Life on Fire

Fort Worth Magazine spent three days on the scene with several first responders, becoming acquainted with the intricate details of their everyday jobs: the tedious tasks, the constant readiness, and the moments of terror.

Euless Fire

The soft glow of a retiring sun frames Bill Ver Steeg’s easy roll back into the Euless City Hall parking lot. On Halloween, the fire department’s battalion chief muses all that happened throughout his sojourns at the three fire stations for the day — writing through reams of paperwork, supervising training with CPAP equipment, exercising to be physically ready for any spontaneous task — as Christian rock from his radio lifts the air. Amber twilight crowns his leisure after a steady day’s work.

The shriek of a structure-fire call kills that peace.

Ver Steeg’s shift storms back to life as he speeds out the lot and into afterwork traffic, deftly avoiding any collision, and pushing through stoplights to reach the other end of the city. Any quiet to be found through the cacophony of dispatch radio and ear-splitting emergency sirens over his truck lies within Ver Steeg’s eerily calm demeanor as he shreds through Euless roads.

He and a crew of nearly a half-dozen firefighters suddenly have a suburban home surrounded.

“You can tell instantly what caused smoke to go up from the smell,” Ver Steeg says, confidently stepping through the front door of a smog-filled household. It was the usual: the can-o-beans call. Food had been left simmering over a stovetop for too long. The call was nothing to cause a roof to spout flames.

But as Ver Steeg and company wrap up the routine call, he can’t help but reflect how that smell also wasn’t anything like the stench of decaying human flesh from a rotting corpse. 

Somebody has to open doors of those who haven’t been heard from for too long; somebody has to discover a morbid truth. For Ver Steeg, the usual can-o-beans call is much more stomachable than stumbling upon the odor of a person’s life long-ended. “I never want to smell that again,” he says.

Nobody knows what will happen again. The Euless Fire Department doesn’t know but is ready for anything.

Elderly, crippled men collapsing from too many rum and Cokes. Residents totally nude inside bathtubs requiring help out. Uneducated folks wondering why in the world their smoke detector won’t stop chirping. These are all circumstances Euless firefighters have handled any given day, and most of them agree on a general call-type ratio: 75% medical emergencies, 20% miscellaneous, and 5% fires.

Lieutenant Tommy Rush, Euless Fire Department’s longest-tenured firefighter, who has served his community for nearly four decades, has frequently encountered friends and acquaintances when serving those calls, many of whom have attended the popular Euless Citizen Fire Academy. 

“I grew up with friends who’ve now grown up, married … and have been friends with their kids,” Rush says. “It’s gotten to the point where we go on calls and frequently recognize people.”

The “old man” of EFD has been a Mid-Cities man all his life, having grown up in Hurst and graduating as an L.D. Bell Blue Raider in 1978. He serves young firefighters well in offering his wealth of knowledge — and humor. “I like to drink beer, so this keeps me off the streets and out of the bars,” Rush jokes. “I enjoy it. I keep trying to retire, and these guys won’t let me.”

Rush’s storied gaze walking through smoke plumes is enough to make it clear that plenty’s changed in the sleepy Hurst-Euless-Bedford trifecta over the years. Technological advances have forced first responders to adapt to how they fight flames that rise more rapidly than traditional wood — synthetic building materials make fires in a matter of seconds nowadays versus a matter of minutes.

“The materials that furniture is made out of is more synthetic. It puts out more poisonous smoke and a lot more smoke,” Rush says. “It’s very evident that it goes faster.”

Smoke chock-full with exponentially more carcinogens than past times too has become evident, spurring an emerging focus on firefighter health and cancer prevention. 

The Euless Fire Department has recently implemented “purification chambers” for firefighters to enter after encountering smoke. Upon return, crew members must shower “as hot as they can stand it,” then work out before entering the sauna-like space for around 20 minutes. They then must shower again.

Anything to help safeguard a word heard multiple times throughout the day inside Euless Fire Department stations: family. Familial values keep the Euless Fire Department afloat from the top down, including firefighter David Johnson.

