From the Ground Up

By James Ghi

From the Ground Up describes the journey of James Ghi fulfilling his childhood dream of becoming a firefighter. As a premature infant James was not expected to survive. As a child he was underweight, was bullied in school, survived the wrath of an abusive father and stepfather but managed to meet the rigors required to become a firefighter. At each stage of his life he had to adjust to many circumstances, building himself from the ground up. In June 2007 the Charleston Fire Department (South Carolina) suffered the largest loss of life since the events on 9/11 when nine firefighters perished battling a fire at the Sofa Super Store. James had read the various reports written after the fire, recognizing the need for better training in Charleston. His successful career with Fairfax County Fire and Rescue gave him the necessary skills; education and confidence to apply for and accept the position of Chief of Training for the City of Charleston Fire Department. Little did he know his efforts to bring the Charleston Fire Department to nationally recognized training standards would be resisted at all levels and never imagined the efforts Charleston personnel would take to discredit him. Even with the resistance, James was able to bring the Charleston Fire Department training to nationally recognized standards and meet many of the mandates in the various reports, building it From the Ground Up.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9781643501437

Book preview

The Beginning

I originally was going to start this book with the events that occurred while working for the City of Charleston Fire Department (South Carolina) solely focusing on my efforts after the tragic loss of nine firefighters at the Sofa Super Store Fire in June 2007. There is actually more to this story. There has been so much that has happened in my life that has made me the person I am today. Maybe the circumstances that occurred during my life gave me the confidence or lack of foresight to accept the position with the Charleston Fire Department during a very dark time in their history.

This story did not begin in 2008 when I accepted the position of training chief for the city of Charleston. It began in January 1960, the year I was born. I was born in Allentown, Pennsylvania, to Nanci and Oliver Thomas. My mom was a homemaker; my father worked in the factories of Allentown. I think it is important to provide some background on my mom; you may notice some similarities between her and me. I didn’t know much of her history until recently. Her history provides some insight on my history, which will come into play shortly and will show how history does repeat itself.

My mom grew up in a volatile household, a household with an abusive stepfather. When she was seventeen, she decided to leave home to escape the abuse. She traveled from central Pennsylvania to an area outside of Erie, Pennsylvania. She worked an average job, living with the parents of Oliver, whom she would eventually marry. Oliver joined the Army. After his stint in the Army, they decided to move to California with some friends. They had my brother, Allen, in tow, then my sister Vallerie came along. According to my mom, Oliver’s parents had pressured him to return to Pennsylvania. During the trip across the States, I was along for the ride. Too bad I didn’t get to see any of the sights as I was in utero. I was born in Allentown, Pennsylvania, on January 24, 1960. Things were not well for me. Although I was a full-term birth, my weight when I was born was one pound, two ounces. According to my mom, I spent thirty-six days in a neonatal intensive care unit. I was not expected to survive. You know things are not good when a mom calls her newborn ugly. I can only imagine what I looked like. My mom described me as skin stretched over bones with the blood vessels showing. I was so small, my mom had to purchase doll clothes for me. Obviously I survived. Before Mom left the hospital, the doctors told her I would not live past six years old. We settled in Quakertown, Pennsylvania. A few short years later, my little sister, Toni, came along. We were all one big happy family—uh, not so much.

Now this is where some history repeats itself. Although I was very young, I can remember some dark days. In the 1960s, corporal punishment was allowed and expected, but child abuse is never acceptable. As a toddler, I remember a punishment I received from my mom. I was standing on a chair at the kitchen table, sticking my finger in the butter dish, licking my finger then sticking it back into the butter. My mom walked in the kitchen. She said, Okay, you like butter so much? Right after I said yes, she made me eat the entire stick. This was justifiable punishment. With Oliver, the punishment was not so precise. I can remember on several occasions Oliver lining all of us up to spank us. The issue here is I can never remember why Oliver was spanking me, but I remember why I had to eat a stick of butter.

