Dancing with the Devil in Flames

It’s just my opinon: Dancing with the Devil in Flames

An editorial by Barry Bruster for the Toledo Tribune

Fire is a curious beast, equal parts beauty and terror. It flickers like a ballet dancer, soft and graceful, luring you in with its warmth and hypnotic sway. But fire has no conscience, no mercy. It devours all it touches, leaving ash and regret in its wake. And yet, for all its cruelty, fire is a tool—a force to be tamed, wielded by human hands with purpose and caution. It’s the firefighters who stand between the flames and the rest of us, those foolhardy souls who dare to wrestle the devil himself.

I was one of them once. Not like these newfangled firefighters, mind you. Today’s crews come armed with gadgets that beep and blink—GPS systems, thermal imaging cameras, accountability boards, and rapid intervention teams. They’re the product of modern ingenuity and relentless training, and they follow a strict symphony of coordination. It takes six people just to enter a burning building these days: two to go in, two to stay outside as backup, and two more waiting to rescue the rescuers. Add a pump operator, a safety officer, and a ladder crew to ventilate the roof, and you’ve got yourself an orchestra fit for a maestro. Timing is everything—ventilate too soon, and the fire could explode with new life; wait too long, and the crew inside gets cooked.

But back in the ’90s, we didn’t have orchestras or maestros. We didn’t even have common sense some days. We had guts, a touch of recklessness, and a stubborn streak that made us hard to kill.

I remember my first real structure fire. I was a relief engineer for Newport Fire back then, carrying my turnout gear in the trunk of my car like all the volunteers did. The call came in—smoke pouring out of a house in South Beach. It was my shift at the station, I grabbed the engine and raced to the scene. “Working structure fire,” I radioed, feeling the adrenaline kick in at the sight of grey smoke curling from the eves.

Alone, I pulled hose, started the pump, and began suiting up. That’s when Yale Fogarty pulled up. He took one look and barked, “I got the pump, you make entry!”

And so I did.

We kicked in the front door, and the smoke boiled out in thick, angry waves, hot enough to sear your lungs if you weren’t careful. Crawling low, I followed the glow of the fire down a hallway. The dry heat seeped through my turnouts, wrapping itself around me like a second skin. I rolled and sprayed water toward the ceiling—a quick burst to cool the inferno as I rolled back over before it turned me into a steamed clam. The fire hissed and popped like an offended snake, but I pressed forward.

The glow led to a bedroom, flames licking at the walls like a hungry beast. I shoved the nozzle into the heart of it and unleashed a torrent of water. The fire protested, then died with a final, smoky sigh. “Pull hose!” I shouted as I backed out the way I’d come, the line tugging behind me.

Outside, the rest of the volunteers had arrived. I pulled off my mask, breathing deep the cool, smoke-scented air. We’d saved the house, Yale and I. All was good, Or so I thought, until I noticed my boot sloshing. Water, I assumed—until I peeled off my turnouts and saw blood soaking my uniform. A shard of broken mirror had sliced through my leg as I crawled. I hadn’t even felt it in the heat of the moment.

I tell you this not to boast but to explain that I’ve faced the devil in his domain. I’ve heard the screams of a mother as her child is lost to the flames. I’ve smelled the sickening stench of burned flesh. These memories stay with you—they haunt your dreams, invade your quiet moments, and remind you that fire is never truly tame.

In training, we played with fire—old houses burned for our benefit, the flames controlled, the danger kept at arm’s length. Today, they’ve replaced that with propane and smoke machines. Safe, yes, but a pale imitation of the real thing. There’s no controlling a wildfire in its fury, no negotiating with a house fire as it consumes its host.

And yet, for all our drills and precautions, the truth remains: when the fire bell rings, someone must go.

In my day, we did what had to be done. Maybe we were reckless, maybe just desperate. But we knew this much—the fire always wins if you give it a chance. Decisions had to be made in the blink of an eye. Do you send a crew to the roof to vent the heat, or risk letting the fire grow wild? Do you send them into the building, knowing they might not come back?

And here’s the rub: only someone who’s faced the flames can make those calls. If you’ve never stared into the devil’s eyes, do you have the right to send others to do so?

Today’s fire service faces another kind of battle: the rising cost of doing the job. The new tools, regulations, and insurance requirements meant to keep firefighters safe come at a steep price. Departments are strapped with purchasing thermal imaging cameras, accountability systems, rapid intervention kits, and state-mandated gear upgrades. Even training, once a matter of borrowed houses and practical experience, now requires expensive props, propane systems, and certifications. These innovations save lives, no doubt about it, but for small towns and volunteer departments, the financial strain can be staggering.

And what happens if the cost is ignored? Equipment grows old and unreliable. Crews operate without the tools they need. Training becomes an afterthought, and the margin for error shrinks. Firefighters face greater risks, and lives—both theirs and those they protect—hang in the balance. Insurance premiums soar, response times lengthen, and sometimes, a fire that could have been contained consumes everything. Cutting corners may save pennies today, but it costs lives tomorrow.

It’s a hard truth, but one worth remembering: behind every firefighter’s courage stands a community that fuels it—neighbors who show up with meals after a long night, businesses that donate supplies, and citizens who give their time, trust, and thanks. Without that support, the battle against the flames would be a lonely and losing fight. And if the community doesn’t stand behind its firefighters, who will?

But that’s just my opinion, I thank you for spending some time with me, dear reader.