In any moment of decision,
the best thing you can do is the right thing,
the next best thing is the wrong thing,
and the worst thing you can do is
nothing.
Theodore Roosevelt
"THE CHOICE"
"Johnny, I need some help in here!"
Roy's voice came out as gritty as coarse sandpaper when he removed his air mask for a moment to shout for his partner.
The fire was out, no longer a danger, but the sudden partial roof collapse had spewed dust and debris everywhere. Lingering smoke and powdery ash mingled and clogged the air, making it impossible to see more than two feet in front of his face. Roy had literally tripped over the man they were sent to search for, barely catching himself from falling onto the heavy metal locker that had toppled over and pinned the man's lower legs beneath it.
Tugging off his bulky leather glove with his teeth, Roy quickly knelt down and felt the man's neck with practiced fingertips. There was a pulse. Faint, but there. Training his flashlight on the unconscious victim, bright red blood, pooled on the dust-covered floor, reflected the light back at him when the beam swept over the man's legs.
A loud boom suddenly split the air, sending shock waves reverberating throughout the building, shattering what remained of the glass in the windows that hadn't already been blown out by the heat of the fire, and bringing down more of the roof. Roy quickly slipped his air mask on again and crouched over, shielding the man's body with his own, until the chunks of concrete that rained down from overhead slowed to a trickle. His shoulders and the area of his back not protected by the air tank would be bruised and sore tomorrow.
The thick, acrid mixture of smoke and dust choked his throat when he took off his mask again. Roy shouted for Johnny as loudly as he could, and finally heard him faintly call his name in return -- hesitantly -- as though Johnny wasn't sure where Roy was.
He turned his attention back to the injured man. Roy focused the flashlight on his leg again, and carefully pulled away the torn, blood-soaked material surrounding the source of the bleeding. From the location and the amount and color of the blood, he had suspected that the man's femoral artery had been nicked. The rhythmic spurt of blood from the deep wound further confirmed his suspicions. He had little time to lose if he was going to save this man's life.
After a lengthy debate outside, he and Johnny had been sent in. They cautiously entered the unstable building to locate and extricate the victim, a task now not easily accomplished. The man's legs were trapped by the heavy locker, which Roy attempted and failed to budge. Even with Johnny's help -- if they were able to lift it up enough to slide him out -- moving him without immobilizing the leg first could spell certain death. They'd come in with no medical supplies, and Roy knew that the man's only chance for survival was to stop the bleeding and start an IV to replace the considerable amount of fluids he'd already lost. The telltale signs of shock were already evident.
Applying pressure to the groin area with one hand, Roy reached in his pocket with the other for the HT, only to realize that Johnny had it with him. He called for him several times again, hoping Johnny would follow the sound of his voice and find him quickly now.
While waiting for his partner to show and call for assistance, Roy improvised a pressure bandage to stall the bleeding as best he could. Removing his other glove, he worked his free hand under his turnout coat, and pulled his scissors from their holder. He used them to cut away the man's shirt and T-shirt, then unbuckled and pulled the belt from around his waist. Folding the cotton T-shirt into a thick square, he pressed it firmly to the wound, held it for a minute, then released the pressure allow blood flow to the rest of the leg. He repeated the process numerous times, until it appeared that the blood had finally begun to clot.
Frustrated now that Johnny hadn't shown up, Roy carefully wrapped the belt around the man's leg and pulled it tight to keep pressure on the wound. Knowing he couldn't leave the victim for long, he scrambled to his feet to check down the hallway for any sign of Johnny. What he saw made his heart skip multiple beats. A pile of concrete and wood beams now blocked the stairs, cutting off their only avenue to the first floor. While the wall on the side of the building where he stood was still intact, it had no windows from which they could be rescued.
The sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach landed like a rock when he looked across the wide hallway through the thinning smoke into the devastated area on the other side. The roof and the walls had caved in, and the windows that were once there were gone. There would be no escape route from there either. Roy had no idea where Johnny had been when he'd heard him call his name. He took a step forward, then stopped.
Hearing the man groan and begin to move about, Roy quickly returned to his side and checked his vitals. His breathing was rapid and shallow, his skin was cold to the touch, his blood pressure by palpation extremely low. The bandage had come loose, and blood was slowly flowing again. As Roy once again applied pressure with his hand, he heard the unmistakable squawk of the handi-talkie, faint and slightly muffled -- but the distinctive sound was music to his ears.
HT-51, this is Engine 51.
Roy let out his breath. Johnny was somewhere nearby. Roy focused so intently on the victim again, he was startled when he heard Captain Stanley's voice again, the urgency there coming through loud and clear.
HT-51, this is Engine 51. Do you copy?
