Disclaimer: The characters from Station 51 and Rampart General belong to Mark VII. They have been borrowed strictly for fun—and not for fortune.
By Ross
Los Angeles County firefighter/paramedic Roy DeSoto sat on the bench in front of his locker, buttoning the shirt of his uniform. At the sound of approaching footsteps, he turned his attention to the doorway and was shocked to see his partner, John Gage, enter the room. “What on earth are you doing here?” he demanded.
John pulled the door to his locker open and started shedding his street clothes. “Franklin’s wife’s sister is getting married. Potter’s wife’s father is getting buried. Brice burnt his arm last night. The paramedics on A over at 36’s are assisting the National Guard with that brushfire in the San Dimas Canyon. So the paramedics on B over at 16’s are subbing for them.” He slid his uniform slacks on and then began sinking slowly down onto the bench beside his fuming friend. “I can’t remember the rest of it, but, somehow, my vacation got lost in the shuffle…again.”
“They can’t do that!” Roy insisted and slammed his locker for emphasis. “They’re taking advantage of you! This is the third time your vacation’s gotten ‘lost in the shuffle’! You’ve got to stand up to them, Johnny! Franklin doesn’t hafta go to his wife’s sister’s wedding!”
“Franklin’s already gone.” Gage finished buttoning his uniform shirt and then stared sadly down at his badge for a few moments, before finally pinning it on.
“That’s what you should’ve done, too!” Roy realized, as they both finished tying their bootlaces and then stood up to tuck in their shirts. “Just taken off!”
Chet Kelly, Marco Lopez, and Mike Stoker came strolling into the locker room just then. The three firemen appeared to be every bit as shocked as Roy had been, by his partner’s unexpected presence.
“Humph!” Kelly turned to his crewmates. “I always thought the idea behind a paid vacation was that you got the money without having to do the work.”
Stoker and Lopez exchanged grins.
Gage gave Kelly one of his ‘Shut up, Chet!’ glares.
Chet’s next smart remark was drowned out, as the Station’s alarm suddenly sounded.
He and his companions quickly commenced stripping.
Squad 51’s crew of two tensed and then listened as the dispatcher’s voice came over the loudspeaker.
“Station 51…CHP reports a three vehicle accident on the Arrow Highway /San Gabriel River Bridge…one half mile west of the Rivergrade Road Junction…Arrow Highway/ San Gabriel River Bridge…Ambulances responding…Time out…07:52”
Captain Hank Stanley poked his head into the room. “You ladies wanna shake a leg!” he ordered more than asked. “I told Ron we’d take this one.”
Gage and DeSoto trotted past him, heading for their Rescue Squad.
A-shift’s Engine crew threw a few last articles of clothing on and then followed their leader into the garage, stomping their boots on, tucking their shirttails in and zipping their flies up along the way. The trio took a moment or two to tie their bootlaces, before tossing on their turnout coats and climbing up into their fire truck.
The guys from C-shift, coffee cups in hand, stepped out of the day room to see their replacements off.
“Thanks again, Hank!” Captain Graham restated as he passed a copy of the call slip up to Stanley’s engineer.
“No problem, Ron!” A-shift’s Captain reassured him.
Over in the Squad, John recorded the time of the call he’d just been handed and noted the address. “Hang a left,” he advised his partner.
Ron Graham and the rest of the firemen from C-shift watched as Squad 51 exited the Station and then swung left, closely followed by Engine 51. The now off-duty firemen continued watching as both trucks disappeared down the street, lights flashing and sirens blaring.
Everybody hated it when a call came in just prior to, or during, a shift change. It meant that one crew was going to work a little early…or one crew was going to work a little late.
If the call had come in just five minutes sooner, C-shift would’ve been putting in some major overtime
.
A mere eight minutes later, the crew of Station 51 reached the scene of the accident.
Mike and Roy brought their respective trucks to an abrupt halt on the bridge and cut their sirens.
The firemen piled out onto the debris-strewn pavement.
“Didn’t the dispatcher say three vehicles?” Roy pondered upon counting the number of cars involved.
His partner nodded and began pulling medical equipment from the compartments on the side of their truck.
The paramedics grabbed what gear they figured they needed most, and went running up to the CHP motorcycle officer, who was standing in the middle of the bridge.
Engine 51’s crew joined them there.
“What do we got, Jon?” Captain Stanley queried.
Officer Baker pointed to the first of two cars that had crashed into each other and then plowed into the bridge railing. “She seems to be hurt the worst...”
Roy hurried over to the person being pointed out.
Jon Baker's partner, Frank Poncherello, was kneeling on the seat next to the victim, applying pressure to the artery in her upper left arm. The front of his uniform was streaked with blood. “Her airway’s clear and she’s breathin’!” he informed the paramedic, upon his arrival.
DeSoto gave the capable cop an appreciative glance and then went to work.
“Those three appear to have only minor cuts and bruises,” Jon continued and motioned to the occupants of the second vehicle.
Gage went trotting up to the still somewhat stunned—but able to stand—trio.
Officer Baker led Captain Stanley over to the bridge railing and pointed down. “I don’t know about the driver of that car…”
The firemen leaned over the railing to get a good look.
Stanley whistled softly at what he saw.
Seventy-five feet straight down, a black sedan was bobbing in the swift current of the San Gabriel. The banks on both sides of the river were too steep and treacherous to traverse quickly. It would be a lot faster, and much safer, to follow the same route the car had taken.
The Captain turned and issued a slew of orders, which his engine crew readily obeyed.
As fast as Roy could press fresh 4x4’s over the laceration in his victim’s left forearm, they became saturated with blood. “Good going, Ponch'!” the paramedic said to his assistant, as he tore open another roll of gauze and used it to secure the fresh dressings over the ghastly wound. “If you hadn’t applied arterial pressure when you did…” he paused to shoot the first-aid administrator another appreciative glance. “Well, you prob’ly saved this lady’s life…”
Ponch' was pleased as punch by the paramedic’s praise and he flashed the fireman a grateful grin. “Been watchin’ you an’ Johnny for so long, guess somethin’ must a’ finally rubbed off.”
DeSoto smiled, both at the comment and at the fact that he had finally gotten the bleeding under control. He checked the pulse below the wound to make sure he hadn’t cut the circulation off to his victim’s hand, and then reached for their drug box. "Can you contact Rampart for me?"
Poncherello nodded and quickly opened up the case containing their bio-phone.
John finished his initial patient surveys.
Officer Baker was right. Thanks to their seatbelts, the driver—and both passengers—of the second car had no apparent injuries, save for a few superficial cuts and bruises.
The paramedic had convinced them to allow him to place a couple of band-aids on their facial lacerations, but they had waived off any further assistance from him, choosing, instead, to seek their own treatment.
Gage had just gotten the last of the 'release from liability’ forms signed and was about to head over and help his partner, when he heard his superior summoning him. He stowed the paperwork and then snatched his equipment cases back up.
“Yeah, Cap?” the dark-haired paramedic pondered as he promptly appeared before his Captain.
“We’re all set here. Can you leave them and go down?”
John nodded. “They refused treatment.” His curiosity piqued by his Captain’s question, the paramedic set his cases down and peered over the bridge railing. So-o, the dispatcher had given them an accurate count after all. “They say, the shortest distance between two points is a straight line,” he mumbled to himself and quickly donned the broad leather security belt and the gloves he’d been handed.
The CHP officers had been recruited to help lower away.
Gage secured himself to the rope they were manning.
Mike and Chet had charge of a second rope.
Marco secured himself to it.
Those doing the lowering began playing out their respective ropes.
Those being lowered began their slow descent toward the river.
Seeing as how they were short-handed, Stanley took it upon himself to lower the equipment-filled Stokes. “More slack!” he ordered as the two dangling rescuers entered the water and began swimming against the current.
Gage and Lopez fought their way upstream, towing the Stokes between them.
Being as how they were both strong swimmers, they reached the bobbing car in no time and set their stretcher up on its hood.
The sedan was tilted sideways, with its passenger door partially submerged. The vehicle’s undercarriage appeared to be hung up on a huge boulder, and the river’s current caused it to rock precariously.
The paramedic hauled himself onto the hood as well, and then scrambled up onto the auto’s roof. He reached down and tried to pull the driver’s door open.
It didn’t budge.
“Uh, Marco? Can you smash the back window in and unlock this door for me?”
Lopez carefully crawled over Gage’s legs, across the car’s slippery—slanting—roof, and over to the backseat window. The rescuer removed a spring-loaded device from a pants pocket, placed the pointed end of it against the glass and pressed its trigger mechanism.
The backseat driver’s side door’s window shattered into a zillion little pieces.
Marco re-pocketed the handy tool. He then reached in and around and pulled the driver’s door’s lock up.
Gage gave him a grateful glance and jerked hard on the door latch. Again, nothing happened. So he braced himself and jerked harder.
The portal finally 'screaked' open.
