On a cold autumn morning, what looked like a parade of fire trucks traveled down South Live Oak Drive preceded by a guard of six motorcycle police officers. The lead engine, Engine 212, was draped with black cloth and a black wreath at its front. Standing on the tailboard, Firefighters in dress uniform clung to the rear of the truck while, behind it, the rest of Company 21 marched, followed closely by a dozen trucks from different departments, law enforcement officers, and then, family and friends. This was the last ride of Assistant Chief William P. Miller.
At the entrance to the cemetery, two ladder trucks sat, their ladders extended, and a large American flag hung between them over the entrance, awaiting the engine to drive under. The motorcycle officers took position on either side of the entrance, allowing Engine 212 to lead the procession to its final destination. It proceeded through the large cemetery lined with grand live oaks, moss hanging from their branches, to a plot near the back where a large open tent sat with several chairs set up. Floral wreaths sat on either side of the gravesite, and at their center, was a picture of the former chief in a blue fire department t-shirt standing next to the engine that carried him here. From the smile he had, the large man seemed full of happiness, his cheeks rosy, his brown hair sticking out under his cap, and his eyes full of hope. At the bottom was a small plaque reading, “Captain Miller 10-12-1995 with Engine 212”.
As the procession came to a stop, the fire chief in dress whites guided Engine 212 into position near the gravesite. He directed several other firefighters in uniform lineup, creating a corridor leading from the tailboard of the truck to the site itself. Finally, the officer driving the truck stepped down from the cab. He straightened his uniform and placed a captain's cover on his closely shaved head. He was almost the spitting image of the man pictured next to the firetruck twenty years before.
He was quickly joined by two other firefighters in dress uniforms. The first was Frankie Casselman, the Captain's best friend. He was slightly slimmer, his hair cut high and tight, his blue eyes standing out against his tanned skin. The second was Kayla Lee. She was slightly taller than the two of them with brunette hair pulled up into a bun. Together, they made their way to the back of the truck, joining the other firefighters there.
Captain Miller took a few steps from the truck, allowing for the other pallbearers to take their positions before belting out, “Company, attention!” The gathered officers snapped to attention, and the casket was lowered from the hose bed by the two firefighters riding the tailboard and its Pallbearers. Once down, the captain gave a shout, “Present arms!” The assembled in uniform all saluted as the casket, draped in a flag of Station 21, was carried to the gravesite. They stood motionless, but on the faces of many, the pain and sorrow were undeniable. Captain Miller marched in front, leading them the last few yards before stopping and saluting while the casket was set down. Once the casket was in position, the officers who bore its weight stepped back and saluted it, waiting on their next order. “At ease!” the captain bellowed before turning to sit in an empty seat reserved for family.
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
As the chief walked up to the small podium to prepare for the ceremony, he cleared his throat, then spoke, his tone even and calm. “Since its conception, the fire service has been closely related to the ringing bells. In the past, a bell would signal the start of a firefighter’s shift. During the day, it was a bell that would signal the firefighter to the need for his service to protect the lives of the citizens under his care, and when the call was done, it was the bell that signaled the completion of the call and the time to return home. Today, we still hold true to these traditions as a symbol of honor and respect to those who have given so much of themselves and who served the public proudly. We symbolize the devotion that these brave souls had for their duty with a special signal: three rings, three times each, representing the end of their duties and that they are returning to quarters, their tasks completed, and their duties well done. This, their final alarm signals that they are returning home.”
Once he finished speaking, the bell chimed three times, then three again and then three once more. Suddenly, a tone rang out as the radios on every firefighter began to sound off. The static on the radio cracked and a voice called out, “Twenty-one oh two, twenty-one oh two, twenty-one oh two, Central to all units, end of watch for Assistant Chief William Miller. Twenty-one oh two is out of service and has gone home.” Many of the firefighters began to cry as a bagpipe played “Amazing Grace” in the distance. The color guard stepped forward and folded the flag before presenting it to the seated family and saluting the captain. The chief at the podium saluted the casket then bellowed, “Detail, dismissed,” and the assembled fire fighters began to move away from the grave site.
One officer didn’t move. He sat in his seat, staring through his dark glasses at the casket.
“Captain Miller,” a voice broke him from his thoughts. He looked up to see the chief standing before him.
“Chief Rose, thank you for taking over for me.” He looked back at the casket.
“Of course, son. May I sit?” He sat next to the young captain as he nodded.
“Your father was a good man, Wayne, and a good friend. He made this department proud,” he said staring forward, “but you were the one thing that made him the proudest.”
A small smile hit Captain Miller’s face. “He used to say I was the only one of his sons he still had to put up with at home.”
Chief Rose nodded, “He embraced the idea that we were one big family and replacing him will be a tall order for anyone who tries to, but if anybody could do it, you could.”
Captain Miller looked confused. “Sir, are you offering me my father’s job? What about the battalion chief?”
Chief Rose nodded, “Barry is two years from retirement if not sooner and isn’t interested in the position. Letting you skip a step was his idea, but I don’t think it was a bad idea. Take your leave, and think about it, son. It’ll be here when you get back, if you want it. It’s what he would have wanted, I think.”
The Chief stood, saluted once more, then turned and shook the captain's hand before leaving the grave site, leaving the son alone with his father and his thoughts. It was at this moment, while others were chatting and saying their goodbyes, that he finally allowed himself the moment to cry.
