GINA PERALES
Courtesy of The Gazette, Colorado Springs
IAFF Memorial Service
When: September 21, 2002
Where: Colorado Springs, CO
The 16th annual IAFF Fallen Fire Fighter Memorial Ceremony,
is expected to be the largest in the memorial’s history. honoring IAFF members who were
killed in the line of duty between June 2001 and June 2002.
The Gazette's Everyday Heroes Series:
>> Visit: The Gazette Memorial
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Twenty-four hour shifts.
Cooking, cleaning.
Waking up at 2 a.m. to help someone having a heart attack or pluck someone from a fire.
The joy of saving a life.
The heartbreak of losing one.
Kevin Kreck The Gazette
The alarm for Engine 1 sounds during the crew's meal and William Miller, left, Ted Collas and Jesse Kruckeberg hurry out their way as Ladder 1's Troy Branham and Steve Oswald continue eating. Ladder 1 was called out also moments later.
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All that is woven into the life of a firefighter.
Public affection for firefighters has grown to unprecedented levels since Sept. 11, 2001.
Heroes all, many say, whether talking about the profession or the 343 firefighters who died in New York at the World Trade Center.
In the days after the terrorist attacks, many people baked cakes and cooked meals for the 375 firefighters in the Colorado Springs Fire Department who answered more than 42,000 calls last year.
One of the busiest stations in the Springs is Station 1, downtown on the corner of Weber Street and Colorado Avenue.
Considered a training ground for the department, Station 1 answered nearly 6,000 calls last year, about 16 per day.
Some firefighters ask to be reassigned to Station 1, the oldest station in the city, after they've been promoted.
Others won't leave.
"It's a fun place to be," said John Bajza, who has worked at the station since 1993 and cooks carrot cakes on everyone's birthday. "The days go by fast."
Station 1 firefighters never experienced a loss the depth of Sept. 11. Yet if something similar happened here, memories of lives lost would not stop other firefighters from risking their own.
"We know our job," said Lt. Ted Collas, who wanted to be a firefighter since the fifth grade. "Our job is life safety. We would do everything in our power to make sure those people got home and saw their loved ones and that we would too."
The following is a look at some Station 1 firefighters.
The firefighters return to catch a 2 p.m. lunch in the dining room after an all-morning, city-wide catastrophe drill.
Rookie Jason McFerran, 22, hands takeout burritos he's ordered to the famished firefighters as they make their way to the second floor, past the kitchen to aoval table that comfortably seats eight.
As a rookie, McFerran picks up or cooks food, washes dishes, serves senior firefighters coffee and usually is the first to answer telephones.
In fact, McFerran races for the phone when it rings, but he isn't quick enough.
Ty Mather, a three-year member of the department, answers first. "Not the new guy, can I help you?" Mather says with a smirk.
That sense of camaraderie expands as more firefighters stroll in.
There's John Bajza, 42, the engine driver.
Ted Collas, 40, a former department public information officer who gave up his high profile job to return to fighting fires.
And Richie Rexache, 35, a Spanish-speaking paramedic.
All except McFerran belong to Engine 1, which is dispatched from Station 1.
Engine 1 is one of the busiest firefighting teams in the city and responds to all downtown medical and fire calls.
As McFerran gets paper plates for everyone, his burrito, which was standing on end, topples.
"Jason, you better come quick, we have a rollover," said Rexache, setting off laughter from the others.
The laughter reverberates around the table despite all Engine 1's firefighters dying that morning.
They died within one minute of arriving at the drill.
"Drills are a learning experience," one of the men said. "No one likes to be (the ones who die)."
District 1 Chief Dan Laurich was the incident commander, the one in charge at the disaster scene.
"Sometimes they kill you either way," he said. "No matter what you do they're going to kill you. They do it to see what the incident commander would do.
"I brought them back to life," he said, chuckling.
The crews spend 30 minutes talking, joking and evaluating their performances as well as the performances of other emergency agencies at the drill.
Engine 1 firefighters say they would go crazy without the friendship, the laughs, the tradition of picking on the rookie.
"We're our own critical stress debriefing crew right here," Bajza said. "Some things on this job, if you don't make light of, you'll go insane.
"A lot of people outside of this arena, they would question, 'Could I actually do that?'" Bajza said. "For me, it's, 'What do I have to do to get the job done?'"
McFerran takes more ribbing as he starts started to picked upicking up the dishes and took more ribbing.