The rescuer carefully lowered himself down into the car to examine its only occupant—an unmoving fellow slumped forward in his seat behind the steering wheel. John noted that a deep gash in the gentleman’s forehead had scarcely bled, which told him the guy’s heart was probably not beating. A careful check of the victim’s carotid pulse confirmed his suspicions. A quick flick of his penlight revealed the victim’s pupils were both fixed and dilated. The paramedic turned to his companion and solemnly shook his head.
The firefighters exchanged frowns and their mission shifted gears from one of rescue to retrieval.
They pulled the victim’s body from the vehicle and secured it into the Stokes.
Marco descended once more into the cool, swift current.
John lowered the ‘body in the basket’ down to him and then began slipping back into the water, as well.
Suddenly some five hundred pounds lighter, the car was swept from its precarious perch. It rocked sharply, as the current caught it and then spun it sideways, pinning the paramedic’s back up against the boulder and pressing the weight of the car into his ribcage.
“Uh-uhh!” Gage gasped with a grimace.
Seconds later, the completely out of control automobile spun back around and began drifting off downstream.
Marco narrowly missed getting nailed by the thing himself. He watched the now nearly submerged object float past him and then looked for his crushed companion. Lopez stiffened, as all that was visible of Gage...was his rope.
Captain Stanley watched helplessly from the bridge above, as Gage’s body sank below the surface. “Take up John’s rope!” he ordered back to the CHP officers.
They obediently began hauling up the slack, and Gage gradually reappeared up out of the river.
“John, you okay?” Marco anxiously inquired, seeing that his companion was coughing violently and still gasping and grimacing.
John nodded and continued gulping air into his oxygen-starved lungs. His security belt was pressing into his badly bruised ribs. He exhaled another gasp and tried to reposition it.
Needless to say, the journey topside was not a pleasant one.
Stoker and Kelly hauled Lopez back up, and then began retrieving the body in the basket.
“Take it easy, pal!” Captain Stanley advised as he assisted the pale-looking paramedic back up over the bridge railing. “You gonna be okay?”
Gage nodded and then stood there, hunched over a bit, resting his hands on his knees and fighting the urge to hold his ribs. “I just had,” he gasped, “my wind knocked out.”
Judging by the amount of pain he’d seen in the paramedic’s eyes, Hank knew that to be a bunch a’ BS. “Let’s go on over and have Roy take a look at you.”
Gage obediently unbuckled his security belt, dropped the danged uncomfortable object to the ground, and then sloshed on over to the Squad with his Captain, marveling at the man’s ability to make direct orders seem like polite suggestions. His concerned Commander draped a blanket over his soggy, sagging shoulders, and he sat there, coughing very carefully…and feeling very miserable.
“Squad 51. Roger, Rampart,” DeSoto spoke into the bio-phone. “Ambulance has just arrived. Transporting victim immediately. ETA fifteen minutes.”
“Copy that, 51…” Rampart acknowledged.
Roy replaced the phone and began gathering up their gear.
The attendants began loading the badly injured accident victim into the ambulance.
“Roy! You got a minute?” his Captain called over.
“No, Cap! This woman’s critical!” the paramedic called back. He glanced over at his shivering partner. “I can check him out on the way in!” he quickly determined and climbed up into the back of the ambulance with his patient—er, with his first patient.
Hank herded his second victim over to the ambulance. “Get in!”
Gage gasped. “Cap, I can take the Squa—”
“—Get in, Ga-age,” Stanley repeated and gave him a gentle shove. “Kelly can drive the Squad.”
The pained paramedic gasped again, but obeyed his Captain’s order.
Stanley closed the doors on his frowning face.
The ambulance sped off, lights flashing and siren blaring.
In the back of the speeding ambulance, victim number two shivered and coughed. “Need a hand with anything?”
His concerned colleague came back with a quick question of his own. “What happened down there?”
“Let’s just say I, eh, found the third vehicle,” his shivering victim vaguely volunteered.
“Well, what happened?” Roy repeated, sounding extremely worried and not the least bit amused by his pained partner’s half-hearted stab at humor. “Marco said you must’ve swallowed half the San Gabriel River.” His head snapped up and he gave his uncooperative victim a concerned stare. “Did you hit your head?”
“No-o,” John assured him. “I just had the wind knocked out of me. I’m fine…no-ow.”
“Then you hit your chest or your ribs. Are you in any pain?”
“Look, I said I was fine!” his suddenly surly patient practically shouted. “Can’t we just drop it?” Seeing as how his inquisitive partner now seemed hurt, Gage grimaced and gasped for the third time in as many minutes. “Ah-uh, Roy...Look, man…I’m sorry…I don’t know why I said that…”
“Yea-eah? Well, I do!” DeSoto declared, looking and sounding a might surly himself. “You haven’t been yourself for the past few weeks now! You’re tense…and irritable…and tired! You’re just plain overworked! And, before this day is out, I’m gonna see to it that your vacation is un-cancelled! I don’t care if I have to go see the Chief in person!”
John just sat there, slack-jawed, staring disbelievingly at his ranting friend. Roy tossed him his stethoscope and a blood pressure cuff—which he caught in self-defense.
“Now, get me a set of vitals!” the senior paramedic sternly ordered and pointed to his partner’s left arm.
Gage gazed down at the instruments for a few moments, and then attempted to comply. He shrugged the blanket off of his shoulders and tried to strap the BP cuff on with one hand. The fireman sighed in frustration as he repeatedly failed to accomplish the normally simple task. He looked up—saw his still-fuming friend sitting there, impatiently tapping his pen on a pad of paper—and shrugged again, this time in resignation.
“How ‘bout a rough estimate?” DeSoto proposed, keeping a perfectly straight face.
Gage’s glum expression was replaced with a grin.
Ten minutes later, in the Emergency Receiving Ward of LA County’s Rampart General Hospital…
Doctor Mike Morton entered Exam Three.
The physician glanced from Gage to DeSoto. “Whichever one of you is the patient—get on the table!” he ordered sharply.
‘Gawd! I just love this guy’s bedside manner!’ John silently, and insincerely, mused, but obediently got on the table. He sat there, frowning…and shivering.
Morton pulled his patient’s blanket back a bit. “You’re all wet!” he astutely observed.
The soggy fireman turned to his partner. “I knew tha-at…And I’m only a paramedic.”
The two friends exchanged grins.
“Lie down!” Mike commanded and completely relieved the comedian of his protective covering.
Gage’s grin vanished—right along with his blanket. He gritted his teeth and then reluctantly lay back, carefully pulling his legs up onto the table.
“No-ow, what happened to you?” his impatient doctor pondered, as he flashed a penlight into the paramedic’s pain-filled eyes.
“I just got the wind knocked out of me,” his squinting patient replied.
“That’s a little fuzzy. You’re going to have to be more specific,” the doctor determined, and continued his neurological exam.
“Yea-eah. Well, yah see…there was this car and this big rock in the river…and then there was this car—and me—and this big rock in the riv—ou-ouch, Doc!” the paramedic exclaimed as the physician’s probing fingers suddenly pressed into his badly bruised rib cage.
Morton opened Gage’s soggy shirt up and examined his midsection—very thoroughly. “Roll onto to your side a moment. Careful,” he cautioned, and carefully assisted his patient into the requested position. He lifted the fireman’s shirt and saw that his back was scraped from his little encounter with the big rock. “I think you may have broken some ribs.”
“They’re just a little sore,” the paramedic replied, contradicting the young doctor’s preliminary diagnosis.
Mike looked extremely skeptical and carefully eased his patient onto his back again. “I’m sending you over to x-ray.”
“They’re just bruised,” John re-assured him and tried to sit up.
Morton shoved him back down. “I have to make sure. Until then—lie still! You could puncture a lung or lacerate your liver.”
Nurse Dixie McCall entered the exam room, carrying a cup of coffee. “Can he have this?” she inquired, not desiring to administer the steaming brew without a doctor’s prescription.
“Nothing by mouth until after I see the x-rays,” Morton ordered, and quickly placed a call in for some orderlies.
“But I’m freezing!” the paramedic pouted.
Mike turned back to Miss McCall. “Dix, get him out of those wet clothes.”
“No-o!” their shivering patient practically shouted. “Just give me back my blanket! Plea-ease?”
Two orderlies came into the room just then, guiding a gurney.
“Alright,” Morton told the newcomers, “give the guy his ‘blankie’ and then get him over to x-ray.”
They lifted Gage onto the gurney, covered him with his blankie and started wheeling him out of the room.
“Wait for me, Roy!” the paramedic pleaded of his vertical partner.
“Okay, Johnny!” Roy promised. “I’ve got to make a few phone calls! I’ll be at the pay phone at the end of the hall!” he added, as his horizontal partner disappeared out the door.
“What’s with him?” Dixie pondered and passed DeSoto the still steaming cup.