Roy waited, eyes closed, listening.
Johnny didn't answer the call.
The building took on the eerie silence of an ancient tomb.
Almost mechanically, Roy checked vitals again, then lifted the bloody T-shirt to have a look. The bleeding had slowed, but hadn't stopped. Death hovered over the man like a ravenous vulture, waiting only for Roy to take his hand away.
Roy's mind was racing as fast as his heart was pumping. Johnny was surely hurt and needed help. At the moment, Roy was the only help available, but he didn't even know where to begin to look for him. It could take time. The man whose life he now held in his hand didn't have that kind of time.
Roy reapplied the pressure and tried to think rationally. To leave this victim would be to consign him to his grave. Help from outside would be coming, but how soon? He had no idea how badly Johnny might be injured. He had no idea if Johnny was even alive.
He had a choice to make. Roy told himself that -- like all fire fighters -- Johnny knew and accepted the risks of his job. He knew Johnny would be the first to tell him that his professional and moral obligation was to stay with the victim.
A man not given to the frequent use of profanity, Roy cursed out loud at the situation fate had handed him. He ran the scenarios again. They were full of 'ifs' and none of them good.
No matter what he did, the odds were high that at least one man could die.
He wanted to know why. He wasn't God. He was an ordinary man with some special skills and special training, for all the good it did him now. It wasn't for him to decide who should live and who should die. A complete stranger or his best friend? Who would know anyway? Besides his own conscience. Roy didn't know if he could live with himself either way.
Silently pleading for forgiveness, he made his choice.
* * * * * * * *
Twenty minutes later, Roy heard the voices of other men and the sound of rubble being cleared. Within minutes they were calling his and Johnny's names, and he shouted back, directing them to where he was.
Squad 99s paramedics were the first to enter the room carrying the trauma and drug boxes. Roy stayed with them and began to fill them in on the man's injuries and vitals. His tenuous grip on life was slipping, but Roy had refused to let him go. Captain Stanley appeared a moment later, and Roy quickly told him to use the HT to locate Johnny.
Assured that a dozen men were looking for Johnny now, Roy stayed to assist while Rampart was contacted. It wasn't five minutes later that Chet tapped him on the shoulder and told him they'd found Johnny, and that he was asking for Roy.
Relief flooded through him and he closed his eyes and dropped his chin to his chest. He tried to control the shaking in his shoulders. Drawing in as deep a breath as he could muster, he stood up to leave. In his haste to go to Johnny, he missed the tears glistening in Chet Kelly's eyes.
Roy stopped next to where Marco was standing. Hank Stanley was kneeling on one knee next to Johnny. One hand cradled the captain's forehead, the other rested on Johnny's forehead.
As Roy moved toward him, Stanley stood up and put his hands on Roy's chest and gently pushed him back.
"Don't, Roy." he said quietly.
"But Chet said Johnny was asking for me." Roy tried to move by Stanley, only to meet resistance again.
Roy searched his captain's face. His eyes told the story.
Johnny was gone.
* * * * * * * *
He bolted upright in his bunk. Sweat drenched his T-shirt and plastered his hair to his forehead. His heart was beating like a drum and his hands shook. It was the dream. Again.
The dorm was silent, save for the intermittent snoring of his temporary partner. Minutes passed before his weak knees could support the effort to stand. Shuffling slowly first to the locker room to splash some cold water on his face and change into a dry T-shirt, he then crossed the engine bay to the day room.
Ignoring the thump of Henry's tail on the couch, he pulled open the blinds on the window and stood staring at nothing for a long time. Deciding he would sleep no more tonight, he busied himself making a pot of coffee. Exhaustion overwhelmed him, and he sat down and put his elbows on the table and put his head in his hands.
The squeak of rubber boots on polished concrete floor preceded the voice.
"Hey, Pal. You okay?"
He lifted his head from his hands and slumped back in the chair, wanting to be left alone.
"Yeah, Cap. Sorry. Didn't mean to disturb you."
"I wasn't sleepin' either. Mind if I help myself to some coffee?" Stanley sauntered over to the stove and pulled two mugs out of the cupboard, and filled each to the brim. He shuddered slightly. He liked his coffee strong, but this stuff was black as midnight on a moonless night.
He carried the mugs the short distance without spilling a drop on the way. After all these years, his hands were still steady as a rock. He put the coffee cups down on the table and quietly pulled up a chair. The captain watched the steam leisurely swirl and rise off the surface of the hot liquid, while he debated with himself whether this was the time to talk or not.
Even in the pale light cast by the moon through the window, Stanley could see the dark circles under the sleep-deprived, bloodshot eyes that stared vacantly at some undetermined spot on the opposite wall.
"Wanna tell me about it?" he asked softly.
