A Tale of Two Firefighters

“Firefighter”: a term coined to pretend that women are as capable as men in the fire service.  I beg to differ.

Life is beautiful

A fire breaks out in your home and you return from work to see flames engulfing the house.

Your wife and baby boy are trapped in an upstairs room.

The fire brigade are already on the scene, hoses unrolled and attacking the fire with water.

Two firefighters prepare their protective gear, ready to go in to rescue your family. They’re big burly men, almost too big for their fire suits, and they move professionally.

The two men finish prepping and storm into the house.

A minute goes by.

Then two.

Then three.

Time is frozen for you in life or death rigour.

And in a rush, both firemen head out of the house with your wife, barely conscious, carried out under a fire blanket by one of them, and your baby boy cradled in the arms of the other man.

It takes less than 2 minutes for the paramedics to announce that both mother and child are OK, but would be treated for minor smoke inhalation.

The firemen answer your frantic questions: “We had to break down the front door and the bedroom door.” “What the hell kind of doors do you have in that place? Nearly broke my shoulder getting through.”

Praise be to the emergency services. You go to hug one of the firemen in relief but he holds his hands up and says: “Whoa! Dinner and a movie first!”

You all crack-up laughing. It’s great to be alive!

Life is a bitch

A fire breaks out in your home and you return from work to see flames engulfing the house.

Your wife and baby boy are trapped in an upstairs room.

The fire brigade are already on the scene, hoses unrolled and attacking the fire with water.

Two firefighters prepare their protective gear, ready to go in to rescue your family. They’re short, slight women, drowning in their fire suits, but they move professionally.

The two women finish prepping and storm into the house.

A minute goes by.

Then two.

Then three.

Time is frozen for you in life or death rigour.

And in a rush, both firewomen head out of the house supporting each other and stumbling away from the heat.

Your wife and child are still inside the burning house.

The women get closer to you and tear off their breathing gear.

You’ve lost the plot and are frantically trying to run towards the house, but the paramedics cling on to you and hold you back. It would be suicide.

The first firewoman speaks, out of breath: “The doors… couldn’t break them down… too solid… sorry… so sorry…”

The paramedics, the two firewomen and a broken man look at the house as it continues to burn.


You no longer feel the heat, you feel like you’ve turned into ice.

You turn from the flames and your family who you know are lost inside.

Your eyes fall onto the side of the fire engine you stand beside.

Some words catch your eye, stark gold lettering on the red of the engine:

“The London Fire Brigade is proud to be an equal opportunities employer”.

You mentally add a few words of your own:

“No matter who it kills”.

Related