In Line of DUTY
by BOB PATTERSON

John H. Herbert

  At ten o'clock Sunday on the morning of March 20th, the spacious new fire station at 800 North Main was unusually quiet. Church goers, in passing by, looked in on an apparatus floor which was deserted except for the waiting fire apparatus and the lone member on floor watch. A close observation could have detected a hum of activity behind one of the nearby doors. A Manual of Operations Drill was in progress.

  Clearly and concisely, one member of a group which formed an attentive semi-circle inside the room was reading aloud from a Department manual: "Article 3, Section 43...A rope life line shall be secured around members before permitting them to descent into shafts, deep pits, etc. The following line signals will be used: one jerk signifies All is Well, two jerks...Advance, three...Take up, four...Help."

  As the reader continued on, the collective thoughts of each member listening was varied. To some this was material for coming civil service exams, to others it was routine drill procedure which they knew they must know. Some of the newer men pictured emergency situations wherein such knowledge would be vital...older men remembered times when it was. The voice rolled on. No one there, with all their varied thoughts, could have pictured a scene which was to occur within just two short hours...a scene wherein at least three of them would be anxiously repeating those life line signals over and over to themselves while groping through a poison jammed atmosphere on East Third Street...a scene wherein one of them would soon lie dead...killed in line of duty...oblivious to all signals.

  The reader finished, discussion was completed and the books closed. Another drill completed for the records. The air of concerned attention relaxed into a confusion of voices as the men began returning to their routine duties. A lot of the remarks were being directed toward an athletic young man whom Department rosters listed as John Henry Herbert. But to the men who were busy ribbing him about his brand new haircut, he was simply "Herbie", a guy with a grin a yard wide. He was using that grin right now, while returning those remarks about his hair with a few well placed ones of his own.

  It was generally conceded around Truck and Engine 4 that Herbie was one of those kind of guys you had to have around to make up a good house. He fitted in...with the men and the work and the fire-fighting. He was the kind of a guy you looked for when you had a joke to tell...always seemed to laugh the loudest and the easiest. He was the kind who was in on the pitch on any conversation from sports to Department procedure...who could keep you hanging around the locker room listening to his general slant on life or battle yarns about his "outfit" when you knew you ought to be in bed.

  And when you were looking for a man to "Ride" during a hard fought game of handball, "Herb" was always just good enough and funny enough to draw the most attention. But he never seemed to get mad. He always had other ways of getting back at you and it usually ended up with laughs all around.

  But Herbie had his serious side when it came to things important. When somebody had to be shown how to don a Gibbs or lash a bangor, the Captain's phrase was familiar: "Herbie, show'em how".

  That passage in the Fire Department rating schedule which reads "He is the kind of a man who builds up the reputation of the Fire Department". It seemed to fit Herbie like an axe fits its scabbard.

  Well, that was the Herbie they were kidding that morning, but it was John Henry Herbert that they pulled out of a smoke-choked basement two hours later. News reports stated that his buddies refused hospitalization for the forty-five minutes necessary to confirm his death. Forty-five minutes? They would have remained on that corner for forty-five days if they thought it might bring him back. But we're getting ahead of the story.

  Let's go back again to that Sunday morning, when at 11:10 A.M. the new tapper began sounding its alarm and feeding out the long inches of alarm tape. As the crews dropped their work and ran for the rigs, they counted the bells 1...2...3...6! The Captain jerked the tape from its tapper and held it under the corresponding number on the running card. Third and San Pedro. "Truck only". As the second and third rounds of bells came in, the Engine Company Captain pushed the control buttons and sent the automatic doors sliding open and the outside signal-siren screaming its warning to traffic. With air horn blasting, the big aerial truck moved out onto Main, and a few seconds later its siren was clearing the way along Aliso Street and south on San Pedro. It was a relatively short run, and as the rig approached Third Street only a slight wisp of smoke was visible to the men. On arrival, the smoke indicated a fire somewhere inside the lower portion of the building and entry was made into the ground floor under the direction of Battalion Chief Tynan. With Engine Companies present and lines laid, the Truck crews forced open a door located approximately in the center of the building. There they found it...not fire, but smoke. Dark, dense and ugly, it boiled up out of a basement below. It was suicide to penetrate it without breathing equipment.

