The tone alarm sounded at 0700 hrs on a hot, dreary and humid July morning in 1991 Washington Heights, Manhattan. Over the voice alarm the house watchman yelled excitedly “1st due all around. Bldg fire W 162 St and Amsterdam Avenue. Looks like we’re going to work I can smell it.” The alarm location was right around the corner from the firehouse. I could hear everyone in the dark cold air conditioned bunk room jumping out of bed, even though we had already had a busy night of multiple runs and one building fire and were all beat to hell. Still like good Marines we were ready to meet the unknown at any time. Since my bunk was right next to the stairs leading to the apparatus floor I was first going down the stairs. Right at that moment the heavy apparatus doors were rolling up with the loud screeching of the rusty wheels and springs that supported the door. I stopped temporarily as a blast of thick acrid, dark choking yellow brown smoked rolled right into the firehouse filling the whole apparatus floor like a live wild animal looking ferociously to devour someone. As the smoke filled my nostrils, a chill went up my spine and I thought to myself nervously “Thissss ain’t good. What are we in for???”