Later, he said it's just a game he has to go along with as he works through his probation year. He's got 10 months before being assigned to a firehouse.
"It's a rite of passage," said McFerran, originally from California. "Everyone puts in their time and pays their dues."
McFerran wanted to be a firefighter since the first grade. The Sept. 11 attacks made him more eager to join the fire academy.
"I was working excavation and driving down a road to Black Forest when I heard it on the radio. I couldn't work, it just tore me up, but it never made me question. I've always wanted to do this. I said OK, I'm going to go make a difference or at least try to. People ask my mom, 'Well what if he dies?' And she goes, 'You know what, he'll die with a smile on his face because he's doing what he loves.'"
Firefighters almost live at the firehouse, cooking in the commercial kitchen, sleeping in the 11 beds in one room and sharing locker rooms, bathrooms and chores.
It's like living with your work mates, one firefighter said.
That's why as firefighters move up the ladder, buddies gravitate toward other buddies until crews include people who have worked together for years.
"It's a camaraderie you can't explain," said Rexache, 35, who's been at Station 1 since 1995. "We train together every day. We cover each other's backs."
The turnover rate is low. People eager to join the department could be in for a five-year wait because once a person gets on the force, he or she is likely to remain there until retirement.
There are few openings. If people leave after a few years, they have to start again as a fourth-class firefighter - a rookie - in the next city.
The only lateral move or promotion from one city fire department to another city fire department is chief.
In the room next to the chief's office, Mather, 29, a firefighter originally from Wisconsin, and Bajza work on the computer figuring out schedules.
Starting salary for a rookie on the Colorado Springs Fire Department is about $36,000 a year.
Firefighters work a 56-hour week - one 24-hour shift followed by a day off, then another 24-hour shift followed by another day off, then another 24-hour shift followed by four days off.
A firefighter's career can be tough on family.
Collas remembers the day several firefighters came to his fifth-grade class for fire prevention week. He knew then he wanted to be a firefighter.
"I realized what they did for a living and saw the value in it," he said. "I wanted to do that too. Firefighters care about other people in everything we do. Day in and day out we help people. Most of the time it's rewarding.
"Sometimes you can't help. If someone dies in a traffic accident and is already dead by the time we get there, there's nothing we can do for him. But there is something we can do for the survivors. Just by showing up we've done something for the survivors."
Just then, Engine 1 is sent to help an 83-year-old man with a 103-degree fever at the Printers Union Home on the corner of Pikes Peak Avenue and Union Boulevard.
The dispatch tones echo through the station, and the Engine 1 firefighters hustle to the closest fire poles.
Downstairs, fire boots with pants scrunched down around the ankles allow the men to sink their feet in and pull their pants up in seconds. The engine's sirens are so loud, firefighters talk through headsets.
On the way to the home, Mather looks at a picture he's tucked in his firefighter's helmet. It's of him, his wife and two kids.
"I always keep this in here," he said.
The call is no drill. The men are dead serious. Yet, even on a minor call, they face problems.
The doors are closed at the Union Printers Home, a home for the elderly, and it takes two or three knocks for someone to let the firefighters in. Their goal is to reach the person within four to six minutes of the dispatched call. It's been five minutes.
The firefighters jog up the stairs to the second floor and rattle off a series of questions to the employee who called 911.
"What were his symptoms?" asks Rexache, the paramedic.
"A high fever, about 103. Disorientation," the employee tells him.
"Is he diabetic?"
"No."
Firefighters take the man's pulse. It's racing at 140 beats per minute. Eighty to 100 is normal.
The man hardly says a word and lets firefighters take his blood pressure and administer an IV.
Nurses say he's had hip and colon surgery.
After several tests, firefighters discover the man developed an infection from earlier surgeries and that caused the fever and disorientation.
An ambulance arrives 10 minutes later and whisks the man away.
On the way back to the station, the men analyze what happened.
"They knew we were coming and did you see how long we had to wait for a nurse to open the door?" Collas said.
"I asked the nurse if he was diabetic and she said no," said Rexache. "Then, I find out he was."
The discussion continues until talk of children or family or friends infiltrates the conversation.
Once again, McFerran becomes the brunt of friendly jabs.
The engine returns to the station, its crew ready for the next call.
History indicates they won't wait long. The station averages a call every 90 minutes.
"People ask my mom, 'Well what if he dies?' And she goes, 'You know what, he'll die with a smile on his face because he's doing what he loves.'" - Rookie Jason McFerran
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