Why I Went to West Webster: a catholic firefighter's experience of a double line-of-duty-death

In the early-morning hours of 24 December 2012, I found myself in an area inaccessible to Wi-Fi and telephone connections. I did, however, manage to get one text from our newest probationary firefighter. "Firefighters shot in Monroe County, NY." I spent the next half hour trying to establish a phone or internet connection, sending text and email messages that I wasn’t sure would be received... "FF Shooting in Monroe County? Please confirm."

Within the hour, I had confirmation, and I reported to the station as quickly as I could. Confirmed: 19 year old Firefighter/EMT/911 Dispatcher and his friend, a 43 year old career Police Lieutenant and Past Fire Chief, shot and killed at the scene of a working fire. Two additional Firefighters shot and severely wounded. Firefighters die in fires and at the scenes of other emergencies. They even die at training. Sometimes, they experience their own fatal health events as the result of work they’ve done at a call. They don’t get shot.

I do not recall how the decision was made to request permission from the Chief to go to West Webster. I remember thinking how three of my former high school students (then in college) were EMT's. Thoughts wandered to family members and childhood friends then serving as police officers. I know these people; any of the three of them (or any of my students then attending seminary or service academies) would have swapped duty with a family man on Christmas Eve, as FF Kaczowka had done. I remember thinking how many times I, myself, had unwittingly interrupted a drug sale at our station's cross street on route to the station or coming back from a call. It could have been me, or one of our firefighters, or one of my students or one of the boys from the old neighborhood. No; I do not recall how the decision was made by the group of us who went, but I know that this was how the decision was made by me: It could have just as easily been me responding to a call in my city, or anyone I knew responding in theirs. I needed to go.

The Chief and his staff were on vacation for the next few days. That said, the time that elapsed between my call to the Dep, and his return call to me must have been less than five minutes. “The Chief says, 'Yes, of course, and no need for any written request. Just go, and drive safely.'" It took a little while to secure funds and to determine who would or would not be part of the detail, but we departed for West Webster, NY at 09.30 on Sunday 30 December 2012...

Our driver, FF Bower, was great. I told him I would share the driving, but he pushed straight through. It was probably for the best; we stopped twice, but he still managed to bring us into Webster by 14.15. As we imagined it would be very disruptive to make our way into the funeral procession at Past Chief Chiapperini's funeral, FF Bower, LT Leverenz and I contented ourselves with watching everything on TV from the lobby of the Hampton Inn. After this, we decided to go to our rooms and get ready for whatever that evening and the following day would hold in store.

After some time, having showered, changed clothes, and swallowed a light meal, we thought of going downstairs for a drink. I was not exactly happy with the idea, although I did not let it show; it didn't feel right to me. I shouldn’t be drinking on such a solemn occasion. "One," I finally thought to myself, "in memory of the Victorious Dead and to toast the health of the two Brothers who survived."

So, down we went to the hotel lobby, and I was so thoroughly impressed by the number and variety of men who populated the ground floor! Brother firefighters from Long Island and FDNY, from Maine and New Hampshire, from Florida, from towns surrounding West Webster and from Canada! Miscellaneous bagpipers and drummers wandered around everywhere. I found myself thoroughly enjoying their company, and felt a little awkward. "We are in mourning," I thought to myself. “Mourning doesn’t look like this.”

Just then, LT Mustafa, WWFD showed up. All of a sudden, I didn't feel so bad. He explained that he'd brought his children to see us because, in his words, he wanted them to experience the support that is available when something bad happens to brother-firefighters.

Then the concierge got FF Hofstetter and FF Scardino on the phone from the hospital! The musicians spontaneously lit into a medley of tunes for them... "Pipe Band! On the setup! For Joe!" "Pipe Band! On the setup! For Ted!" Off they went! An Irish Medley. An Armed Services Medley. You can enjoy these impromptu concerts on Youtube today. Then came a thoughtful poem and a prayer from a group of Amish firefighters from Pennsylvania.

By this time, it was OK to have a drink or two, and we did. The hotel shuttle took us to a diner and we had a couple of drinks. There, the men and I laughed and talked light-heartedly with Canadian firefighters and brothers from Portland, ME and North Tonawanda, NY. It was much easier to sleep that night, in anticipation of the following day's funeral for FF/EMT Kaczowka, because of this unexpected camaraderie. We returned to our room and got ready for bed. I warned myself that 07.00 would come early as I lay awake in the dark, listening to the bagpipes downstairs grow quieter, ever quieter. The weeping of the pipes trailed off, and the heartbeat of the drums – growing ever more faint - was the last thing I remember before finally consenting to sleep.

