as the phone rang — the alert from dispatch, pre-station-tones — and Emily Montri

called out “Structure!” over the station PA.

With the exception of our lieutenant, the crew all came from the class of 2013. We’re all close

High Level of Suspicion

I turned to my driver, Adam Bevier, and read off the rig-mounted computer that police were on

scene — so “take a right turn and look for the blue lights.” We pulled past the story-and-a-half,

early 1900’s house, light smoke drifting from the eaves, and landed our rig in the parking lot of

I hopped out and threw my SCBA on, but my waist strap was tangled and I couldn’t quickly

solve that puzzle, so I tightened my shoulder straps, grabbed the irons and headed for the door.

I wasn’t going to fight with it and leave one guy on the nozzle by himself

.

I masked up as the engine pulled the line, and met Nick Smith at the enclosed porch. Our officer

gave his arrival report, and specifically mentioned that there was a basement while giving his

360, a fire-service term for walking around the entire house to get a full view of the building. As I

threw my gloves on before I forced the door, I turned to Nick and said something along the lines

of, “let’s consider this a basement fire until we know otherwise.” We tend to kill damn good

fireman going in above fire without knowing it. So much, it’s a frequent topic of discussion with

my brother and several close friends on the job. As a department, we’ve gotten much better at

avoiding this since January 26, 2014.

I forced the door and the fire was clearly right in front of us; stairs to the right, visibility perfect

with flames illuminating the whole living room and into the dining room. My level of suspicion

that this was a basement fire dropped upon seeing what appeared to be simply a couch or two

burning in a living room. This fit, in my mind, as an isolated contents fire.

Nick knocked it down, I gave the benchmarks to command, then the line went limp. I asked for

more pressure — not that there was any rush, but Nick later told me he didn’t want to advance

without a fully-charged line if we didn’t have to. Incredibly smart decision, especially with the

basement fire considerations.

The lieutenant of Rescue Squad 7 came in and asked to squeeze by to do a search; as we got

water, the ‘search’ stood out in my head as I noticed furniture and items on a coffee table meant

someone was probably living here. Instead of walking the straight line to the back right corner of

the room, I walked the Alpha (front) wall, turned at the Bravo (left-side) wall, clearing the area

quickly and expecting to soon be slamming my halligan into burned plaster to check for any

Instead, I took a step and everything else peeled away. In my head, I pictured every other

object, the floor, the furniture, rapidly flying away from me, leaving me in a void of black air. As I

fell, I felt like I could fall forever. Irrationally, I was convinced I was going to. Like falling was

somehow going to be the rest of my life.

The landing brought me back to reality.

I landed on my back. I felt like I was almost sitting up, on a pile of debris — pieces of plaster,

some mattress springs. I quickly looked around; “If there’s fire down here, I’m fucked,” I thought

to myself as I whipped my head around and simultaneously grabbed my mic.

Paraphrasing, as I’ve yet to hear the audio: “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. We have a firefighter

who fell through the first floor into the basement about 10 feet in. I’m okay, there’s no fire in the

basement, I just need help out.”

My crew heard the mayday and spotted my flashlight shining straight up out of the hole. I stood

up and, to the best as I can recall, my eyes lined up with the floorboards. I’m 6’6”, so I was

hoping it was a short basement so I could just grab something and get out. The hole was about

6’x4’, and there was only one floor joist remaining. Nick got on his stomach and tried to pull me

up. I tried using my halligan across the joist and the floor, grabbing both to try and pull myself

up. I tried finding a piece of furniture in the basement to move and stand on to pop out. Another

firefighter tried to get me to grab a pike pole, instead inadvertently hooking and pulling the hose

leading to my mask-mounted regulator. That’s when those attempts stopped.

I stressed to these guys that there was no hurry, and to just bring me a “dinky” — Toledo’s

quirky term for a folding ladder, usually used to get up in the attic. As Bevier returned with that, I

looked to my left and saw two members of 7’s crew coming down the basement stairs. I

honestly hadn’t really thought about stairs at that point; I didn’t see them when I looked around

(they were behind me), and I decided to stay where people could see me to avoid any confusion

or unnecessary added stress. If they see me standing, I thought, they know I’m okay.

7’s crew led me up the stairs and out the Delta (right) side door. As I went to take my helmet off,

I realized I didn’t have it. It fell off, despite my religious use of the chin strap. I was directed to

talk to our ALS ambulance (Life Squad) crew, told them I was fine but also promised to let them

know if that changed. Matt Brooks, another from the Class of ’13, and I chatted for a bit as I

made sure nothing started to hurt as my body returned to a comparably normal state.

Ultimately, someone retrieved my helmet and I rejoined my crew, going back to work opening up

ceiling in the enclosed porch where some fire hid from us. After helping knock that down, Bevier

and I took Medic 19 back to the station to switch out crews, as it was nearly 0700 and B-Shift

was due to take our spots.

“On the drive back, make sure you guys avoid that hole at Manhattan; you know, don’t fall in it,”

my lieutenant quipped. This was the beginning of a long day of genuine concern and ball-
busting, often in the same breath. Coping mechanisms in full effect for a department that

recently felt the full brunt of tragedy on the fireground.