Apparently, Oliver was not happy being married with four kids. He decided the grass was greener on the other side. He left my mom and four kids. In a moment, my mom went from a homemaker to a single mom. With the divorce came the separation of not just the parents but also the kids. Allen decided to stay with Oliver. My grandparents took in Vallerie and me, and Toni stayed with my mom. Vallerie and I stayed with my mom’s parents for about a year. We spoke to her often on the phone but did not see her for some time; the internet did not exist. My grandparents took very good care of us. Grandpa worked for the railroad and would take me to the railroad yard to ride locomotives. There always seemed to be a chocolate cake in Grandma’s kitchen. We did normal kid stuff. My world was right.

After my mom got settled in she had my Grandparents bring us to Virginia Beach. My mom had a full time job working in a restaurant called the Mustang Inn. She had also managed to rent a house where Val, Toni, and I were reunited. We were enrolled in school, had friends, seemingly off to a normal life.

Being a single parent has to be tough. My wife, Treena, was a single mom with one child. She has told me about her struggles of trying to work full-time and raise a child, and the father was not in the picture. It must have been very difficult for my mom too. She was a single mom in the late sixties, trying to hold down a full-time job and raise three children. From my perspective, I never knew we were poor. I remember drinking reconstituted powdered milk and eating a crap load of bologna. Christmas was always incredible. Life as a child in this environment was good, full of love, and low stress. I was punished appropriately, there was never any violence, and I was able to be a kid. The highlight of this part of my life is I spent a lot of time at the beach! Today I am not a big fan of bologna, but I love going to the beach.

After a few years in the Virginia Beach area, my mom met someone who would frequent where she worked, the Mustang Inn. His name was John Ghi. John’s chosen profession was a baker. He was working at a local doughnut shop in Virginia Beach. I am not really sure how long they dated, but it seemed it was not long before we moved from Virginia Beach to Suitland, Maryland, in the Washington, DC, metro area. As a matter of fact, we were only a few short miles from the southeastern border of Washington, DC. The first apartment we were in was horrible. First of all, the outside of the building was pink. The apartment was small, and it was infested with cockroaches and mice. I can remember having to pull back the blanket on my bed to make sure there were no roaches in it. I am not sure how long we lived in the apartment before we moved into a house that was just down the street from the small apartment building. The house was large with plenty of room for the new blended family.

When we first arrived in Suitland, Maryland, I can remember my mom waking us up early in the morning to take John to work. For a baker, the day starts early. I do remember he worked at a place called the Wig-Wam. I think he worked at one or two other places until he was able to open his own bakery. A short time after, my mom and John opened John and Nanci’s Pastry Shop in Hillcrest Heights. We moved into a house on Iverson Street, a few short miles from the location of the bakery. A new house that was not rented and the dream of opening a business—things seemed to be looking up.

All of what has happened to me at this point has taken place in the first seven years of my life. This new chapter in my life seemed to be normal, very average. The bakery had been open a short time when I started working on the weekends, washing dishes. This was a daunting task for me. I was seven years old, weighing about fifty pounds. The task was daunting because several of the mixing bowls were about thirty pounds. I could only carry three sheet pans at a time. Soon the weekend worked turned into every day. My new normal was I would come home after school to complete my homework then walk to the bakery. When I arrived, I was met with all of the pots and pans that had been used throughout the day. There were times I would not get back home until 10:00 p.m. John paid me twenty dollars a week, not bad money at age eight, but this was also my salary at age seventeen. As time went on, washing dishes paid off for me physically. I worked my way up from three sheet pans to ten to twenty. I was able to pick up the large mixing bowls on my own. While working in the bakery, John taught me how to make doughnuts, pies, and cakes, working my way up to decorating wedding cakes.

I tried my best to be a normal kid even though I was skinny and underweight. When I was fourteen, I wanted to play football. John really didn’t like the idea, probably because I wouldn’t be around to be cheap labor, so I am not sure how my mom made it happen. She paid the appropriate fees then took me to get my uniform and be placed on a team. Usually players are placed on teams according to body weight. At age fourteen, I weighed about sixty pounds but was tall for my age. I was about eighteen inches taller than kids in my weight group, so it was decided that I would be placed with my age group. Seemed okay at the time. When I showed up for practice, I thought I was on the wrong field; the kids were twice my weight, and most were taller than me. The coach was awesome. He never gave up on me; he pushed during practice and spoke confidently to me. Well, the bottom line was he was a coach, and coaches want to win games. He played me during some scrimmages and a few times during games, but I spent most of my time on the bench. My official position on the team was tight end, but I was really a tailback; every time I stood up, thinking I was going to play, I was told to get my tail back on the bench. Just joking about the tailback part. I was just too small to play. My stint on the junior high school wrestling team yielded the same results. Sports was not my thing, so I did the next best thing­—I joined the symphonic band. I was a band geek until I graduated high school.

