Richard Craig Anderson

Moving water through a fire hose is both an art and a science. The artistry is instinctive while the science tackles the mathematics behind getting that water where it needs to be gotten to. But until rudimentary computers were first installed on fire engines to handle the math, it was difficult to tell where the art left off and the science began, because there are fifty shades of gray between the two. But leave it to the old breed pump operators—those men dressed in gray uniforms—to blur that distinction so that it all looks so effortless.

How did they do it? Simple. After arriving at a fire the old-timers would plant a foot on the engine’s running board, then jam their knee against the large hose that carries water from fire hydrant to fire pumper. The old breed pump operators, aka “enginemen,” relied on their knees to alert them if that massive intake hose turned soft from more water being pumped out than there was coming in. So if the knee moved an adjustment was called for, and pushing a lever in while pulling another out usually solved the glitch.

Still, it wasn’t pretty. Fire ground hydraulics is heavy on the math. Water cascades and tumbles as it flows through a hose. This dynamic creates friction which results in reduced pressure and volume at the nozzle. The longer and thinner the hose, the greater the “friction loss.” And when an engineman at a major fire is ordered to supply multiple attack lines and a large nozzle at the end of an aerial ladder, the math gets complicated. Why? Because to carry out his task the engineman must know how much water is available, the length and size of each hose he’s supplying, the type and size of each nozzle on each hose, and must then incorporate other, seemingly innocuous variables such as elevation into the equation. So if for example the nozzle on that aerial ladder is eighty feet up in the air, he has to add an additional forty pounds of pressure to the hose supplying that pipe.

However, the older enginemen had little if any formal training in hydraulics. But they understood the theory. They sure did. And they worked out calculations for each hose and nozzle on each engine ahead of time, and memorized the results. Call it Kentucky Windage. It’s where art and science often met when time was crucial and action had to be taken now. And that method is still valid today, and enginemen still memorize predetermined settings since it’s the only way to rapidly put water on a roaring fire.

When I entered the fire service in 1971, most of the old breed had already been around since the 1940s. Meeting them for the first time could be interesting. Holding out a hand, they’d introduce themselves with names as straightforward as their manner, names such as Bunky and Bear, or perhaps Virgil, Victor, Calvin, Clyde or Charley. Lacking any formal education beyond high school, these men managed logistical issues and fire ground operations with equal ease. Although they carried no formal rank, fire fighters rarely questioned their inherent authority because having been there, done that and bought the T-shirt, it was often the enginemen who kept both the fire apparatus and the fire ground operations running smoothly.

The apparatus were also old, with 1950’s era open-cab fire engines that had no automatic transmissions and often as not no power steering or power brakes, either. There were magnetos to switch on, chokes to adjust and starter buttons next to the accelerators. It took “three men and a boy” to turn the steering wheels, and enginemen had to get it right the first time when shifting those non-synchronized, straight-stick transmissions. Miss a gear and you had to come to a stop and start over again.

The old-timers held onto another distinction: they wore standard work clothes during the week but Sundays saw them reporting for duty in dress blue uniforms. No rules required this salute to the Sabbath. Instead it was simple understanding—a “this is the way it is” acceptance of Life’s priorities by unassuming men. Of course I’ve been referring to only one gender because there were no female fire fighters in 1971. But when they did begin appearing a few short years later, the old breed welcomed them with proffered hands and greetings of, “Just call me Bunky.” Or Bill or Calvin or . . .

If the older enginemen liked you they’d serve as mentor, pushing and urging younger colleague to surpass their own achievements. Many an older engineman ended up working for lieutenants and battalion chiefs who were once fresh-faced probationers. But if a Young Turk got on an older guy’s bad side, forget about the mentoring because the enginemen would ignore the too-cocky rookie.

It’s an era that’s almost gone now, although there is this one old breed engineman who has been on the job since 1969. The new kids on the block refuse to believe his tales of riding on the tailboards of fire engines racing down streets at high speed, or that the engines had wooden ladders and sometimes fire fighters might run into a burning building without an air mask to make a rescue, relying on their “leather lungs” to carry them through. Yep, it’s all stranger than fiction and yet it’s all true. And that’s a good thing because these are the tales that generate the best stories.

I’ve heard too many people say, “I hate cops.” Sadly, these words aren’t always uttered by people on the wrong side of the law, but by diners in high-end restaurants and in first class lounges at major airports. Acquaintances, friends and even relatives have also expressed their hated of cops. This hostility intrigued me at first, all the more so because while conducting my duties as a trooper people were thanking me for being nice to them—saying thanks even as I was giving them a speeding ticket. Or arresting them for burglary . . . and even for murder. The disparity troubled me. Over time however, by watching officers from other agencies and upon rising to sufficient rank to gain a broader perspective—I began to see why people hate cops.

