As Peter returned from his day off, he saw Cruz rigging the ladder truck's horses to the exercise rig. So he pitched in, being good with horses. Cruz gave him a friendly nod, and he beamed inside, feeling like the men in his company were starting to accept him.

Soon Cruz began running the horses around the block. Pouch, the firehouse Dalmatian ran with them, barking happily. Dalmatians are great companions for horses, and suspicious enough to be great security for horses. Firemen, like coachmen, favor them for this reason. Peter smiled as the rig passed, enjoying the dog's happiness. As the men were even more standoffish to newcomers, Pouch had been his first friend at the firehouse.

Soon he heard more barks as the exercise rig pass again. It never went far. If the bells went off the horses would be needed.

It was a busy exercise time for the dog. Engine Company 41 had already exercised the teams that pulled their steamer and their hose wagon. Barring any runs Chemical Company 17 would exercise their horses next. Then the horse that pulled the chief's buggy would be exercised.

His company's officers Captain Lebeux and Lieutenant Casey walked by talking about what drills to run that day. Suddenly remembering, Casey turned to Peter and said "You. See the chief in his office."

The chief wanted to see him. That was almost certainly bad. He hurried there to get it over with.

Chief Dmowski was a large man. His skin was already starting to tan from the frequent walks he'd been taking in the sun and his black hair was starting to grey as his years caught up with him. He said "The city council is debating safety features in skyscrapers. They'd like a written account from you about last Tuesday's fire."

He protested "From me? But Chief I don't write well. Anyway, I'm the newest fireman in this house."

"That's the idea. Some of the older guys gave their accounts, but they've all been with the department so long they think as firemen, not as civilians. The council told me they wanted more of an outsider's view. You're practically still a civilian. For once, that's a good thing. Just describe what you did, what you saw, how it all seemed to you. Hell," his voice became friendlier "Everyone knows the city needs more skyscrapers. Besides, the councils all taken their bribe money but the developers know some safety features have to be written in. They're just going through the motions. So I need you to do the same. Your officers will excuse you from morning housework, I've spoken to them." He led Peter from his office to a spot at the table next to pen, inkwell and a small pile of paper. "A messenger will pick it up this afternoon. They know you're not Mark Twain, just do whatever you can."

Peter felt nervous about being excused from housework. Being new, he knew he was expected to do more then his share. Still, he couldn't evade an order; he could only hope the guys would understand.

Sitting at the table to write, he thought of Otis, Otis was the big letter writer in the firehouse. It was one of the things he did with his spare time between runs. Otis writes monthly to different relatives in the old country, to tell them what a great life he's having. Usually, he starts by carefully writing about himself on a separate sheet, editing until satisfied. Then he copies that part onto all his letters, customizing the rest of each letter.

But back to his account. He knew instinctively that as he planned to be in the department 20+ years, he must reveal no firehouse secrets. Firehouse secrets, as he labeled them, were things everyone in the firehouse, even new men knew, but no one outside the house should. The glass of whiskey many of the men had before bed, for example. Or just how frequently Mouch cursed, and with such effect. He resolved to be careful at even revealing innocuous nicknames, as most nicknames had been here longer then he had, and he did not know the origin, which might be a less pleasant story then he thought. Mouch, for instance, he would refer to by his real name, Randy.

Last Tuesday's skyscraper fire. He sat motionless, pen in one hand, marshalling the facts in his mind.

He looked up as Hermann passed. Hermann was starting to warm to him, he nodded friendly like enough, and Peter nodded back. Hermann's firehouse secret also should not be revealed, namely, that with his large family he found time at the fire station to try money making opportunities. (They all failed, of course. One month he'd sent his art portfolio to publishers of dime novels, packed with sample illustrations he'd prepared for a Western novel. No luck. These last three months he was using his tools and the department's tools to make fancy walking sticks from lumber he'd brought in. No sale yet.)

Peter realized he was getting nowhere. He decided to try writing and see what he got, he could always rewrite it.

"Account of the Recent Warehouse Fire by Peter Gannon, new fireman on Ladder Company 26.

April 28 1895

Last Tuesday afternoon we'd taken turns going out for lunch. The last men had just gotten back when the bells started ringing."

Peter had automatically counted them as ONETWOTHREE ONETWOTHREEFOUR ONETWO (alarm box 342.) He didn't know that box number yet, so he glanced at the other guys, who were going to grab their gear and turn out the horses. So he joined them. Soon he was hanging onto the side of the rig. He never told anyone how much he enjoyed rushing to the incident, how much it got his heart pumping. This didn't look like a false alarm. Up ahead and to the left was a definite column of black smoke. From behind, Peter heard Mouch utter a few well chosen curse words.

The race came to end, as the units from his station rounded a corner and slowed. They arrived just before companies from another station began to pull up, on the other side of the block.

Chief Dmowski's voice bellowed out to companies from both houses, his Polish accent more prominent with his excitement, his words also distorted by the speaking trumpet he used, calling out the assignments.