John was not a patient man. He was kind to customers and visitors, as he should. John had a very dark side. Not only was he an alcoholic, drinking a bottle of Crown Royal a night; he was also a physically abusive stepfather and husband. I am not really sure when he started the abuse. Was he predisposed before he met my mom? Did he become abusive due to the stress of running a business? Early on it seemed as if the bakery was profitable. So profitable a cold shop (no baking was done at the location) was opened in Upper Marlboro, Maryland. Was it too much or not enough?

While working in the bakery, I felt the full brunt of his anger. It started off with some yelling when I was younger. The abuse progressed to him using a belt to using his fist. The abuse was random and without merit. If I messed up a cake mix in the bakery, he would hit me. If I burned something in the oven, he would hit me. If I didn’t make my bed at home, he would hit me. Most of the time, he used his belt. He wouldn’t hit me on the ass; he would strike me on my lower back and thighs. I can remember the day he stopped using his belt. I was about twelve years old. I can’t remember what the issue was, but I remember the encounter. At the house on Suitland Road, he had me by one hand, hitting me with his belt. When he noticed I wasn’t crying, he stopped and put his belt back on. He grabbed me by the hand again, finishing the job with his hand. It was from this point on he stopped using his belt. He would hit me if I didn’t clean the dishes in the bakery to his liking. He would hit me in the storeroom when I was getting supplies for cake mix. He would hit me when my mom was not around, and he was careful not to hit me in the face. I didn’t dare say anything to my mom because he was just as abusive to her. John and my mom would argue and fight on a regular basis. They argued so often, it was expected. I got in deep trouble once because I told both of them to stop arguing long enough for me to get some popcorn so I could eat it while I watched them fight.

The neighborhood I grew up in wasn’t the greatest either. I was the minority. My small stature made me an easy target. In elementary school, I was targeted for my lunch money. I was the stereotypical bullied kid, the last one picked for a team in gym class. I was hit, made fun of, pushed nearly on a daily basis. There was an incident where one kid tripped me as another pushed me from behind. When I hit the floor, I broke my two front teeth. After the incident, I asked my mom and John for boxing lessons so I would at least have a chance to defend myself. I was told no, with the reason being they thought I would take revenge on those who had been using me as a punching bag.

Now I know that there are those that have had it worse than I did. This is all about how my character developed. How much of John’s behavior influenced me remained to be seen. What I can say with complete confidence is I never abused my wife or children. I broke the cycle. You are only a product of your environment if you choose to be. I can’t say so much for the anger trait as I was angry for many years. I never knew why I was angry; I was just angry and impatient.

So as a teenager, I am enduring the wrath of an alcoholic, abusive stepfather. The reality is all of this seemed normal, but I was tired of this normal. I knew I had to get out, but I had no idea how. I know I did not want to be a baker as it seemed being a baker makes one angry and unhappy. The military seemed like a good option. I started talking to John about it. I felt he would help me out based on the fact he was a baker in the in the Navy. When I mentioned the Coast Guard to him, he busted my balls, saying I had to be six feet tall so, if my ship sank, I could wade ashore. Basically, he was not very supportive. He wanted me to stay to run the bakery.

