Chief 1

I don’t think I ever had a vertical leap of forty inches, but I sure as hell don’t have one today: at sixtyish years old with sixtyish pounds of firefighting gear on.  The back of the still-smoking semi-trailer brought to a halt by fire on I-90 is open, and the Arlington chief wants us to go in to make sure the fire won’t rekindle and figure out what is in the 55-gallon drums.  Because when an 18-wheeler is on fire, it is handy to know what might be burning in the back.

This is the part where a normal person would say something like, “hey fella, figure it out yourself.”  But inquiring minds need to know, and orders are orders.  So, in we go. 

There is nothing to grab onto to pull yourself up or in.   There is nothing to step onto either.  It is just a trailer floor, forty inches off the pavement.  So, I grab Lt. Jason by the back and throw him in.  Capt. Brandon does the same to me.  Dozens of blue 55-gallon drums are on pallets and wrapped in plastic from side to side and back to front, where the fire was / is.  I hop up on top of them to try to find a gap where I might find a packing slip.

Capt. Brandon has a thermal camera and there’s a charged hose if it starts to go to heck in a hurry.  What is this stuff I am walking on?  Is it flammable?  Is it toxic?  Is it both?  You’d like to think the driver could tell us, but you’d also like to think nations have figured out wars should be avoided.  So, I press onward, getting closer to where the fire was or still is, and farther from the relative safety of being a pedestrian on an interstate. 

Flammable?  Toxic?  Radioactive?  I haven’t been this rapt with curiosity since all those dogs in all those cars were driving to that big tree in the distance.  Big dogs.  Little dogs.  Red dogs and blue dogs.  All heading to that tree.  What is in that tree?  Go, Dog. Go!  What is in these drums?  Go, Craig. Go.

I see a gap in the drums ahead.  I jump down off the top of the drums, pull a knife from my turnout gear and cut the packing list off the pallet wrapping.  I throw my prize to Capt. Brandon, who unravels it to solve the mystery.  What relentless danger have I braved to make interstate transport of Wisconsin Dells visitors and dairy products safe again?  You think that cheddar just arrives on the grocery store shelf without doughty men undertaking selfless deeds?  Going in harm’s way where mere civilians fear to tread?  Think again.  

“It’s water,” Capt. Brandon announces.     

Well.  That’s gonna make the Firefighter of the 4th Quarter nomination markedly less dramatic.  I grab the charged hoseline and make it to the front, to cool off the charred trailer so nothing rekindles.  Spraying water on … um, water. 

Firefighter of the 3rd Quarter is Capt. Brandon.  He’s been gone for a while, deployed to the other side of the globe.  Remember Operation Epic Fury?  Though it officially ended on May 5, it is still going on, albeit with a less epic moniker.  It is now called “overseas operations in the CENTCOM AOR.” 

Whatever it is called, it is great to have Capt. 1 back for two weeks.  He showed up unannounced at the station earlier in the day and was greeted like the excellent teammate he is. 

I might have sped just a little on the way to the station to make the first engine out when the interstate fire page came through, just to go on a call with him.  We did the standard, “hey Captain / hey Malin” greeting at the lockers, and the world felt a little more okay, if only for a moment.

For a couple weeks, the world has felt a little less okay, for something I am still processing.  Retired Davenport Fire Chief Mark Frese passed away unexpectedly late last month.  We last spoke a few weeks prior about some Davenport ridiculousness, and he was in typical spirits.  Wise, amused, inspirational.  Him telling me I should be working for Davenport.  Me telling him he should be Mayor.

But … is being Mayor better than being Fire Chief?  On some days, maybe.  On most days, not a chance.  Mayors at their best point a community to a better collective future.  Fire chiefs lead.  Leading is better.

In the wake of Katrina, Davenport sent two crews to the Mississippi coast where the hurricane made landfall.  Chief Frese and me went with the first crew.  On the way down, we only stopped for diesel and food and a few hours of sleep.  Somewhere in the middle of the night in Tennessee, we pulled into a fire station, unannounced. Chief Frese got out and rang the doorbell. He chatted with a battalion chief roused from sleep.  No reservation needed.  Just open doors, a spectacular breakfast, and goodbye handshakes from Mark’s brothers in service. 

He was an irresistible force, and the most exceptional leader I have ever worked with.  At once courageous and empathetic, he conveyed a vision that was both aspirational and attainable.  Unwavering in support of his firefighters, he set a standard of performance and integrity that made you want to be a better City employee, and person.  To earn his trust and admiration was a badge of honor anyone who crossed paths with him aspired to.

I would have never become Davenport City Administrator without him lobbying the City Council to pick “the kid.”  Nor would I have lasted a year in the gig.   

We had an easy camaraderie, in part from sharing the childhood experience of an orphanage, and taking away the same lessons.  A search for belonging.  A love of family.  A bedrock duty to repay the social capital we were provided through the grace of strangers.  And, truth told, a certain “is that all you got?” sense of bemusement at challenges placed in front of us.

Of course, I went to the funeral.  The modern corporate truism is that no job will love you back.  But callings are different from jobs, and there wasn’t an open parking space for blocks.  An entire city loved Chief Frese back.     

Rain was falling, as it should, for any career firefighter laid to rest.  The universe stepping in as water supply for a man who gave 37 years to the craft of firefighting.  St. Anthony’s was overflowing, as it should.  A procession of firefighters solemnly brought forth his turnout gear to rest before the altar.  His boots and pants.  His jacket.  His white helmet.  His axe. 

As his battle-worn helmet passed, I saw him again as I did countless times on scene.  Solving a hundred problems at once, confident in his firefighters, assured that no matter the cascade of difficulties, Davenport Fire would do its duty with skill, and empathy, and fearlessness. 

He did not just show me how to be a better leader.  He made me want to be a firefighter.   

And now I am … no matter my sixtyish-year-old vertical leap.

To say "thank you" to a man who had such an impact on the trajectory of my life hardly seems adequate.  There is small comfort that I thanked him -- personally -- before his last call rang out in St. Anthony's.  Just as the nine sharp rings of the fire bell echoed through the church, the echoes of Mark's dedication to community will shape the actions of all who knew him, for years to come. 

Rest in peace, Chief.  We have the watch from here.