“Yeah…” a pretty exasperated Mike Morton muttered, joining the RN’s inquiry. “I mean, he’s acting a little strange—even for John Gage.”
“He’s overworked,” John Gage’s partner—and best friend—solemnly replied. “The pressures of the job are starting to get to him…no pun intended,” DeSoto quickly tacked on, and took a cautious sip of the steaming cup’s contents. The coffee was drinkable, so he downed several more long swallows.
“Well, that’s easily remedied,” the young doctor determined. “Why doesn’t he just take some time off?”
“This drought has got half the department off fighting brush fires. And that leaves the other half very shorthanded. A lot of guys are pulling two shifts. In fact, I don’t know of anyone who hasn’t been putting in extra hours. But this is the third time they’ve postponed his vacation,” the fireman finished with a frown, and stood there, staring thoughtfully down into his half-drained cup.
“They can’t do that!” Dixie angrily determined, but then quickly added, “Can they?”
“That’s exactly what I said,” Roy informed her. “They’re just taking advantage of him! Which is normal. But Johnny’s letting them take advantage of him. And that’s not normal. I’m worried about him…” he confessed, and continued to stare thoughtfully down at the cup in his hands.
“I think Kel should hear about this!” Dixie further determined.
“Hear about what?” Dr. Kelly Brackett wondered, as he came walking into the room.
“Roy’s worried about his partner,” Mike informed him. “They keep postponing his vacation.”
Brackett frowned and directed his next question at DeSoto. “Johnny showing signs of fatigue?”
“He’s tense all the time, and doesn’t have much of an appetite…” the fatigued fireman’s frowning friend confessed.
“Is it effecting his work?” the doctor inquired further, his own frown deepening.
“Well, it’s effecting him. So it’s bound to effect his work—to some degree. For instance, this is the second time, in less than a week, that we’ve gone out on a call and ended up rescuing him. And, this time, he got hurt!”
“How is he?” Brackett anxiously asked.
“Mike sent him over to x-ray,” Dixie answered. “Something to do with his ribs?”
Johnny’s doctor nodded.
“Excuse me,” the head of Rampart’s Emergency Receiving said and began taking his leave. “I have to make a phone call.”
Speaking of phone calls…
DeSoto suddenly remembered that he was supposed to call the Station, and quickly drained the last of his coffee. Roy gave the thoughtful RN a warm smile and his empty cup. “Thanks, Dix’!”
Miss McCall returned his smile, but kept the cup. “You’re welcome!”
Kelly Brackett sat at his office desk, paging through a report and cradling his phone between his right shoulder and ear. Gawd! How he hated being put on hold!
“Yes, Dr. Brackett,” someone finally said. “What can I do for you?”
“Mr. Lenhert, do you happen to have a copy of that Health Department report on stress handy?”
“Which one?”
“The one labeled FD 267-A.”
“Hold on a minute…”
‘Great!’ Brackett thought as a minute grew to two. ‘Now I’m on hold again!’
“Found it,” Mr. Lenhert finally came back.
“Goo-ood! I’d like you to open it to page 34 and read the first paragraph.”
“All right. I’ve read it,” Mr. Lenhert announced, following another minute or two of dead air space. “Now what?”
“If my memory serves me right, weren’t those recommendations approved—unanimously?”
“Yes. Yes. I believe they were.”
“Then I’m a little confused. Would you care to explain why the Health Department bothered to make that report? Why I bothered to make those recommendations? And why the committee bothered to accept them—if your department had no intentions of following them?”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s come to my attention, that one of your department’s policies is to juggle vacation schedules to meet work schedules. That is exactly the opposite of the policy the committee approved—and which I recommended!”
“Yes…Yes. I guess it is. But, under certain extenuating circumstances, this department is forced to change its policies. Take this emergency drought situa—”
“—Mr. Lenhert, maybe you should read that paragraph again—especially the part about ‘critical to the health and well-being’. Vacations aren’t just a fringe benefit to these men. They are a very necessary health requirement. Like eating and sleeping. You have to juggle their work schedules to accommodate vacations. And as for extenuating circumstances…There will always be extenuating circumstances. If it’s not a drought, it’s a flood…or a mudslide…or an earthquake! These men won’t function properly under any circumstances if they’re not physically and mentally fit.” Speaking of stress, Kel was having an incredibly difficult time controlling his rising temper. So he paused for a few moments before continuing. “I want your department to act on the policy approved in this report—today! Have I made my position clear, Mr. Lenhert?”
“Perfectly, Doctor.”
“Goo-ood! And this is one recommendation your department had better not ignore! We’re dealing with men’s’ lives here!”
“If I do this, it’s going to cost me my job.”
“On the contrary, Mr. Lenhert. If you don’t do it, I will personally see to it that you lose your job!” the Los Angeles County Fire Department’s Chief Medical Advisor advised. “Don’t worry about rocking the boat. You just handle your department and let the other departments figure a way to deal accordingly. They’ll come up with something. They’ll have to! If anyone gives you any static, have them call me.”
“I certainly will! Goodbye, Doctor…”
“Goodbye, Mr. Lenhert.”
Back in Treatment Three…
John Gage slowly sat up and swung his legs off of the edge of the exam table. “I told you they weren’t busted,” he reminded his young doctor.
Morton clicked the viewing screen light off. “Yeah. Well, we doctors aren’t endowed with x-ray vision—like you paramedics,” he quickly came back. “So we’re forced to use a more conventional means of diagnosis—the x-ray machine.”
The smug fireman was forced to smile.
The now smug doctor pressed his stethoscope into his patient’s scraped back. “Take a deep breath for me,” he requested, and the paramedic reluctantly complied. Mike repositioned his instrument. “Again…Take another one…Once more…” A deep frown appeared on the listener’s face. “Cough!” he commanded. “Harder!” he urged, and noted that the pain produced by a deep cough literally took the fireman’s breath away. Morton finished his respiratory exam, draped his stethoscope about his neck, and folded his arms in front of his chest. “You have some water in your lungs. I’m going to have you admit—”
“—No way!” John shouted, jumping down from the table.
“Johnny, listen to me! You’re not breathing deeply. You’re not coughing. If that fluid stays in your lungs, it could turn into pneumonia!”
“So I’ll start breathing deeper and coughing. But I’m not staying here!”
“You’re not going back to work, either!”
“I’ve worked with sore ribs before,” the fireman reminded his physician.
“You’re ribs are badly bruised. The pain is bound to interfere with your concentration.”
“Just the opposite, Doc. I concentrate so hard on my work, that I don’t notice the pain. Besides, there’s nothing else you can do for sore ribs but grin and bear ‘em. Please? Just let me finish this shift! Plea-ease?”
“You’re hopeless!” Morton told the pleading paramedic with a sad shake of his head. “You not only think you have bionic eyes, but you think you have a bionic body, too!” Then, seeing his patient’s pitiful expression, Mike exhaled an exasperated gasp and started heading for the door. “I think this situation calls for a second opinion,” the young doctor determined and disappeared.
Dr. Morton returned a few moments later, with Dr. Brackett.
“Johnny...How are you feeling?” Brackett inquired. He picked up—and then closely examined—the patient’s chart.
“Fine, Doc!”
Doc glanced up from the metal clipboard in his hands, looking extremely skeptical. “Mike tells me you want to finish the shift.”
Johnny gave the doctor a definite nod.
“He also tells me that you should be hospitalized and given breathing treatments. Do you really think you’re up to going back to work?”
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t ask you to let me finish the shift. I realize my work calls for the best physical and mental efforts I can put forth…” the paramedic paused and lowered his sad eyes to the floor. “That’s why I quit this morning. I promised I’d finish the shift…”
His doctors just stood there, looking completely dumbfounded. Their patient’s rather shocking revelation had managed to render them both speechless!
Kel was the first one to recover. “You’re not serious?”
The fireman just kept right on staring, wordlessly, down at the floor beneath his feet.
Brackett looked even more shocked and rephrased his question. “Johnny, you haven’t handed in your resignation, yet. Have you?”
“Why?” Gage wondered and glanced up.
“Because, if you’re not working for the County anymore, they can’t very well send you on a two weeks paid vacation!”
John’s right eyebrow arched. “Has Roy been talking to you?”
“Yes. He has. I only wish that someone,” Brackett paused to shoot Gage an annoyed glare, “would have talked to me sooner! I’m sorry it’s had to come this far…” he paused again. “Is your resignation official?”
Gage shrugged. “I quit over the phone. I haven’t signed anything…ye-et.”
“Great! Then why don’t you take your vacation and, when you get back, your old well-rested self again, if you still feel like quitting, you can make it official then.”
“You keep talking about my vacation like it’s been un-cancelled,” the fireman finally realized.
“It has!” Brackett assured him. “Or, at least, it will be by tomorrow morning.”
The paramedic closed his eyes and exhaled a long—excruciatingly painful—but extremely welcome sigh of relief.