It’s near impossible to tell whenever Johnson will suddenly slap you with a perfectly timed punchline, but it’s easy to tell whenever the veteran first responder is stone-cold serious.

That’s seen whenever tears glaze Johnson’s eyes as he recalls the day a fellow Euless firefighter lost both a wife and child at the hands of a fatal accident, right before he was going to meet them in West Texas for the holidays. Johnson hasn’t forgotten his crew’s instantaneous response to a brother in need of help, standing by him through trials and tragedy. “When you come here, you get a whole lot more family than you originally thought,” Johnson says.

A focus on family is something of a rule, too, as plainly seen as firefighters slice and dice ingredients for lunch together. Everybody on shift pitches in both effort and money to make meals happen, carefully stretching and frugally consuming groceries. In these moments, the Euless Fire Department laughs at and trolls one another, not unlike brothers biting at each other’s necks.

“Every night, we try to have family time,” Ver Steeg says. “And nobody gets up from family time.”

Until, at least, the next call to action.

Medstar EMS

Starbucks isn’t open when Roland Hernandez starts his day. The paramedic/supervisor is up before the sun comes out — around 3:45 a.m. — and makes his coffee at home before heading to Medstar’s Alta Mere facility to begin his 12-hour shift, from 5 a.m. to 5 p.m. 

Like all paramedics, his first order of business is clocking in and picking up his basket, packed with essentials like a radio and an intraosseous kit (or IO kit, used in place of an IV). He’s ready to go.

Hernandez’s job as a supervisor has an element of fluidity — while he answers calls like any other paramedic, supervisors also act as an extra set of hands, able to drive to any emergency in any part of town to help crews needing assistance. Another part of his job is scheduling and making sure ambulances are available, on time, and back on the streets in a timely manner. 

This day is a rainy one, assumed to produce some sort of highway wreck during the morning rush. To Hernandez’s surprise, however, his phone is quiet, giving him time to chill in his office for a moment.

By around 7 a.m., Hernandez was in his truck, No. 801, scrolling through a Samsung tablet listing about 30 ambulances. Normally, he’d be looking for units marked in red, indicating that an ambulance has been on the scene longer than normal and needs to be checked on. Tap one, and a short profile of the case would appear, describing the injury or illness, along with the location of the incident. 

But, for whatever reason, on this day, most ambulances were marked green and labeled “Standby Position.” 

“No active calls,” Hernandez says, so he calls dispatch. “What’s going on with the system? What’s wrong with it?” 

The dispatcher on the other line has a simple explanation: The rain, coupled with the cold, might be keeping people at home and off the roads. But “we’ll get you dropped on any good calls,” the dispatcher says.

Despite this, Hernandez refuses to say the “S word” (that is, “slow”). Turns out the “S word” is taboo among paramedics — because anything can happen to change that. 

Hernandez, who’s been a paramedic for over 30 years, is all too familiar with the intensity of the job. He’s seen his share of gunshot wounds, murders, and fires, with stories of blood and gore that rival anything fictionalized in “The Walking Dead.” There’s hardly an average day. 

“It’s steadily busy every day,” Hernandez says. “You don’t know what to expect.”

And while paramedics often see people on their worst days, Hernandez says those who work in this business seem to share a similar personality — calm and compassionate, with a quirky, offbeat sense of humor. 

Back at “The Star,” the nickname for Medstar’s Alta Mere headquarters, Hernandez grabs a coffee in the break room and meets up with a notably popular paramedic, George Church — popular, particularly for his staccato way of speaking and his way of saying hello: “Hey, foo!”  

The camaraderie is apparent among Hernandez, Church, and the other paramedics in the office. They’re constantly cracking jokes, unafraid to throw in a little juvenile potty humor. 

Being a paramedic is truly a hurry-up-and-wait business, Hernandez says. Even during chill moments, there’s an element of anticipation.

Finally, by around 9:45 a.m. — in what already feels like half a day — Hernandez gets a call about a patient who may have a head injury. And just like that, he’s back in his car heading toward the emergency.

