Stephen Montoya
Retired Fort Worth firefighter Wayne C. Brown.
By the time retired Fort Worth firefighter Wayne C. Brown stepped through the glass doors of The Nobleman Fort Worth, Tapestry Collection By Hilton, the old firehouse at 503 Bryan Avenue looked almost nothing like the place he first reported to in June 1950. The ladder truck that once filled the bay—now the hotel’s reception area—was long gone, and the surrounding additions gave the space more of a resort feel than a firehouse. High-end luxury design elements, including a front desk concierge and a swanky lounge area had replaced the scent of diesel and sweat. But even at 97, Brown still recognized it—not just as a building, but as a place he once called home.
Brown, joined by several family members, walked through the newly transformed building—taking in the sleek design while trying to anchor memories in the spaces where modern touches had taken over.
“I asked somebody. I didn’t remember whether it was a brass pole or a steel pole,” Brown said, pausing near a corner of the modern lobby. “The steel poles were fast. The brass poles — you kind of gauge your speed a little bit better.”
Once Fire Station No. 5, the structure that now houses and surrounds the 153-room hotel, was for decades the launching pad for men like Brown, who answered the bell without the benefit of modern training, equipment, or even oxygen masks. Today, the meticulously restored façade stands tall in the Near Southside, serving as both a monument to the city’s past and a statement of its enduring character.
Born in 1928, Brown came of age during the tail end of the Great Depression and the dawn of a new world war. By 1950, he was working odd hours at Armour’s in the hydrogen room and spending his downtime shooting pool. It was at the pool hall that two firefighters, Robert Ashley and Richard Earl, told him about a job that offered 24 hours on, 24 hours off. He was sold, according to a write-up by Wayne’s friend Alton J. Bostick.
Stephen Montoya
Legend has it that Brown reported to duty in a fresh pair of khakis from Stripling's, with no formal training and no protective gear beyond a strong back and quick feet. “That generation of Fort Worth firefighters had no respiratory protection,” Brown recalled. “Only four District Chief vehicles had a mask of any kind.”
Over the years, Brown rose through the ranks—station man, union president, district chief, deputy chief — always with a deep commitment to both safety and solidarity. He championed civil service reform and lobbied the Texas legislature for pension improvements. “He brought a lot to the staff,” Bostick wrote. And as the equipment got better and the dangers slightly less fatal, he stayed true to the camaraderie that defined the job.
But all that history seemed to fold in on itself during Brown’s recent walk-through of The Nobleman. What once housed hoses and ladders now serves as an entry way into a swanky hotel. A few nods to the Nobleman’s history are still present, like the brass pole that was utilized by countless firefighters over the years. “Just where we’re standing right now,” he said, pointing around the hotel’s main hall. “This is where they used to park the big truck.”
Brown’s voice softened when asked what stood out most on the tour. “Just how different everything was. They added on a lot.” Then he grinned. “A lot of my friends who worked here went on to be officers in other places.”
Not many places can straddle nostalgia and reinvention so gracefully. But The Nobleman does. It’s a place where guests sleep in rooms built on the bones of public service — where Fort Worth’s history isn’t just preserved, it’s lived in. And for Brown, it was more than a walk down memory lane. It was a reminder that legacy, like fire, doesn’t disappear — it just finds new ways to burn bright.
“I think it’s great,” Brown said, surveying the space where his old crew once answered the call. “I wish all of my former colleagues could see it.”
