"An Apple a Day"
Chapter Five
John's Captain was not the only one to witness the crash-landing.
Roy heard several women scream and glanced up in time to see his falling partner's back connect—rather forcefully—with the balcony's wrought iron railing. He picked up their drug box and Bio-phone and took off at a run.
The paramedic was almost halfway to Truck 123 when he regrettably recalled his Captain had directed him to 'stay put'.
"Don't worry, DeSoto!" someone suddenly shouted out.
Roy raised his helmeted head in the vaguely familiar voice's direction.
123's snorkel operator, Gary Dietrick, flashed the fallen paramedic's deeply worried—and tremendously disappointed—partner a reassuring smile. "We'll bring Gage to you!"
Roy gave the snorkel operator an appreciative nod and then watched, as the rig's emptied platform cage slowly started to rise up from the street.
On a balcony, twelve floors up...
John Gage was in a world of hurt. Both his left wrist and the entire left side of his back were killing him! To make matters worse, the two-hundred-and-eighty-some pound guy was still on top of him, and still held a choke-hold around his neck.
"John? Are you okay, pal?" he heard his Captain ask, for the third time.
"Get…off…of…me," Gage finally managed to get out between gasps, once he'd gotten his ability to breathe back.
Apparently, the fire victim was still too petrified to move, because he didn't budge…not one single bit.
So John made a valiant attempt to remove the guy's huge forearms from his strangled throat. "Gah-ahhh!" he exclaimed with a grimace, as his injured left wrist protested being used as a pry bar. The squooshed paramedic decided to use a different approach. "Look, man," he breathlessly began, "yah gotta let me up…I can't breathe…Go on…Put your feet down…We're on a balcony…I promise, you're not gonna fall."
The fire victim stretched one of his locked legs out. Sure enough! There was something solid beneath them. He forced his terror-filled eyes open and looked down. There was a wrought iron balcony railing just below his right elbow. He released his stranglehold on the fireman and latched onto the iron railing with both hands.
Gage gasped in relief as the choke-hold on his throat was finally released and the crushing weight on his body was—at long last—lifted. Both of his feet were planted firmly on the floor of the balcony, so he gritted his teeth and then raised his bruised back up off of the wrought iron railing. He reached down with his good right hand, pulled his HT from his coat pocket and quickly raised the radio to his lips. "Cap, this is John…I'm okay."
Back up on the building's roof…
Captain Stanley stared rather relievedly—and disbelievingly—down at his radio. "Sure you are," he mumbled solely—and insincerely—to himself, just prior to pressing his HT's send button. "Engine 51 to HT 51. We're gonna need your line. You can ride down with 123's. And then, you are to get yourself completely checked out. Understood?"
Four floors below, and about ten apartments over…
Gage frowned down at the radio in his right hand. "Roger that, Cap. John out."
Oh, he was 'out', all right—out of the entire rescue operation.
Hell, if his wrist was fractured, which he strongly suspected it was, he would probably make it home sooner than his sick partner.
He slipped the HT back into his coat pocket and reluctantly began removing his lifebelt. He got it unbuckled—one-handed—and both his lifebelt and his lifeline were instantly hoisted up, and out of sight.
Oh well. On the bright side, if his left wrist was broken, and he did get relieved of duty, he'd be able to devote all of his time to his little 'apple' problem.
He glanced glumly down at his hurting left forearm. His left hand was shaking. If only he hadn't reached out to try to break his fall…
The paramedic sighed and then stood there, impatiently awaiting his ride.
"Need a lift?" Gary Dietrick inquired with a grin, as he swung his caged snorkel platform up beside the balcony, ten minutes—and four more rescued fire victims—later.
"We need a lowering," Gage more accurately stated and somehow managed to muster up a smile of his own.
Gary's grin broadened. "We can do that, too. We're very versatile." He raised the safety bar and Gage and the other guy climbed over the balcony's wrought iron railing and onto the snorkel's caged platform.
The hinged bar was lowered and locked and the platform started to descend.
John began assessing his fellow passengers for injuries.
"Your partner's waiting for you down there," Gary informed his fellow fireman.
John winced. "Yeah. I'll bet he is…"
"You should feel honored, Gage," the snorkel operator continued, the grin never leaving his face. "I won't raise this thing beyond the Manufacturer's suggested extension height for just anybody, you know."
"Oh. Believe me. I do," Gage assured him, smiling all the while as well. "Feel very honored, that is. Thanks, Dietrick."
"You're welcome. Nice job, by the way."
"You, too," John told him. Then his smile vanished and he addressed the young woman he was currently assessing, "Were you burned anywhere else, besides the backs of your legs?"
"I…I don't…think so," the young woman shakily replied, between hacking coughs.
Less than two minutes later, the platform reached the pavement. The safety bar was re-raised and its coughing, limping occupants began to disembark.
John promptly reported his findings to the two paramedic teams that were there to meet and assist them.
"I want you to forget 'paramedic'…and just think 'patient'," Roy sternly told him, between 'sternutations'. Then he latched onto his partner's right coat sleeve and started towing him over to where their truck was parked.
They reached the Squad.
Roy sat his frowning friend down on its back bumper and relieved him of his helmet. "Okay. Start talking," he ordered, between sniffles, and began unhooking—and carefully removing—his fall victim's canvas turnout coat.
"My left posterior ribcage is bruised…and I think I might a' fractured my left wrist," his patient reluctantly replied.
"What makes you think that?"
