There was a firefighter downtown who was known as a real smoke-eater. He would crawl into a "smoker" and not leave until the fire was out. He was looked up to and admired by many a young firefighter.

His secret, however, finally came to light. The smoke-eater was found inside of a door at a bad "smoker," squatted with hose in hand, just staying near the fresh air from outside. He evidently was waiting for the other firefighters to find and get the fire extinguished. This discovery shattered his smoke-eater image.

This is not to say all smoke-eaters were fakes. There were plenty of real smoke-eaters over the years.

A single incident commander was lacking at multiple alarm fires over a period of time in the fire department. Every top officer who showed up at a fire seemed to take a turn, usually simultaneously with the others. They would continually circle a fire barking orders to the individual companies. An engine company would be ordered to move into the building by one chief, only to be pulled back by the next circling officer. The continued countermand of orders was frustrating for a company, and the men were beat down by repeatedly lugging their heavy hose line in and out of a building.

One deputy chief was famous for slapping the men with his "slicker" as he screamed his order, usually to "get in and get it." He seldom wore the coat. It generally was used to reinforce his orders.

There was one captain who finally had his fill at a particularly stubborn warehouse burner in 1958. He had been swatted into the fire and pulled back one too many times. The next time the deputy came screaming around the corner and whopped him with his slicker, the captain dropped his nozzle and coldcocked the deputy. His square-in-the-face punch floored him, leaving the deputy with a black eye and cuts above the other eye.

Smoky Jones probably felt the great satisfaction of punching out the deputy was worth more than the five-day suspension and demotion.

It was the 1960s when heat instruments were being developed to spot hidden fire in walls and other enclosed spaces. A representative of 3M, which had an instrument under development, offered one to a district chief at a southwest station to test. It was shaped like a gun and was carried in a holster. The chief would strap on the "gun" after a building suffered a pretty good fire and search for hidden heat. He would slowly scan the walls with the gun aimed from several feet away. It was a sight to see. Hilarious. Especially when he pointed out a hot spot, and the wall cavity turned out to still be filled with cobwebs.

Needless to say, the heat instrument was a failure, but it earned the district chief the nickname "Buck Rogers."

The window of opportunity was historically 10 minutes, It was the time one had to make up his mind to call for help. That is, a district chief had to call for a second alarm within ten minutes of an alarm. Pulling a second alarm after ten minutes earned the chief a trip downtown for a dress-down by the big chief. Conversely, if a 2-11 was pulled and the big chief felt the fire did not rate two alarms, the district chief was still in for a dress-down. Never mind that the men made a fast, exceptionally good stop at a truly threatening situation before the big chief arrived.

One district chief responded to a challenging fire in 1970. The fire was in a two-story building with apartment units over retail stores. Company after company was sent into the smoky second floor to find the fire. The attempts were failing. Fire could not be found, and the smoke kept growing thicker. The order went out to pop the roof. Truckies responded but ran into a complicated roof. They could not get the building ventilated quickly. The window of opportunity had slipped by, and attempts to find the fire were renewed with vigor. Finally, all of the men had dropped from exhaustion, and still the fire had not been located.

It was now a couple of windows-of-opportunity later, and the frustrated chief had to get help. "I don't give a damn if they fire me," he screamed to his aide, "Pull me a 2-11." The chief knew he was in for trouble because he felt it must be 20 or so minutes into the fire. To his surprise, he later found that the 2-11 was pulled 58 minutes after the alarm. (Time really flies when one is having "fun.")

For days, the district chief walked on egg shells awaiting the fearful call from downtown. The call never came. Fire Chief C. R. Cook shattered the old custom. He said nary a word. It was a new day. You could now call for help whenever it was needed. What a welcomed relief for officers. No more worry about calling help within a set period of time.

The district chief became known as "58-minute second," but the razing was not nearly as bad as would have been a chewing out by the fire chief.

"Rekindles" are a cardinal sin in the fire service. Actually, rekindle is a misnomer. It is a fire that was never put out completely in the first place. Nevertheless, you put extra effort into overhaul to be sure a fire is completely out. A so-called rekindle is generally far more destructive than the original fire.

One senior captain had a district chief that always turned a fire over to him after the flames were knocked down. He told the captain, "It's all yours," and added the warning, "Don't let the fire rekindle." How easy it was for the chief, the captain thought. So when the captain made chief, he followed his chief's example.

Lightening struck a home out main street during an electrical storm. No one was home, and the fire involved the paneling and furnishings in the den. It was quickly put out. The chief passed on to the senior captain the normal words of his mentor, and left the scene.

Scarcely more than an hour passed when an alarm sent the chief back to the fire. The home was almost totally involved. He discovered after the fire an overstuffed couch that burned in the original fire still in the den. That was the culprit no doubt. The couch should have been taken outside, and the stuffing ripped apart and extinguished. Arson was on the way, and the chief needed to get rid of the evidence. (Arson investigators were sent to all "rekindles.") The chief was responsible for the "rekindle," even though it was the senior's failing. The couch was quickly pulled from the house and hidden in the debris outside.

Along with the arson investigator came someone with the Insurance Services Office who was in town grading the fire department. The two searched throughout the house for a cause. None showed up pointing to a "rekindle," nor could any of the rooms be traced back to a single ignition point. The chief stayed mum throughout the investigation, speaking only when asked a question. He answered each question with as few words as possible. Anything to keep from tripping up and tipping off the cause. Finally the investigator gave up and listed the cause as unknown. The district chief succeeded in keeping a "rekindle" from marring his record.