Well rested, everyone popped out of bed and wandered down for coffee right after the wake-up call. Walking into the lobby of the Hampton Inn, we may as well have stepped into the kitchen or the day room of our own station. Except, that is, for the bagpipers and drummers. It seemed like they hadn’t slept (although they now appeared in their ceremonial garb). I also noted that, on the lapels and arms of several men with whom I shared drinks and stories only a few hours before, many bugles, stripes, and hash marks now appeared. Others, like myself, had just come down for a light breakfast before returning to our rooms to get ready for the day. This we did. In silence. Then everyone boarded shuttles to the City of Rochester.

We arrived at about 09.00, and already the street in front of St. Stanislaus Roman Catholic Church was filling up. LT Leverenz, FF Bower and I got a spot at the end of the block at the A-D corner of the church, the third row in from the front, and we were able to see clearly down the cross street. With us stood Captain John Record of the North Tonawanda Fire District, also a guest at the Hampton Inn. Some news sources would later report that hundreds of uniformed personnel were in attendance at the funeral, but I disagree. Already, at 09.00 - an hour before the Funeral Mass began - there was a conservative estimate of 2,000. The lines went down at least one and one half blocks at that time, and I was able count eleven rows deep. This does not factor in those who came between 09.00 and 10.00, and then there were at least a couple of hundred inside the church. In spite of what could have presented a logistical nightmare to a group one third the size, everyone got into place rather easily, and not a single peep of distress was heard from anyone. There was a slow, steady wind. I am told that it was twenty-seven degrees...

Apparatus after apparatus passed by, the procession of Police, Fire and EMS filed past us. A long ways down the cross street, I could see the black hats of the pipe and drum corps, and I could hear the single, mournful beat of their drums. "Shut up," I rebuked my distracted thoughts. "Stand up straight! Eyes forward!" After they had come close, right-faced and passed by, the truck finally came. Its pall bearers flanking the body of the hero atop the rig, the silence of thousands of people in the freezing cold testified to who this man was, and what his sacrifice meant. To the residents of Lake Road. To his Department and his town. To all of us.

“DETAIL! A-tten-TION! Pre-SENT ARMS!"

There was simply no way for me to see the casket as it was taken off of the apparatus and brought into the church. We stood at, "Attention," for some time, and I fully expected that we would stand in formation for the duration of the Funeral Mass. After, "At ease," and between brief, friendly comments exchanged with the Ontario firefighters one row ahead of us, I reflected on FF Kaczowka's connection with this parish. It was named for St. Stanislaus Kostka, a young polish boy, son of a statesman, who heard a divine call to enter the Jesuit Order. His father and his brother tried to dissuade him, but he eventually requested admission to the order and was refused because of the potential for political fallout. It was suggested to him that he might go to Rome and seek a place with the Order there. So, this boy of sixteen walked from Poland to Italy - alone. He was welcomed into the Order there and he died after being a member for about one year, at the age of seventeen.

In spite of his age, everyone who had ever come in contact with little Stanislaus - in Poland, on the road, or during his time in Rome - described him as a model of charity and kindness. I have never met FF Kaczowka, but as I came to understand, he served Mass at St. Stanislaus Parish. He and his father had decorated this parish church for Christmas. He went to confession there the day before he died! Given time to reflect as I stood there in front of the Church, I just did a lot of wondering. My thoughts were interrupted; we were to right face and march to a nearby school, and wait in its auditorium.

We reassembled in front of St. Stanislaus right after the Blessed Sacrament was brought to us in the auditorium for Holy Communion. There were several calls for the detail to salute, but I could not see what was happening in front of the church. My best guess is that several smaller details presented themselves at the door, and that we fell in behind them as they paid respects individually. At Mass, there had been delegations from the Polish Government, priests from various places (including the priest who baptized little Tomasz), and the retired bishop of the Diocese of Rochester (Ven. Archbishop Fulton Sheen's diocese). Outside there were, in addition to West Webster Fire and the Webster Police Department, the NY State Police, and police and fire district personnel from around the country. There were people there from as far away as the US Embassy, Cairo and from Germany. Many of these may have been forming up as groups to render a final salute. I just couldn’t see.