 
  The three men who were controlling the signal cords which were tied to the descending men began paying out the lines slowly and carefully. They were recalling those signals; 1...OK, 2...Advance, 3...Take up, 4...Help. They hoped that the last one would not have to be used.

  Down there on the stairs, the small group was progressing slowly. The surrounding atmosphere was a dark gray in the light of the Wheat Lamp. The powerful beam diffused almost immediately and visibility was limited to within a few inches of the men's goggles. Identification of each other even at the head of the stairs was difficult. Down here it was well near impossible. Kientz, for instance, did not know that the other man on his line was his friend Herbert until he compared notes with the others at the hospital that evening. All he knew now was that they were looking for fire and that the man who was somewhere in the mass of smoke ahead would tell them how and when and where to fight it. He also knew that it was uncomfortably hot.

  As the men reached the foot of the stairway, they turned to the left and traveled forward about five or six steps. Captain Sawyer laid a restraining hand on the shoulder of the man nearest him, indicating that both men should stay where they were until he gave them further orders. They stopped and waited, listening in the silence, seeing absolutely nothing as the officer left them to relocate the fire. Presently they heard a slight scuffling and a muffled coughing as if someone was gagging. Shortly there after, a light dimly appeared. A muffled voice said "The fire is on the left".

  Accordingly the men directed the nozzle, a Mystery type, to the left and opened it. The hiss and gush of the water streamed into that wall of smoke in front of them and disappeared. They moved the nozzle about in wide circles in an attempt to hit the fire and dissipate the hot smoke. To Auto-Fireman Kientz, the air about them seemed to grow lighter in color, the air hotter. If they were hitting the fire at all it was not evident from their position, and the heat was making that position increasingly unbearable. Upon an indication from his partner that they both should move, Kientz released his grip on his mouthpiece with his teeth enough to ask "Where...forward or back?" It was mutually agreed that they move back and one of the men began shutting down the nozzle.

  To Captain Sawyer too, it seemed advisable to retreat to a point from which they could more safely await ventilation, and he moved to instruct the men to leave. He was particularly uncomfortable and weak. Twice, since he had left the foot of the stairs, he had lost his nose clip and mouthpiece. The first time was after he had left the men near the foot of the stairs in order to relocate the fire. He had stumbled in the darkness, falling heavily and disarranging the breathing equipment. He had taken a gulp of the putrid air and it made him sick. He'd had to retch. That was the sound that the men had heard. The second time was after he had told the men were the fire was located. Due to the dense smoke he was unaware that he was standing directly in front of the nozzle. The stream caught him in the face and knocked off his nose and mouth pieces. Again he had to retch and breathe, for a short moment, the foul hot air.

  As the men on the hose line began backing up, Kientz could feel the other pair of hands at work shutting off the nozzle. It was his last contact with his friend Herbert, for when the line was dropped to the floor, both men became separated. Kientz turned to the left and made his way toward where he thought the stairway should be. His supply of air was getting more difficult to breathe. He moved searchingly forward...four, five...six steps. He stopped. He was reaching around him into a wall of nothingness and felt as if someone had turned him loose in a forty acre fog-covered field. He was getting lost. He did an about face and started slowly back. A firm tug on his arm told him that his signal cord was snagged. He tried to free it but couldn't. In order to move around to search for the hose line he had to remove the line from his arm. Eventually he located the lost hose line and felt along its length until he found the stairway. By this time his breathing was labored. The air seemed unusually hot in his lungs. He reached back and opened the oxygen by-pass valve...no relief. His respiratory center seemed as though partially paralyzed. He was sincerely sorry that he had tried to talk back there on the hose line. Dazedly he clambered up the stairway until he heard a voice say "get him out into the fresh air". Then he knew that he was safe.
 