It’s important to keep in mind that it’s the blue collar workers, executives, retirees and the students who’ve developed ill feelings toward cops that I’ll discuss here. Also significant are the numbers—so many people feel they’d been treated unfairly—or worse—by cops who were more punk than police. Since we’re dealing with the common man and woman, let’s examine the root cause by focusing on what causes more cops to come into contact with civilians above all else—the traffic stop.

We’ve all been stopped at one time or another. As a teenager I had a lead foot and got my share of speeding tickets. But I had no negative feelings toward the officers who for the most part were civil and even polite. Much later, while attending a state police academy, the instructors taught us the following method for stopping traffic violators: we should approach the driver and say, “Good afternoon. I’m Trooper Anderson of the Maryland State Police and I’ve stopped you for doing seventy-eight miles per hour in a posted fifty-five zone. I’m going to issue you a citation and I need your license and registration.”

It’s civil, respectful and more often than not, drivers shook their head and said, “I’m upset about getting a ticket but I can’t be mad at you, because you’re so nice about it.” This  approach applied while talking to burglary suspects or even when dealing with combatants at a bar fight. The big plus is that cops can always ratchet it up if necessary, but can’t take back their words if they started off as a jerk.

What constitutes being a jerk? Here are some methods that create enemies, starting with a deputy sheriff who stopped me one night. After I pulled over he approached and mumbled, “License, insurance and registration.” While getting them I asked what the problem was. He didn’t answer. Instead, he took the documents and returned to his cruiser. I knew better than to get out and move toward him so I waited, confident that he would talk to me before taking any action. It proved not to be the case when he reappeared at my door and said he’d written a citation for following another car too closely.

I said, “Deputy, I believe you’ve stopped the wrong car.” Instead of hearing me out, he told me not to argue and that I’d “better” sign the citation. I thought, okay, but while signing it I said, “Don’t worry. I’ve been a police officer for far too many years to argue or refuse to sign.” All at once he asked why I hadn’t told him right off that I was a cop. I said that it shouldn’t have mattered despite the fact that I was equal in rank to an assistant chief, and that he should’ve been civil with me from the start, adding, “I would’ve pointed out the car you were probably after—the one you obviously lost track of and ended up stopping the wrong car. Mine.” His response? He stormed off. So okay, I should’ve considered the possibility that he was having a bad night. But what popped into my mind was, “Now I know why people hate cops.” (BTW, I took the case to court and prevailed).

In another example I was a passenger in a friend’s car. He’d just pulled onto a road and had gone fewer than thirty feet when a local cop suddenly appeared and pulled him over. He then marched up to the window and said, “License and registration.” My friend Bill asked why he’d been stopped. The officer replied, “Speeding. Forty-four in a thirty-five zone.” Bill replied, “That’s not possible because I just . . .” But when the cop turned on his heel and stalked off to his cruiser, Bill activated his Bluetooth and called Rob, his partner of twenty years. Bill was expressing his dismay at being stopped when the cop reappeared. Bill said to Rob, “Hold on, Sweetheart.” The Bluetooth was still active and Rob said, “Have the officer explain how he determined your speed.” I was going to coach Bill to do the same thing, but before Bill could reply, the cop moved his head slightly inside the car (bad, bad officer safety move by the way) and said loudly enough to be heard over the Bluetooth, “I saw him speeding.” Then he added, “Did you get that . . . Sweetheart?”

I’ve gotta tell ya—I literally felt like punching this punk’s face in—in part because of his conduct but mostly because Rob was a highly-decorated cop. But of course I wasn’t going to lower myself to this cop’s level. However, I made a formal complaint against him. And I’ll appear as Bill’s witness when he fights this ticket in court. And as a recognized expert I’ll add my opinion that the heart of the problem is this: studies have revealed that cop-killers often lash out because a cop was treating them like dog meat.

Assaulting a cop or anyone else is inexcusable . . . but yeah, it’s what can happen when someone’s sense of self-respect has been attacked. There are countless other examples to report on. What’s important however is to acknowledge that we’re looking at the tip of an iceberg—with 90% of the examples yet to be seen until some cop scrapes against the wrong person and CNN goes ballistic. Of course, there are countless cops out there who are courageous, courteous and civil. But we all know what a few bad ones can do . . . and I do know why people hate cops.