Dick Warbrouck’s Memory — Baby Rescue.

Early in my career with the Seattle Fire Department, in 1963 before the interstate highway going through the heart of downtown Seattle was completed, on a nice warm day in mid-afternoon, we received an alarm of a small fire in a house located in Engine 10's District, along 11th Avenue South and South Weller Street, not an uncommon battle that firefighters may face during a typical shift.  But this was no common battle nor a typical shift.

I was the Acting Lieutenant on Engine 10, and unlike today it was not mandatory to use a self-contained breathing apparatus, and we were not wearing them initially after our arrival at this fire.  Deceptively, as we approached the home there were not any visible flames, which may seem reassuring to the average person, but firefighters know this can be an ominous deadly challenge due to the un-vented buildup of heavy dark choking smoke inside a building. Sure enough, since the fire in the house had likely been smoldering for hours, as we opened the front door of the house we could see heavy dark smoke, and due to the sudden introduction of fresh air into a highly heated environment, we experienced a flash of fire, what is called in the trade a "back draft."  Lookers-on were screaming "a baby is in there." 

Immediately I told one of the firefighters on the crew to go back to the fire engine and retrieve self-contained breathing apparatuses as we clearly needed them to make a rescue.  I entered the building, crawling on my hands and knees due to the heat and dense smoke above me.  I could not even see my hand in front of my face and it was so hot that I remember slapping at the back of my bunking coat to see if it had caught fire.  I crawled around the house for about ten minutes -– room by room – when suddenly I felt what I recognized as the leg of a crib. I was familiar with the feeling of a crib because, at the time, I was a young father.  As I followed up the leg of the crib I felt the slats on the front and when I put my arms through the slats I felt a baby. I felt a surge of adrenaline.

I immediately stood up and grabbed the baby and even though the room was charged with black smoke she gave a little bit of a whimper as I cradled her into my arms.  I took my facepiece off and put it on the baby and made our way to the front door.  As I exited a fellow firefighter joined me as we treated the baby, who’s lips were blistered from intense heat, with oxygen which can be seen in the photo taken by a newspaper reporter.

It is difficult to put into words how intense my feelings were that day because despite our best efforts the baby died shortly after arriving at the hospital.  I have responded on thousands of calls in my career, but this is one I will never forget, and the feelings today are as intense as they were then, perhaps even more.  The greatest privilege for a firefighter is to save a life, and we do on occasion, but it is hardest when we try to save the life of a baby and that baby dies.  May she rest in peace.