  After having ordered the men to get out, Captain Sawyer crouched waiting at the foot of the stairs. His own signal cord had become snagged and he had found it necessary to discard it. He was becoming gradually weaker but refused to leave until he was sure that both men left the basement ahead of him. He had to hold his nose clip in place with his left hand because mucus from his nose caused it to keep slipping off. He realized that if he passed out he would lose control of the clip and begin breathing the carbon monoxide which lay heavy about him. Finally, when he felt sure that the second man had passed him on his way up the stairway, the officer crawled up the stairs himself. He paused near the top to ask if the two men had come out ahead of him, received and affirmative answer, and sank weakly to the stairs in a state of collapse. He had no way of knowing that the man who followed Kientz up out of the basement was not the same man who had gone down with him originally. He was another fireman who had entered the basement without the knowledge of either the Chief Officers or Captain Sawyer.

 When it was suspicioned that Herbert was still in the basement, the fastest course of action was chosen in locating a nearby fireman who was already equipped with breathing apparatus. Fireman Richard Roberts was in the immediate vicinity and he promptly started down into the smoke, knowing full well that two other men equipped like himself had just been brought out in semi-conscious conditions. He groped his way down the stairway, feeling along Herbert's signal cord, which for all he knew, may have been abandoned as had the others.

  At the point where the stair rail left the ceiling of the basement, he found that the cord had wedged in a crevice. He leaned over the rail and tugged at the lower portion of the cord. He found it taut and without response. As he continued down the stairway, Roberts logically reasoned that if Herbert was on the other end of that line, he must have traveled in a direction parallel to the stairway and toward its rear, thus causing the cord to slide back up the railing and lodge at the point where it met the ceiling. When Roberts reached the bottom of the stairway, he found water ankle deep on the floor. Assistant Chief Ferguson had ordered an engine company to hook into an outside auxiliary supply pipe...a move which proved most valuable in extinguishing the smoldering fire.

  Smoke, however, was still of vital concern. Roberts could still not discern by sight what he was doing or where he was going. He turned to the right and felt in the direction of the stairway railing until his hand again contacted the signal cord. He moved his hand down along the cord and fond that it led to a position directly beneath the stairway. There his hand contacted metal...the metal cover of a Gibbs breathing bag. He had found Herbert.

  He felt about for an arm or a leg by which to drag Herbert free. His searching hand contacted hair and a bare head. He then realized that Herbert had lost his helmet and consequently the attached face pieces. Losing no time, he grasped Herbert's turnout coat collar and tired to pull him free. The exertion caused a wave of dizziness to sweep over him and he knew that he would end up a casualty. He moved back up the stairway where he contacted two men with breathing equipment already on their way down.

  Between the three men, they managed to move Herbert's body to the stairs. At that point, Captain Norbury, who was one of the two men who had come to aid Roberts, became dizzy and weak. He was wearing a Burrell type mask. He remembered nothing which occurred from that point until he found himself out in the fresh air.

As soon as Herbert's body reached the clear air outside the building, he was given artificial respiration. Early arrival of Rescue Company 3 supplanted these efforts with a Resuscitator. Shortly thereafter, a Receiving Hospital Physician arrived and injected a shot of adrenaline directly into Herbert's heart. All treatment was to no avail. Herbert had died back there in the basement from carbon monoxide poisoning. It wasn't until his death was pronounced positively that the other stricken firefighters allowed themselves to be taken to the Hospital for treatment.
 

  We'll make an issue out of that last one. Herbert wasn't the panicky kind. He had been through spots before that were a lot tighter than that basement. He had a determination and sense of logic which weren't that easily upset. But in order to understand what we mean, you will have to hear a little about his past life.

