The Murphy Maze
by Cheryl McGowan

Mike Stoker lifted his beer glass. Tiny bubbles floated to the top. They met a thin line of foam that caught on the sides as he tilted the glass to his lips. This was a good time to drink.

Nine men sat quietly at the table in Hanrahan's Tavern. All had presented themselves in full dress uniforms for the funeral of one of their own. Some had not worn such attire for years. Their bellies spilled over their shining belt buckles. Brass buttons strained against their enclosures.

Mike had not gained weight these past eleven years. His dress uniform felt confining anyway. When he first picked up the uniform, the day before graduating from the academy, its formality had thrilled him. Few occasions warranted its use, though. The suit had hung in the closet for a very long time.

When Mike heard that Terry McIntyre had died, he pulled out the uniform, brushed dust off the shoulders and laid it on his bed. It looked strange lying there, so he hung it up again.

After Terry's funeral, Mike sat in the tavern amid the men with whom he had trained. He recalled the first time he had gone out drinking with his classmates, with Terry. They were all in their late teens or early 20s at that time. It was the day they had passed through the Murphy Maze, the day that every firefighter-in-training dreaded.

Their instructor, an old pro from Atlanta, greeted his class with a few words of encouragement.

"Today y'all are goin' through the Murphy Maze. It is the worst piece of trainin' bullshit you will ever have. It is worse than the rescue drills that we hold on the blacktop out there in the summer. It is worse than the mud pond exercise. The Murphy Maze is so bad that men have gone crazy in there. I've heard 'em crying for their mommies."

He smiled. Was he amused? Joking? Stoker couldn’t tell.

The instructor rocked on the balls of his feet, shoved his hands in his pockets.

"Y’all've spent the past five months learnin' how to get your gear on. You know how to work with the tank. We've taught you ‘bout the fire, the smoke, toxic gasses--how they act, what they love most dearly and what can kill ‘em. Today you will learn that the single most important resource to a firefighter ain't air or water. It’s his wits, his control. You lose control in a bad fire, you die. In a structure fire, when the smoke gets too dense for sight, you have to make your way out by feel. If you lose your way and panic, you suck too much air too quickly. Your tank goes empty and you die. The Murphy Maze will bring you as close to death as we can send you."

He pointed to his head. Mike noticed for the first time that the man's hair had been singed off on one side, that his eyebrows had gone sparse.

"Keep yourself steady. If y'all pass through the Murphy Maze with your wits intact, you'll know that you have what it takes to be a firefighter. It is the most damned awful five minutes of your trainin', hopefully of your life. Anyone here cares to drop the class, you better do it now."

No one spoke. Mike glanced over at Terry McIntyre, who looked as if he were sleeping.

"Okay, I'm timin' you. Ninety seconds to don your gear. Save the regulator until you enter the maze. Begin now!"

This was Mike's forte; he could do it in his sleep. Step into your boots and pull up your bunker pants. Button the flap. Hoist your suspenders. Slip on your turnout coat, latch it closed. Turn on your tank. Throw the tank onto your back and pull the waist straps so the weight of the tank harness rests on your hips. Pull the shoulder straps tight. Place the mask so that its rubber gasket seals against your face. Adjust the cheek and forehead straps. Push the webbing flat over your head. Set and adjust your helmet. Don your gloves. Attach the regulator to the mask and suck air.

This last action propels a firefighter forward. He is breathing from his tank and cannot hesitate. He must enter the fray quickly, lest he waste precious air. The first time Mike pulled air from a tank, he felt anxious, as if he had entered an unnatural world, circumscribed by the black rubber around his mask.

'Essentials of Firefighting' lasted five months. Only in the last few weeks did trainees get to work in their gear. They went to fires with seasoned crews, where they observed how the pros did it. No one let them touch the hose until they passed Essentials. The hose was their reward for a job well done. Trainees hungered for the hose, starved for it.

During overnights at one station or another, Mike padded out to the engine bay after everyone else had gone to bed. He climbed up onto the back of an engine. The hose smelled of diesel, of oil and of mildew.