One of the most significant, positive changes in my life happened during someone else’s worse time of their lives. The time was December 1975. We were living in the house on Iverson Street. I am not sure what day of the week it was, but it was very cold and there was snow on the ground. Maybe that was the reason I was not in school. I heard sirens but didn’t really pay attention to it. A short time later, I heard more sirens. I became curious about what was going on, so I put on a coat and shoes. When I stepped outside into the cold, I saw smoke coming from a house across the street. In the driveway was a fire truck. There was fire hose snaking down the driveway to another pumper connected to a hydrant, a long-nose Mack. The Mack stood out because Oliver had worked at Mack Truck. I really didn’t know Oliver, but I did know that. Anyway, after a few minutes, I walked over to the guy standing at the Mack. The smoke from the house fire had died down, and this guy didn’t shoo me away, so I started asking questions. I asked about what was going on, what he was doing, typical questions someone who knows nothing about firefighting asks someone who does. While I was talking to him, he asked me how old I was. I told him I was fifteen. He then asked when I was going to be sixteen. When I told him next month, he asked me if I ever thought about firefighting. I said I had thought about it. At the time, one of my favorite TV shows was Emergency! He then told me to come up to the firehouse when I was sixteen, that I should ask for Wayne Higdon.

January 1976 came around. I went to the firehouse to meet Wayne Higdon. Wayne gave me a tour of the firehouse and an application. I took the application home. The big issue is at sixteen I had to have written permission from my parents to become a volunteer firefighter. I knew John would have nothing to do with it, so Mom was my salvation. I didn’t meet the resistance I thought I would. I am not sure if she didn’t understand what I wanted her to sign or if she knew this was my only way out. Within in a few days, I took the application back to the firehouse. I had to wait for the next membership meeting to start the process. I was voted in under a thirty-day probation period. During this time, you were allowed to come to the firehouse but were not allowed to ride any fire apparatus. The thirty-day probation was designed for you to get to know the members and for the members to get to know you. They wanted to see if I had the ambition. During the thirty days, I went up to the firehouse as much as possible. While I was there, I went over the fire engines to learn what the equipment was and what it was used for. I swept floors, I cleaned the bathrooms, I helped roll hose. I did anything I could to show I really wanted to do this. After the thirty days, the membership voted to accept a person as a member. I was voted in as a junior member due to the fact I was only sixteen years old. I was now a member of the Silver Hill Volunteer Fire Department! Shortly after I was voted in, I was issued a set of firefighting gear. I was issued a leather helmet, a coat, three quarter boots, and gloves. I received a short training session on laying out. This position was the center position on the tailboard. The responsibility was to pull the supply line from the hose bed, wrap the hydrant, then help the help the second engine with the supply line. I think it was the very same night I was voted that I went on my first call. The fact it was a meeting night, there were a lot of members at the fire station, so I didn’t make it on the first engine. I did manage to make it to the layout position of the second engine. So there I was, sixteen years old, riding the tailboard of a 1968 Seagrave responding to an emergency. The strange thing is I was not terrified. I didn’t feel overly excited. It felt normal. I had no idea what was ahead. I had no concept of the possible dangers, and I was not scared. To the best of my knowledge, the incident turned out to be nothing.

In order to progress from the layout position I had to receive formal firefighting training. My first official class was a twenty-four-hour basic firefighting class at the University Of Maryland, the Maryland Fire Rescue Institute, or MFRI. The step to become a certified firefighter was attending the eighty-four-hour course at MFRI. I don’t remember how well I did in the classes; all I know is I passed the courses. I was now a certified firefighter according to MFRI. The best part of my introduction into the fire service was the other firefighters at Silver Hill. Several had a positive influence on me. I was a small, geeky kid, but they didn’t care. They showed me what I needed to know to survive, experiences that stayed with me throughout my career. They were also tough on me. They were tough because the incident volume was high and the fires numerous. I probably responded to more multiple alarm fires the few years I was at Silver Hill than during my career with Fairfax County. Silver Hill VFD was not only an outlet for me; it also prepared me for my career ahead.

