One badge binds Bloomington firefighters with New York counterparts

Three days ago, as the anniversary of the Sept. 11 attacks loomed before a jaded nation, the men and women of the Bloomington Township Fire Department took a moment of silence to honor two of their own. They assembled quietly, standing around a limestone marker flanked by an undulating American flag, lost in their own thoughts and memories.\nIn an era of innocence lost, as a country turns its attention to the machines and mechanisms of a war against terror, these quiet heroes took a moment to remember their fallen brothers -- and reflect upon the level of courage their service commands.\n"People ask me all the time, 'Faron, with your years of experience, would you have gone inside that tower?'" Chief Faron Livingston said. "And I say yes -- of course -- absolutely. When you make a commitment to this life, you have to know you're going to see death and destruction. You just have to go in and do it."\nLivingston removes his hat as he approaches the site where the memorial, crafted of Indiana limestone and towering at six-foot-one, will stand. It's not yet been completed; the designer, himself a former BTFD fireman and IU graduate, isn't done yet. But small commemorative stones rise from the carefully manicured lawn.\nLivingston is a friendly man whose easygoing demeanor belies the disposition required of a firefighter in charge of nearly 50 volunteers and six full-time employees. His office is adorned with certificates proclaiming completion of well control training, participation in national fire training academies and bombs and explosive devices expertise. Yet he becomes soft-spoken, matter-of-fact, when talking about the soul of his force -- those men and women who've stuck with the job despite the emotional toll the work often demands.\n"You know, you either joke about it (firefighting), or you go nuts," Livingston said. "Sometimes you've got to cry, to get it off your chest. It's a natural reaction. It's okay."\n"Look at all that crazy sky"\nThe morning of Sept. 11, Livingston got to work a little late, so he took the back door. He entered the recreation room adjacent to the kitchen and came upon his men huddled around a television set.\nFirefighter and IU student Matt Baranko tore his eyes from the screen and looked up at his boss.\n"Holy shit," he said. "A plane's hit the World Trade Center."\nThat's when the adrenaline started pumping. E-mails began pouring in from all over the city and county from concerned residents asking for confirmation, pleading that this could not, should not, be true. A discord of screeching tones danced across the central dispatch system frequencies. Orders came in requesting fire chiefs to close and lock all station doors. Disbelievingly, the men and women of BTFD listened to live accounts of reporters and onlookers impersonating New York City fire personnel in attempts to get closer to Ground Zero. \n"How could you hit that?" assistant chief Joel Bomgardner recalls saying. "Look at all that crazy sky."\nThe firefighters remained together for about half an hour longer, some still glued to CNN reports, others offering somber exchanges. Then, in a near mass exodus from the Old State Road 37 station, they went home to their families. Three days later, they were watching M-16 fighter planes escort a small passenger plane from the skies over Monroe County Airport. \n"It bothered the hell out of me," Livingston said, recalling five of his own brethren from his days at the National Fire Academy who lost their lives racing into the blazing towers. "But it's funny how it affected people -- they just started telling us out loud that they appreciated what we do."\nTwo weeks after the attacks, Bomgardner walked by the station pool table, bathed in light by two floor-to-ceiling windows. Atop it sat a basket with an unsigned card:\n"Thank you for everything you do. We have always appreciated it."\nWrapped around the basket was a knit American flag afghan. Exactly one year later, it's still there, a persistent symbol of community spirit, a glimmer of hope in a time of mourning.\nThe first to respond\nAs anthrax scares fueled near-hysteria nationwide, the department's Hazmat -- short for hazardous materials -- team was placed on standby status. If the deadly spores were detected in Monroe or surrounding counties, they'd be the first in, reporting to the epicenter of the hot zone. Livingston recalls 42 such responses this year, with approximately six termed "credible threats" -- situations where "interest is perked."\nAn example of such an incident occurred in mid-October, when the Bloomington chapter of Planned Parenthood received one of 82 allegedly anthrax-laden letters from an unknown location in Ohio. Though Bloomington Mayor John Fernandez warned city officials not to "let fear and uncertainty turn into panic," reports of possible anthrax detection poured into city and township police and fire units. The BTFD was among the first to respond.\nThe department even graced the pages of Time last October as reports of anthrax in Forest Quad mobilized both full-time and volunteer members of the Hazmat team into action. \nLivingston's expertise in working with hazardous chemicals has earned him the moniker "Hazmat One" around the stationhouse. Each year at the National Firemen's Caucus in Washington, D.C., he makes the trek to Capitol Hill to visit Indiana Senator Richard Lugar in his Constitution Avenue offices.\nJust one of the guys\nBomgardner said the attacks prompted a spike in volunteer signups. Some recruits could take it; others dropped out of sight shortly after they appeared -- a testament to the "try it for a few days or make it your life" mentality pervading the fire service, he said.\nLivingston has a file cabinet full of turned-over personnel. But for every fireman lost, he said, he's got five of the "other breed" -- those dedicated to the task of saving lives.\nBomgardner estimates 75-to-80 percent of post-Sept. 11 volunteers have stuck with the job. Some are IU students, many of whom, like Baranko, plan to complete their academic pursuits but return to the service. Many of them are locals, longtime Bloomington residents who have grown to love the community that nurtured them from childhood.\nLivingston, a former truck driver, crisscrossed the country on nationwide hauls and said he's "been to town and seen the circus," and Bloomington's just where he wants to be.\nIU costume shop employee Eleanor Modin once considered herself just that -- a sort of silent supporter. But since Sept. 11 and at the prompting of friends involved in the fire service, she began considering ways she could contribute to the fight against terrorism. An avid philanthropist, she turned to the BTFD as an alternative way to give back to the immediate community.\nHailing from Switzerland, Modin came to the U.S. to study music at IU. On the morning of Sept. 11, she was at work in the Musical Arts Center -- without a TV. A friend called to inform the staff of the attacks, and they waited until National Public Radio picked up the reports. A television was later installed on the MAC's main stage to allow those working in the facility to follow developments. \nSomething stirred within Modin. She had done rescue work in the Swiss Alps and was no stranger to physical challenges. A friend, the chief of Indian Creek Township's department, encouraged her to talk to the BTFD. So she signed up, and three months later began work as a part-time volunteer. \n"I weighed it carefully," Modin said. "I wanted to make a solid commitment. Christmastime gave me some downtime" -- Modin had to complete 24 hours of mandatory training -- "so I chose December to do it."\nNine months later, she's still an active member and a trained Hazmat technician. Though she's a woman in a service once considered to be dominated by gruff, burly males, she said she never feels inferior.\n"I can't carry someone down the big ladder, obviously," she said. "But I feel comfortable. You get more detached to things like that, and you just go in and do your job."\nLivingston agreed.\n"She's one of the guys," he said. "When women come in, they're accepted immediately into the brotherhood of the department. We've got guys from Greece, women from Switzerland, IU students. They're all part of the department, and they're all equals. We get the other, special breeds, and we like it that way"