Peter began to write again "We harnessed the horses and went to the box. The Fire was on the 12th floor of a 12 story skyscraper. We didn't stretch our aerial, as it's only 85 feet. The chemical engines put out most of Chicago's fires, but weren't used as they didn't have enough pressure to be good at 12 stories."

Men from Engine 41 had been laying hose behind them, but in no hurry, as the pressure was no where near ready. Cruz had begun to see to the horses. Captain Lebeux called the other ladder men over. In a loud but uncannily calm voice, he called the name of some of the men, followed by the name of a tool. They grabbed it as their name was called. Then he added "You guys- grab two pompiers, to the roof with me. Rest of you-search with Casey."

Casey's team was him, Peter, Mouch, Herman and Otis. As Lebeux's men left, Casey's team grabbed a few axes and ceiling hooks. Peter took a pry bar and they began to climb the stairs, joined by the men of Chemical 17.

They all walked a little fast, but didn't run. Peter realized they were saving their strength for the ordeal that awaited them.

"From our station, Engine 41 lay to a hydrant and began to get steam in their boiler. Chemical 17 and my ladder company went up the stairs. On the other side of the building, Engine 30 lay to another hydrant and Ladder 16 began going up the stairs."

On the way up, they caught up to the ventilation team. Around the 8th floor, Lebeux said "Skyscraper roofs too modern to yield to a man's strength in time." His language was moderate, but somehow his tone made it a curse. It had then dawned on Peter that the captain's team was all men with bulky arms.

Peter began to write around the implied cursing. "Captain Lebeux"(Peter thought that was the right spelling) "himself took a group up the stairs to the roof, to oversee ventilating the fire. He was worried that modern skyscraper construction might be difficult to defeat with just the power of men's arms.

I was in the search group, five of us from the ladder with the men from Chemical Company 17. We climbed fast but did not run, saving our strength for the work."

Somehow, it stuck in Peter's mind, the sight of the roof men ditching their pompier ladders when they saw the stairway went all the way up. They were doubtless relieved, as it took courage to break a window, hook onto something above that would PROBABLY hold and trust in that as your feet left the floor.

As they approached the smoky floor on top of the stairway, Casey grabbed Peter and Herman and yelled "You two-stick together!" And watched to ensure that both nodded.

"A glance showed the 11th floor clear of smoke, but "

But now he had a writing problem. Despite having been in a few small fires, this had seemed the veritable gates of hell, a foul smelling darkness that had surrounded him. But even at only six weeks with his company, he didn't want to admit that. He remembered the men in front of him instinctively dropping to crawl beneath the thick bank of smoke. And they all began to crawl, feeling for victims, breathing the floor air. Peter was glad he'd been able to grow a mustache almost as big as the other men, he'd wet his from a handkerchief he carried wet in his picket and used it to breath through.

When Peter was young, he'd heard stories from his dad, stories like "Just feet off the floor, you could fry an egg in no time, but you'd have to be real careful of your pan, so it wouldn't melt." Those stories that had seemed like such tall tales were now real to him.

From somewhere on Peter's left Otis's voice had boomed out, but the sound of burning was too loud for the words to be very intelligible. Casey's voice was also muffled, but seemed to agree with whatever he thought Otis had said. Peter and Mouch came near each other. It seemed to Peter that a shape, maybe a hat rack fell on Mouch, but he kept moving and saved his breath. Peter was impressed, having once been treated to five minutes of creative cursing when Mouch had merely stubbed his toe at the firehouse.

They circled the room to the left, sensing the hottest part of the fire that they could not reach, and avoided it. After what seemed a long while, but was probably only a few minutes, they ran into another group of searchers from Ladder 16.

Then they all circled some more. Peter noticed Herman staying nearby and felt a bit reassured. Herman was an old hand at these.

In his heart of hearts, Peter will ruefully admit to himself that he'd forgotten he was searching for victims. Smoke had entered his lungs and the heat was everywhere. He was thrusting his hands forward as he crawled just because it's what he'd been doing and he automatically kept doing it.

Then his hands found cloth. Irritated at an old coat getting in his way, he probed and realized what he was feeling.

Herman saw him as he dragged the man to the stairway. Herman cut at an angle to the left. Herman's voice and Casey's yelled things Peter couldn't make out, and then Herman signaled Peter down the steps.

Peter now wrote "the 12th had smoke too thick to see your hand in front of your face. We dropped and crawled, which helped a little, but heat was everywhere. He pondered the inadequate words. "Heat was everywhere" could fit some of the days he'd had last summer in Texas, working as a cowboy. He'd thought that bad, but there was a world of difference between that and the 12th floor. He considered crossing it out and going with the "gates of hell" cliché. But that cliché would tell them nothing either.

But he was a fireman now and firemen were expected to think that searching a fire was just another day at work, like a day in the saddle to a cowboy. He let those words stand.

