by Jeff Turkel
In 1990, while a U.S. Air Force firefighter stationed at Eglin Air Force Base in the Florida Panhandle, the fire chief of a rural Alabama town near where I lived asked me to help train his volunteer firefighters. I jumped at the challenge of sharing my firefighting experience and knowledge with a group of men and women. Little did I know when I started that I would teach them the most important lesson I thought I could and that that lesson would nearly cost me my life.
The most important lesson I wanted to impart to the department members was the importance of safety. Some would say I was ruthless, especially when emphasizing wearing bunker gear properly and the correct, safe methods of donning and using breathing apparatus. Whatever the subject, I preached SAFETY, SAFETY, and SAFETY.
After weeks of teaching them the proper way to don bunkers, use breathing apparatus, and pull hoselines, I thought they were ready for a training fire. I prepared a large pile of brush, approximately eight foot high by about 20 feet wide. This was to be the first fire most of them had ever seen.
I was methodical in ensuring that everyone properly donned bunkers and Nomex® hoods and was very thorough in my safety briefing. I had the crews lay two attack lines as well as one safety backup line. Everything was set–and safety, to me, was paramount. But, I made a very stupid decision. I decided to use about half a cup of gasoline to light the brush pile. Before I had a chance to set my torch, I noticed the crews on the safety line had decided to take a break. It took a few minutes to get the line staffed. It was 98º, with a typical 90 percent humidity.
As soon as I set my torch to the pile, I instantly felt an extreme amount of heat, heard an explosion, and felt a blast that knocked me back quite a distance. Before I knew it I was on my knees about 30 feet from the brush pile, bunkers smoking, and terrified to move. When I came to my senses, I felt okay, but my face was a bit sore.
Before calling for an ambulance I thought I’d check myself out first. When I looked at myself in a mirror I didn’t look too bad. Other than for the fact that my eyebrows, eyelashes, and mustache were gone, I had what looked like badly chapped lips and a few small second-degree burns on my neck where there were pinholes in my hood.
I didn’t feel bad at all, so I decided to continue with the training. By the way, my pregnant wife and two stepsons were there to witness this.
When we finished the training about three hours later, I decided to go to the Eglin Air Force Base hospital to get some cream for my burnt lips. (As it turned out, the burns were, in fact, minor). A few minutes after arriving in the emergency room (ER), I had multiple IV lines in my arms, was hooked to an EKG, and was immediately put on breathing treatments. The whole time I was arguing with the ER staff and the doctor that I was fine. When I was wheeled into the critical trauma area, I noticed my blood pressure was 188 over 128 and my pulse was 148. Also the EKG was showing some funny looking spikes. I continued to argue with the doctor that I was fine. I really felt that he was going overboard, especially when he told me I was being admitted to the intensive care unit (ICU). Why? I argued. I really did feel fine.
I never thought about the seriousness of my injuries until I was placed on the gurney that would take me to ICU. The doctor hooked me up to a Lifepack, charged it up, and prepped a round of atropine and epinephrine (drugs used to treat cardiac arrest). I continued to think I was okay, but knew the doctor would not be doing this if he did not think my injury was serious.
The truth was that I was not okay. Apparently I was caught in the gasoline vapor explosion and took flame down into my bronchial tubes that burnt their insides. The doctor was concerned that I was going to throw a pulmonary embolism and die.
I stayed in ICU for three days and then in the medical ward for another two days before being released. The day after being released from the hospital, I was back at work, no light duty or convalescent leave.
At first it felt great to be back at work. I absolutely loved my job. My first shift back, I noticed I started to have problems. I lost my appetite (for someone who can eat like a horse, this was quite a change), and had bad headaches. But most of all, I found myself flashing back to the accident every half hour or so. The flashbacks were so realistic: I could actually feel the heat and hear the explosion. I also had a hard time sleeping, although I was extremely tired all the time. In the back of my mind I wondered if I would freeze on the fireground. I did not talk to anyone about how I was feeling. I didn’t think anyone would care, especially at work. Also, I wanted to get through this by myself.
After going almost two weeks without sleeping and eating, I knew I needed to do something. I was not about to see military mental health professionals–not because they are not good at what they do, but because I really did not think they would understand. I had read a bit about critical incident stress debriefings (CISD), so I called the Okaloosa County EMS office to see if there was a CISD team in my area. I was put in telephone contact with a paramedic who asked to describe what had happened and how I was feeling. After spending nearly two tearful hours on the telephone, I was scheduled for a one-on-one debriefing that evening.
When I told my assistant chief that I needed a few hours off for the debriefing, he said it didn’t really matter to him, as he had made the decision that I was a danger to my fellow firefighters and that at the end of this shift I would be placed on dispatcher duty indefinitely. I was extremely angry. I had spent time in dispatch. It was good duty, but I absolutely loved being on shift.
I left work for the debriefing, not really sure of what it would entail, but I knew it was something I needed and wanted to do. The debriefer asked me to describe exactly what had transpired over the past few weeks, which I did in painstaking detail. I noticed I was shaking and crying uncontrollably while doing so. After describing what had happened, he asked me what I had thought at the time that I realized something was wrong immediately after lighting the fire. At first, I told him I did not know what I thought. He kept asking the same question over and over; the more he asked, the angrier I got and the louder I shouted, “I don’t know.”
After about 45 minutes of his “badgering,” I screamed out, “I thought that I deserved to die because I was so stupid.” The floodgates of tears started to flow instantly as soon as I finished that sentence. The healing had started.
We talked more about my feelings of shame for having done something that I felt was really stupid. I was trying to teach these firefighters how to be safe, and by my not being safe, I almost lost my life. The debriefing lasted about two hours.
I no sooner had stepped my foot back in the fire station when my crew was dispatched to a mutual-aid structure fire in Crestview, Florida. On arriving on scene, my crew was assigned to cover an exposure that had propane tanks with flame impingement. I did the job I so love, never once hesitating. I felt great–really great.
As soon as I returned to the station, I confronted my assistant chief. I proudly (actually somewhat arrogantly) told him I did my job at the fire and there was absolutely no reason to pull me off shift. All he said was, “Okay.” After leaving his office I showered, then crawled into my bunk for seven hours of the best night’s sleep I think I have ever had. No more flashbacks. No more headaches, No more crying. And no more not eating!
The point is, critical incident stress debriefings do work. Being the lone ranger doesn’t. If you need help, get it. Asking for help is not a sign of weakness. It is a sign of strength.
Jeff Turkel is a retired United States Air Force firefighter. He served in military fire departments in Alaska, Great Britain, Florida, and Italy, in positions from tailboardman to deputy fire chief. He also served a brief stint as a civilian fire protection specialist for the Department of Defense in Baghdad, Iraq, and is a 911 dispatcher employed by the State of Alaska. He is an IFSAC-certified Fire Officer I, an ARFF firefighter, and Fire Instructor I; he has completed the FEMA Professional Development Series. He has received training as a CISD debriefer and CISM team member. and has served as a fire department chaplain and is the Alaska director for Fellowship of Christian Firefighters.