The eyes didn't even blink in response.
Stanley couldn't stand seeing one of his men beat himself up like this. It was over and life went on. He reached out and grasped the younger man's shoulder.
"I want to help, John."
Johnny grappled with his rampant emotions. He didn't want to face the truth, but his doubts were eating him alive.
Just when Hank Stanley thought he should get up and leave him alone, Johnny finally broke the barrier of silence that had surrounded him since the day it happened.
"In the dream," he started, "in my dream, it's... I'm Roy and it's me that's buried under the pile of rubble. Roy's the one that has to make the choice. Not me."
"What choice does he make, John?"
Johnny stared at his captain, his eyes full of pain. "He makes the right one, Cap. Every time."
"What happens to you?"
"I don't make it."
"And the other man?"
"He doesn't make it either."
Johnny just looked away, trying to shut it out.
Hank Stanley was puzzled by Johnny’s ongoing struggle with the decision he’d made that day. All evidence indicated that he'd done everything by the book in attempting to keep the injured man from bleeding to death. Stanley knew Johnny's decision to stay with the victim could have cost Roy his life, and couldn't begin to fathom how hard that choice must have been for him to make. In spite of his efforts, the man had succumbed and Johnny had been able to get to Roy before it was too late. He would be spending a week in the hospital, but Roy was going to be okay.
"John," Stanley entreated, "No one's blaming you for anything. You did the best you could under the circumstances."
"You weren't there...." Johnny's voice was full of bitter irony. "....You don't know what I did."
"Listen to me, pal. You were under a tremendous amount of stress before you ever went into that building. Good God, John, the man shot and killed a policeman right in front of our eyes, and then set the building on fire himself. I should never have agreed to let you go in."
Johnny closed his eyes and the images returned. He'd been standing next to the officer at the time. They'd heard the sharp report of a rifle, and the next sound he'd heard was blood and bits of flesh and bone splattering his turnout coat and helmet. In spite of all he'd seen on the job, it had made him retch violently. He felt his stomach churn even now.
"It still doesn't make what I did right, Cap."
Stanley sat back in his chair and took a sip of coffee. It was strong enough to make even his hair curl.
"The incident report said that there was no way you could have controlled the bleeding with the bullet still in his leg. You had some hard choices to make that day, and from what you've said, you made the right ones. You tried to save the man's life and couldn't."
"Did I, Cap?"
Stanley leaned his arms on the table again. "I don't understand why you're second guessing yourself here. What are you trying to say?"
Johnny just shook his head while his bewildered Captain looked on.
With a sigh, Stanley sat back in his chair, and ran a weary hand through his hair. John was trying to tell him something but wouldn't come out and say it.
You don't know what I did.
The proverbial light bulb switched on, and Stanley's features hardened for just a moment. Johnny had made a choice and a man may have died as a result of it.
His initial shock was quickly replaced with compassion and concern. Stanley stood up, and rested a sympathetic hand on Johnny's shoulder. He wanted to offer some sage advice, but in a rare moment, found himself fumbling for the right words.
"Don't drink the coffee, John... you need to get some sleep. Then go talk to Roy in the morning."
Stanley watched as Johnny slid his chair back and carried both coffee mugs to the sink. He poured the coffee down the drain and rinsed the cups, leaving them in the sink. Johnny braced his hands against the edge of the counter and leaned his weight heavily on his arms, his burden almost more than he could bear.
"John...." The captain's voice was calm and steady. "I know you think Roy would've done the 'right thing' if he'd been in your place, but I'm not so sure about that. I'm not so sure even I know what the right thing was. I don't know if this helps you any, but... I'd have done exactly the same thing you did under those circumstances."
He turned and left the room, feeling he'd let Johnny down somehow.
Settled back in his bunk, he prayed he'd never be faced with a decision like the one Johnny had made. The situation wasn't something the training manuals and rule books taught you how to deal with. No amount of moral arguing or soul searching made it any more clear to him. He really wasn't sure what he would've done.
The door quietly swung open and Johnny stopped at the foot of his bunk.
"Are you sure, Cap?"
Hank Stanley propped himself up on his elbows and looked Johnny squarely in the eyes.
"Without hesitation, John. Now get some sleep."
"Yessir," Johnny answered with a small smile. "Thanks."
Stanley laid his head back on his pillow and closed his eyes. Maybe he hadn't let Johnny down after all. Quiet had been restored, and he started to drift off when he heard Johnny's voice travel over the brick dividers between the bunks.
"You know, Cap..., you're a real bad liar."
"I don't know about that. But I do know one thing."
"What's that?"
"You're a good man, John. And... I think you're wrong about what Roy would've done. Sleep on that."
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