Remembering the Worst Night of My Life

On a brisk winter evening of December 28, 1983, I was a rookie firefighter assigned to Engine 25, located at Seneca and Southside Streets. At that point in my eight-month career, I had barely encountered any large working fires under my spanner belt. Little did I know, I was about to experience the greatest disaster in Buffalo Fire Department history.

I was working the night shift and had just finished dinner, retiring to the bunk room for some rest to prepare for the long night ahead. Suddenly, I felt a rumbling that shook the entire building. I immediately jumped up and walked back onto the apparatus floor, where I could see what looked like a bomb exploding in the distance.

Within seconds, I heard an unusually urgent, “Beep... beep... beep… Alarm of fire to Box 191. Engine 1, Engine 2, to Box 191 at South Division and Grosvenor.” Almost immediately after, another “Beep... beep... beep…” sounded, followed by, “Third alarm to Box 191 at South Division and Grosvenor. Engine 25, Engine 35, Engine 30, Truck 10.”

I knew at that moment I was about to witness something I had never experienced before. As we raced toward the billowing black smoke, my crew—Captain E. Corcoran, Driver F.F. Jimmy Lynch, F.F. Gerald Chudy, and myself— remained silent. As we careened toward the heart of darkness, not a word was spoken.

When we pulled onto the scene, the sight before us was surreal. Despite the screaming sirens and chaos, there was a strange stillness in the air.

Upon arrival, the Captain ordered us to hook up to the nearest hydrant and drag the large 2 ½-inch lines onto the rubble to extinguish smoldering hotspots beneath the debris. It felt like a futile use of resources, but there wasn’t much else to do at that moment. We immediately understood the dangers of walking on the broken bricks, which were piled 4 to 6 feet deep. One misstep into a hollow crevasse or a shifting pile could have easily trapped or crushed a limb.

For me, the oddest thing was the complete devastation of the building. The term “blown up” described it perfectly. Every single brick seemed shattered by unimaginable force. Later that evening, I had to ask a bystander what had stood there before it blew up. That’s when I learned it had been a four-story brick warehouse just hours earlier.

Throughout the night, much of the fire load shifted to the surrounding homes. Despite the chaos, there was significant heroism that night—much of it overshadowed by the fog of tragedy. As the hours passed, I could hear and see emergency lights searching for victims. At one point, while maneuvering between hotspots, I caught sight of a crushed fire apparatus, its siren and lights still flashing. It was the crumpled wreckage of Ladder 5. I knew immediately that lives had been lost.

The next day, I learned the devastating truth: the entire crew of Ladder 5 had perished. Five lives lost—the largest single loss in Buffalo Fire Department history. I knew them all. The realization sent a shiver down my spine because I had been detailed to Engine 32 the previous week and could have been there on that fateful night.

As fire and rescue efforts continued through the night, I wandered among the crowds that had gathered. I wondered if my parents had heard about the explosion and hoped they knew I was safe. I asked a bystander if the incident had made the news. “Man, this made national news,” he replied. (CNN was a new network back then.)

At dawn, the daylight revealed the full extent of the devastation. Not only had the warehouse exploded, but it had also destroyed a bakery warehouse next door. Later investigations revealed that the explosion was caused by a freak accident: a large propane filler tank ruptured, releasing gas into the sealed warehouse atmosphere. When exposed to a fire in a barrel that workers were using to keep warm, the gas ignited.

By 8 a.m., my crew was relieved, and we returned to the firehouse in a Chief’s rig. No one spoke a word. There was nothing to say.

For years, I never publicly discussed that night. Yet every December 28, I remember the men who died in the line of duty on that snowy winter evening in Buffalo.