Tag: firefighters

Chicago Fire

Posted on by tom.wogan@comcast.net

The little 8 inch square red brick stone at my feet had etched into it the words:

“2nd Deputy Fire Marshal Paul H. Conners

October 8th, 1954”

The red brick stone was one of a few hundred in a seldom visited memorial to fallen Chicago firefighters and paramedics just south of McCormick Place, and really only accessible by bike or footpath along the lakefront. The stones are loosely arranged by date and the more recent names I remembered from newspaper accounts or in a few cases because I actually knew them once. Or they were part of my neighborhood or perhaps because members of my family had attended a benefit for their families.

But this stone touched something in my memory. A story my mother told me because my father, himself a firefighter, almost never told fire stories. At least not to his children. And he had been at some of the more famous blazes in Chicago history: the LaSalle Hotel fire, which claimed 61 lives, the Our Lady of Angels fire, which claimed 95 lives (92 of them children), and the Mickleberry Plant fire the same year he died, which claimed 4 firemen and injured scores more. That doesn’t even begin to include the countless fires that had no names, only addresses and memories that disturbed their sleep.

Actually, he did confide one to me, but it was more of an observation than a story. He had been driving the Chaplain, Msgr. William Gorman to a big apartment fire. The good monsignor, not a line officer, had no problems issuing orders to fireman on the scene, apparently, and he told my dad to check around the back of the building for signs of fire. The back of the four story building was a solid brick wall and my dad said he started down the alley, seeing no signs. He told me he had a bad feeling about it, a premonition perhaps, and he stopped and turned to quickly exit the alley on a dead run. The entire wall collapsed, a single brick near enough to knock his helmet off, smashing the bronze eagle that adorned the old leather helmets. I have that helmet, sans eagle, today.

This story, however, did not involve my dad, but his close friend Thomas ”Scotty” McNaughton. I met Scotty once a month, along with my brothers, when my dad drove us down to the old Fire Department Drill School, which stood where the Jane Byrne Interchange now stands. Scotty had been injured in a fire years before and had been given the duty of night watchman at the Drill School until he could take his pension. Scotty was also a barber on the side, and I suspect a better firefighter than a barber. He never asked you what kind of haircut you wanted because he only knew one kind. We sported chopped hairdos for quite a few years, but with eight kids, you cut your expenses where you can.

The old man would sing out something that sounded like ”Oat, Laddie” to let Scottie knew we were there. He was always glad to see us and he talked the whole time to my dad while he butchered our hair. I guess he appreciated the break in the watchman monotony.

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The death of a high ranking fire official would be front page news today. The newspaper account of Chief Conners’ death, however, ran deep in the paper, on page 37 of the Tribune on October 9th, 1954. A single column with a photo, it ran next to ads for Elgin watches and some classified ads. He died heroically, at age 60, after being on the job for 36 years at a fire he didn’t even need to be at. He had heard the calls over the radio and directed his driver to take him there.

The fire on October 8th was at the Streamline Cafeteria, 3648 Roosevelt. The restaurant was closed in observance of a Jewish holiday, so the fire had hours to build inside unnoticed. On the fourth floor, Chief Conners felt the floor giving way. He yelled at the three nearby firemen to get away. One of them, Scotty McNaughton, then 37, of Engine 95 (also my dad’s engine, but not his day to work) told the reporters that “Conners yelled get out quick and then he disappeared.” Three fireman, including Scotty, clutched hoses and were later pulled to safety, though injured. They found the Chief’s body after three pumpers drained the water from the basement some four hours later. That was Scotty’s last day as a working fireman due to his injuries. According to my mother, Scotty followed the pipes in the basement to get to safety, something he had learned in the coal mines of Scotland.

The last time I saw Scotty was many years later when he was retired and working at Brookfield Zoo. He was carrying buckets of water for the elephants that day and I don’t think he knew me.

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We stood, feeling awkward and a bit uncomfortable, in the Council Chambers of City Hall, as my son in law, Kevin Durkin, and another fireman/paramedic were given citations for bravery. They were returning from an ambulance run one night and saw an apartment building on fire. Bailing out of their rig, they banged on doors to awaken and alert the occupants, all of whom escaped. I believe a policeman on the scene wrote it up and they were decorated for saving so many lives.