As the procession went on its way to Holy Sepulchre Cemetery for the internment of FF Kaczowka, we boarded the shuttles back to the hotel. Leverenz, Bower, Record and I boarded the same vehicle, and I must have looked a bit disheveled; a civilian offered his seat to me and, when I politely refused, he insisted, under the condition that I not flirt with his fiancé. It was easy to honor his request; I was pretty exhausted, and I was still a bit lost in reflection on the Stanislaus-Tomasz connection. It was only as we neared our destination - an empty lot that the shuttle drivers were calling, "the mall," where the Hampton Inn shuttle was waiting to take us the rest of the way - that the man finally revealed who he was. He and his family had babysat Tomasz as a child, and he was eager to do something for the people who had traveled so far to pay their respects.

After doffing our uniforms in our hotel rooms, the group of us decided to pay a call to West Webster Station One...
Several visiting personnel had discussed driving to Lake Road in order to pay their respects at the scene - and it remains my single regret of the trip that we didn’t go - but we agreed that it was more important at that time to present ourselves to the grieving family at the station. This we did, going out to Gravel Road in a POV after a bite to eat (paid for with vouchers given at the hotel) and anonymously slipping into the ongoing reception. I thought to myself, "This is funny... In a crowd of several thousand people over the course of a twenty-four hour period of time, we see so many familiar faces again and again!" We looked for someone to whom we could give our official condolences, and what we experienced next shocks me to think of even now.

We met the Chief and his officers, who promptly invited us to eat from the platters of food that were still being delivered to the station by all sorts of people, near and far away. We were invited to tour the hall and the apparatus floor. This was not the fifty cent tour, mind you; for the better part of about two hours we were taken inside the life of the West Webster Fire District: its Active Membership of one hundred twenty-five, its ground-breaking Explorer Program with about forty teenage members (from which FF Kaczowka came and which Past Chief Chiapperini mentored), the physical plant and the plans for expansion, the high regard in which this district is held by its town and by the County, the first rate educational philosophy of the Explorer Program, from which most new active members are farmed on a regular basis... Then the fire apparatus and the ambulances in the bays, ending with a conspicuously empty bay. No one had to ask, but we were told. "The apparatus hasn't been released by the State Police yet. It was all shot to shit."

Against the wall to which we had now come was a mountain of flowers, store-bought and hand-made sympathy cards, department patches, votive candles, personal messages, teddy bears - and a picture of each of our Brothers in the midst of it all. We paused for silent prayer. We did not take special notice of the mound of flowers to our left as we approached the memorial... It seemed like a natural part of the whole display. Upon further inspection, however, we knew what it was... It was Tomasz' private vehicle, remaining in the place he parked it on the night before Christmas Eve, buried in flowers. At that moment, with the events of the entire trip very deliberately in mind, at least in my case, a deep conviction fell heavily upon my shoulders: These men - these brothers of MINE! - had been prepared for their final moments on earth by the manner in which they had done their duty and lived their lives in the day-to-day.

We drove back to the hotel through a dense silence, which suddenly dissipated as we turned into the parking lot. Captain Record of North Tonawanda suddenly realized, “It's New Year's Eve!” Guys were already checking out – in airport shuttles, fire apparatus and ambulances, private vehicles and charter buses – all at once, it seemed, in an effort to avoid unpredictable and often dangerous holiday traffic patterns. I looked at Bower. He looked at me. We looked at Leverenz. “What do you think, Joe?” Record had already decided he was staying another night, and Kingston may as well have been on the other side of the world. We called Central from the car, and advised them to expect us home late on New Year's Day.

“What do we do next?,” each man asked himself in hushed tones, till we each had the nerve to ask one another. No one was in the least bit interested in doing the New Year's Eve “thing.” Yet, do we do anything? Maybe we could just go to bed early and get on the road first thing in the morning? Would the hotel have anything going on?

The lobby seemed so much bigger than it had when we left for the funeral that morning! Now, there was no one there. No bagpipes. No hotel employees hustling back and forth. There was only emptiness. A void. “I’ll put something online,” said Record, who was on his way back to his room. “Maybe someone local can give us an idea on where to go for a midnight toast or something small like that.” In the meantime, I was grateful for the opportunity to take a nap and the other guys didn’t need any convincing. As my head landed on my pillow, my eyes closed and I thought, “I rest in a warm bed, while Tomasz and Chip get the cold ground; receive our heroes, Lord!”