Hernandez’s demeanor is calm during the drive, like a guy who’s been around the block once or twice. And while the wailing of the car’s siren as it passes through red lights naturally has a sense of urgency, Hernandez says paramedics often find themselves discussing anything but the call they’re driving to. Perhaps a crazy incident that happened in the past. Or what they’re going to have for lunch. 

When Hernandez arrives, a firetruck and ambulance are already at the scene — a rundown residence, darkly lit and covered in trash, while reeking of a musty odor. Hernandez and crew members help the patient (who’s conscious and alert) out of the home and into the ambulance, hooking the patient up to a Zoll cardiac monitor. 

In a matter of minutes, the ambulance is off; Hernandez is back in his truck; and from the radio, one can hear the paramedic’s voice giving a report to the hospital. 

Hernandez is notably unphased by the sight of the patient’s living conditions — 30-plus years being a paramedic has shown him all sorts of neighborhoods. And sickness does not discriminate. 

Just like one call from a slightly higher-end neighborhood in another part of town. A patient was rendered unconscious, with dispatch giving CPR instructions to a frantic loved one over the phone. By the time Hernandez made it to the scene, it was too late. The patient had passed.

Hernandez says over the years, he’s come to realize not every life can be saved. “You have no control over who lives or dies,” he says. On some days, he’s able to move on from death; other days hit harder. For Hernandez, it’s the loss of a child, and one of the worst sounds he can ever hear is the “screech of a mother whose child just died.”

“It’s horrible,” he says. “They look to us for help. We know that in many situations, there’s nothing we can do, but we do our best to at least give them hope.”

On a stop to Texas Health Harris Methodist Hospital Fort Worth, Hernandez asks a paramedic how many of them have PTSD. “Everyone,” the paramedic says. Even the scratch of a radio can give Hernandez a jolt (it’s happened once while he was on vacation). And drives down certain streets remind him of shootings and bodies he’s had to pick up. Thankfully, Hernandez says, mental health is discussed on a regular basis at Medstar; and there’s a Hope Squad dedicated to helping crews deal with everyday stress.

Being a paramedic is a calling, Hernandez says, recalling his childhood fascination with ambulances and how he’d doodle them as a child. Life story in a nutshell: He got his first job as a paramedic in Lubbock in 1984 before moving to Fort Worth in 1987. And he’s stayed in the Fort ever since. He knows the ins and outs of the city, every inside road and shortcut to get to the next call, answering each one with his signature greeting: “801, it’s Roland.” 

“I’ve learned to appreciate life more than you’ll ever know, even through hard times,” he says. “You always know that, regardless of what your circumstances or situations are, you have it a lot better than most people do.” 

Fort Worth Police

It's 6 a.m. on a cool Tuesday morning in the Near Southside police substation. About a dozen police officers, having completed roll call, begin an exit to the parking lot, a few bantering with their colleagues, others more serious, all in uniform with weapons holstered. Among these officers is Johnny Cox, a Fort Worth native who has served as a police patrolman and sometimes instructor for 24 years. Cox began his day half an hour earlier, checking the computer, determining what had transpired overnight, and deciding where to start his shift. 

Still dark outside, Cox switches the overhead white light of his patrol car off and the red light on. The white light is called a sniper light — meaning whoever is inside makes an easy target. He is ready to depart to his beat — a district bordered by Interstate 35, Vickery Boulevard, East Berry Street, and U.S. Route 287.

The first call comes through. Cox is asked to assist a stalled pickup in the 700 block of West Freeway, providing traffic control while another officer pushes the car to safety. The officer who is pushing the car radios Cox to tell him the driver does not speak English, and he is having a hard time making him understand he must take his foot off the brake. 

Cox then heads to a Texaco station at Riverside Drive and East Berry Street, where he performs a “business check” for this store, one that has harbored criminal activity in the past. While he chats with the manager, a few early-morning, game-playing patrons take a quick glance over to see what is happening. Evidently, all went smoothly the prior night.  