Chet Kelly stepped up to Roy DeSoto—who still happened to be on the phone. “How’s Johnny?”
Roy placed his palm over the phone’s mouthpiece. “He’s back from x-ray.”
“I’ve got the Squad outside. Are we supposed to wait for him, or what?”
DeSoto shrugged. “I called the Cap. He told me to call headquarters…and they’ve got me on hold.” The paramedic stiffened as the HT attached to his left wrist suddenly started ‘bleeping’.
“Squad 51, what is your status?”
The fireman glanced from the radio in his left hand, to the phone in his right. He slammed the phone down and thumbed the HT’s transmit button. “This is Squad 51. Standby, LA,” he advised.
The paramedic raced down the corridor and poked his head into Exam Three. “What’s the verdict?” he pondered of his partner’s physicians.
Gage gave his doctors another pitiful, pleading look. “Can I finish the shift?”
Morton and Brackett exchanged thoughtful glances.
“I tell you what,” Mike told him, “since I can’t force you to stay, I’ll compromise. If you promise to come in for some breathing treatments—and, if you take it real easy and let Roy, here, handle all the tough stuff—you can finish the shift.”
Gage grinned from ear to ear. “In that case, I promise! Thank you, Doctors!” he said and started heading for the door.
“I’ll call you when I get your first treatment scheduled. It’ll be sometime this afternoon or early evening.”
The freed fireman glanced back over his shoulder, nodded his acceptance of Morton’s terms, and then disappeared.
All three firemen headed off down the hallway, en route to their truck.
“LA,” DeSoto spoke into their portable radio, “Squad 51 is available at Rampart General.”
“10-4, Squad 51…Standby for a response…” Several seconds passed. “Squad 51…Man down…1253 East Lorraine Avenue…One-two-five-three East Lorraine…Cross-street Olympic…Ambulance responding…Time Out: 09:53”
The trio of rescuers had already piled into their vehicle’s front seat.
John reached for the radio mic’ on the dash and used it to acknowledge the response. “10-4, LA. Squad 51 responding.”
“1249…1251…” Chet counted aloud. “1253 should be the next place on the left…”
“Yea-eah,” DeSoto agreed. “There it is!” He pulled the Squad into the driveway of 1253 East Lorraine and cut the siren.
The truck’s occupants piled out. Kelly helped the paramedics carry some of their equipment up to the home’s front door.
Roy rang the doorbell and called out rather loudly, “Fire Department!” He heard a man’s feeble voice telling them to come in. So he turned the knob and pushed the portal open.
A very pale young man appeared. The guy was standing in the middle of his living room with a blood-soaked towel wrapped around his left hand.
“Here…You’d better lie down,” DeSoto advised. He deposited his equipment and helped their swaying victim down onto the couch.
“I hate to bother you guys,” their obviously in shock host confessed, “but my wife’s off shopping…”
“It’s no bother. Believe me,” his rescuer reassured him. “I’m Roy. This is my partner, Johnny. And the guy with the mustache over there, is our friend, Chet.” He was in the process of un-wrapping the crimson stained towel. DeSoto stared down at the victim’s left hand and saw that two of the man’s fingers had been completely severed. “What’s your name?” he calmly inquired, exchanging a knowing glance with his partner—who was kneeling on the carpeted floor, flicking open various equipment cases. The senior paramedic used arterial pressure to prevent further blood loss.
Chet was already on the bio-phone, trying to establish contact with their base at Rampart.
“Mark,” the man told his rescuers. “Mark Sorensen.”
“All right, Mark,” the friendly, blond fireman compressing the artery in his upper arm acknowledged. “Can you tell us what happened?”
“I was using my jigsaw…out in the garage…it slipped.”
While Roy continued to stem the bleeding, Johnny went to work securing a set of vital signs.
“Mark, are you on any medications?”
Their victim shook his head.
“Are you allergic to any medications?”
“Not that I know of…” Mark verbally replied.
Chet passed John the phone, and the paramedic proceeded to pass his findings on to the doctor. “Rampart Base, this is Squad 51…”
“Go ahead, 51…” Dr. Early quickly came back.
“Rampart, we have a male victim…approximately 30 years of age. Victim has completely severed the index and middle fingers of his left hand, and partially severed the third. Respirations are 25…Pulse is 85 and weak…BP is 90/70…Victim has lost a considerable amount of blood…He is conscious and in extreme pain.”
“51, have you applied a tourniquet?”
“51. Just pressure point, Rampart. The bleeding is under control.”
“Alright, 51. Maintain arterial pressure. Start two IV’s. One D5W. One lactated Ringers. TKO. Apply shock trousers. Administer 50 milligrams meparadine for the pain and transport immediately. Oh, and bring the severed fingers, if you can, 51.”
“51. Roger that, Rampart,” John acknowledged and read the doctor back the orders he’d just jotted down.
‘The three of us are just like a well-oiled machine,’ Kelly thought to himself, as he assisted Gage in carrying out the doctor’s instructions.
In no time at all, the three of them had the victim completely stabilized and ready to transport.
The ambulance arrived.
The attendants wheeled a stretcher into the room and their patient was quickly transferred to it.
“My wife’s gonna kill me…when she sees the carpeting,” Mr. Sorensen glumly realized on his way out.
The blond paramedic followed alongside him, maintaining arterial pressure on his upper left arm.
Gage pulled a plastic bag and a bottle of saline solution from a green case on the coffee table and handed the items to Kelly. “Bring the Squad…and the fingers,” he requested. Then he gathered up some of the more essential gear and went sloshing out the front door. His shoes, uniform, underwear and hair were all still extremely soggy.
Chet stared distastefully down at the plastic bag in his hand. “Gro-oss!” he exclaimed and reluctantly began heading for the garage. “Totally gro-oss!”
Mrs. Mark Sorensen pulled up and parked alongside of the Fire Department Rescue Squad in her driveway.
She jumped out of her car and went racing up to the house, through the open front door and into her equipment case-littered living room. “Ma-ark?” she screamed, and then screamed again, seeing a fresh trail of blood across her carpeting.
Chet entered the living room just then, looking a little green around the gills. He spotted the woman and quickly hid the plastic bag and bottle in his hands behind his back.
“What happened?” the now completely hysterical woman wondered. “Where’s my husband?”
“Uh-uh…” Kelly swallowed hard. “He, uh, cut himself out in the garage…with his jigsaw. The ambulance just took him to the hospital.”
The poor guy’s wife’s dazed gaze shifted from the fireman to the crimson stains on the carpeting.
Chet took advantage of the distraction and sidled over to the green case that was still resting open on the coffee table. He dropped the sealed bag and the remainder of the saline into it and quickly closed the lid. “If you want, you can follow me over to Rampart General…”
The woman glanced back up, through tear-filled eyes. “Thank you…” she told the kind stranger standing in the middle of her living room. “That would be nice.”
“Your welcome. Just let me throw this equipment in the Squad…”
It was beginning to look like John might finally get to enjoy a nice, freshly dripped cup of Dixie’s steaming black coffee.
That is, until Chet Kelly came racing up to the Nurses’ Station and placed the plastic bag down on the counter Gage and DeSoto were leaning against. “Forget the coffee, fellahs!” the flustered fireman declared. Then he relieved both paramedics of their steaming mugs, and began herding them off down the hallway, in the direction of the exit. “Let’s just get me back to the Station—before you guys get another run!”
DeSoto gave their mustached amigo an annoyed glare, and then sarcastically quipped to his equally perturbed looking partner, “I don’t think Chet wants to be a paramedic anymore.”
“Yeah,” Gage grumbled, just beneath his breath. “I know the feeling…”
Captain Stanley, and his skeleton engine crew, heard the Squad pull in and strolled into the garage to greet their wayward associates.
As usual, the two paramedics were engaged in a rather lively conversation.
“I did not!” DeSoto insisted. “I just mentioned to Dr. Brackett that I was a little concerned about you missing your vacation—for the third time! Which would never have happened in the first place, if you had a wife to look af—”
“—Plea-ease, Ro-oy!” the confirmed bachelor interrupted. “I’m not gonna argue with you anymore, if you’re gonna start using four-letter words!”
Their associates glanced at one another and grinned.
Their Captain cleared his throat. “What did the doctors have to say?”
“I’m okay, Cap!” Gage assured him. “Just bruised some ribs. I’m gonna go cha—”
“—Hold it, pal!” Hank interrupted, as the injured paramedic began taking his leave.
John halted.
Stanley turned to the frozen fireman’s partner. “Roy?”
“They said he could finish the shift…but he’s gotta take it real easy and go in for some breathing treatments,” Roy obligingly informed him.
“I don’t like it,” their fearless leader determined with a frown. Fighting fires wasn’t exactly a take it easy line of work.
“C’mon, Cap…” the paramedic pleaded. “I can handle it. Besides, my vacation starts the day after tomorrow.”
