Turnout By Robin R. Neher Editor's caution - have a tissue ready. It's all I have left of my partner and best friend now. His coat. His turnout coat. The heavy khaki colored coat we all wear when we're in a fire or any other situation where we feel it is required. The coat that only has the wearer's last name stenciled on the back. If only he had worn this, he might still be alive now. As I hold the coat against my chest, I inhale its smoky scent and the scent of its now deceased owner. It's a scent that I know well. Oh why didn't he wear this a few short days ago? He knew it was standard procedure! Why did he have to die that way?! I can still hear his final scream, just before reaching him in the burning room. He died holding the child in his arms. My partner, brave to the end. Later, after the fire was out, his burned body was brought out, only recognizable by the remains of his uniform. His nameplate gleamed in the sunlight as he was carried to the waiting ambulance. I cried. His coat is all I have left. The coat that has the name DeSoto on the back. |