Real American heroes

The nine courageous men who died Monday will not be forgotten

Sometimes it's easy to forget how lucky we are.

Most of us will get up in the morning, put on our clothes and go to work. Not once will we ever think about the possibility of not coming home. The possibility of not ever seeing our friends or family again. But when you're a firefighter, you know that any given day on the job could be your last.

On Tuesday, when I learned about the nine men who died heroically fighting the blaze at Sofa Super Store in West Ashley, I couldn't help but feel sad — and, to be perfectly honest, lucky.

Lucky in the way most people are ashamed to admit they feel after tragedy. That guilt-ridden sort of "thank God it wasn't me or any of my loved ones" way. But that wasn't the only reason. I also felt lucky because I was one of the privileged few who got to spend time with some of the men who went into that burning building Monday night to save the lives of complete strangers.

Every boy's dream

Over the years, I've gotten to do a lot of cool things for this job. Jump out of airplanes. Drive race cars. Fly helicopters. Heck, I even got to carry the Olympic torch once. But for one day in November 2002, with the tragedy of Sept. 11 still fresh in everyone's mind, I was granted access to do the one thing every little boy dreams of: I got to be a firefighter.

For more than three hours, I trained under the watchful eye of Battalion Chief Ricky Shriver. Everything about that guy screams firefighter. He's got the moustache, the leathery skin and the caring eyes that betray the tough-guy facade.

During my day as a probationary firefighter, Shriver walked me though firefighting basics: putting out small gas fires, performing tight-quarters rescues and even participating in a real live burn in the training facility's five-story building. In other words, for one day, I got to do what Shriver and other real firefighters do all the time.

Trial by fire

Most people have no idea what it's like to be close to, much less in the center of, a real fire.

At 50 feet away, your eyes begin to water. At 25 feet, your uniform starts to smolder. And inside 15 feet, you make a promise to yourself that you'll never skip another Sunday of church again.

Inside a burning building, smoke surrounds you. Visibility is minimal. And the ominous sounds of a structure fighting heat and gravity are haunting.

During our live burn exercise, we were told that somewhere on the bottom two floors were two "victims" — a parent and a child. It was up to us to rescue them. As I walked in the door, an air tank strapped to my back and protective helmet pulled down low, I felt the rush of heat first, then the rush of knowing I had the ability to save the day. It was right at that moment that I got it. I understood why firefighters do this. To help others.

But in less than 15 minutes, everything changed. My air canister ran out, I panicked and right there at the bottom of the stairs, I cried for Shriver like a toddler lost in a mall. In less than five seconds, he had me out the door. Outside, I tore off my face mask and dropped to the ground, gasping for fresh air.

Meanwhile, inside the burning building, left to fend for himself and the two victims, was my partner.

True heroes

It takes a special kind of person to be a firefighter. You have to be strong. Tough. Fearless. But, above all, giving. Because on any given day, you could be asked to give your life in exchange for someone else's.

I can't even begin to imagine what was going through the minds of those men Monday night when the roof started to collapse on them. And I'm not going to pretend like I do. But the one thing I do know is that all those men — Capt. William "Billy" Hutchinson, Capt. Mike Benke, Capt. Louis Mulkey, engineer Mark Kelsey, engineer Bradford "Brad" Baity, assistant engineer Michael "Frenchie" French, firefighter James "Earl" Allen Drayton, firefighter Brandon Thompson and firefighter Melvin Champaign — died heroically doing a job that they loved, saving people they didn't know.

Today, when we go home to our loved ones, we should take a moment to think about the ultimate sacrifice these men made.

And to remember just how lucky we are to have people like them looking out for us.

Bryce Donovan is a features columnist for The Post and Courier. Reach him at 937-5938 or bdonovan@postandcourier.com.