One of my first training fires while at Silver Hill convinced me firefighting was a good career choice. At MFRI the fires during live fire training were on shelves. They burned specific amounts excelsior. Most places burned what would burn. MFRI was ahead of the times. In the mid-1970s the NFPA 1403: Standard on Live Fire Training Evolutions was not even on the radar. My first training fire was in an old Army barracks. I am not sure how long the training was conducted, but there were a lot of buildings. On one of the scheduled training days, I walked to the firehouse from home and then was taken to the training site. When I got there, training had already been going on. I was brought to one of the barracks. There was a charged hose line at the door. I had all of my gear on with an SCBA on my back. Just before I entered the door to the barracks, I started to put my SCBA mask on. I am not sure who it was, but they smacked me in the helmet, telling me I didn’t need to put it on yet. I dropped the mask and entered the main doorway, pulling the hose line down the long hall. The smoke was not that bad. As I crawled down the hallway, my mask was dragging in the sooty water from previous training. When I got to the end of the hallway, there was a door that was partly opened with a small amount of fire licking at the top of the door. I was then told I could put my mask on. I dumped the sooty water out of my mask before I put it on. When I entered the room, there were several other firefighters in the room. The fire was in the corner and was rolling across the ceiling. On my left in one of the corners, there was a firefighter in a squatting position. Since fire coats didn’t have wristlets at the time, this firefighter had some skin showing. As I looked at him, I noticed something dripped on his exposed skin. He didn’t budge. He simply wiped off whatever dripped on his wrist. The person who was my instructor told me to look at the layering of the heat and smoke. He made me stand up. He told me to watch the behavior of the fire. We were then ready to put the fire out. Back then a thirty-degree fog pattern was used. This pattern produced a lot of steam. I opened the nozzle, whipping it around like I was taught at MFRI. Visibility went to zero, and it got a bit hotter. After a few minutes, the room started to clear out. There was nothing wrong with the way the training was conducted because that is the way it was conducted back then.

When I was coming out of the building, I felt like I accomplished something. I felt good. I was not scared. I was not apprehensive. This felt normal, and I was hooked! This is what I wanted to do with my life. The only issue was I was only sixteen years old. To apply to some career departments, you had to be twenty-one, others nineteen. There was no way I could stay at home, working in the bakery for three more years. I didn’t have any money to move out when I was eighteen. I only had one option, the military.

Within a few months of joining Silver Hill, I enlisted in the Navy under the Delayed Entry Program. The Navy wasn’t my first choice. There was no way I was going into the Marine Corps or the Army. There is nothing wrong with the Marine Corps or the Army; I was not big on guns. Guns are a huge part of being a Marine and Soldier. I didn’t attempt the Coast Guard due to the load of crap John gave me. I knew the Air Force had a great firefighting program, but they wouldn’t take me because I was underweight for my height. The Navy was the last branch left. It wasn’t as if I purposely selected the Navy last; it just worked out that way.

I stared the process with the Navy. My ASVAB score was good, and there was a variety of jobs I could select from. The Navy didn’t have a specific program or job for firefighting, and the proper term is rating, or general enlisted occupation. The closest rating related to firefighting was a hull-maintenance technician. A hull tech, in general, was a plumber. The other duties of a hull tech were also to maintain safety and survival equipment, including firefighting equipment. I was not interested in being a plumber and part-time firefighter. My next choice was to be a hospital corpsman, but the recruiter told me there were no openings for hospital corpsman. The recruiter told me that my best option was to work on the flight deck because the aviation boatswains mates were the firefighters on the flight deck of aircraft carriers. I wasn’t really sure what I wanted to do, but I knew I needed to get the hell away from John, and the Navy was my best chance. I entered the United States Navy under the Delayed Entry Program in January 1977. My contract had me going to boot camp after graduation. As sure as the sun rises each day, I was on my way to Great Lakes, Illinois, two weeks after I graduated from high school, but I almost didn’t get into the Navy. Due to being underweight, I had to get a waiver from the Navy. My recruiter was still concerned I wouldn’t make weight when I went to the military processing station (MEPS). MEPS is where you go to complete the enlistment process. The process includes a physical. My recruiter told me to eat as much as possible. The day we went to MEPS, he handed me a thick chocolate and banana milkshake to drink to help ensure I would make weight. It all turned out okay. I made weight and was sworn in, going in undesignated. This meant I didn’t have a designated rating; it was wide-open for me.

I was not scared to go to boot camp or to leave home. The reality was a great weight had been lifted off of my shoulders. It was exciting to be in a different environment. The drill instructors yelling didn’t faze me. Someone yelling at me was something I lived through for many years. The didactic part was not an issue as I did very well in school. The physical part of boot camp took me from about 118 pounds to 130 pounds. I did well in boot camp. I passed every inspection and was never disciplined. After a few weeks in boot camp, we started getting smoke breaks, and we were allowed to go to the Navy Exchange. On my first trip to the exchange, I purchased extra underwear, T-shirts, socks, etc. Since I didn’t smoke (still don’t), I spent my time ironing and folding all of the items I purchased at the Navy Exchange. I placed these items in my standup locker; I only touched them to ensure there was not dust or dirt on the items. These items stayed there until I graduated boot camp. This was how I passed my locker inspections.

