Firefighter's life unraveled after tragic blaze

The dreams arrived like clockwork at 2 a.m., carrying Clinton Jones back to the night that changed him.

Searing images of smoke, flames and destruction filled his head as Jones tumbled out of bed and tore apart his room. Searching. Hunting. Desperate to find someone to rescue.

Jones would tear a path into the kitchen before the dream's jagged grip loosened its hold, leaving him shaken, empty, scared.

On June 18, 2007, Jones battled the raging inferno that destroyed the Sofa Super Store in West Ashley and killed nine fellow firefighters. In the early hours of his 35th birthday, he helped carry his friends' burned bodies from the ruins. Jones walked away, but part of him was lost that day as well.

At age 36, Jones' career as a Charleston fire captain is over. In March, he took early retirement after post-traumatic stress disorder left him unable to do his job. After the fire, he suffered from panic attacks, anxiety, anger. He could no longer handle the responsibility of commanding a crew, fighting fire and making sure his men came home alive. All those things that had been second nature for so many years.

His problems also caused him to give up the once-successful plumbing business that helped support his family. Jones now takes medications to sleep and function. He spends most of his days at home or holed up at a hunt club in Berkeley County where he goes to escape people. When he does venture out, to a meeting or one of his children's sporting events, he avoids groups and hugs the exit seat, to be sure of a quick escape. His old life is gone.

"That night changed a lot of us," Jones said, nervously rubbing his hands together again and again. "The only thing I've ever known is firefighting, and now I can't even stand to hear the sound of a siren."

Jones is one six Charleston firefighters to be granted disability retirement in the wake of the fire. Many more continue to receive counseling to deal with their grief and emotions from that night. "If not for the peer counseling group," Jones said, "I'd be dead right now."

While grateful for the help he has received, Jones feels let down by the city he served for 19 years. He said the city initially tried to block his workers' compensation claim. Officials also have refused his pleas to provide ongoing health insurance at no cost to firefighters disabled by the blaze and the families of the nine men who died, he said.

Jones, a married father of four, said the city charges him nearly $600 a month for health insurance coverage, sucking away nearly a quarter of the $2,500 he receives monthly in retirement benefits. He and the others deserve more, considering what they've sacrificed, he said. "The city is not taking care of its people."

Charleston officials said the city already pays half the cost of health insurance premiums for Jones and other retirees until they reach age 65. The city also changed its policy after the fire to provide one year of free insurance coverage to survivors of workers who die on the job, they said.

Charleston Mayor Joe Riley said he sympathizes with Jones, whom he described as "a very fine man and a very dedicated member of our Fire Department." Still, the city cannot carve out a special group to receive ongoing insurance at no cost without offering the same benefit to all retirees, which it cannot afford to do, he said.

"This is an excellent benefit," said Kay Cross, the city's human resources director. "Mr. Jones could not find a rate like that anyplace else."

Jones never expected things to come to this. His father was a Charleston firefighter, and Jones grew up determined to follow in his footsteps. A tall, burly man, he charged into burning buildings for years and shrugged off the dangers. It was just part of the only job he ever wanted, he said.

That changed on June 18, 2007. Jones was off-duty that night, but raced to the Savannah Highway furniture store to help his overwhelmed colleagues try to beat back the blaze. He watched helplessly as fire consumed the building and sent the roof collapsing down on nine men inside. Six of those men served at Stations 16 and 19, the same firehouse as Jones.

So many images from that time swirl through his head. Searching for his missing friends in the chaos. Retrieving their bodies. Riding back to the station in the seat of Capt. Mike Benke, the man he always relieved at shift change. His friend. Now dead.

The funerals cut Jones to the quick. He recalls Benke's granddaughter looking up at him and asking what her grandfather looked like now. Jones wasn't sure what to say. "I told her, 'He looks just the same, but picture him with wings,' " Jones said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I can't get that out of my mind."

He pushed on for months, trying to cope with the aid of counseling and medication. It just grew worse. The fire seemed to trigger a flood of suppressed memories from all the carnage and tragedy he'd witnessed working car wrecks, fires and other emergencies.

Jones said his doctors had him try a number of pills, hoping to find something that helped him function without blunting his senses on the job. Nothing worked. "I just tried to get by," he said. "I tried so hard not to come off that firetruck."

Things came to a head in October, Jones said, when the city forced him to undergo more than two hours of questioning by a psychiatrist while his crew sat outside in a waiting room. "I felt disgraced," he said. "I couldn't take it no more."

Jones said he left work and used sick leave and vacation time to stay out until his workers' compensation case was settled and his retirement approved.

City officials would not discuss specifics of the workers' compensation case, which Jones said was settled for $108,000. Cross said only that Jones "was treated very favorably by the city."

Jones' crew gave him one last ride on Engine 16 when they drove him home after his retirement party. He doesn't visit the station much anymore. He's cleared most of his fire gear and memorabilia from his West Ashley home. But he doesn't hold much hope of moving on, finding a new career and direction. He knows he will never forget the fire. Most days, he said, he considers it a success if can get out of bed in the morning.

"The only thing the city of Charleston and the Sofa Super Store could really do to make restitution for this is to make that night go away," Jones said, "because it's ruining my life."