“Says who?” Stanley asked.
“Roy, here, went and talked to Chief Jenner—personally!” John teased, with a grin.
“I did not!” DeSoto re-insisted. “I just mentioned to Dr. Brackett that I was a little concerned about you—”
“—All right!” their Captain unconditionally surrendered. “Ga-age, go change into a dry uniform!”
Ga-age grinned and began backing towards the locker room.
The rest of the guys grinned as well, seeing an exasperated Hank Stanley standing there, shaking his head.
Fifteen minutes later, in the combination kitchen/dining area of Station 51’s day room…
Mike Stoker pulled a carton of eggs out of the refrigerator and set it down on the table, right in front of his Captain.
“What are those for?” Stanley wondered, and took a cautious sip of his coffee.
Stoker filled a pan with water and set it on the stove. “We’re having egg salad sandwiches for lunch,” he replied and placed several of the eggs into the pan. He turned the burner on and went to get some more eggs.
One slipped out of his hands.
His Captain managed to catch it, just before it hit the floor. “Easy on the eggs there, butter-fingers!”
“Ah-uh, Ca-ap!” Chet groaned and sat there at the table, looking rather dejected. “Why’d yah hafta go an' say that? I was just beginning to forget!”
Stanley ignored him and stared thoughtfully down at the egg in his hand. “That’s it!” he suddenly said. “That’s i-it!” he repeated and picked up another egg.
Gage and DeSoto strolled into the day room just then, en route to the coffeepot.
“What’s with the eggs?” John inquired of his Captain.
Stanley stood and stepped up to the fireman with the fresh uniform. “These are for you, pal!” he calmly explained, and placed an egg in each of Gage’s two front shirt pockets.
John’s jaw dropped.
His fellow crewmembers glanced at each other and grinned.
“No-ow,” his Captain continued, looking extremely pleased with himself, “I want you to take it real easy. Because, if you put so much as a hairline crack in either of those eggs, I’m sending you home.”
The paramedic’s mouth dropped open again, but before he could protest, the alarm went off.
The Engine crew relaxed.
Gage and DeSoto started heading for the garage.
“Man down…unknown cause…Camino Verde Motel…at the intersection of Hacienda Blvd. and Colima Road…Hacienda Blvd. and Colima road junction…Ambulance responding...Time Out: 11:23.”
The two paramedics climbed into their rescue truck and donned their helmets, while their Captain recorded the call.
“Squad 51. KMG—365,” Hank acknowledged and handed Roy a copy of the call address.
DeSoto passed the slip of paper on to his partner.
The Squad’s navigator clipped the call to their dash-mounted logbook. “Hang a right!” he advised and recorded the time.
The Squad’s driver did, and they disappeared off down the street, lights flashing and siren blaring.
Fifteen minutes later, Roy pulled up in front of the Camino Verde Motel and cut the Squad’s siren.
The paramedics piled out and began pulling equipment cases from its side compartments.
A young woman came out of the motel’s office and waved them over. “He’s in here!”
The two firemen followed her inside.
A middle-aged Hispanic gentleman was lying on a sofa in the motel’s lobby, tossing his head. The guy appeared dazed and disoriented and seemed to be perspiring—profusely.
“What happened?” Roy asked and freed up his hands for an initial patient survey.
The woman shrugged. “My husband thinks he’s drunk, but I think he’s sick or something. I made him lie down.”
“What’s his name?” John wondered and began extracting diagnostic tools from various cases.
“He's registered as Estephan Morales.”
“Mr. Morales, I’m Roy DeSoto. This is my partner, John Gage. Is it all right if we take a look at yah, here?”
Mr. Morales made no reply.
DeSoto took that as assumed consent and began taking vitals.
“Señor Morales,” John called out rather loudly, “can you hear me?”
This seemed to catch their victim’s attention and he mumbled something incoherent.
Well, at least, it sounded incoherent to Roy.
His Spanish-speaking partner stiffened. “¿Azúcar?” he repeated and a light bulb went on in his diagnostic mind. He bent down, gently opened their victim’s jaws and got a whiff of the guy’s fruity-sweet breath. ‘Diabetic acidosis,’ John silently thought, but then said aloud, “Insulin shock!”
DeSoto finished his IPS and snatched up the bio-phone. “Sure matches the rest of his symptoms,” he agreed and inserted the call stick. “Rampart Base, this is County 51. How do you read?”
Over at Emergency Receiving, RN Dixie McCall saw the call light flashing. She entered the base station and flicked on the intercom. “Unit calling in, please repeat…” she requested.
“Rampart, this is Squad 51. We have a male victim, Estephan Morales. He’s in his mid-forties. Victim is semi-conscious—”
While his partner brought the hospital up to speed, Gage made another attempt to reach their half-out-of-it patient. “¿Señor? ¿Señor Morales? ¿Habla inglés?”
No response.
The paramedic gasped in frustration and then tried again. “¿Señor? ¿Habla usted inglés?”
The Hispanic gentleman slowly shook his head. “No. No hablo inglés,” he mumbled.
“¿Que tiene usted? Usted pide azúcar. ¿Usted un diabético?”
“¡Sí! ¡Sí! ¡Necesito azúcar!”
John turned to his partner. “Roy, he’s definitely diabetic. Request permission to give him some glucose.”
DeSoto repeated the information to Rampart and then turned back to his partner. “They wanna know how long it’s been since his last insulin injection…”
Gage winced.
Noticing the high percentage of their victims who were Hispanic, the paramedic had persuaded Marco to teach him some Spanish words and phrases, including medical jargon for describing and treating common ailments.
John was sure they had covered diabetes, but he had to really tax his memory cells to come up with the proper terminology. “Uhhh…¿Cuándo usted inyectó la insulina? ¿Cuánto tiempo desde entonces que usted se dio la inyeccion de insulin?” he tried a second time.
The gentleman still didn’t seem to understand.
So Gage took a syringe from the case at his feet and went through the motions of giving himself an injection. “¿Cuando es la vez última que usted se acaba de poner una inyeccion de insulin?”
“Ahhh,” the man nodded. “Una hora.”
“About an hour ago,” John translated to his partner.
“Squad 51. It’s been about an hour, Rampart,” Roy repeated and then turned to the woman. “How long has he been like this?”
She glanced at her watch. “It can’t be more than twenty…twenty-five minutes.”
DeSoto gave Rampart the required information. “All right, Johnny. We can go ahead and give him the glucose.”
Johnny opened a tube of glucose and held it up to the gentleman’s mouth. “¿ Señor, Morales? ¿Puede usted comer un poco de esto?”
The man nodded and began swallowing the clear, sweet gel being squeezed between his teeth.
Within seconds after swallowing the azúcar, Señor Morales’ condition miraculously improved.
Within two minutes, their patient was completely recovered.
Roy rechecked their now vertical victim’s vital signs and passed them on to Rampart.
John felt the man’s forehead. “¿Cómo está usted?
The man managed a weak smile. “Mucho mejor. ¡Gracias! ¿Quiénnes son ustedes?”
“Somos paramédicos,” Gage replied. “Uhhh, damos primeros auxilios a la gente,” he added, upon seeing their patient’s still puzzled expression.
The man finally caught on. “Ahhh, casi doctores …”
The fireman grinned. “Si-i, casi doctores. Ahora…¿Usted está bien? ¿O, usted quiere ir al hospital?”
The man stiffened. “No es necesario ir al hospital. ¡Estoy muy bien!”
“Bueno.” John turned to his partner. “Roy, he says he’s all right now. He doesn’t want to go to the hospital. Ask Rampart if we can cancel the ambulance.”
“Ahh, Rampart…victim has recovered completely. Request permission to cancel ambulance…Roger, Rampart,” DeSoto hung up the phone and nodded to his partner.
“Esta seguro que estaria bien?” Gage again asked their patient.
“Soy positivo.”
“Bueno. Ojala, usted no estoy enfermo una otra vez. Pero, si usted estoy enfermo de nuevo, la palabra para azúcar es sugar. ¿Usted entiende?”
“Si. ‘Sugar’.”
“Tal vez, usted va a tu cuartos y usted se acueste. ¿Esta bien?” Gage suggested and helped the gentleman to his feet. “¡Cuidado!” he urged.
Señor Morales smiled and extended his hand. “¡Muchisimas gracias, paramédicos!”
John took and shook the grateful guy’s hand. “Por nada, Señor,” he assured him. Then he reached down to retrieve several of their equipment cases. “¡Que lo pase bien!” he called back over his shoulder and quickly began taking his leave.
“Yeah…adios,” Roy said, following a quick handshake. He gathered up what was left of their gear and followed his multi-lingual friend out of the motel’s office.
“¡Y, ustedes, tambien!” the man called after them.
“What was that he was saying about doctors?” Roy wondered, as they placed their equipment back into the various compartments of their Squad.
John closed the compartment doors and smiled. “He called us ‘almost doctors’.”