Boot camp was like being at home because of all the yelling. The big difference was I was not getting hit. The problem going in the Navy so young and not having a designated rating was I was always being pushed to go into ratings the Navy was in need of, and I thought I knew what I was doing. I was standing my ground so I could be a firefighter on the flight deck of an aircraft carrier. During one job fair, a drill instructor pulled five or six of us out of our ranks, directing to a table where two sailors were sitting. These sailors were recruiting for a cryptologic technician. I had no idea what a cryptologic technician was, but I knew I didn’t want to do it. Declining the rating cost me twenty push-ups. In hindsight I should have jumped on it. I didn’t know it at the time, but if the Navy is short personnel in a rating, it is easier to make rank. This process happened a few more times, with me declining each time, doing twenty push-ups each time. I ended up graduating boot camp as a nonrate airman. This meant that when I reported to my duty station, after attending basic airman training, I would be placed wherever I was needed. I was hell-bent to become a firefighter on the flight deck.

In the Navy

After graduating Navy boot camp, I was allotted ten days of leave. I spent most of those at Silver Hill VFD. I do not recall if I responded to anything significant while I was there, but it felt good to be back. I had already been given orders to report to the USS Nimitz. I was looking forward to this new chapter in my life. This is something else I had done for myself. The transition from an underweight nerd to a sailor in the United States Navy was not difficult at all. I fell right into the military routine.

The day I got out of the taxi in Norfolk, Virginia, is etched in my brain. With my seabag on my shoulder, I was awestruck by the size of the Nimitz. I had never seen anything this big, and I thought out loud, How does this ‘thing’ float? This ship is over one hundred thousand tons of steel, and it looked top-heavy. I think the whole world knew I was not in Kansas anymore as I walked down Pier 12, looking up with my mouth open the whole time. It seemed like it took forever for me to walk up the gangplank. When I got to the top of the gangplank, I saluted the aft end of the ship; the location of the United States flag then saluted the officer of the deck. I was taken to temporary quarters until the following day. The next day, I reported to my duty station. As an undesignated airman apprentice, I was assigned to work as an aviation boatswain mate or in fuels. I really had no idea what that meant. I was checked in to my regular berthing area then given the rest of the day to get settled in. The next few weeks consisted of on-the-job training, wearing a purple jersey as an aviation boatswains mate refueling aircraft. I was a grape.

Within a few weeks of reporting to the USS Nimitz, I was heading out on my first Mediterranean cruise. I was seventeen years old, just months out of high school, heading out to sea on one of the most powerful warships of the day. A bonus to my first Mediterranean cruise was that my brother, Allen, was with an air wing assigned to the USS Nimitz. At each port, Allen went ashore with me. He showed me where to go and where not to go. We did not see each other a lot while at sea, but we went ashore together as much as possible. The crew of the Nimitz consisted of more than five thousand sailors, and we all had jobs we had to do while at sea. Our schedules also conflicted, which made it difficult to stay in contact on a regular basis.

I liked working on the flight deck. There was a lot going on. It was exciting to be around all of the action. It was invigorating and dangerous. My only issue was it seemed as if the fuel hose to fuel jets weighed as much as I did. It was a thick rubber hose with a large brass nozzle. Although I had gained weight and strength in boot camp, it did not seem to be enough. I struggled. I didn’t stay on my feet a lot either.