A former firefighter joined the department after stints in other fire departments. He always wanted to be on a big city department and finally made it. After training, he wound up at Station 15. His first run was a total surprise. The engine cranked up, but the pumper didn't move. Above the penetrating shrill of the siren, the gears of the transmission could be heard grinding away. The old chauffeur was having a problem shifting into first gear. After a minute or two, the chauffeur succeeded, and crept slowly toward Main Street.

Here the chauffeur came to a complete stop, siren still racing at top speed. He leaned forward in his seat to eye Main Street for traffic. Again he ground away for first gear. A short ways down Main, the chauffeur tried to make second gear. Nothing happened except more grinds louder than the first. (He evidently had never heard of double-clutching; automatic transmissions were yet to be perfected for trucks.) The chauffeur finally rolled to a stop in the middle of Main and started all over with first gear. This went on all the way to the fire. He did get to second gear a couple times, but nary a time into third gear.

The probie who had his dream of a big department fulfilled wondered aloud, "What the heck have I gotten myself into?"

Speed leaving a fire station has been a goal of firefighters since the early days of fire departments. Stalls were moved from the rear to the side of a fire house, so horses were nearer to the front of the apparatus. Chains across the stalls were released by the watchman from his desk or automatically released when the fire bell rang. Harnesses were rigged from the ceiling and released after the horses were in place. One fire department even sloped the ground floor toward the front door, so the horses could quickly get the heavy steamer rolling. Anything to get out of the fire house faster.

Houston's Fire Station 5 had a trip to drop the harness which worked great at the Great Fifth Ward Fire of 1912. The station was just two blocks from the origin of the conflagration, which was roaring in the near distance when the doors opened. The horses trotted to their position on each side of the tongue of the steamer. Phillip Jay raced for the driver's seat, and John Ward hopped to the engineer's position. Phil tripped the harness from the ceiling mount. It landed perfectly onto the horses. With a snap of the whip, the horses leaped off toward the flames. There was one small problem at this point. The reins were ripped from Phil's grip and dragged after the horses. Phil, John and the steamer remained in the station. Someone forgot to buckle the harness.

It was not disclosed who was responsible for snapping the harness, but Phil showed up three years later as watchman of Fire Station No. 7. John was still engineer at 5's.

And then there was Harry Hoffman, the crippled tillerman of Hook & Ladder No. 1. The driver of Hook & Ladder No. 1 was jolted off his seat when the team jolted out of the station headed for the Fifth Ward Fire. Instead of jumping off the rig and endangering pedestrians, Harry stayed fast to steer the rig on an even keel, until the team stopped from exhaustion.

A plugman dropped off at a hydrant, and Engine 4 sped on to a cloud of smoke rising down the block. The chauffeur hussled to get the hose disconnected and hooked to the pump, as the captain and first lineman pulled the inch-and-a-halves toward the fire. Minutes later and no water, so the captain sent the lineman to see what happened. The lineman ran back to the hydrant where he found the plugman looking puzzled and holding the coupling in his hand. "Where's the water," the lineman yelled. Sheepishly, the plugman relied, "I guess I missed the plug." Holding his fingers several inches apart, the plugman added, "But, only by this much."

It was awhile back when winters were really winter in Houston. Snow coated the city about every decade. More often, the city got covered in ice with temperatures dipping into the teens. It could get blistering cold.

Fire hydrants were dry plugs, meaning the water drained from the barrel after the valve was closed. Sometimes the drains got clogged or a main valve had a leak faster than the drains could handle, either of which would leave a barrel full of water. When the temperature fell below freezing, a barrel full of water could freeze and render the hydrant useless.

Bales of hay were distributed by the supply truck when the thermometer began to fall. The hay wound up in the gear room (and what a mess). When the weatherman predicted a freeze, a bale was placed onto the tailboard of a pumper. The plugcatcher was to use the bale if he encountered a frozen plug. He would light the hay after placing a bale against the hydrant. Never a story has been told of anyone ever having to thaw a hydrant.

A few of the firefighters loved the practice. They were the ones who owned a horse. When spring came, they would cart off what was left for fodder.

Many fire officers succumb to the "candlemoth" syndrome. That is, when flames show, they've got to put the "wet stuff" on the "red stuff," even when it's a no-no. It's usually a no-no to apply water from top side. Shoving water into flames burning through a roof can drive out firefighters trying to make the fire inside. Ladder pipe streams will definitely have firefighters scattering from the building.

During the 1960s and beyond (and probably before), discussions became hot and furious during a weekly chiefs' meeting when a fire had been fought wrongly. A district chief would complain that his men were making the fire when "some yokel stuck a ladder pipe into the vent hole in the roof and drove my men out." Other district chiefs chimed in to remind the higher-ranking chiefs that the same thing had happened to them, even if it had been years before. After much discussion, everyone agreed to not do it again.

Another challenge always came. It may be only days after a heated meeting, or weeks or even months later, but another chance to do it right would present itself. What followed always turned out the same. Some idiot top-officer would succumb to the candlemoth syndrome, and the fight began anew at the next chief's meeting.

Firefighters arrived at a fire in the Texas Dental College at 1018 Blodgett ca, 1931. Smoke was pouring from the building. "It must be in the dormitory," shouted Battalion Chief Grover Adams, "In and save the students, my brave lads." His men rushed in and began bringing out the "sleepers." About this time, a school official arrived, saw what was happening and screamed, "This is the anatomical room and those bodies are here for dissection!"