Knock! Knock! Knock! I opened one eye and read the neon digits on the clock-radio beside the bed. It had been an hour and ten minutes. Knock! Knock! Knock! Leverenz got up and opened the door. “Facebook is blowing up!,” announced Record, who was standing there in the hallway. “Apparently, we're the only visiting firefighters left in town. All these local people want to bring New Year's Eve to US!” It had been exactly one week since this small community had seen two of its own gunned down in cold blood, with two others seriously injured still in the hospital. How many of their people had been displaced as a result of seven houses burning to the ground in the immediate aftermath of this ambush? No. They weren’t celebrating New Year's Eve this year. They were, however, bringing New Year's Eve to us. “Yeah,” Record continued, “different people are saying they're going to bring food and desserts and drinks and things.” I didn’t like the idea of so much attention.

“Oh, one more thing,” he said to me. “Some girl wants to come and take us ice-skating. I told her about you.” “What did you say?,” I asked. “I told her you were short and kind of bald.” Then he turned around and walked to the elevator and hit the button. I followed after him. “Why would you say something like that?” No answer. The door slid open and he got in. “Bald? Short and bald? Why would you say that?” The door closed. “John! Short and bald?”

I can sometimes be a bit of a melancholic and reflective drinker, in particular during times like these, so I had a few concerns as Record kept updating us on the number of people who planned to come by with drinks and food platters. It just didn't feel right to me. On the other hand, the kindness of the girl who wanted to take us ice skating kept weighing pleasantly on my mind. In any event, I somehow got talked into spending some time in the hotel's hot tub, as the boys and I set a plan for the night. Very low key, we decided. We aren't here on vacation. The water felt great, I remember thinking... in stark contrast to the solemn postures assumed and the elements of nature endured that morning, standing outside of St. Stanislaus.

I'll now admit that it was a bit difficult to leave the water behind and go back to the room. We did manage to get back up to our rooms, though, and get ready for the evening in fairly short order. "Short?!? Why the hell would he say something like that?!?" I looked in the mirror, and gave myself a little pep talk. To the best of my memory, it went something like this: "Dude... Low key. Don’t be ungrateful. These people are doing something nice for you... Relax a little... for them."

So, down we went to the lobby. The area where we'd eaten breakfast that morning was set up so that we could have dinner there, and Leverenz, Bower, Record, and I just hung out, chatted with Jaime at the front desk, and waited. Soon enough, Steve, a firefighter from the Town of Ontario, showed up with a platter. Then someone came by and dropped off deviled eggs. A case of beer. Then a tray of meats. Then some sweets. Another case of beer. Then came a jug of some sort of home-made brew... not beer, not wine, not whiskey exactly... I don't really know what it was. I do know that I was the only one brave enough (or foolish enough?) to have a cup. A local girl - another Jaime - came from the Town of Greece to drop something off, and Record prevailed on her to stay a while. Steve stayed as well, along with another Ontario firefighter.

Our company was complete when a husky, grizzled, leathered-up biker walked through the door, came over and sat down with us. As we made introductions and all settled into our feast, we found out that he was part of the bikers' contingent - the Red Knights, I think they were called - who had come to Webster in order to counteract a group that had promised to come and protest the funerals of our Fallen Brothers. He mentioned that he was interviewed by one of the local TV Stations, and someone was able to pull it up on a cell phone... There he was; our biker friend - a past chief of a nearby fire district, as it turns out - clad in leather from head to toe, with the exception of his head gear, which consisted of a purple knit hat with ear flaps and a pom-pom on top. "Hey!," he excused his peculiar choice of head gear, "It was all I could find, and it was a little chilly out there!" 27°. So it was… So it was.

As the night progressed, and I asked Record a couple more times about our ice skating date, the phone rang at the front desk. Jaime spoke to the caller for a moment, put the call on hold, and told us that LT Mustafa from West Webster was on the line. She took the call off hold, and then engaged the speaker phone... "Everybody stay right there,” the Lieutenant directed us, “We're on our way to pick you up, and we won't take, 'No,' for an answer!'"