I was also disappointed when I found out that grapes didn’t do the firefighting on the flight deck. I went to my direct supervisor. Since I was undesignated, I was given a choice—I could do fuel soundings and testing or pick another rating. Fuel sounding and testing meant I would be below decks most of the time, which is something I did not want to do. I decided to change from the airman rating to the seaman rating. The hospital corpsman rating falls under the general rating of seaman. I was already an emergency medical technician (EMT), so I figured if I couldn’t be a firefighter, I would spend my four years of active duty in the medical field. Since I was undesignated and I had not gone to hospital corpsman school, I was assigned where they needed me. I was assigned to the ship’s bakery. I was assigned to the bakery based on the needs of the USS Nimitz and the fact I told them of my baking experience while talking with the division chief petty officer as he was trying to figure out where to place me. Here is where irony comes in. I really wanted to distance myself from John and the bakery, a place I had spent the last ten years of my life. When I went into the US Navy, I was trying to make my own way. I hated the fact John did not understand or support my efforts. He never came to any of my sports events or band concerts, and he hated the fact I became a volunteer firefighter. The irony is John was in the US Navy, was a baker, and was on an aircraft carrier. Damn the luck!

Working in the ship’s galley gave the opportunity to have contact with nearly everyone on the ship. Bakers worked evening hours, and the scent of the baking would draw everyone to the bakery, wanting a sample or a midnight snack. A few corpsmen would come by on occasion, and naturally, we would strike up conversations. When they found out I was an emergency medical technician (EMT), they asked if I was interested in being on the ship’s medical response team (MRT). MRT members would go to any reported medical incident to stabilize the patient until a team from the medical department could arrive with equipment. My request to be on the MRT was approved. This was like being a volunteer firefighter, except I was on a ship.

As with any emergency service, there were the normal medical responses such as injuries from falls and other trauma. The difference on the ship is you didn’t have your medical frequent flyers. During my time on the USS Nimitz MRT, I responded many medical incidents with two being significant. The first incident took place in 1980. While on a Mediterranean cruise, the USS Nimitz was reassigned to the Gulf of Oman during the Iranian hostage crisis. Working in the bakery did not make me privy to any real intelligence. The rumor was it was a show of force. What I did know was there was a lot of security on the ship, more than normal. There were also extra personnel on board who were not sailors or Marines. They wore basic camouflage uniforms with no insignia. They had long hair and beards, which was not allowed for regular sailors. They would not talk when you came across them in passageways. I had an unusual experience when a medical emergency was declared in the hangar bay. I remember arriving at the area where the medical emergency was reported. Security kept most of the MRT responders out of the area where the medical emergency occurred. While in the hangar bay I noticed a different kind of helicopter through the opening in the hangar bay door. Usually the helicopters were painted white with normal markings showing the squadron. The helicopter I saw was painted brown and had Arabic writing on the side of it. The person who was injured was taken care of by personnel assigned to medical. The rest of us were told to leave the area. I thought the helicopter was unusual, but I had no idea what was going on. A few days later, Operation Eagle Claw was initiated in an attempt to rescue the Americans held hostage at the American embassy in Iran. The brown helicopter was one of the six launched from the USS Nimitz.

In May 1981, the USS Nimitz was on a short cruise off of the east coast. This was going to be my last time out as my enlistment was coming to an end. While I was making my way to the bakery, an emergency announcement came over the 1 main circuit (1MC) for a plane in the water. Within a few seconds, general quarters (GQ) was sounded. When GQ is sounded, each crew member has an assignment and a specific location they are assigned to; they are assigned a battle station. GQ is put in place to protect personnel and the ship. My battle-station assignment was the aid station located on the flight deck. When I got to the aid station, a corpsman gave me an aid bag. As we left the aid station, there was a space and then another door. As we were in the space, the exterior door was being opened. When it opened, I remember seeing a sailor entering the space. It appeared as if he had been burned. We just pushed him through the interior door into the aid station, where there were other medical personnel. When we went out to the flight deck, it was pure chaos. Aircraft were on fire, ammunition was cooking off, jet fuel was on fire, and there were injured sailors. The fire was extinguished in about an hour, and most of the injured were taken for medical treatment. After assisting with the injured, I helped take several of the deceased to a makeshift morgue. It seemed as if the water and weather were eerily calm, especially after all of the chaos we had just been through. The ship seemed to be just riding the slight waves. When we brought a deceased person into the makeshift morgue, the fluids on the floor would wash back and forth. We remained at GQ for some time. The ship made it back to port under its own power, was repaired, and was back out to sea in a few days. When we returned to port after the exercise, my time was up. I went through the checkout process on the Nimitz then headed back to Maryland.

Getting Rid of My Sea Legs

The first place I headed back