ALONG THE WAY

Usually Firemen Rush to the Blaze, but Back in 1930s Benson Things Got Turned Around

Live, you ever seen it so hot?

"Yep, sure have, Acuña." "When? When was it ever as hot as this?" "Yesterday."

My dad and Acuña were sitting in a small patch of shade in front of the Standard Station on the south side of Main Street in Benson. Although my dad managed the station and would have been there anyway, they both were volunteer firemen and "on duty," which meant they had to stay within running distance of the firehouse just up the street a bit.

The year was 1933, the middle of the Depression, and there was little business at either the service station or the firehouse.

The approach of a car caught their attention. Tourists, obviously, coming in from Tucson over the hot, dusty road that would be called a "highway" one day. The tourists would stop, of course, and my dad would pump a little gas, fill their radiator, and sell a quart of oil, for sure.

My dad stood as the car stopped and had just begun his greeting, "Hello. Fill 'er up?" but was distracted by the haste of the passenger climbing out of the backseat.

"Can somebody help me?" the man called. "I got a truck up on the divide that's on fire. Can somebody call the fire department? The truck's not far. The fire is just smoldering right now, but I'm gonna lose a load of furniture if I can't get some water on it."

"Sure," my dad said. "We can give you a hand. Fire engine's right over there. You ride back with us. Shouldn't take us long. Acuña, you get the fire truck started, and I'll tell the mechanic to watch the station."

I recall the fire truck sitting in the firehouse. You could always see the engine because the firehouse's creaky old doors were never closed. The Model A Ford sat inside, facing out, eagerly awaiting, it seemed, the next call. It had a water tank, a reel of red hose behind the seat, and larger fire hoses accordion-folded in the truck bed. There was an electric siren that rose quickly to an alarming wail and took forever to die down, a sound that used to bring up the hair on the back of my neck.

The trip up the hill proved so slowgoing they didn't use the siren. Also, if they blew the siren, the whole town would fall in behind them, and all those people would just get in the way. Not to mention the nitpicking: "Hey, guys, how come you goin' out of town? You supposed to do that? You check with the mayor on this?"

Nope. No siren this time.

The furniture truck seemed intact when they arrived. Even though the driver had closed the doors, there was quite a bit of smoke seeping through the cracks. He opened a door, and sure enough, in the forward corner, through the thick smoke, they could see a red glow. The fire wasn't blazing furiously, but it was a hot one. They unreeled the red hose and went to work.

The project quickly took on a new dimension. After exhausting their limited supply of water, my dad, Acuña, and the truck driver recognized that they would have to . . . well, they would have to take the fire to town. Simple as that.

"Acuña, you drive the furniture truck," my dad said. "We'll lead with the siren. Stop at the first hydrant."

And so it started, all very organized. Except for a couple of things.

The grade from the divide into town was rather steep. Technology being what it was at the time, it didn't take long for the brakes to fail on the rather heavy furniture truck. The next thing my dad knew, the truck was passing him, doors open and swinging, the whole back end blazing like a torch. Out of the corner of his eye, my dad could see Acuña trying desperately to stay on his side of the road as he headed for town, gaining speed all the time.

And that's the procession that woke up sleepy Benson that day; a roaring fire on wheels, speeding through town, and the fire truck, siren wailing, trying to keep up.

Acuña got the truck slowed enough with the emergency brake that he could jump out "and hit a runnin'," according to the way my dad told the story. The truck eventually stopped about where the underpass is now. Acuña was unhurt and nobody ran into anybody, so the only loss was the furniture truck. Well, there might have been a little embarrassment, I suppose, but that was eased by the story that came out in the next edition of the local paper.Dale Melonbrook, editor of the San Pedro Valley News, described how the local fire department, having had nothing to do for so long, found it necessary to go out of town, find a fire, and then chase it home to provide some relief from the boredom.