The only hose Mike lifted in Essentials was a 125-pound measure, folded and secured with duct tape. This he flung over his shoulder. If a staircase was handy, he climbed it, descended, climbed it again. First one step at a time, then two, then three.

Towards the end of his training, Mike heard rumors about a guy in his class who passed both written and practical examinations with such ease that he was suspected of having either a relative of some power in the department or a photographic memory. This trainee was even more notable in that he never spoke to anyone in class. Placed side by side, Mike seemed like a talk show host compared with Terry McIntyre.

The last week of Essentials included the Murphy Maze, a large, pitch-black obstacle course set up inside a cinderblock room at the academy. An instructor viewed his trainees from various vantage points, using a small flashlight. His voice entered the maze through a speaker system set up in the ceiling. Within the darkness lay booby traps, sliding doors, stairs and ladders, wood scraps and old furniture strewn about. Some parts of the maze required the men to slide on their bellies through shafts not two feet high. The Murphy Maze was designed to test the mettle of a firefighter in the worst possible situation: shrouded by impenetrable smoke in an unfamiliar building.

Unlike a wayward hiker, who knows to stay put until help arrives, a firefighter has to keep moving. The smoke will not let him be seen. The noise will not let him be heard. His best hope is to find a way to escape and make it through. In his career, Mike would see firefighters kick out walls to freedom. On one occasion, he would have to do this, as well.

When the fire was coming, when his tank was giving up its last lungful, Mike don't fart around. He took it on faith that no one would come to save him. He believed with all of his heart that he would have to save himself.

No one wanted to freak out in the Murphy Maze. The gauntlet had an entrance door and an exit. Mike watched his classmates enter. He heard shouts and thumping from within the room. One by one, men stumbled through the exit. Their tank alarms blared in the tiled hallway. The men leaned against the walls, pushed their masks away with trembling hands. Sweat shined their faces. The Murphy Maze was a place of great imagining. Without the aid of sight, a trainee could easily envision the horror of the real thing.

When Terry McIntyre left the maze, he smiled blithely at Mike. His face registered sweatless composure, in stark contrast to the tormented expressions of the other trainees.

"Stoker!" Mike's attention returned to the door, which he opened cautiously. A black curtain greeted him.

"Down on your knees, Stoker. You're crawling here."

Mike supplicated himself before the curtain. His instructor's disengaged voice chilled him. He humbled himself to survive.

"Regulator engaged."

Mike attached the regulator to his mask. He breathed deeply. A calming breath, he hoped. Then he scooped the curtain aside and entered.

Stoker navigated the Maze once in his life. That was enough to commit the process to memory: Lift the door, climb through. Turn left. Up the ladder. Careful of the landing, which falls off after a couple of feet. Slide down the stairs. Feel the shaft. Inch through it. The shaft leads to an expansive flat area, where furniture and wood scraps block your way until you thrust these things aside. Find a wall. Trace the wall to a doorway. Go left, reach a dead end. Turn right and find more stairs. Climb them. Another landing, another precipice. Bring your feet around and shuffle off the landing. Your boots will eventually touch something solid below. If you reach with only your hands, you will find nothing but open space before you.

This was the point at which Mike freaked in the Murphy Maze. His air tank sounded. He had three minutes to live.

He lay on the landing, panting, listening to the air rushing through his regulator.

"Two minutes, Stoker!" Again, the voice of God.

His mind brought out pictures before his eyes. Colors, objects, toys floated there. Flames, debris and ashes danced around him.

"Ninety seconds, Stoker!"

I'm going to die, he thought. It seemed okay to die right then, because he was about to fail the Murphy Maze. I should have known I didn't have it in me.

He luxuriated for a moment, considering what else he could possibly do with his life besides firefighting. Nothing. Nothing out in the whole world meant as much to him. Drawing himself up, he flung himself head-first into the abyss. The five-foot drop cracked his mask shield.

I'm dead and I've destroyed Department equipment.

"One minute, Stoker!"

He crawled again, feeling the walls of another room, a small one, this time. Blank drywall. No windows, no doors. He circumscribed the room once, twice, keeping low.