DeSoto returned the smile. “Is that what a paramédico is? An ‘almost doctor’?”
“When in doubt,” Gage replied, “improvise!”
“Is that what you speak?” His now grinning partner wondered, as they climbed back into their Rescue Squad and hung their helmets up. “Improvisational Spanish?”
John’s slightly eschew smile broadened into a lopsided grin. He shrugged and started reaching for their radio, but before he could even clear them, the dang thing started ‘bleeping'.
Gage snatched up the mic’ and pressed its transmit button. “LA, Squad 51 is available at the scene…”
“Squad 51 in place of Squad 16…Man down…car/pedestrian accident…at the intersection of Fourth Street and Garey Avenue…junction of Fourth and Garey…ambulance responding…Time Out: 11:47.”
“Squad 51. 10-4,” John acknowledged and jotted the call down in their log.
He and his partner re-donned their helmets and headed off in the direction of Fourth and Garey.
The rescue squad was within a few blocks of the accident site, when another message came over its radio.
“Squad 51…cancel.”
The paramedics exchanged grim glances.
The cancellation most likely meant that their victim had died while they were en route to the scene. Slowly, they began slipping their helmets off.
Roy flicked the lights and siren off and returned to normal driving speed.
His partner exhaled a painful sigh of frustration and then answered, “10-4, LA…Squad 51 clear.”
It was nearly half-past noon by the time DeSoto backed the Squad into its niche in Station 51’s apparatus bay. He flicked the ignition off and started reaching for his door’s latched handle.
The alarm sounded.
The firefighter’s forearm froze, right in mid-reach.
“Station 51…Engine 43…Engine 37…Ladder 12…Structure fire at Alvira Savings & Loan…2134 East Grand Avenue…cross streets Seventh and Grand…Two-one-three-four East Grand Avenue…Time Out: 12:27.”
“Station 51. KMG—365,” Stanley acknowledged.
Roy re-ignited the truck’s engine, took the call slip copy from his Captain and passed it on to his partner.
“Hang a right!” John directed.
DeSoto did.
Both rescue vehicles swung right out of the Station, and went racing off down the street, warning lights flashing and sirens wailing.
They reached the incident scene seven minutes later, in the exact same fashion—with lights flashing and sirens wailing.
Engines 43 and 37 had already arrived.
Ladder 12’s sirens could be heard, still a long ways off, and thick black clouds of smoke could be seen, rolling out of several of the ten story building’s upper level windows.
Hank Stanley stepped down and went trotting up to one of the other crew’s Captains. “Is everybody out of the building?”
“Everyone’s accounted for but the janitor!” Station 43’s Captain filled him in. “Apparently, he’s still up on the seventh floor, battling the blaze with a fire extinguisher!”
“Good grief!” Station 51’s Commander exclaimed. Then he turned to his men and called out a bunch of orders, which they immediately began to carry out.
A group of twelve firemen—with SCBA’s donned—entered the Alvira Savings & Loan and began making their way up to the fire on the 7th floor.
An elderly gentleman in a business suit came running up to Squad 51’s paramedics—who’d been told to stay put. “My secretary has been injured. Can you guys take a look at her?”
The paramedics replied by picking up several of their equipment cases and heading off in the direction the man pointed them in.
As the firemen approached a rather large gathering of the Savings & Loans’ evacuated employees, the crowd parted for them and a strikingly beautiful brunette—with two very long, very lovely, very shapely legs appeared.
The hem of the woman’s skirt was an inch or two above her knees and she was sitting—as modestly as circumstances would allow—on the sidewalk…surrounded by helpful male admirers—er, colleagues.
“All right! Step back please!” Roy pleaded. “C’mon! Give us some room to work here!”
“Ou-ouch!” their apparent patient pouted. “Oo-ooh…It hu-urts!” She directed her attention away from her right ankle and aimed her stunning gaze up at the tall, dark-haired fireman who had dropped to one knee beside her. “Can you plea-ease do something for my ankle?”
Gage glanced from the gorgeous girl, to his partner, and then back to the gorgeous girl again. “Yes, ma-am!” he assured the lovely little lady. Then he took her gently by the shoulders and eased her all the way down onto the pavement. “You just lie back and relax. Has anyone called an ambulance?” he inquired, following an initial examination of her swollen and discolored right ankle.
Her boss nodded.
“Is it broken?” their pretty patient pondered.
“You’re going to have to go in to the hospital and have this x-rayed,” DeSoto informed her, as he went about securing a set of vitals. “How’d it happen?”
“I fell down the steps in the Lobby. My mother warned me about these heels,” the girl admitted and dangled one of her very high stiletto-heeled shoes up for them to see.
“Did you hit your head when you fell?” the dark-haired fireman asked, flicking a penlight into her beautiful brown eyes.
“No.”
“Are you hurting anywhere else?”
“My seat’s kind a’ sore,” she reluctantly confessed and rubbed her bruised bottom.
Gage and DeSoto glanced at each other again and tried hard not to smile.
Inside the burning building, the elevator doors slid open on the seventh floor.
Captain Stanley stepped out into an unbearably hot, smoke-filled hallway and tripped over the janitor’s body. “Chet! Marco! Get him down and out!” he ordered through his facemask. “The rest of you—follow me!” However, before heading off in the direction of the flames, he pulled the portable radio from his coat pocket and hailed his paramedic team. “Engine 51 to Squad 51…”
“Engine 51. Roy, we’re bringing a victim down! Smoke inhalation!”
“Squad 51. Roger, that,” Roy replied. He replaced the HT and began gathering up some of their gear. “When you finish here, can you give me a hand?” he rather reluctantly inquired.
Gage was busy immobilizing the bombshell's ankle. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll be right with you,” he promised, sounding tremendously disappointed.
For the second time, in as many minutes, the senior paramedic was forced to suppress a smile.
DeSoto adjusted the oxygen flow to their smoke inhalation victim and then snatched their bio-phone back up. “Rampart, Squad 51…”
“Go ahead, 51…” Dr. Early answered.
“Rampart, we have established the IV…500 cc’s D5W TKO…and we’ve increased oxygen to 10 liters. Ambulance has just arrived.”
“Vitals look good, 51…” Early assured him. “You can go ahead and transport.”
“10-4, Rampart. Transporting victims one and two. ETA ten minutes.”
“We’ll be waiting, 51,” the doctor came back.
Roy replaced the phone and then watched as his smitten associate assisted their first patient up into the ambulance.
“If all our victims looked like her,” his bachelor buddy muttered, just beneath his breath, “we wouldn’t need vacations…”
“Yea-eah…” DeSoto was forced to agree. “We got it, Johnny!” he exclaimed, seeing his injured associate reaching for one end of their unconscious victim’s backboard.
Johnny exhaled an exasperated—all be it agonizing—gasp, but then obligingly stepped back out of the way. The pained paramedic sighed again and simply watched, as the attendants lifted the janitor onto a stretcher.
They slid the stretcher into the back of their ambulance and Roy quickly climbed up in with it.
Gage gave his amused, but un-amusing amigo an annoyed glare…along with several of their equipment cases. “I’ll, uh, wait for the back-up squad and then meet up with you at the hospital.”
His partner nodded his approval of the proposed plan and passed him their HT.
John pocketed the radio. Then he slammed the ambulance’s back doors shut and gave them a couple of quick slaps.
Its driver heard the ‘all clear’ signal.
The left behind fireman watched the vehicle pull away, lights flashing and siren blaring. His gaze then shifted to the Savings & Loan’s 7th floor.
The guys from 12 were busy attacking the blaze with their ladder mounted deck gun.
John stood there for quite a long while…watching all the action—and taking it real easy.
Gage glanced disbelievingly down his watch. “Twenty minutes!” Had he really been standing there that long?
He crossed over to their Squad, climbed into the driver’s seat, and snatched up their dash-mounted radio’s mic’. “LA, this is Squad 51…”
“LA, Squad 51. Request ETA on back-up squad to the structure fire at 2134 East Grand Avenue…”
Gage frowned. “LA, 51. We requested back-up over a half hour ago. This squad is tied up until I can get my partner back…”
“Repeat, 51…There are no available squads at this time…Will send the first clear squad your way…”
“Roger that, LA,” John glumly acknowledged. He replaced the radio and then drew in a deep breath—which made him cough. He coughed hard—which made his ribs hurt. So he covered his mouth and tried not to cough so hard.
Another twenty minutes passed, and there was still no back-up squad in sight.
The bored-to-tears paramedic stared back up at the 7th floor of the Savings & Loan building.
Just a few puffs of white smoke and steam could be seen now.
“Watch the back-up get here when the fire’s out,” he grumbled aloud.
As if in response, the radio in the right front pocket of his turn-out coat ‘bleeped’.
The startled onlooker dug the instrument out and pressed its transmit button. “Squad 51. Go ahead, Engine 51...”
