Fires, fire trucks, and pyrotechnics: A comedy of errors

Submitted by Rebekah Sheats

For a town of its size, young Monticello had invested in few public safety resources to meet an emergency. When a fire roared through the downtown district in April of 1875, little could be done to check the blaze. Residents stood by helplessly as block after block of local businesses and residences burned to the ground.
The shock of the devastating fire and the extent of the loss to the little town was immense, but it wasn’t enough to spur Monticello into action. Nearly ten years later, in August of 1884, the town still possessed no hand engines or hose carts to assist in checking any future conflagrations, and the water facilities available to extinguish any future blaze were described as “not good.” As late as 1895, Monticello’s position regarding fires remained the same.
The turn of the century at last brought a whisper of change to the little community. By 1903, the town had acquired two hose carts, and a volunteer fire department had been established. The department boasted a total of fifteen members and had resources consisting of two 500-foot hoses. These recent additions provided Monticello with more fire protection than any previous time in the town’s history, though in May of 1903, it was sadly noted that the fire department still lacked a “hook and ladder truck.”
By 1909, the number of fire department volunteers had dwindled to only ten men, but the town hoped to shortly have ten more. Both 500-foot hoses were still in good condition, and a 150-foot hose had been purchased and was kept in reserve for emergency use.
Monticello wasn’t the only community seeking to increase their fire protection. In April of 1918 the neighboring town of Perry excitedly welcomed the arrival of a brand-new hook and ladder truck purchased from the American LaFrance Company. Red, shiny, and impressively up to date, the vehicle carried 1,200 feet of hose, was equipped with a warning bell, and could travel at the breath-taking speed of fifty miles per hour.
Not to be outdone by its sister city, Monticello soon purchased a truck of its own, the American LaFrance Triple Combination pumping truck. The town council ordered it in May of 1924, and an excited crowd gathered to welcome its arrival that September. The truck was put through several tests and, as an article in the Monticello News reported, the truck “seems to be O.K.” The article continued, “It is guaranteed to pump 300 gallons a minute, but in a test at Two Mile Branch, it pumped 435 gallons per minute.” The fire truck—top of the line and from a prestigious national firm—cost $6,250.00. Locals gasped at the exorbitant price, but the town council assured citizens that “it will be paid for in yearly installments.” The truck was provided with 1,600 feet of hose and had ample room to carry the entire volunteer fire department.
It wouldn’t be long before the truck was called into action. It performed beautifully—usually. On a few rare occasions, the shiny new addition left a little to be desired.
The Braswell housefire was one such occasion. On July 1, 1930, a fire was discovered in the kitchen of J. C. Braswell’s home. It was assumed the spark had been caused by faulty electrical wires. The family quickly left the house and called the fire department. The fire had made little headway in the kitchen, and it was hoped the firemen could douse the flames before they spread to the rest of the house.
When the shiny new American LaFrance Triple Combination pumping truck roared up the street with bells clanging, one could be forgiven for harboring hopes that the house might be saved. Quickly men spilled out in all directions and began putting the hose into operation. The fire was still contained within the kitchen, and the Braswell family watched hopefully as the firemen set to work. But something seemed to have gone wrong with the truck. Try as they might, the firemen were unable to make the hose work properly. Apparently the man who knew how to work the vehicle hadn’t yet arrived on the scene.
Precious minutes passed as the men feverishly struggled with the bulky hose and truck. Without an operator, the fire truck remained useless. Helplessly, J. C. Braswell and his family watched as the fire spread unimpeded from the kitchen to the rest of the house. The family had assumed the hook and ladder truck would easily put out the fire in good time and had therefore not taken the precaution of removing their belongings from the home. Now it was too late.
Sweat, anger, and frustration filled the warm July air as the firefighters continued to labor while waiting for the truck’s operator to arrive. The scene might have been comical but for its sobering reality. A beautiful home, a roaring blaze, firemen ready to spring into action—and a fully-equipped fire truck standing idly by as a home was burnt to ashes.