  Herbert was born in Great Britain...Swansea, Wales, to be exact. Five years as a paratrooper for Uncle Sam gave him plenty of opportunities to get his sights on a lot of Krauts who were threatening his home town. He enlisted from his home at 4345 South Budlong, in Los Angeles, as a member of the Reserves before the Nips hit Pearl Harbor. In a short time he found himself in the middle of the fracas in Europe and was sporting an Army Officer's insignia and a terrific pride in the fighting group which he commanded, a part of the famed 101st Airborne Division. It was about that time that his parents joined in with the thousands of other Dads and Moms who prayed fervently that their boys would return. Their particular prayers were answered when five years later Johnny came marching home with a full set of battle ribbons, a Purple Heart, a Bronze Star and his own slice of a Presidential Unit Citation...not to mention a body full of shrapnel.

  But a lot went on during those years and each experience had a direct relationship with what he probably thought and did during his last moments in that basement on Third Street. The most significant perhaps was that incident which occurred after he had proved his leadership under fire and was given command of a unit which dropped out of the sky on "D" day near Normandie, deep behind the German lines. For five days Herbert led the dogged advance of his group against the enemy. On the sixth day the Germans had his outfit pinned down on two flanks. Staying under cover was of prime importance. But Herbert spotted one of his men who had become unknowingly exposed to enemy gunfire. He left his own protection to crawl out and pull the man to safety when an enemy mortar shell hit near his position. Killing two of his men, the explosion sent him reeling back with a shattered jaw and a body torn by shrapnel. In a bleeding and dazed condition he started a miraculous trek...a walk to a first aid station which took him across a railroad trestle in full view of enemy snipers and along a route infested with entrenched Germans. Yet he wasn't shot...it leads one to wonder.

  Herbert's wounds in the Normandie invasion put him in the hospital for two years. But he still found time to get back home and convince a pretty little brown-eyed girl named Kathleen that he was worth waiting for. And he also found time before his discharge to stop in at San Francisco and pick up a Golden Gloves Championship in the novice class...just like that.
 

 
  Then when everything was over and the war was blown out of existence at Hiroshima, Johnny came home to claim his girl who had waited. It wasn't long before he became a man of responsibility...about eight pounds of it, named David Alan Herbert. A good job and security was needed for the family now, so Herbert tried for the best available; the Los Angeles Fire Department. He made the grade high on the list and after some short tours of duty at Engine Companies 3 and 9, he wound up on Truck 4.

  Another indication that Herbert was different than average was his yearning for education. His locker at 4's was always stuffed with books from a course which he was taking on his days off, at Pepperdine College. Whenever the boys would question him about it, he would just look wise and tell them that he was taking a course in Psychology to try and figure them all out.

  It was along about this time that he showed up one morning with a new box of cigars. The name this time was feminine...Constance Lee. He had to buy a bigger car now because he had a bigger family.

  By now you must be getting the picture. Here was a man whose personality embraced the finer qualities of a leader, a fighter and a father...plus a lot of others which should be quite evident. It was all wrapped up in an all-around guy whom we just called "Herbie".

  It was Wednesday, March 23, 1949. A host of uniformed firemen stood in silent respect near a bronze casket covered over with an American Flag. They were there, with other friends, to bid a final goodbye to a buddy. As the last words of prayer dropped from the Minister's lips and as rifles were raised toward the Heavens in a final salute to John Herbert, a brisk breeze whipped up the Colors into a military snap and stirred the flowers around him. At least one man in that group was thinking that this is the way Herbie would want it. A man's goodbye. A Hero's goodbye. "Killed in the line of duty."

  Back there in France on that trestle...by all the laws of fate, he should have died that day. We like to think that the Lord spared him then, for just a few more years, for a purpose...so that he could enjoy a little more time with his parents...so that he could marry and leave behind him a couple of little counterparts of himself...so that we could be permitted to know him, and be always grateful that we did. Herbie would have wanted it that way.