“Engine 51. John, Mike Stoker just went from the 7th to the 6th floor—without using the stairs or the elevator,” his Captain announced. “I want you to come up and check him out! Bring a backboard—just in case!”
“Right away, Cap!” John assured him and replaced his HT.
Gage inserted his firefighter key and rode up to the 6th floor in a very soggy elevator.
He stepped out into an even soggier hallway and spotted his Captain.
Stanley was standing in an office doorway, halfway down the long hall, motioning for him to hurry over.
John trotted up to the requester of his presence.
His Commander promptly relieved him of some of his burden and then escorted him into the office.
“He says that he’s all right,” Stanley informed the new arrival. “Claims he just had his wind knocked out of him, but we all know how that goes. I want you to check him out—one hundred percent!”
Gage acknowledged his Captain’s order with a slight nod and then focused a hundred percent of his attention upon his patient.
Mike was lying on his left side, on account a’ how his SCBA tank was still strapped to his back.
John set his cases and helmet down and then knelt beside his fallen comrade.
More than anything, Stoker seemed irritated about all the fuss being made over him.
“Hi, Mike. Did you hit your head?” The paramedic flicked his penlight in the engineer’s eyes.
“Hi, Johnny. No. I did not hit my head. This is silly.”
“Are you in any pain?” the paramedic inquired and continued his initial patient survey.
“No-o. I’m perfectly all right…no-ow.”
Gage checked everything out, including the man’s pulse, respirations and BP. “How did you hit the floor?”
“Very hard,” Stoker annoyedly declared.
His fellow firefighters grinned.
The paramedic couldn’t help but smile. “I meant, what part of you hit first?”
“My feet…and then my seat.”
John decided to play a little paramedic’s version of ‘The Hokey Pokey’ with his patient. “Move your legs…”
Mike moved his legs.
“Okay. Now, wiggle your feet for me.”
Stoker hesitated.
“C’mon!” the playful paramedic encouraged.
Mike wiggled his feet.
“Move your arms and wiggle your hands…”
His patient reluctantly moved his arms and wiggled his hands.
“Raise your head…”
Mike raised his head.
Gage grabbed his patient’s right wrist and started pulling him into a sitting position. “Any pain in your neck or back?”
Stoker shook his head.
So the paramedic pulled the engineer to his feet. Gage grinned and turned to face their fearless leader. “I can’t find anything wrong with him, Cap,” he happily reported, but then teasingly tacked on, “least ways, nothing physical…”
His shift-mates snickered.
Mike raised an eyebrow and rested his hands on his hips. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Gage turned back to face his questioner. A drop of water landed on his nose. He glanced up at the steel I-beams, which crossed the gaping hole above their heads.
An enormous metal filing cabinet had toppled over when the 7th floor’s floor went. It now teetered, rather precariously, on one of the building’s exposed support beams.
Another drop struck the fireman, in the center of his forehead.
Less than an instant later, the teetering cabinet fell.
John grabbed Mike around the waist and tackled him to the office’s soggy carpeting.
Just in time! The filing cabinet crash-landed onto the 6th floor—right in the spot he and Stoker had been standing.
Stanley rushed over to them. “You two okay?”
“Yeah,” Mike assured him and slowly began getting to his feet. “But that was uncomfortably close! Thanks, Johnny!”
Hank heaved a silent sigh of relief. The Captain extended a hand to the other floored member of his crew, but the downed man chose to remain flat on his back.
Gage grimaced and just continued to lay there, with his eyes and mouth clamped tightly shut.
Hank saw the paramedic’s pained expression and quickly dropped to his knees beside him. “What’s wrong, pal?”
John reluctantly reached inside his bulky coat—and pulled out a handful of raw egg and eggshells.
Everybody burst out laughing.
Well, except for Hank—who was struggling desperately to keep a straight face. The Captain stood and began pulling the still grimacing paramedic to his feet. “C’mon!” he gently urged. “We’ll give you a lift back to the Station…”
It was around two p.m., by the time 51’s engine crew finally got to enjoy their lunch.
Hank was just about to take another sip of his delicious soup, when Gage entered the day room, showered and in his street clothes. The Captain paused to offer the paramedic a suggestion. “You should have a sandwich before you go. You must be as starved as we are.”
“Thanks, but no thanks, Cap.” John strolled past the table, heading for the sofa. “I’ve had enough eggs for one day.”
The guys grinned.
“Move over, Henry!” the paramedic pleaded.
The Basset Hound barely lifted his head up from the couch cushion.
“C’mon! Move over!” the weary fireman repeated and gave the unmoving mutt a gentle nudge.
Henry let out a low, menacing growl and John snatched his hand back.
Chet Kelly and Roy DeSoto stepped into the room.
“He’s bluffing!” Kelly told Gage. “Just give ‘im a good shove! I hope you guys left a little something for me! I’m starving!”
John gave Henry a not so gentle nudge.
Sure enough! The dog growled disgustedly, but obligingly crawled down the couch a ways.
The paramedic collapsed onto the vacated cushion and closed his eyes.
DeSoto strolled over and parked himself in the chair directly across from him.
“Roy, aren’t you eating, either?” his concerned Captain called over to him.
“I had lunch with Dr. Brackett in the hospital cafeteria,” Roy replied. “Hey! Johnny! Why don’t you go home and do that?”
Johnny opened one eye a crack. “I’m waiting for Morton to call. You didn’t happen to see him, did you?”
“No. But when he calls, I can pass the message on to you.”
“I’m not gonna be home. I’ve gotta go to the Laundromat. Besides, I’m also waiting for the mail…” his words trailed off. His eye closed, and he was instantly asleep.
The visitor’s buzzer sounded.
Hank looked up from his lunch. “Hey, Roy? Since you’re not eating, would you mind seeing who’s at the door?”
“No problem, Cap.” DeSoto got stiffly to his feet and left the room.
Roy pulled the portal open and a young lady with long blonde hair and emerald-green eyes appeared.
“Hi!” the girl said and extended a hand. “I’m Stacey Ferrel. I’m with the Personnel Department of the Los Angeles County Fire Department.”
DeSoto shook her hand. “Hi! I’m Roy DeSoto. Firefighter/Paramedic Department. Won’t you come in…”
She entered the Station and then followed the firefighter/paramedic off across the garage.
Roy escorted their visitor into the day room.
The guys shoved their chairs back and stood.
“Gentlemen,” the paramedic aptly introduced, “this is Miss Ferrel…from Headquarters.”
“I’m sorry,” the lovely young lady told them. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner. Please! Sit down and finish eating.”
Chet, Marco and Mike sat back down.
Captain Stanley remained standing. “What can we do for you, Miss Ferrel?”
“Well, Captain, I was hoping I might get a chance to talk to one of your men, but I won’t bother him during his lunch-break,” their visitor vowed and turned to go.
“Wait!” Hank encouraged. “I’m sure it wouldn’t be any bother. Who is it?”
She turned back. “A Mister Gage. John Gage.”
The guys stopped chewing and stared off across the room at their dozing colleague.
Stanley smiled. “I told you it wouldn’t be any bother. He’s not even taking a lunch-break.” With that, the Station’s Commander turned and shouted, “Ga-age!”
Ga-age opened both eyes. Then he sat forward in his seat and sleepily inquired, “Yeah, Cap? What is it? Morton? Or the mail?”
“Neither. You have a…visitor,” his Captain informed him and motioned to the girl.
John’s blurred vision cleared and then focused on his visitor. His sleepy eyes widened and his brows shot up. He cradled his ribs and then struggled carefully to his feet. “You-ou want to see me-e?” he incredulously inquired as he stepped stiffly up to the lovely apparition.
“Are you all right?” the girl asked the hunched over—and obviously hurting—fireman.
“Just stiffened up a little,” the fireman assured her with a faint smile. “Shouldn't a' stopped moving.”
Stacey stared uncertainly down at the crippled young man with the slightly crooked smile. “Ye-es. May I speak with you? Privately?”
The guys glanced at one another and grinned again.
Gage’s eyebrows rose once more. “Sure! Why not?”
“You can use my office, John,” his Captain volunteered.
“Thanks, Cap!” John acknowledged and led the lovely lady out of the room.
The paramedic strolled into Stanley’s office.
The girl followed him in and then shut the door. “Stacey Ferrel,” she said and extended her hand. “Personnel Department.”
The fireman took and shook her hand. “John Gage,” he introduced and that slightly eschew smile of his reappeared. “You can call me Johnny.”
“Very well…Johnny. You may call me Miss Ferrel,” Stacey icily informed him—and his smile turned instantly upside down. She stared at his street clothes, looking confused. “I was told you were planning to finish the shift…”
He followed her gaze. “Yeah. I was. And I would have, too—if those darned eggs hadn’t a’ cracked.”
Miss Ferrel’s confusion quadrupled. “Ri-ight. Look, Mister Gage—”
“—Johnny,” he quickly corrected.
