This was the beginning of 1922, almost two and one-half years after his
date of appointment. Lieutenant La Fon was in charge of Truck 5, with
Custer assigned as a member on the opposite shift. Tom Doran, Ralph Smith and Sam
Shockley were also long to remember that fateful January morning while serving as part of
the truck company's luckless crew.
The rig was of the old solid wheel high-riding type with a
spidery network of ladders topped by an eighty-five foot aerial. The tractor and
fifth wheel arrangement proved its capacity as one of the city's larger rigs with a
measured fifty-six foot length, over all. In short, a piece of apparatus that only
an extremely heavy and fast-moving object could seriously harm.
Custer knew that the position of tillerman has counter-balanced
its responsibility against the experience gained, for many years on the department because
of the recognized intricacies of the big wheel's operation. He realized that he was
accepting a position which more or less endangered his life and which made him directly
answerable, in part, for the welfare of the crew. However, as this remained the
position of a member possessing a little more experience than the average run of crew, he
climbed aboard the high-seat for his last ride with a feeling of assurance due perhaps, to
his past unblemished record.
The Fates had arranged their ironic calendar of events so that on
the morning of January 22, 1922, Harry Custer was working for John Matthews, the tillerman
on the opposite shift. The morning was a rather dry one for such a month, with the
crisp dew almost totally absent from the streets. As one newspaper article later
states. The streets were comparatively dry until the deluge of blood from the
mangled forms of several firemen made them otherwise.
At exactly 7:45, Custer's last long ring sounded throughout the
quarters of Engine 5. Lieutenant La Fon gave a location at 940 Stanford, and the
sirens began to warm up to the engine's roar. Custer, legs straddled to clear the
aerial, signaled forward and the long hook and ladder rolled out and swung into line for
the run.
Harry was not yet accepted as an old-timer on the department as
this was but the beginning of his third year in service. Thus it would not be
supposing too much to imagine his sensation of the concealed thrill of an alarm-response
that haunts the veins of every fire-fighter through his last calloused years of duty.
The uncertain anticipation of danger remains in just the right proportions to the
plunging race on an apparatus to create an effect that is unparalleled in any profession.
Custer felt such a sensation and it served to put him on his guard so that danger
might be foreseen. This time, however, caution was to serve no such purpose.
As the auto-fireman took the bend into Stanford, Custer tracked
the accepted arc and slowly edged over until the long ladder once more lined to the
tractor. From here he could see, far ahead, the approximate location of the alarm
and searched the grayed sky above it. No fire. He hunched his turnout collar
higher around the ears as cold wind whipped at his face, and tried to relax.
Glancing down at Doran brought a quick grin. Tom was still struggling with his
axe-belt and had bumped his helmet down over his nose. Had Custer but known that
these were to be last events: a last grin, a last look at a brother firefighter, what
would have been his reactions in the tragic moments to come?
|