The sad news of the Braswells’ loss placed a damper on Monticello’s Fourth of July celebrations held three days later. Residents offered condolences and assisted the family in whatever ways they could. William Bulloch, editor of the Monticello News, offered his advice in an editorial: “Monticello should have a man to look after the fire truck.” He dryly noted that the Braswell home “could easily have been saved if somebody had known how to operate the fire truck.”
Bulloch’s editorial was taken to heart, and the truck’s operator was quick to appear on the scene when the next fire alarm sounded. But the comedy of errors, it seemed, had yet another act to play. First, though, it paused for a memorable interlude.
Houses weren’t the only things that caught fire in Monticello. When Christmas rolled around, the fire department received an unexpected call for a very unusual fire. The location was the Edwin Finlayson home on Pearl Street. Edwin’s four-year-old son John was sick with the flu that year and was unable to join in the outdoor festivities, but his mother allowed the young child to stand at the window to his bedroom and watch as the family prepared to set off fireworks that evening. “They set up a bunch of firecrackers on the walk that led up to our house,” John later recalled. “They even had some Roman candles.”
John’s father lit the Roman candles one at a time. Overhead, the pyrotechnic display exploded in a canopy of light. Young John’s eyes sparkled with excitement as he watched the display and followed each spark as it fizzled out one by one. Soon there was only one spark left, glowing high above the house in one of the overhanging branches of a nearby live oak. For a moment the spark remained, suspended between earth and heaven. Then suddenly it burst into flame as the Spanish moss caught fire.
When the fire department arrived moments later, they found the tree ablaze and the night sky illuminated by more than fireworks. A successful dousing put an end to the yuletide celebrations at the Finlayson home that evening, though young John would always remember that night as the most exciting Christmas ever.
When a fire alarm sounded on the eleventh of September, a crowd had already gathered at the home on North Jefferson Street. It appears that someone had dumped hot ashes into a trash box adjoining the home of Mrs. Anna Stephens, and the ashes had kindled a blaze. Anna was out of town at the time of the fire, but neighbors and bystanders called the fire department and removed as much furniture from the house as they could.
The firemen quickly arrived on the scene and sprang into action without delay. Immediately they prepared the truck and brought the impressive hose into action. Residents watched in awe as a steady stream of water played over the roaring blaze. Then—suddenly—it stopped. In alarm the firemen turned back to their truck to diagnose the issue. The hose had broken.
Not to be defeated by faulty equipment, the firemen quickly repaired the hose and turned back to the task of extinguishing the flames. Again the powerful stream of water battled the wall of fire—and again the water suddenly stopped.
Bystanders who had excitedly watched the action a moment ago now began to murmur as the firemen worked to fix a second break in the hose. Tongues of flame danced to new heights in Anna Stephens’ house while the men worked on the faulty equipment. The fire truck was now six years old and was beginning to show its age, but it had chosen a very inconvenient time to do it. At last the firemen again brought the hose into action. The men’s faces spoke their relief at sight of the water spraying over the building. But their relief quickly changed to exasperation as the stream of water dwindled to a trickle and stopped a third time. Yes, the hose had broken again.
No one could fault the firemen. They again worked tirelessly to repair the hose, and success at last crowned their efforts. With the third repair completed, the hose worked flawlessly until the fire was extinguished—though by this time the house had burned to the ground.
In his brief editorial a week later, William Bulloch exercised surprising restraint and scarcely mentioned the incident, merely noting, “It seems that Monticello needs some new equipment in the fire department.”
The town agreed with Bulloch’s appraisal. Repairs were ordered for the truck. When a fire was noticed in Herman Wild’s home early one morning in November of 1931, it was a substitute truck that the firemen brought into action to battle the blaze; the American LaFrance Triple Combination pumping truck was still undergoing repairs. However, soon after the Wild fire, the Monticello News joyfully noted in a front-page article: “The regular fire truck has been completely repaired now, and will be able to do good work at future fires.” The comedy of errors, it appeared, had played its final act.