Wearing blue coveralls, they sit sometimes for days, laughing, eating, joking... waiting for one sound, a siren that transforms them. They abandon their armchairs for overcoats of canvas and for rubber boots, their armor heavy and hot.

Instead of trading jokes they relay directions, and orders, and shout reports of the status of the enemy--.

Fear and excitement grip the hearts of the freshest rookie to the oldest veteran as they jump into their steel Trojan horses perfect from polishing, washing, checking over and over -- they pray that they have made no mistakes.

The driver navigates the craft through the city streets he knows as well as his family, dodging when possible those that get in the way, hoping those he can't avoid will see him first, they spot the enemy from blocks away -- the phoenix rises far above the trees,licking the sky.

They arrive at the scene, and again the battle cry is heard--

"FLAMES ARE VISIBLE"

Smoke fills the air and their lungs as they approach, hoses snaking, crisscrossing, coming to life as they surge with water from yellow and red hydrants that suddenly become grotesque heads of Medusa.

They kick open the doors, rubber from their boots leaving a print melted by the heat, and trickling over bubling paint Orange liquid flames roll through the building, slithering up and over the walls, breathing in and out with each puff of air.

With swords of water they charge and the war begins. They battle--nine or ten against one-- seemingly great odds.

But the nine soldiers will win, emerging from the battlefield victorious as they always do, and eventually, they'll retire to their armchairs, thanking God that this time nobody was hit by the enemy, FIRE...

He's the guy next door - a man's man with the memory of a little boy.
He has never gotten over the excitement of engines and sirens and danger.
He's a guy like you and me with warts and worries and unfulfilled dreams.
Yet he stands taller than most of us.
He's a fireman.

He puts it all on the line when the bell rings.
A fireman is at once the most fortunate and the least fortunate of men.
He's a man who saves lives because he has seen too much death.
He's a gentle man because he has seen the awesome power of violence out of control.

He's responsive to a child's laughter because his arms have held
too many small bodies that will never laugh again.
He's a man who appreciates the simple pleasures of life
- hot coffee held in numb, unbending fingers - a warm bed for bone
and muscle compelled beyond feeling - the camaraderie of brave men
the divine peace and selfless service of a job well done in the name of all men.

He doesn't wear buttons or wave flags or shout obscenities.
When he marches, it is to honor a fallen comrade.
He doesn't preach the brotherhood of man.
He lives it

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