The insignia of the Fire Service is the Maltese Cross. This cross represents the
fire service ideals of saving lives and extinguishing fires. The Maltese Cross is a
symbol of protection, and a badge of honor. Its story is hundreds of years old.
When a courageous band of crusaders, known as the Knights of St. John, fought the
Saracens for possession of the Holy Land, they encountered a new weapon unknown to
European warriors. It was a simple, but horrible, device of war. It wrought
excruciating pain and agonizing death upon the brave fighters of the cross.
The Saracens' weapon was Fire.
As the crusaders advanced on the walls of the city, they were struck by glass bombs
containing naptha. When the crusaders became saturated with the highly flammable
liquid, the Saracens would hurl a flaming torch into their midst. Hundreds of the
knights were burned alive. Others would risk their lives to save their
brothers-in-arms from dying painful, fiery deaths. Saracens also sailed their war
vessels containing naptha, rosin, sulphur, and flaming oil into the vessels of the
knights.
Many knights were called to perform heroic deeds by rescuing fellow knights and
extinguishing fires. These men became our first Firefighters. Their heroic
efforts were recognized by fellow crusaders who awarded each hero a badge of honor, a
cross very similar to the one that firefighters wear today.
Since the Knights of St. John lived for nearly four centuries on a little island in the
Mediterranean Sea named Malta, the cross became known as the Maltese Cross.
The Maltese Cross is your symbol of protection. It means that the firefighter who
wears this cross is willing to lay down his life for you, just as the crusaders sacrificed
their lives for their fellow man so many years ago. The Maltese Cross is a
firefighter's badge of honor, signifying that he works in courage, a ladder rung away from
death.
I Wish They Could
I wish they could see the sadness of a business man as his livelihood
goes up in flames, or a family returning home, only to find their house and belongings
damaged or destroyed.
I wish they could know what it is like to search a burning bedroom for
trapped children, flames rolling above your head, your palms and knees burning as you
crawl, the floor sagging under your weight as the kitchen beneath you burns.
I wish they could comprehend a wife's horror at 3 A.M. as I check her
husband of forty years for a pulse and find none. I start CPR anyway, hoping against
hope to bring him back, knowing intuitively it is too late, but wanting his wife and
family to know that everything possible was done.
I wish they could smell the unique smell of burning insulation, the
taste of soot-filled mucus, the feeling of intense heat through your turnout gear, the
sound of flames crackling, and the eeriness of being able to see absolutely nothing in
dense smoke -- sensations that I have become too familiar with.
I wish they could understand how it feels to go to work in the morning
after having spent most of the night hot and soaking wet at a multiple alarm fire.
I wish they could read my mind as I respond to a structure fire,
"Is this a false alarm or a working, breathing fire? How is the building
constructed? What hazards await me? Is anyone trapped?" Or to an
EMS call, "What is wrong with the patient? Is it minor or life threatening?
Is the caller really in distress or are they waiting for us with a 2x4 or a
gun?"
I wish they could be in the emergency room as the doctor pronounces
dead the beautiful little five year old girl that I have been trying to save during the
past twenty-five minutes, who will never go on her first date, or say the words "I
love you mommy" ever again.
I wish they could know the frustration I feel in the cab of the
engine, the driver with his foot pressing down hard on the pedal, my arm tugging again and
again at the air horn chain, as they fail to yield the right-of-way at an intersection or
in traffic. When they need us, however, their first comment upon our arrival will
be, "It took you forever to get here!"
I wish they could read my thoughts as I help extricate a girl of
teenage years from the mangled remains of her automobile. "What if this were my
sister, my girlfriend, or a friend? What are her parent's reactions going to be as
they open the door to find a police officer, hat in hand."
I wish they could know how it feels to walk in the back door and greet
my family, not having the heart to tell them that I nearly did not come home from this
last call.
I wish they could feel my hurt, as people verbally and sometimes
physically abuse us or belittle what I do, or as they express their attitudes of "it
will never happen to me."
I wish they could realize the physical, emotional, and mental drain of
missed meals, lost sleep, and forgone social activities, in addition to all the tragedy my
eyes have viewed.
I wish they could know the brotherhood and self-satisfaction of
helping save a life or preserving someone's property, of being there in times of crisis,
or creating order from total chaos.
I wish they could understand what it feels like to have a little boy
tugging on your arm and asking, "Is my mommy O.K.?" Not even being able to
look in his eyes without tears falling from your own, and not knowing what to say.
Or to have to hold back a long-time friend who watches his buddy having rescue breathing
done on him as they take him away in the ambulance. Knowing all along he did not
have his seat belt on -- sensations that I have become too familiar with.
Unless they have lived this kind of life, they will never truly understand or
appreciate who I am, what we are, or what our job really means to us.
- author unknown
