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Hometown Heroes
By MICHAEL SANDLER
© St. Petersburg Times, HUNTER'S GREEN -- Jay Dallas never expected attention at the gas station. A broad, handsome man wearing a blue uniform and an unforced smile, he might be mistaken for the guy fixing your car. So when a small crowd stopped him at a Texaco in New Tampa and asked to shake his hand, he was surprised. "It struck me as kind of funny," Dallas, 34, said of the encounter last month. He was noticed simply for wearing his Tampa firefighter uniform. Expect more nods and handshakes. Overnight, firefighters have undergone a transformation from local public servants to nationally recognized heroes. Since the nation watched hundreds of their colleagues rush into the burning World Trade Center as thousands of civilians ran out, the uniform has become a sign of hope across America. "You definitely get a second look," said Toby Torrens, 41. For Torrens, Dallas and Jeff Bader, the recast image couldn't come at a better time. All three head to new turf next month at Station 21, a long-anticipated second New Tampa firehouse due to open in mid November. Until now, the growing suburban area has relied solely on Station 20 in Tampa Palms. With more than 25,000 people living on 20 square miles, New Tampa has a reputation for unusually long response times, not exactly a distinct honor. Factor in a war and increasing threats of terrorist activity, and suddenly the newfound admiration comes with a lot of expectations. But the new crew is not worried. "I don't feel any differently, nor do I feel any pressure or added expectations," said Dallas. "We are just trying to get used to the territory." To understand how Dallas can be so relaxed while most of the nation wrestles with paranoia, it helps to know firefighters. They were shocked like the rest of us on Sept. 11. Even Torrens, a 20-year veteran with Tampa Fire Rescue, shuddered upon hearing the news. When his car radio blurted that two planes crashed into the twin towers, he immediately thought of Orson Welles and War of the Worlds before racing to a television at a friend's home. But Torrens said those firefighters in New York likely heard a different call from dispatchers, and viewed a simpler image at the scene. "They saw this building on fire," he said. "They didn't think what caused it. They thought, what do I do to get the people out, and how do I get this fire out." Torrens, Bader and Dallas, it is hoped, will never know that kind of emergency. Along with Jeff Reigel, 37, a paramedic firefighter, they will be responsible for one of three 24-hour rotations in a quiet bedroom community with splendid homes, new schools, golf courses and small businesses. In the best of times, they will respond to traffic accidents, rush to save heart attack victims and provide steady, familiar faces in neighborhoods with limited history. But calamity precedes true responsibility, and when that happens, the public understands they serve a higher calling. "It may sound funny," said Bader, "but they don't really know what we do until we are needed." Bader, 46, learned this lesson as a rookie years ago, upon arriving at the scene of a burning, two-story house in Hyde Park. Flames and black smoke swooped through windows as people ran out. Bader was strapping on his oxygen tank when a neighbor informed him of an elderly woman who lived there. No one saw her leave. "I'll never forget what that guy told me," said Bader, who experienced a watershed moment. He went in, searched through the darkness and found the woman on the floor. He carried her to safety and she lived. Some people cannot understand why Bader would risk his life, though they are happy he does so without reservation. During calm moments, he quietly faces the grim reality. "It was scary," he said. "For us, people are running out and we are running in. What's wrong with this picture?" Known to friends as "Wrench" for his deft skills under a car, Bader also works as a mechanic, once traveled the country with a pit crew for race car drivers, and races stock cars now in Florida. Just about every firefighter has a second job to go with the 24-hour shift every three days. So why risk your life to save a stranger? "There's no feeling you can ever have like saving somebody's life," said Bader. "You want to talk about personal gratification? Save somebody's life. It's a great feeling." Capt. C.B. Frink, who commands Bader's rotation, knows exactly what he means. Frink might even elaborate. The "C", short for Cleve, comes from his grandfather Cleveland; the "B", short for Benny, from his father Benjamin. Both men were in the commercial well and pumping business, a family run operation now in the hands of Frink's brother. Frink helps out on his days off, but 35 years ago was compelled to join the fire department after a freak accident. On July 16, 1966, while serving in the Army Reserve, Frink was on board a military plane flying over the outskirts of Jacksonville. Engine trouble forced them to parachute to safety before the plane crashed. By the time Frink hit the ground, he noticed a helicopter circling above. Firefighters drove through a fence in a pickup truck to rescue them. "It was just a good feeling to know that people were concerned about us," said Frink, now 56. "They were right there. I decided, well, I'd like to do something along that line." Now, he's in charge of the crew, and that brings even more responsibility. "My goal is that when we come to duty, everyone goes home safe the next morning," said Frink. But he said his group needs little direction. "We all stick together as a crew," he said. "If anybody sees something that is not right, they let the rest of us know. I only got two eyes. You have to take care of each other." -- Michael Sandler can be reached at (813) 226-3472 or sandler@sptimes.com.
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