"Thirty seconds, Stoker!"

There's no way out. Nowhere to go...

Mike continued on his knees, hand against the wall, feeling for a door, feeling for anything that would take him out of there. Despair wrapped its arms around him, squeezed him until he imagined himself shrugging off his gear and leaving behind everything he had worked so hard to accomplish over the past five months.

Then he felt it: a windowsill. He moved his hands around it, suddenly energized. He tugged and tugged until the sash flew open and bright light flooded the Maze’s inky darkness. Mike blinked and then stepped through the wooden sill. He stood quietly, wondering whether this was really the way he was supposed to go or whether he had screwed up completely.

"Good work, Stoker!" His instructor shook his hand. "Five seconds to spare. Leave by that door there. Disengage your regulator and wait in the hallway."

The last task of the day awaited. Breakdown. The Probies removed their tanks from their harnesses and placed them in the empties rack. They retrieved fresh tanks from the rack and mounted them up. Regulators and masks were washed and then hung up to dry. Turnout coats, bunker pants, boots, helmets and gloves were duffed, shaken out and checked for tears. Mike placed his equipment in a gear bag. Then he stood at attention before his instructor.

"Y'all did a great job," he said, pacing before his men. "You're a fine group. From what I could see, not a single one of you lost it in the Murphy Maze." He smiled and nodded proudly. "Y'all go home, now. Get some rest."

Of course, no one went home. They went out drinking. McIntyre joined the group. He said nothing, but drank quite a lot of beer.

A few hours blew by. Class began at 8 a.m. Ten trainees left the bar and headed their separate ways. Mike walked home. He had neither the money nor the inclination to purchase a car.

"Hey, Stoker! Wait up!"

McIntyre appeared at his side. They walked together.

"Pretty awful thing, that maze," said Mike, trying to express himself.

"I thought it was easy," McIntyre replied. "Just like Lt. Russell said: You can't lose control."

Mike didn't say anything. He hadn’t lost control, but he had come within a breath of doing so. It was hard to remember exactly how he'd felt in there, only that pleasure had not been among the sensations.

"You’re always so cool, McIntyre,” Mike said. “So I guess that means you'll never die in a fire."

McIntyre stopped walking. He stared intently at his classmate.

"If I die...," McIntyre began. "When I die, I want to die in a fire. I don't want to go in a hospital room with people weeping over me, or in some car crash. I'm going to be a firefighter. It's all I ever wanted to do with my life and it's the only way I want to leave it."

Mike smiled, trying to lighten the mood a bit. "You're planning ahead. Good for you."

This was the only conversation Mike Stoker ever had with Terry McIntyre.

*****

The sun set over the Pacific Ocean. Nine men drank their beers, hoisted a few to Terry McIntyre. The questions went unasked: Did McIntyre panic? Did he lose control? Or was this just a bad call, a big surprise that he never saw coming?

"Must have gotten turned around," someone mused. "The Incident Commander lost touch with him just before he ordered the evacuation. McIntyre probably lost his way, died when the roof came down."

The Murphy Maze had taught them that presence of mind often determines who lives and who dies in a fire. But Mike learned from Terry McIntyre that sometimes no matter how skilled, experienced and composed a firefighter is, the fire will take him if it wants to. It was no small compensation that if a firefighter died in the line of duty, he was doing a job that he loved.

Mike left the tavern. A dry wind blew up dust from the sidewalk. Tomorrow was a work day. Summer had baked the hillsides around Los Angeles to tinder dryness. It was only a matter of time before a brush fire ignited, sending crews on days-long battles against the fury. Mike was an engineer, now. He rarely went into burning buildings any more. Still, he preferred brush assignments over structure fires. Ever since he was first handed the nozzle, the aspect of entering a house with smoke belching from the windows made him feel just a bit anxious. Every time he was faced with a challenge like that, one thought came to his mind:

This isn't the Murphy Maze.

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Author's note: Thanks to Capts. Williamson and Shu for getting me into the Murphy Maze. Baked goods to Tony for getting me out.