We are not used to being in the public glare and standing in and among people you see on television can be disconcerting. We endured, however, had our pictures taken with Kevin, who considered the whole event needless and way over the top, the mayor, some alderman types and Fire Department brass. It was, looking back, a proud family moment. I couldn’t help but think of the family link of fire service going back all of those years.

————–

As I left the memorial on the lakefront, two thoughts occurred to me. The first was the sheer number of stones engraved with the names of the fallen; more than a hundred. The second was the number of blank stones still waiting to be etched. Each one will someday mark the loss of a man or woman sworn to protect us and I pray that those stones will be etched as slowly as possible. But I know someday they will all be filled and they will need to add more stones after that.

They take risks every day and do their jobs and, like my father or Scotty or Kevin, mostly keep the scary stuff to themselves, but they know the danger is out there. There is honor in all honest work, but somehow those little red stones speak to an honor of a higher order.

Reginald Van Gleason, III and The Fireman’s Club

Posted on by tom.wogan@comcast.net

If you are of tender years, you probably never heard of the late, great Jackie Gleason, known in the bygone black and white television years of the 1950’s and 1960’s as “The Great One”. He first became a star in a weekly TV variety show called “The Cavalcade of Stars” which later became “The Jackie Gleason Show.” In the show, he created a sketch which quickly evolved into the weekly comedy series known as “The Honeymooners”, where he played the bus driver/husband Ralph Kramden, along with his wife, Alice, played by Audrey Meadows. They lived in a tiny, dingy apartment in New York, where you only saw their kitchen and sometimes the fire escape as the set. Their downstairs neighbors were the dimwitted loveable sewer worker Ed Norton, played by master comedian Art Carney, and his wife Trixie, played by Joyce Randolph. The plots were usually built around Ralph’s endless efforts to strike it rich and Alice’s efforts to keep his feet on the ground. Ralph would occasionally shake his fist at Alice and say, “To the Moon, Alice, to the Moon!” Alice wasn’t fazed.

Jackie, with his rotund frame and round Irish face also created other characters etched into the memories of my generation, among them Joe the Bartender, The Poor Soul, and Reginald Van Gleason, III. For the purposes of this story, you might want to catch a bit of the Reginald character at the link below: (He appears about two minutes into the skit.)

https://youtu.be/i4VUCZRasLs?list=RDi4VUCZRasLs

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My father was a Chicago Fireman from 1944 until his death in 1968. He and his fellow firemen on the west side saw a lot. While with Truck 66, my dad was at the LaSalle Hotel fire in 1946, which claimed 61 lives. We have newspaper pictures of him making rescues on a ladder. In 1958, he and the crews of Engine 95 and Truck 26 responded to the Our Lady of Angels fire, which took 92 children and three nuns. Those were big events, but most of their fires and accidents had no names and claimed victims in more modest numbers, yet they dealt with deaths and injuries on a regular basis. I don’t imagine that men go through those kinds of experiences without developing some sort of bond, and that is what happened at “95’s House” at Crawford (now Pulaski) and Wilcox. The fireman there enjoyed each other’s company and they developed a tight bond of friendship, so they formed a “club” for socializing with their wives. “Club” would rotate the meetings from home to home every few months, or so.  They went on meeting even after transfers, injuries, retirements and deaths, and, I believe, it ended in the early 1970’s. The memorable cast of characters I can see today as if they were standing next to me.

Rick and Darlene were an outgoing, fun loving couple, Rick with his slicked back hair and always with a ready laugh. I thought he was a hero because once a year, at the Fire Department Thrill Show, staged at the old Soldier Field in sweltering mid-August, Rick would dive from the top of a makeshift four story building, set afire for the crowd; he would land with a “wump” in a safety net held by the firemen on the ground and everyone cheered. Attendance at the Thrill Show was mandatory for the Wogan children.

Jim and Peg were my favorites, largely because of Jim’s wise guy voice and wisecracking ways. Jim was the Lion from Wizard of Oz, minus the fur and the tail. Jim and my Dad were especially close. Jim, whom my Dad called “Junior”, and my Dad, whom Jim called “Shorty” were at each other as only close friends can be. One famous story went that a passerby at the firehouse inquired why city workmen were knocking out bricks below the spaces where the firehouse windows had been. Apparently the new windows were lengthier than the old. Jim replied, “So Wogan can see out.” The story continued that my Dad chased him all over the firehouse.