He continued "We found what seemed to be the heart of the fire." Carefully avoiding the firehouse sin of bragging about what he'd done personally he continued "and an unconscious victim. Herman and I moved him to street level." The two of them had carried the man down the stairs, passing the stretched hose and the engine men waiting for the water pressure to build up. Peter smiled again, remembering how he'd felt. He was saving a man's life! (Unless the man was already dead or would die anyway.) Also, he had a valid reason to get out of the smoke and heat! Which he'd endured like a real Fireman! He remembered thinking this was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him. Except the time he and Joanne had-, no this was bigger then that.

On the way, they passed Cruz, having seen to the horses and coming upstairs to help out. Herman's grip had slipped on the fourth floor. Peter had shifted his grip and carried the man by himself, exultant. Herman had followed, ready to help, content to let Peter do it if he could.

On the sidewalk, he'd hesitated, uncertain of what to do with the victim. Then he spotted a police wagon and made for it, making eye contact with two uniformed policemen. A tough, beefy white one and a wiry one who looked Mexican. Miraculously, the Mexican cop just yelled "Sis! Leslie!" and two nurses in white emerged from the crowd, one a blonde and the other looking like that cop's sister. (The pie stains on their white uniforms made Peter guess that they'd all met for an oddly timed meal.) The nurses started examining the man. Soon the firemen saw the wagon was heading out, taking the patient, police and nurses to Chicago General.

Peter and Herman headed back up the stairs. The smoke had lessened it was only a hundred chimney strength, and was being pulled to a hole in the ceiling. The heat had lessened too and the engine men were inching towards the fire, blasting away with their hoses.

He saw desks and files everywhere, and realized that the 12th floor was the office of some corporation. "Of course, what else would it be?" He silently kidded himself. It just hadn't seemed like anything in particular, in the dark of the smoke.

He wrote "When we got back to the fire floor, ventilation had been achieved. The heat was less, the smoke a shadow of what it had been. Everyone took a turn on the hose lines, until the fire was out. We overhauled and went home."

He left out the teasing that Lieutenant Severide from Ladder 16 seemed to enjoy getting, about the tall red head he'd been spotted with on his day off and what the other men had guessed her night had been like. Instead he just wrote "The End."

Later that night they'd sat around discussing the fire. Herman had mentioned how lucky it had been to find patient transportation that easy. Peter began hearing a litany of stories about firemen with victims unable to walk, flagging down coaches or delivery wagons and confidently (that was the key, use confidence) explaining "This man/woman/child was in the fire-I need you to take them to [name of nearest hospital.]"

Next, came stories that emphasized that many patients weren't evacuated till the police managed to get a wagon there. Many died. And sometimes the firemen couldn't take responsibility for the patient, they had to leave them on the sidewalk/lawn and fight the fire.

He signed the letter and then gave it to the chief, confident it was a simple account of the facts that revealed no firehouse secrets.

The floors had already been cleaned, so he began polishing the brasswork.

The guys came over. Mouch began swearing at the "- - - - City council that's taking our - new guy from - cleaning the - floor so we have to do it, just to - write a - letter"

After a few minutes of such eloquence, he ran out of energy. Herman playfully warned "You youngsters listen carefully. After all us Civil War vets are gone, it'll be up to you to keep the cursing standards up."

Peter smiled and continued polishing, playing the part of a new guy, eager to pull his weight, happy to be here.

He was happy to be here, which is why he kept his deepest secret locked away. It was not a "firehouse secret," but a deeper secret that he was the only one in the firehouse who knew it. He was not Peter Gannon from out west, he was Peter Mills, son of the late Chicago firefighter Henry Mills and the Negro wife he fell in love with, despite great disapproval.

His dad had been pensioned off as injured after a roof collapse and gotten a sit down job at a factory. Although Peter had only been eight when his dad passed, the way dad had spoken of his time on the department had been a promised land he'd spent his life building to.

He'd been born with fairer skin then most in his neighborhood and had gone cowboying for two years as a white, so as to learn how to pass. And so the memory of him would fade in the minds of his friends and neighbors. Also he wore his hair different, had a mustache when he'd always been clean shaven, learned to talk with a different accent, and all kinds of other tricks so that he could follow in his father's footsteps.

The need to pass as white, because the department wouldn't hire colored, had been harsh. Sometimes he felt like a traitor. He'd asked his old Baptist pastor about it in confidence years ago. The Reverend Boden had told him that if he had to do that to "get at least one fine colored man on the department" he should, but that if he died childless he needed to declare in his will his race, so that they would know that colored men could do the job as well as white. If he had kids, Boden told him, they needed to be told of their colored blood, but only when old enough to keep the secret.

Boden had sternly warned him of the evils of "Nigger Baiting, to help you pass. It is a desperate move, done by those who feel like they are already being found out, and makes for nearly unforgivable SHAME in the heart."

Passing was difficult, but he knew he wasn't the only one. And not just colored men. One of his cowboy saddle mates had gotten really drunk one night and let slip to Peter that his heart was full of LOVE for men, not women. Peter hadn't exposed Roy, just made enough vague hints in the morning about what had been said to worry Roy, get him to take passing seriously. Peter meanwhile, no matter what the occasion, kept to a strict two drink limit.