They put one of the crew through an impromptu emergency-driving drill, sat around the station's kitchen table discussing routes and duties in case an earthquake hit, and walked the beginnings of an apartment building — which was nothing more than a concrete floor with a few pipes sticking out.

By dinnertime, Nestor Mitchell, who drives the platoon's fire rig, was relaxing in one of four recliners oriented toward a television set. Andy Newton prepared to exercise in the station's tiny basement gym. Capt. Marcia Kinder reviewed paperwork. Jim Dallas was stuffing meatloaf in the oven.

Then came the click, click, click over the intercom. That meant power to the oven was automatically being shut down and the pings of the alarm bell were no more than two seconds away. Some say each alarm bell causes enough adrenaline rush to shave a minute off a firefighter's life, so the subtle clicks help ease the transfer from leisure to haste. Firefighters, though, simply learn to become hyper-vigilant to little clicks. Even off duty, they get startled when air conditioners or refrigerators do their re-sets. At night, the lights pop on with the clicks. Flipping on a light switch is another good way to startle an off-duty firefighter from his slumber.

Station 21 Capt. Marcia Kinder tells two children, who had become separated from their adult guardian, about the "buddy system" in case they ever get lost.

It took only a minute for each platoon member to make it to the fire truck, parked in the garage that splits the living areas within the one-story station. Mitchell scrambled in behind the wheel. Kinder ripped instructions from the printer and read aloud, "automatic fire alarm." That told Dallas and Newton to pull on their pale yellow fire gear. Their boots are always next to the truck doors and threaded through the cuffs of the pants they will need to don.

When the truck is in the station, all four doors are always kept ajar to save a few seconds. Response time is everything. An unattended fire doubles in size with every minute.

The garage door rose and the rig rolled onto Greenwood Avenue North, sirens blaring, lights flashing. The average response time in Seattle is about three minutes, and the address of this call was only three blocks away. Other drivers obediently kept out of Mitchell's way as he took two quick lefts and headed east down the hill toward Green Lake. Newton and Dallas checked their oxygen gear in the back.

As quickly as it started, it ended. Mitchell arrived at the address just as dispatch called to announce it was a false alarm. Two more minutes and Mitchell had backed the truck into the garage. Dallas shed his fire suit and headed back to the kitchen and the meatloaf. He restored power to the oven by pressing a prominent red button above it.

False alarms are a big part of the daily life of firefighters. So is waiting, preparing, rushing and reacting to whatever calls them, whenever it calls them.

	James Reed, driver of Engine 21, pulls hose from the engine after arriving at a fire at a home-operated daycare on Palatine Avenue North.

Just as they were about to sit down for dinner, the crew got its second call: a woman suffering from dementia had fallen in her home and had been lying there for about a day. The crew checked her vitals and got her to the hospital.

The meatloaf was finally stuck in the microwave and served at about 7 p.m.

"Tastes better that way," said Kinder. She meant that food goes down better after helping someone, but crew members tease each other so much, she may have also been critiquing Dallas' cooking.

While the bravery and tragedy surrounding the New York firefighters who died in the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks have brought the profession renewed respect, it skews the routine reality of their unnoticed work. Station 21 gets about 130 calls a month. There, and at other stations across the city, crews are more likely to be responding to medical calls, which range from life-threatening to glorified pin-pricks, than to fires. They prepare for disasters, but much of their work involves putting out what amount to personal fires. It may be a diabetic low on sugar or an addict high on heroin. It may be a fender-bender or a fatal accident, a suicide or an attempt at it.

The days may be slow and the nights filled with alarms.

Sometimes, it's just the attention that makes the difference. While the person they respond to likely will recall the event for many years, the crew members typically forget them by the next shift and its new set of clicks and bells.

•   •   •

The crew at Station 21 can see the same patient many times. Here, they work with paramedics to transport a Greenwood-area man who has multiple sclerosis to a Ballard hospital.

The garage holds two rigs. Replacing a 1971 one is a 91 Spartan E-One fire truck, a hand-me-down from a downtown station. It carries 500 gallons of water. The "E 21," signifying Engine 21, is split with black tape and will remain that way until the last firefighter is recovered from the World Trade Center debris. Parked next to it is a medical-emergency vehicle given to the station by the city not long after a Metro bus plunged off the Aurora Bridge a few years ago. The vehicle, equipped with life-support packets, stretchers and other emergency equipment, has been used only once — on a false alarm.

The sleeping quarters, with three single beds and locker room, line the far north side of the building. The firefighters eat, meet, relax and do paperwork on the south side. The front door is at this end of the building. It stays locked, but if you ring the doorbell, they'll take your blood pressure at a bare desk just inside the front foyer, which is smaller than a Medina home's walk-in closet. There's a counter with a printer and dispatch radio that looks out to the garage. Atop the table is a logbook where each run and shift change is recorded by hand. The on-duty officer sleeps in a room just a few feet away.

