_THREE ALARM FIRE_
By the time the automobile reached Fulton street, Flash could see
shooting flames. The entire southern sky had taken on a bright crimson
glow, and a high wind, blowing from the direction of the waterfront,
carried acrid fumes and smoke.
“Must be the old apartment house district!” Flash exclaimed. “The Werner
coal yard is near there, too! If the fire really gets started, half of
Brandale might go!”
The car came to a jerking halt in a traffic jam. Thanking the driver,
Flash leaped out and ran the remaining two blocks.
A tangle of fire equipment laced the narrow street in front of the
Elston Apartments, a ten-story brick building which was oozing smoke
from beneath the flat roof. Already three pumpers, two rescue squads,
and two hook-and-ladder trucks were at the scene, maneuvering into
position.
Flash could see flames pouring from the basement and first floor
windows. Firemen were leading women and children through the blinding
smoke to the safety of the street. A few persons, overcome by smoke were
stretched out on the pavement, receiving first-aid treatment.
A deputy chief, three bugles on his white helmet, shouted orders to the
men aboard a new ladder truck.
“Raise that aerial! Forty!”
The mechanically operated metal ladder shot skyward in two sections to
an upper window of the burning apartment building where a man could be
seen bent over the sill, half-overcome by smoke. Flash elbowed his way
through the excited crowd of onlookers, reaching the front rank.
“Hey, keep back, you!” a policeman ordered sharply.
Flash pulled out his courtesy card.
“Okay,” nodded the officer, allowing him to pass. “Just keep out of the
firemen’s way.”
Flash focused his camera in time to get a shot of a fireman who had
clambered up the ladder through the black pall of smoke, rescuing the
man at the window. Then he rushed over to where the rescue squad was
hard at work. As he leaped over a length of flat hose it bulged full of
water, writhing and twisting like a great jungle snake.
The heat was searing Flash’s face but he had no awareness of discomfort.
Blazing embers dropped at his feet. One burned a hole through his coat.
Filled with a wild elation, he snapped picture after picture, reloading
his camera as fast as he could.
Lines of hose had been stretched from every available hydrant so that
great streams of water could be poured on the fire. Adjoining buildings
were blanketed down in the desperate fight to keep them from igniting.
Flash approached the deputy chief who stood by Engine 12, reading a
pressure dial.
“Will the coal yards go?” he asked.
“Don’t know yet,” the chief answered shortly. “We expect to save ’em.”
“Is everyone out of the building?”
The chief nodded and strode away.
Flash dropped back to get a long range shot of the blazing building,
because he saw that Deems of the _Globe_ was taking a similar picture.
It was the first time he had seen the photographer since the night of
the Gezzy-Brady fight. Edging close he tried to speak a few words of
gratitude for the favor he had received. Deems cut him short.
“Glad to do it,” he said curtly. “But I can’t give you any help on this
job. It’s every man for himself.”
“Won’t need any help,” grinned Flash. “I’m doing pretty well.”
He hoped that his words would not prove to be an idle boast. The test
must come when he developed his films. If he had misjudged the amount of
light, he would be faced with a second failure. But Flash refused to
think of such a possibility.
He stood gazing up at the flaming walls, listening to the loud, sucking
draft which roared through the building. Then his gaze wandered to the
adjoining Marilyn Apartment which had been vacated as a precautionary
measure. Firemen had carried hose into the dwelling and were shooting a
steady stream of water through the windows, across a narrow areaway.
“I might get some unusual shots from up there,” thought Flash. “Anyway,
it’s worth trying.”
Unchallenged, he entered the smoke-filled building, and climbed to the
fifth floor. Letting himself into a deserted apartment suite opposite
the flaming building, he set up his tripod, and focused his camera upon
an engine man who was feeding a stream of water across the areaway.
Flash was so close to the fire that the heat nearly choked him. Black,
rolling smoke hit him in waves, cutting off the view below, and blinding
his eyes for long minutes at a time.
In a near-by window, the engine man motioned to Flash and shouted
something which he did not understand. But as he watched, the man shut
off the flow to the nozzle and moved to a new location farther away. A
blanket of smoke hid him entirely from view.
Flash soon shifted his own position to another window at the corner of
the building. As a billow of smoke cleared away, he stared across to the
opposite window ledge, scarcely believing what he saw.
An elderly man, groggy from heat and smoke, stood behind the open
window, perceptibly weaving back and forth as if about to fall. With
horror, Flash realized that in some way the fellow had been overlooked
when firemen searched the building. Unless help reached him, and
quickly, he would perish, for the halls and stairs leading to safety
already were a blazing inferno.
A cloud of smoke rose up from a lower window, blotting the figure from
view. Flash gazed downward. He could not see the street. He shouted
several times, but his cries went unanswered.
In another minute the areaway cleared again. While Flash still could not
attract attention from the street, he was relieved to observe that his
shouts for help had aroused the old man from a state of daze.
Staggering against the window sill, he motioned to the photographer. His
lips moved, yet made no audible sound.
“Stay where you are!” shouted Flash. “Don’t go away! I’ll bring help!”