In a few minutes, the Mustafa's pulled up in front of the Hampton Inn Rochester/Webster, and our fellowship piled into their van - with platters and beers and all - and headed out to a relative's private party. It had been arranged and paid for long before the Christmas Eve Ambush. Regrettably, I'm not sure what happened to my jug.

Sometime in the midst of our meal at the hotel, I came to the decision that it was alright to celebrate a bit, considering who it was that we were celebrating with. At the Mustafa party – where we stuck out in our WWFD t shirts among the guests dressed in suits and dresses - I had the privilege to speak at great length with one of the WWFD Explorers, who would soon be going off to boot camp. I spoke with his Dad, too, who had mentored the Explorers with Chip. Tomasz had been one year out of the Explorer Program as of the morning that he and Chip died together. I wish I could re-master the darkened video I have of Leverenz dancing with a lady to some 70's disco hit. In that same video, I think our biker friend, the Chief, is dancing, too - still in his leather, wearing the hat with the pom pom. Did I mention that this was a pretty formal event?

We got back to the hotel fairly early – at about 01.30 or so. By the time I retired to my room, though, it was about 05.00; just in time to greet random hotel employees coming bleary-eyed to work, I finally started to understand why I went to West Webster...

With few words, and less ceremony, we handed in our room access cards and thanked the girl at the front desk. As of 0800 HRS, the boys and I pulled out of Webster and were en route to Kingston. On our way out the door, I had two regrets: I had not been to 191 Lake Road, and - to a lesser degree, but very real - our ice skating date turned out to be a wash.

It may sound a bit like a cliché, but it seemed as if it had been a long time since we'd seen our own station, and our Salvage-1 apparatus... In our absence, there had been a rekindle. It was the house on Franklin Street where we fought a structure fire the night before we left for West Webster. It almost kept us from going to the funeral. Anyway, there was a rekindle the following day, and Connelly, Burke and Webster rolled with Salvage-1. There were a couple other incidents while we were gone, and those same members handled things just fine. Bower, Leverenz and I rolled to another call. Campbell, for his part, realized late that he would not be able to go to West Webster, but he still gets credit for his role providing logistical support.

So, after this very tedious narrative, some people might shake their heads and sigh and think that there's a question unanswered on the table... Why did I go to West Webster? Truthfully, the final part of this very long story – that opened and closed in a matter of one week - has been a long time in coming precisely BECAUSE I thought I'd be able to come up with a convincing answer by now.

The fact is, I knew I was going to West Webster as of the morning of December 24, 2012. Simply put, I'm a fireman, and when tragedies hit and victims are trapped - by fire and smoke, by cold and ice, by collapse, or by fear and pain and loss of hope - that is where I want to be... NOT to save the day. Just to do what I am able. Right beside me will be many men and women just like me. That's why I was going on day one.

As planning was underway during the days following the tragedy, I looked out our station door and reflected on the drug spot some fifty yards away on the corner of Foxhall and O'Neill... How many times had I come around that very corner at 0300, 0400, 0500 and interrupted a drug sale? Surprised a lookout? One time, while I was without a vehicle, I answered up on foot to the station... only to be stopped by gang bangers who spread out to block the street! So, I was coming to West Webster because any one of us, on any given day, under any given set of circumstances, could have faced a similar death. Then, the Brotherhood would have come for us.

As I stood shoulder-to-shoulder with thousands of the Brethren outside St. Stanislaus Church in below-freezing weather, and saw Tomasz' flag-embraced casket carried on top of the fire apparatus proceeded by the pipes and drums, I was deeply convicted of the fact that great men of the natural AND the supernatural order need to be better known and their example more closely studied. Followed. Emulated. Such men, when they leave this earth, should be announced in their departure. Their leave-taking should be grieved deeply. At their time of judgement, eternal happiness should be most earnestly prayed for by all, and who they are and what they were should be carried from the sadness of the past into the struggle of the present time. On that bitterly cold city street, reviewing their memorial at the fire station, learning about the District that produced them, celebrating New Year's Eve, that’s why I went to West Webster. I want to be like them. With Mustafa, I want to show the children, and I want THEM to want to be like these heroes, too.

Yes.

“When they come to tell my story, let them say that I lived in a time of heroes.”

I want them to know it's true, just as surely as I know.

I know because I was there.