"Because I have no strength in my left hand. And because, when I try to use it, it hurts like bloody hell."
His sniffling partner suppressed a smile. Then he coughed a couple a' times and dropped the removed coat. "I'm gonna need you to take off your shirt."
His bruised buddy's bottom jaw dropped open. "Wha-at? With all these…people—and TV cameras—around? Ro-oy, there's no way I'm taking my shirt off."
DeSoto didn't argue with him. He simply reached down and removed their radio from his partner's right coat pocket.
Then again, perhaps there was one way. "Wait! No need to bother the Cap'. Besides, he's probably real busy, right now." That said, John began to single-handedly unbutton his uniform shirt, grumbling beneath his breath, as he did so. He got the shirt unbuttoned, and his smug-looking, still sniffling partner got it—and his undershirt—the rest of the way off. "Look, but don't touch," the patient practically pleaded and obligingly turned his bare bruised back toward his buddy, so he could inspect it.
DeSoto didn't have to look very hard. The balcony railing had left its imprint upon his partner's back. The bruising was extensive, running practically the entire length of his patient's left ribcage. The paramedic studied the nasty raised welt for a couple more seconds and then cringed. "That must a' hurt," he realized, right out loud.
"Like bloody hell," Gage assured him.
"Does it still hurt that bad?"
"Only when I breathe."
"Does anything feel like it's busted?"
"Just my left wrist."
"Okay. You can turn back around, now. I'm just gonna grab a quick set a vitals, here, and then call it in."
"Can I put my shirts back on? I'm co-old," Johnny explained, looking—and sounding—rather pitiful.
Roy rolled his red, watering eyes for the umpteenth time that shift and then helped his pitiful, pouting—co-old—patient 'put his shirts back on'.
"Roger that, Rampart—ahhhh-choo!" Roy spoke—er, sneezed into their Bio-phone's receiver, a few minutes later. "Transport patient as soon as an ambulance becomes available," the paramedic repeated, between sniffles.
"Affirmative, 51," Dr. Early came back. "And, bless you…again."
"Thanks, Rampart. Squad 51 out." Roy replaced their radio's handset and then gave his fall victim a worried once over.
Johnny's vitals were all perfectly normal—for him. His fractured left forearm had been splinted, and placed in a sling. Dr. Early hadn't even been concerned enough to order an IV.
'Still…' The senior paramedic's musings were interrupted by the arrival of their counterparts from Station 36.
"Roy, we're really short-handed," Craig Covington breathlessly announced as he and his partner came jogging up. "Could you do us a big favor and accompany a burn victim to the hospital?"
"The guy's vitals are stable, but we had to start an IV…" Pat Waring went on to explain.
DeSoto gave his patient another worried glance.
"Go on," John urged. "I'll be fine. Eventually, some form of transportation will be provided for the 'walking wounded'. We can meet back up at the hospital. And, since the Squad will be 'out of service', the Cap'll have Chet or Marco pick us up and take us back to our cars."
Roy locked gazes with the guys from 36's. "Keep an eye on him for me," he solemnly requested.
His colleagues nodded.
51's paramedics followed 36's paramedics over to the waiting ambulance.
Roy coughed a couple of times and then reluctantly climbed up into the back of the emergency vehicle.
John watched the burn victim's ambulance drive away. Then he turned to face his caretakers. "I'm gonna go sit in the Squad." The adrenaline rush of the rescue operation was wearing off, and he really needed to sit down for awhile.
Covington and Waring acknowledged his statement with more nods, and then went back to work.
John climbed in on the driver's side of their rescue truck, leaving the door ajar. The paramedic winced in pain and then leaned forward, to keep his bruised ribcage from making contact with the back of the seat.
The fireman could feel himself growing drowsier and drowsier by the minute. His heavy head kept snapping forward. In a last ditch effort to avoid hitting the horn, John draped his right arm over the top of the steering wheel and then rested his whoozy forehead upon it.
That was how his Captain found him some forty-five minutes later—slumped over the Squad's steering wheel. "John? John! Wake up! You need to move over. Marco's gonna drive you to the hospital."
Stanley's stomach knotted, as John failed to respond. Hank reached into the truck and placed the tips of two fingers over the young firefighter's corotid artery. The knot his tummy tightened.
The paramedic's pulse was thready—and racing a mile a minute. His skin felt cold and clammy and his complexion was ghostly pale.
Hank swore beneath his breath and swung his helmeted head around. "I need a paramedic over here!"
The Captain turned back and saw that his shout had brought his completely 'out of it' crewman around.
John picked his hanging head up and slowly turned it in the direction the shouting had come from. His eyes fluttered open and he did his damnedest to get them to focus. Four—or more—Hank Stanleys were standing just outside the Squad. "Cap…I think…I must a'…hit that railing…a lot harder…than I…realized," he dazedly declared. Then his eyes rolled back in their sockets and he slipped back into unconsciousness.
Chet had just collapsed into his assigned seat on Big Red, when he heard his Captain's shout. He immediately directed his gaze toward the Squad and watched helplessly as Johnny suddenly slumped sideways in his seat.
His collapsing crewmate would have tumbled completely out of the truck, if their Captain hadn't caught him under the arms.
Kelly jumped down from the Engine and went racing over to the Squad.
"What's goin' on with John, Cap?" Kelly anxiously inquired, as he helped his boss lay the paramedic's completely limp body out on the ground.
"Chet, find a paramedic!" his Captain replied. "Quick!"
Kelly nodded his compliance and quickly took his leave.
TBC