He was not certain the old man understood or would obey. But he dared
waste no time by repeating his instructions. At any moment the fellow
might be overcome, or the walls might fall.
Flash ran to the window where he had last seen the engine man. The hose
lay there but the fireman was gone, evidently called to a more urgent
post.
Starting for the street to summon help, Flash jerked open a door which
he thought led into a main corridor. He found himself in a large closet
filled with half empty buckets of paint. His gaze focused hopefully upon
a tall step ladder used recently by painters.
Instantly Flash’s plan of action changed. With a life at stake time was
precious. He doubted if he could bring help in time to save the man. But
the ladder might turn the trick.
Seizing it, he hurried back to the window. He was relieved to see the
old man standing where he last had been, silhouetted against a wall of
flickering flame.
Flash pushed the ladder through the open window and across the narrow
areaway to the opposite ledge. It barely bridged the gap.
“Get out on the ledge!” he shouted encouragingly. “Crawl over! I’ll
steady the ladder!”
The old man, his face ghastly in the weird light, climbed through the
window to the stone ledge. There he cowered, his back to the brick wall,
afraid to trust himself to the ladder.
“Come on! Hurry!” Flash urged impatiently. “It’s your only chance! The
building can’t last much longer.”
The old fellow stared at him in a stupid, bewildered way. Even the
searing fire in the room behind, could not drive him to attempt it.
Flash realized that he was only wasting precious time.
Hesitating only an instant, the photographer swung his legs through the
window. Testing the ladder to make certain it was firmly in place, he
crawled nimbly toward the man on the opposite ledge. Halfway across he
glanced down. Through the rolling clouds of smoke, he caught a fleeting
glimpse of the street five stories below.
For a moment his courage nearly failed him. He clung tightly to the
ladder, fighting the wave of dizziness which swept over him. Then,
gaining control of himself, he crawled the remaining distance, and
reached out a hand to the terrified man.
“I’m afraid,” the old fellow whimpered piteously. “I can’t do it. The
ladder might slip. I can’t.”
“Do you want to burn?” Flash demanded. “Come on, before it’s too late!”
He seized the old man by the coat and pulled him out on the ladder. For
a fearful second he thought that they both might lose their balance and
plunge to the street. But once on the ladder, the old fellow maintained
a measure of self-control. Although he whimpered with fear, he did not
clutch Flash or struggle against the grasp of his arm.
Inch by inch the young photographer backed toward his own window and
safety. He kept hold of the old man’s coat, steadying him and lending
him confidence.
“Don’t look down,” Flash commanded. “Keep your eyes on the window.”
The ladder beneath them creaked and groaned, and as the old man made a
jerky movement, one end slipped slightly.
“Steady,” warned Flash.
They remained motionless and the ladder settled back into place.
“Another foot and we’ll be there,” Flash said encouragingly as they
crept on once more.
He reached the ledge. With a sigh of relief he felt his feet swing over
the sill and strike the floor. But just as he relaxed, the ladder gave a
convulsive movement. As it tilted, unburdening its human cargo, Flash
clung desperately to the old man.
The ladder struck the street with a resounding crash. The old man had
started to plunge with it, but his fall was broken by the powerful grasp
of the photographer’s muscular arms. Flash, too, was half pulled through
the window. He fought with strong leg and back muscles to maintain his
balance.
Terrified by his plight, the old man gave a choked cry and struggled
frantically. His wild contortions made the task of pulling him to safety
all but impossible. Flash’s heart began to pound from the intensity of
the effort. Yet it never occurred to him to release his hold on the
man’s wrists.
Exerting his utmost strength he pulled the old man up a few inches, only
to feel him slip back a greater distance. And Flash was slowly being
dragged across the sill by the old man’s weight. Flash could see the
street far below, momentarily clear of smoke. A shiver wracked his
exhausted body. Unless help came quickly they both would plunge to their
deaths!
Smoke swirled in Flash’s face, and the intense heat from the areaway
sapped his little remaining strength. His heart felt as if it would
hammer itself from his breast. His breath came in panting gasps.
Once more he made a valiant effort to pull the old man to safety. Again
he failed. Inch by inch they both were slipping downward. His knees were
losing their grip under the sill. In another instant he and the man he
sought to save would plunge to the areaway below.
Even as he abandoned all hope, Flash felt himself firmly grasped by the
legs. Slowly but steadily he was hauled back through the window.
The strain upon the young photographer’s arms was terrific, yet he clung
desperately to the old man. Both were drawn through the opening to
safety. Spent by the ordeal, they slumped on the floor.
Flash saw then, that his rescuer was the same fireman who previously had
been in the building.
“Thanks,” he gasped gratefully. “I thought it was curtains for sure.”
“Would have been in another minute,” grunted the fireman. “When that
ladder crashed to the street I knew something was wrong up here.
Couldn’t see on account of the smoke.”
The old man had passed out completely. Stooping, the fireman gathered
him up and slung the inert body over his back.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said.
Flash heard the words as if from a long distance. He tried to follow the
fireman but his feet refused to move. Every muscle seemed paralyzed. He
weaved sideways, dizzy from the heat.
Then quietly, he crumpled.