	When an area man fell, neighbor Toni Leitner called for help after being alerted by her barking dog. Station 21 firefighters responds: Former station captain Dave Jacobs, left, assesses the situation to determine the level of help he needs to call. Jim Dallas tends to the man while Nestor Mitchell stands ready with a back board.
	Firefighters responded to a late-night fire at the home of Bulah and Maury Green. The blaze was one of several in the area set by a suspected arsonist. Station firefighters have helped Bulah two other times on medical emergencies.
	Firefighter Doug Seegmiller rushes toward a motorcyclist involved in an accident on Aurora Avenue North; the motorcyclist died. Firefighters see their share of death and try hard not to get emotionally involved. "I like to tell my kids the fun stuff," Seegmiller says. "If there's anything really troubling, I share it with my wife."

Past the foyer is an equally small workroom stocked with a computer and file cabinet holding inspection reports for the business district. A map posted on the wall shows arterial streets in bright pink, school grounds in yellow, public parks and cemeteries in brown, government property in gray. The Woodland Park Zoo is in the middle of the station's area of responsibility.

The kitchen — called "the beanery" — is in the southeast corner. The four large recliners take up all but a single lane that allows firefighters to walk into the tiny kitchen and dining area, complete with linoleum-top table.

Firefighters have their own lingo. Some call the gathering area "the bullpen." A private phone line is called "the third rail." The chief drives "a buggy" and drunks are "d-horns."

The firefighters get nicknames, too. One, who can't completely extend his arms because of an old injury, sometimes goes by "T-Rex." Another who is especially attuned to the neighborhood is known by some as "Gladys Kravitz," after the TV busybody in "Bewitched."

Some years ago, a young man in the neighborhood called 911, claiming his house was on fire. Engine 21 and several others from the area were soon at his doorstep. There was no fire. He told dispatch there was one only because he thought his sick mom would get faster service. He compounded the mistake of wasting taxpayer money and endangering firefighters speeding to the scene by doggedly pestering the station's former captain. After several warnings to back off, the captain jabbed a finger toward the house and yelled, "Git!" The guy slinked off, but not before sarcastically saying, "OK, Captain Git." From then on until he left the station, he was "Captain Git" to the crew.

                        •   •   •

MOST FIREFIGHTERS are in their 30s or 40s, but some are in their 20s and fresh out of "smoke school" and others are 50 or past. The older ones are gimpier, and not just because of age. They have tweaked knees tripping over hoses and hopping in and out of tall truck doors. Relatively few live in Seattle, perhaps because they don't have to go through a daily commute.

Essentially, they work eight 24-hour shifts a month. There are four four-person crews, each starting at 7:30 a.m. A crew gets two days off, then pulls another round-the-clock shift. Then it gets four days off.

Lt. Steve Brooks' crew, the B Platoon, had already been out on a call by 9:30 one morning when a medical call came in and sent the truck speeding south down Greenwood. Two minutes later, the four firefighters, all dressed in standard dark blues, entered a tiny, cluttered home and paraded through a kitchen and into a back bedroom.

There, they saw an 85-year-old woman in bed groaning so faintly it sounded like cooing. She spoke no English. Her son and his wife spoke very little. Much of the conversations between them and the firefighters amounted to single words and pantomiming. Much of the work, initially, was trying to get the well-meaning son out of the way.

Mike Roberts and Josh McBride took vitals and probed for clues. Brooks took notes to assess what call he should make. Seattle employs a layered response system, and the crew chief must ultimately decide whether to call in paramedics, an ambulance or neither. Sometimes, the patient is deemed fine and nothing else is required.

In this case, she appeared to have a possible dislocated hip, so Brooks called an ambulance. After about 20 minutes, she was carried out on a stretcher and sent to a hospital.

"My chance to play God," Brooks joked as the crew packed up. While he is a former arson investigator, 25-year veteran and son of a former department battalion chief, Brooks acknowledges that making the on-scene call was something he had to grow into. "The first time I had to go out and talk to a member of the public, I was so amped up that I could barely get the words out."

A portion of the station's 16-member crew as well as some Fire Department administrators pose for a group picture in front of the station's rig.

Since, though, he has about seen it all. He'd see some more before the shift ended.

That afternoon, after responding to a minor car accident, the crew got another medical call. A 42-year-old man told Brooks he had taken about 15 painkillers to try to kill himself. By the time the paramedics arrived, he was saying he had mistakenly taken the pills. Regardless, he was sent off to Harborview to get his stomach pumped.

At about 8:30 that night, clicks and bells jarred Brooks' crew back onto the street and a mile away to an apartment complex catering to the elderly. They walked down the hallway, past a bingo game and into a white-haired woman's one-bedroom apartment. She sat in a chair with her back to the door. An untouched sandwich and full glass of orange juice rested on the table beside her.

Her friend, who made the 911 call, explained she is diabetic. She had taken her insulin, but hadn't eaten that day. Her eyes were latched shut and her groans were soft as if asleep. The woman needed sugar.