Frank and Mary were a little older than the others, and had two children. Their daughter, Mary Eileen, had been born with a medical condition that took her life at about seventeen years. She was a friend of my sister Maureen, and I remember her being so upset when she passed. Frank had fallen from a fire truck some years before and had been pensioned off, but remained part of the Club. Nice people.

Eddie and Millie were the life of the party. Eddie was their Lieutenant in the firehouse, and even though he commanded their respect, he was one of the boys. Millie also did hairdressing for a number of the club ladies. They always brought a bottle of whiskey to the party of mostly beer drinkers.

Sam and Kitty rounded out the crew. Kitty had a smiling Irish face and Sam was a big, loveable Jewish guy. His faith mattered not at all to this mostly Catholic crowd; once inside a burning building your particular religious beliefs were less important than your tolerance for heat and smoke, your ability to open a roof, or your willingness to put it on the line for your fellow firefighters. Sam, I guess, was all those things.

It was my parents’ turn to host the party in October of that year and my mother, no doubt in conjunction with the other wives, decided on a costume party for Halloween. When she told my father of the plan, he flat out refused. He would do everything else: get the keg of beer, the booze, food, whatever, but he was not getting into some sissy costume, even for one night. His words, not mine.

And that was that. I don’t recall my mother and father fighting very much, and I think they retreated to the bedroom if they really had to have words in a house filled with eight children, but I do recall my mother being really ticked on this one. More than once she dropped 500 pound hints that she was disappointed, that he was being a party pooper, no fun, etc. He wouldn’t budge.

The night of the party, the kids were allowed to stick around long enough to see the guests, before being banished to my grandmother’s flat below ours in the two flat building we called home. The keg of beer was on the porch, carefully and lovingly tapped by my father, and the guests began to arrive. Rick and Darlene arrived as devils, bright red horns and pitchforks. Sam and Kitty came as convicts, black horizontal stripes and all. Frank and Mary came as hobos, the old Halloween standby choice. Jim and Peg were Roy Rodgers and Dale Evans, complete with lassos. Eddie and Millie came as a priest and nun, dating against the rules of the Vatican. My Mom was dressed as Shirley Temple, bow in her hair curled especially for the occasion. And my Dad was in a plain white shirt.

After a little bit of drinking and joking, the party moved, as parties do, into several smaller parties, the wives chatting away in the living room, and the men standing guard at the tabernacle of the keg on the porch. No one noticed my Dad’s absence when my mother announced that it was time to judge the Best Costume. The men reluctantly abandoned the keg and trooped into the living room. My siblings and I had stolen back to the alcove off the living room to catch this part. My mother looked a little annoyed as she looked around for my Dad; one of the guests offered that maybe they should wait for Tom to get back from wherever he was.

Just then, the bedroom door flung open and my father strode into the living room, wearing a preposterous tall black top hat, black cape, black bow tie, white gloves, a glued-on floppy black mustache and a cigarette dangling from his lips. In his hand was a black cane, which he twirled over his shoulder as he announced “”Goooood evening!” in his best Reginald Van Gleason III imitation. The illusion was perfect.

My Dad, having much the same physical frame as Jackie Gleason, brought down the house. My mother was at once totally surprised and caught somewhere between her lingering annoyance with my Dad and an awakening delight that he had played her as well as he had. She threw her arms around him and kissed him, while the Fireman’s Club cheered and awarded him the cheap plastic dime store trophy for Best Costume.

—————-

I was amazed at what I saw. My Dad actually had a sense of humor! Hell, he was a prankster of the first order! He must have had this thing planned for days! And my Mom and my Dad had a relationship with each other!

It’s hard for kids to see past the veil of parenthood, but I was allowed this one little glimpse. My parents were real honest-to-god people, even though I, like most kids, usually saw them as providers, disciplinarians, and the enforcers who dictated the rules of the house. I never imagined them as two people in love with other, as capable of having a little fun with each other as my Dad did that night with his costumed surprise. It was a revelation to see my Mom acting not a lot like my Mom, but more like a girl.

I suppose it’s always this way for kids and their parents, but it’s nice when life peels back the curtain a little and lets you see that moms and dads have the same multiple dimensions in their lives as the rest of us. Good one, Dad.