THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Monday, March 13, 1995 TAG: 9503130066
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: Mike Mather
Staff Writer
DATELINE: VIRGINIA BEACH LENGTH: Long : 119 lines
The smoke belched through the opened door and rolled over us like an encroaching cloud bank.
Real smoke from real fire kills; the nontoxic smoke that filled two floors of the Cavalier on the Hill, as part of perhaps the most extensive drill the Fire Department has ever undertaken, wouldn't hurt us.
On day three of a nine-day exercise, I was part of a three-person crew assigned to search for victims in a simulated two-floor fire at the high-rise hotel. The exercise would test how well commanders track and manage crews assigned to rescue victims, quash flames and protect property in one of the worst scenarios for city firefighters - a high-rise hotel disaster.
Hotel officials offered the historic building, in the midst of extensive renovations, to help train the city's firefighters and supervisors in an environment that couldn't be simulated elsewhere. Firefighters from across the country will then review the videotapes and reports to learn what went right in the drill, and what went wrong.
With a hiss, cool air flowed into my face mask from a bulky tank strapped to my back. The air would last 30 minutes.
Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth.
The smoke thickened as we crawled along a hose line stretched into a fifth-floor hall.
``Keep the hose between your legs,'' said firefighter David Foxwell, his voice muffled in the airtight mask.
The hose was our umbilical cord, a tether to the outside where the air was fresh, the sun shined and the early guests of a wedding party thought their reception hall was going up in flames. The mother of the bride burst into tears.
Following the hose ahead of Foxwell was Tina Ryner, the third member of Ladder 21, a reserve truck activated for the drill and manned by Plaza firefighters.
In through your nose and out through your mouth.
The smoke grew thicker, blurring Foxwell's burly shape. Deeper into the darkness we crawled.
Absent in the drill, however, was the hellish atmosphere that can reach 700 degrees at chest level and more than 2,000 along the ceiling. The 1,300-degree difference is why firefighters crawl.
Absent also was the falling glass that can sever a charged hose like a guillotine.
And absent was the chaos that comes when men and women bundled in fire-retardant cocoons charge into the uncertainty of a burning building from which all sensible people are fleeing in panic.
But there was still plenty of realism. The smoke eroded visibility to zero. Communications faltered. Efforts were duplicated.
Slowly and deliberately, we crawled farther into the hazy hallway. Suddenly, the smoke swallowed Foxwell.
I couldn't see him or the hose on the floor.
I couldn't see the walls or doors.
I couldn't see my gloved hands fumbling along the carpet.
In through your nose and out through you mouth.
``Grab my leg,'' Foxwell called back. ``And hold on.''
We crawled into a room to search for victims. Gone was the hose I followed. Gone were Foxwell's boots that had guided me. Gone was anything that could tell me where I was, or how to get out.
My breathing quickened until I was sucking air through my mouth like a winded cross-country runner.
I swept around the room in what firefighters call a right-hand search - my right hand followed the walls and furniture looking for victims. Foxwell and Ryner searched along the other wall.
I missed a closet and a bathroom where, in a real fire, panicked children often hide.
Outside, the fourth member of our crew - Dan Lindsey - tracked firefighters' progress with other supervisors, noting the holes and gaps it exposed that will have to be fixed.
``I didn't see any people problems,'' Deputy Chief Jim Carter told the crews during the afternoon debriefing and critique session. ``The problems we saw were systems problems or equipment problems.''
For example, firefighters had to haul victims outside because rescue workers hadn't set up inside the safe areas of the hotel.
Several key pieces of rescue equipment didn't arrive, nor did two special fire trucks that could have refilled air bottles faster.
And, for more than an hour, one hotel wing went unsearched, even though a pretend victim waved for help from a fifth-floor window as smoke billowed around him. Finally, tired of waiting, the victim rescued himself by walking down the smoke-clogged stairs. Drill officials ruled him dead. Four others were rescued.
``The idea is, if we are going to make mistakes, to make them here,'' Carter said. ``And not when it's real.'' ILLUSTRATION: [Color Photo]
TAMARA VONINSKI/Staff
Firefighter Martin Grube carries oxygen tanks into the Cavalier on
the Hill, to replenish the supply of oxygen tanks used up in the
drill.
Firefighters use the third floor of the Cavalier as a tactical
command center for instructions and a place to replenish oxygen,
safe from the mock fire on the fifth floor.
In the midst of the mock mayhem at the Cavalier on the Hill stands a
safety officer, on hand to oversee the traininig drill. In real
fires, firefighters often crawl through buildings to avoid
temperatures that can reach 700 degrees Fahrenheit at chest level
and more that 2,000 degrees near ceilings.
by CNB