Firefighters see a lot of cases like this. Roberts and McBride asked her questions and searched for responses, but she offered none. Though firefighters are trained as EMTs (emergency medical technicians), they can't administer medication. So Brooks called in two Seattle paramedics, one of whom began administering an IV and a large syringe of sugar solution. Counting the woman's friend, seven men crowded into the apartment's small living room. Within two minutes, she was talking and downing the OJ. Within five minutes, as the fire crew was heading out, she was walking.

	Mitchell, center, shares a laugh with Lt. Steve Brooks at a Greenwood tavern to celebrate a Fire Department decision to keep Station 21 in business. A few years ago, because of a federal law requiring stations be staffed by four, instead of three, firefighters at all times, the department considered a plan to remove engines in Greenwood and Georgetown and leave them with only medic units; staffing was reconfigured to allow the stations to keep the engines.
	Kinder and firefighter Andy Newton help out at a local soup kitchen. More so than in past years, the department encourages firefighters to get involved with communities.
	Debbie White, who owns and operates Allegro Child Care, experiences the power of the fire hose during a tour of the station with the children. Firefighter Jim Dallas stands ready to take over.

The crew bunked down at about 11 that night and made it until 5 a.m. before the next call came, another medical run. In all, the shift brought six runs. Rarely do firefighters follow up on the status of an accident patient or learn the reasons behind a suicide attempt. They can't get involved.

They do, however, remember the strange or tragic ones.

A guy called for help with a bleeding rectum but then used a gun to kill himself in the two or three minutes it took firefighters to respond. A young woman tried to beat a yellow light and was crushed by a delivery truck. A family asked the crew to check on the welfare of a relative who responded to the firefighter's knock by shooting through the door. On a similar run, a firefighter had to use a dining-room chair to fend off a man swinging a hatchet. One guy made an emergency call so he could be propped up a couple inches in his wheelchair. Another man called for help, but then told Brooks' crew he just wanted a cigarette.

"Some people call because they're lonely," Brooks said. "Unfortunately, they never seem to call in the afternoon, only in the middle of the night."

A woman called 911 because her keyless remote would no longer open her car. The firefighter saw a key dangling from the device, stuck it in the lock, turned his wrist and opened the door the old-fashioned way. A motorcyclist crashed and tumbled down a steep hill. The nerves in one hand were exposed and one leg was grotesquely broken. Yet, when firefighters began caring for the leg, he said, "DON'T cut my boots."

Most of the time, firefighters never hear from the people they help. But not long ago the parents of an 8-year-old who'd had meningitis sent two pictures of the boy to the crew that helped him, showing how bad off he had been and how healthy he was thanks to the crew's quick response.

                        •   •   •

WHEN FIREFIGHTERS enter a burning building, they wear about 50 pounds of equipment. And that's what it weighs dry. They must navigate through searing heat and blinding smoke, trying to dodge hoses and furniture. They must watch for their buddies and falling debris. They have to lug hoses, axes and other instruments to knock down ceilings or roofs and handle 130 pounds or so of water pressure.

While fires make up only a quarter of the runs, firefighters spend a great deal of time drilling, planning or talking fires because when the moment comes, there is no time for indecision.

Station 21 is part of Battalion 4, which is based in Ballard. Battalion Chief Michael Teffre regularly runs the crews of various stations through drills and evaluates their work. One cold winter afternoon, he had Kinder's platoon do an exercise focusing on how it would attack a fire in a multistory building.

Teffre used to lead Station 21, so Dallas and Newton greeted him with blown-up white surgical gloves sticking straight out from the headphones they sometimes wear to muffle the wailing truck siren. A serious man, Teffre walked right back into the station until they took them off.

It was all business when Teffre turned on his stopwatch. The platoon had already diagrammed how it would approach the drill. Mitchell controlled the water pressure from the truck and a hydrant he patched into. Kinder directed Dallas and Newton as the pair set up and anchored a ladder to an open stairwell in back of the station, climbed it and threaded the hose into it before turning on the water. Teffre offered suggestions, but was satisfied with the work.

Firefighter Mike Washington, now on sabbatical to serve with the Marines in the Afghanistan conflict, soothes 4-year-old Camille Peryea, who was frightened by sirens and flashing red lights outside her window.

That was the only hose duty of the shift. From there, the crew checked on an old man whose daughter had been unable to reach him. He was fine, but they asked him to call her.

About 7:30 that night, they responded to a head-on collision on Northwest 65th Street, a busy two-lane arterial. A young woman driving with an expired license sped into oncoming traffic while trying to run from the police. She rammed a sport utility vehicle and was carried to the hospital on a stretcher.

The other woman's SUV was too crunched to drive, and she was a little shook up. Kinder's crew offered to drive her home, but she said she had been on her way to the 74th Street Ale House, which is virtually across the street from Station 21, to meet friends. The fire truck not only dropped her at the front door, but Mitchell turned on the flashing reds to give her and friends a little show.

The crew may have long forgotten that night, but she's probably still talking about it.

Richard Seven is a Pacific Northwest magazine staff reporter. Betty Udesen is a Seattle Times staff photographer.