“Johnny,” she cooly complied, “I was sent here to try and talk you out of quitting.”
“That’s not necessary,” the fireman assured her.
“I see.” It was now Miss Ferrel’s turn to frown. “And nothing I might have to say will change your mind. Right?”
Gage’s smile returned. “‘Miss Ferrel’, you could probably say a lot a' things that would get me to change my mind…but it’s not necessary. I’ve already changed my mind—myself.”
“Then…you’re not quitting?”
John shook his head and stood there, staring—unabashedly—at his breath-taking visitor. “You have the most beautiful green eyes I’ve ever seen…” he quietly confessed.
Miss Ferrel blushed and avoided the rather forward fireman’s gaze. “May I ask what made you change your mind?”
The paramedic sat back on the edge of his Captain’s desk. “Do you know why I was quitting in the first place?”
She nodded. “Because your vacation was cancelled.”
Gage managed a bitter smile. “If that was the case, Miss Ferrel, I would’ve quit over a month ago…when my vacation was cancelled the first time.”
The girl shot him a questioning glance. “Then why-y?”
“I was quitting because I was getting to the point where I could no longer do my job as well as it should be done. And, when my life—and other people’s lives—are at stake…” He exhaled a shallow sigh of profound frustration. “Well, let’s just say I’m not going to sacrifice my health,” he paused. “But I don’t have to quit, either. Because it now appears that I have two weeks of R&R coming!”
There followed a long silence.
Stacey stood there, staring at the overly fatigued firefighter like she was seeing him for the first time.
She had despised being given this little assignment. She’d been told, by her superiors, to use her womanly wiles to sweet-talk the crybaby paramedic into staying on the job.
Turned out, they’d been all wrong about John Gage.
She’d been all wrong about him. “I’m glad you’re not quitting, Johnny,” she said and flashed the handsome young fellow a genuinely warm smile.
John melted. “Thank you, Miss Ferrel. So am I.”
The girl opened the door and began taking her leave. “You can call me Stacey,” she called back over her shoulder.
“Thank you…Stacey,” Gage acknowledged, and followed her out of the room.
The two of them returned to the dining area.
“Goodbye, Captain…Mr. DeSoto…Gentlemen,” their visitor said. The girl then turned to Gage and re-extended her hand. “Johnny, I hope you enjoy your vacation.”
Johnny took the pretty lady’s proffered palm and re-shook it. “Thanks, Stacey. I fully intend to!”
“Bye!”
“Bye, Stacey!” Gage bid their departing guest.
The young woman smiled and waved…and was gone.
The guys stared wonderingly up at their colleague.
The paramedic pretended not to notice. “Did Morton call?”
“Not yet…” Roy numbly replied.
“The mail come?”
“Not yet…” his partner numbly repeated.
“I’m really impressed, John!” Captain Stanley confessed. “In the eighteen long years I’ve been with the department, I have never had a beautiful young lady come all the way over from headquarters just to wish me an enjoyable vacation. Why-y, I’ve never even had a whole new vacation schedule made out—just for me. How the blazes do you do it?”
“Well, Cap…” Gage grinned and placed a hand on his partner’s shoulder, “it pays to have friends with the right connections.”
The guys all grinned.
The visitor’s buzzer sounded again.
“The mail!” John exclaimed, and exited the room.
Gage returned a few moments later with a bunch of envelopes—which he deposited on the table, beside his Captain’s plate.
“Now, John?” Hank inquired, sounding somewhat annoyed.
John just stood there, looking hopeful.
Stanley shoved his unfinished lunch out of the way and began sorting through the mail. “Here’s a couple for C-shift. One for you, Chester,” he announced and passed Kelly an envelope. “Three for you, Marco,” he continued.
Lopez snatched the letters from his Captain’s upraised hand.
“This week’s bulletin board poster.” Stanley set a large manila envelope aside. “The Department Newsletter and a reminder for the benefit dance Friday night.” He heard John’s impatient sigh and looked up from the newsletter. “Sorry, pal. Nothing in here about the new vacation schedule.”
“That's okay. They probably ran that off before it came in,” Gage glumly reasoned.
“Probably,” his Captain conceded. “Here’s the new inspection schedule. It hasn’t been six weeks already. Has it?”
Chet glanced up from the letter he was reading. “Hard to believe, isn’t it!”
“It seems like we just finished the last schedule,” Marco remarked, sounding equally amazed.
“That’s because we did just finish it,” Stoker reminded him. “It took the whole six weeks to hit all those places.”
Firefighter/Paramedic, Dave Wright, from Station 12’s B-shift, strolled into the day room. “Hi, guys!” he cheerily proclaimed.
The alarm sounded.
The new arrival’s shoulders slumped. “Bye, guys…” he gloomily grumbled and reluctantly followed Roy from the room.
“See yah, Johnny!” DeSoto called over his shoulder.
“Yeah. See yah, Roy!” Gage called back.
The loudspeaker drowned out any further conversation between the two parting friends.
“Man down…possible heart attack…Gilbert Jr. High School…3655 Chelsea…cross-street Olivet…three-six-five-five Chelsea…ambulance responding…Time Out: 14:27”
“Squad 51. KMG—365,” Stanley answered and handed Roy a copy of the call slip.
Gage leaned against the doorway to the garage. He stood there, smiling—and looking very relaxed. He watched the Squad pull out, siren blaring and lights flashing. He thought about the two whole weeks he wouldn’t be hearing the alarms or racing to the calls…no stress…no responsibilities…no life and death situations. He grinned and straightened. “Bye, guys…” he quietly called after them.
Just then, the phone rang.
“I got it!” John announced and snatched the annoying instrument up. “Station 51. Fireman Gage…5:30?…Yeah…Sure…No. No problem…Thanks, Doc’!” He replaced the phone and turned to his friends. “Bye, guys!” he repeated.
Stanley slapped him lightly on the back. “Take care of yourself, John. We’re gonna miss you around here.” Hank flashed his young friend a warm smile and extended an open palm.
The paramedic placed his right hand in his Captain's. “Thanks, Cap. Same here,” John assured him. He exchanged smiles and waves with the rest of the guys. Then he grinned and turned to go.
“Send us a postcard!” Kelly called after the vanishing vacationer. “From...wherever!”
“I will!” the paramedic promised—and was gone.
LA County firefighter/paramedic, John Gage was not feeling his best.
Being caught between a rock and a hard place, was not a good way to start a shift.
Come to think of it, having the front of your uniform completely soaked with raw egg, was not a particularly great way to end one, either.
Though, as lousy as the relieved-of-duty fireman now felt, he was actually glad his Captain had sent him home.
The shift had ended—for him—at around 2:30, but it wasn’t until almost 4:30 that he finally made it to his apartment. He’d had some errands to run—and uniforms to clean.
That river water he’d inhaled, and the bruised ribs he’d received from being hit by a car—again—had led to an extremely painful coughing episode at the Laundromat.
No sir! The still hacking—and hurting—young man was not feeling very well—at a-all!
Gage put his cleaned clothes away and took another hot shower. The heat helped ease the discomfort in his ribcage, but the steam caused his coughing to intensify.
‘Wow!’ he thought to himself, as his latest coughing jag painfully continued. ‘It’s a good thing Dr. Morton made that appointment for me!’
He coughed himself into his bedroom and threw on a fresh change of clothes. Then he sat on the edge of his bed and began towel drying his hair. He glanced at his alarm clock. It was a quarter to five. He lay back, and allowed his heavy eyelids to drop.
‘Can’t afford to fall asleep…’ he reminded himself, and snapped his tired eyes back open. ‘I’ve gotta be at the hospital in forty-five minutes…’ However, the shower had been very relaxing…too relaxing. His drooping lids shut the world out again. ‘I’ll just rest my eyes awhile…’
With that final thought, the overly fatigued fireman fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.
John jerked awake.
It was dark in his room.
The luminous dial of his alarm clock said it was now 10:30 p.m..
“Oh-Oh no-o!” he groaned aloud. “Morton’s gonna kill me!”
He tried to rise, but was unsuccessful. He suddenly realized he was dripping wet—but not from the shower. No, this time, he was soaked with sweat! His whole body seemed to be on fire! He also realized that his chest hurt a whole lot more now—too much for just some bruised ribs.
‘Better get to the hospital…’ he groggily determined.
He rolled very carefully onto his side and then tried to sit up again…but still couldn’t do it. He couldn’t believe how light-headed and incredibly weak he felt.
‘Gotta get to the phone…’ he decided and rolled out of bed. “Ah-uh!” he cried out, as his bruised body made contact with the carpeted floor. He paused there, on all fours. Waves of dizziness rolled over him. His breathing was very labored. He shook his head, trying to clear it.
‘Uh-oh…’ he thought, as the shaking proved unsuccessful, ‘I’m gonna pass ou—’
The feverish fireman collapsed in a crumpled heap—and was still.