As we sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee, waiting for the rest of the crew to return to

complete Mayday-related documentation, Bevier asked me if I heard about Hamilton, Ohio’s line

of duty death. I caught a glimpse of it on my phone just before he asked me. Five hours before

our tones dropped, Firefighter Patrick Wolterman fell through the first floor into a basement. He’s

28, I’m 27. He died, I was fine. A sobering thought, indeed, while my heart hurt for Wolterman,

his family and friends, and his department.

As best we can piece together, there was carpet but no subfloor. I’m waiting to learn if they were

burned out somehow, cut, or what the hell the situation was.

In terms of what I took away:

• I wish I brought my 4’ hook in to be able to sound the floor as I went. I’ll make more of an effort

of that, even if it means carrying the irons and my hook.

• I shouldn’t have let my guard down as much as I did. The visual evidence was there, but my

gut told me at the door something was off. I started suspicious, but should have stayed

suspicious. Gut feelings are absolutely a trustworthy sense; listen to them, always.

• Self-rescue and crew-rescue techniques are critical. We’ve trained on those techniques over

and over, but talking about them when we got back to quarters after a real-world event

reinforced what options we could have used in the context of “what-if” the incident played out

• If there had been fire in the basement, I have full faith Nick would have either knocked it from

above or handed down the line and given me the chance to survive. My first priority if this

happens again with a conscious, separated firefighter is quickly getting the line in a place to

• I should have created a better mental picture of the home in my head. I knew where the first-
to-second floor stairs were, but didn’t think about the location of the basement stairs until 7’s

crew appeared. This is something I could have done earlier. Knowing the type of home and

location of the other stairs, this should have been a no-brainer, but wasn’t.

• Maydays don’t have to be LUNAR — just get out the information you need to, usually where,

what, and who. Keep that mic open as long as you have to, because once you let go, the

shitstorm of radio communication may quite literally ‘bonk’ you to death. Talk and keep talking

until you’ve got it all out.

• Enjoy life. A slow day can turn in an instant. And while we’re still more likely to die in a car

accident driving into work, we have a job that guarantees we’re going into harm’s way and

gives us no guarantee of coming out.

Barrett Dorner, Toledo (OH) Fire & Rescue Department

[antiquefirelt 994]

Interesting read, glad FF Dorner was able to walk away. Is it me or does it seem that a FD the size of Toledo could figure out a better shift assignment plan then have four FFers with less than 4 years on the job assigned to the same company? As I recall, one popular writer from Toledo a few years back published some ideas on search that basically had the searching crew doing search without any hand tools, as it sounds like was the case here? On re-read, it appears he had the irons, so? To that end Dorner notes he wished he'd brought a 4' hook to sound the floor. Unless their hooks are different than ours, I'd hope for a heavier tool to sound a floor, I wouldn't trust the weight of a hook, nevermind a 4 footer. He noted he had the irons, why not use the halligan to probe and sound ahead?

Edited December 31, 2015 by antiquefirelt

[FireMedic049 597]

Interesting read, glad FF Dorner was able to walk away. Is it me or does it seem that a FD the size of Toledo could figure out a better shift assignment plan then have four FFers with less than 4 years on the job assigned to the same company?

I had a similar thought when I read the story the other day.

I want to say that I read somewhere that Toledo had a large retirement a few years ago that depleted a lot of their senior members and resulted in a large influx of new members and promotion of some others without significant time on the job.

If I recall correctly, there was mention of something regarding crew make up in the NIOSH report from the double LODD he referred to. I don't think it was listed as a specific contributing factor in what occurred though. I think it was more of a making note of it and the obvious issues that can come with a less experienced crew.

[FFD941 20]

Thanks for posting this Seth.

As I sit here reading this post there is a lot going through my head, but there is one point that stands out in the forefront. Here we have a firefighter who gave us a life lesson or a "it happened to me" lesson. A firsthand account of what happened to him and there are only two comments and 272 views of this thread. Yet we have a three minute video clip posted to the forums less than a day prior that has 20 comments and 1,069 views that may look bad, but is full of "power-hour", "save-the-fire service" Monday morning quarterbacking.

I'm disheartened to see that the fire service hasn't changed in numerous aspects. We hate it when the media, press and the public grab a hold of a short clip of a larger incident and lambaste us, but yet we still do it to ourselves day in and day out. Whether it's at our coffee table or through the keyboard warrior society, we continue to do it. That 3 minute clip may very well paint the whole picture, but unless your boots were on the ground you don't know that. Here, firefighter Dorner told us his story, from his boots. Learn from him and his crew, leave the criticism to the media. If that video really does portray the entire incident, save your time on the forums. Go find a member of the department, ask them what happened and why they did what they did. Then give them a story like this and ask them if they're okay with their Chief knocking on their wife's door.

Be the change you want, if it falls on deaf ears then you can go to bed at night knowing that you did what you could to teach a lesson.

[dwcfireman 656]

Wow! Definitely makes you want to sharpen your skills and be on your toes!

[x635 4,066]

If only more people would write honest, open, first hand, real life pieces like this.....this is the best kind of supplement to "theoretical firefighting".