Up every morning, before daaaay!

Most of the toes on my right foot went numb during the third or fourth week. I can only attribute this to the pernicious weight of the bunker gear, helmet, and air pack that I wore on my person most days during fire academy. Perhaps I kinked a nerve, hose bundle shouldered, irons in hand, spine bending sideways. Rarely, we'd spend a part of the morning sitting in the classroom, absorbing wisdom and theory, but the bulk of the day was filled with drilling. Every activity we did was bracketed, like bookends, with marching.

Every morning, at 0600, we'd crawl out of our bunks, assemble in the lunch room, grab a drink of water, line up and march to the HazMat building for morning PT. Our morning regimen consisted of stretching and push ups, and then we'd break up into group, with some running down the hill and back, others involved in strength training, with a third group pulling hoses, taking hydrants, and throwing air packs for time. Later, we'd line up in our companies again, standing at attention in front of the flagpole, waiting for our student officer to march us down the road, around the pond, and to the apparatus building where our gear hung on hooks, organized alphabetically.

Honestly, most of the time our marching was pretty lame. The weather when we started the academy was full-on alpine winter, and the ground was often frosted with a rime of compacted snow. If it wasn't snowing, it was usually raining. Mustering energy, at oh-dark-hundred, for a disciplined display of military marching was difficult the gloom. We grumbled under our breath about the time of day, the temperature, the breakfast the that awaited us after PT.

But we sang. Depressed by this lack of enthusiasm, and hoping to drive home some bullet points, I penned a cadence about our study material for the week. Encouraged by the captains chaperoning us, I assumed the task of cadence master and filled a small notebook with simple rhymes. I soon realized that I wielded an awesome power, and my class would willingly sing anything offered to them.

We're the class of Oh Six One

Adapt, improvise, and overcome...

In the dark, on the path to early morning exercise, I'd call out the cadence, my voice cracking in the morning air, vocal cords tight and cold. The response was variously anemic, goofy, or robust. Knowing that the chief was listening was motivating, and our return trip from PT was invariably louder and more energetic than before. Occasionally, other fire departments from across the state would use the facilities for live fire training, and we'd sing the pride in our hearts across the valley to echo off the mountain and burn tower.

Oh Six One, we are the class

Fightin fire kicks yer ass!

My golden achievement as cadence master occurred one sunny warm day, after lunch. Our drilling had run late and we'd opted to forgo changing out of our bunks, in order to secure our slot in the lunchroom. After a frantic meal, we reassembled in our ranks and headed back to the drill tower. We hadn't yet earned the privilege of using The Path, a gravel shortcut between the our quarters and the drill facilities. Honor and tradition demanded that we take the road, a route that increased the distance fourfold. We were late, and I envisioned our instructors tapping their feet, eyes on wristwatches. As we marched, I quietly consulted Joe, an airforce firefighter veteran, our authority on military drill and precision. The command to step up the pace and run was "Double Time!". I issued the command and we began trotting in time to a faster song, our bunker boots slapping the pavement, an authoritative jangle rising from our bunker gear. Our voices rose over the flam pad, above the burn tower, to the top of Mailbox Hill.

We weren't sprinting, but arrived at our assignment in a loud and organized manner. We shaved valuable minutes off of our transit time and we looked good. We looked great. We felt great. We were professionals.

Oh Six One, we take no slack!

Hot or cold, we gotcher back!

Those toes are still a little dead, sensation diminished. When I notice it, I can't help but smile. I learned so much at the Washington State Fire Academy, but I earned my numb toes.