Moving the patrol car to the edge of the Texaco’s parking lot, Cox begins his first documenting of the day. A computer is mounted to the right of the driver’s seat, where he must account for all interactions. 

While sitting in the parking lot, he also checks a few license plates, ensuring none are stolen or have warrants against the owner. 

Then, another call comes from the dispatcher. The manager of a doughnut shop in the 900 block of East Berry complained that a homeless man is bothering his customers. Cox heads to the strip mall shopping center and spots the man rolling his grocery buggy down the sidewalk, his head and body covered by a gray blanket. Cox speaks with him for about 10 minutes and finally convinces him to stay away from the doughnut store entrance. The man then enters another store down the way, one that historically has had no issue with him coming inside. Problem solved — at least until the next cold spell.

Near a bus stop in the same area, Cox rolls down his window as he recognizes a man he has encountered before.  

“Hey man, I thought that was you, the same officer who talked to me last week,” Demond says. “You know I just gotta out of prison 15 months ago, and I have to go to class as part of my parole. I’m from Los Angeles — and you know — we don’t talk to cops out there. But here in Fort Worth, I like to talk to you. I even talked about you in my class last week. You do a good job out here.” 

Then — more downtime, more documenting, more licenses’ checking — all while staying alert to activity near the car.  

It is now late morning. Still patrolling East Berry Street, Cox happens upon a driver who has blown a tire when he hit a curb. While waiting on a tow truck, Cox checks the man’s record on his computer. He pops up as a registered sex offender, but because he is properly input into the system, there is no need for action. 

Upon entering McDonald’s for lunch — oatmeal — customers and staff greet him with welcoming conversation. Many of the patrons know him from previous encounters. Over “lunch,” Cox opened up about his career as well as his personal life. He and his wife of 22 years are avid cyclists and runners and spend their free time with family — two German shepherds — Cagney and Lacey. 

 He described the best day and the worst day in his career. 

“Each day is the best day when I and my colleagues and all those citizens we serve get home safe at night, wherever that might be.”

The worst day was bittersweet. 

“It was Christmas Day 1995. I was still in training. A DWI westbound traveler on State Highway 121 crossed the median and hit a minivan, killing both a man and his wife instantly. A child seat was ripped from the van and sent tumbling across the freeway, landing facedown. Both citizens and officers were hesitant to approach that car seat. Then my trainer told me, ‘Rookie, it’s your time.’ I was so afraid of what I would find. But when I turned it over, it was a baby — alive — with only a small abrasion on his forehead. He looked at me, not even crying.” 

Now early afternoon, Cox drives to La Primavera Apartments on East Berry, a complex known for theft, drug trafficking, and even murder. As he meanders through the maze of pathways, Cox interacts with a number of apartment dwellers. He speaks with a woman whose brother had recently attempted suicide, asking her how he is doing.

“So glad to see your presence here; we need it,” another resident says to Cox. The complex is quiet, perhaps due to the cold day.

The dispatcher sends Cox to 1000 East Cantey Street. A woman spotted two men roaming around the neighborhood, one with a rifle and another with a handgun. The siren goes on for the first time. Based on information from neighbors, Cox searches for the pair at nearby Spanish Hacienda Apartments at 1212 East Lowden Street, but they had either fled by car or were hiding in one of the many apartments. 

“We can’t possibly do our job without help and input from the public,” Cox says.

Next stop is Hillside Community Center on East Maddox Avenue, a site that provides a panoramic view of downtown. Cox grabs police stickers from his car and heads inside to the day care where he gives one to each child — all about kindergarten age. They surround him. 

“Do you like doughnuts?” one little girl asked. 

Cox then begins to head back to the substation, but not before a call is received to aid the driver of an 18-wheeler headed westbound on Lancaster Avenue. The driver has turned left onto Henderson Street, realizing too late that the overpass over Henderson would not accommodate the height of his truck. Cox, working with another officer, stops traffic to allow the driver to back up his rig, head west, and be on his way.