One of the basic principles of the incident command system is the use of plain talk. This makes perfect sense, particularly during major incidents when units that are unfamiliar with local radio signals might be summoned from outside of the host jurisdiction. The problem can be exacerbated at long-term events when help is provided by multiple, distant agencies, each of which might have its own system. Unfortunately, the meaning of 10-codes and other such descriptors is far from universal. Although “10-4” is acknowledged rather widely and understood, there are any number of numerical permutations where conflicting abbreviations exist. In New York City, for example, a “10-25” is a manhole or vault fire; in New Orleans, it’s a false alarm.
Despite the need for standardization, our communications often are nonstandard. Unlike with differing hose threads, there is no quick adapter that can be screwed on at the scene to make differing terms compatible. Even something that’s as basic as the phonetic alphabet appears in two competing versions, not counting freelance entries, such a “Q as in cucumber,” that were coined by creative firefighters.
In conflict
A closer look at what we call “plain talk” also reveals that it often is far from plain. In the automotive sense, all fire trucks are trucks, but to the purist, some of these might be pumpers or engines, with the term “truck” being applied to, or supplanted by, ladder, aerial, aerial platform, elevated platform, bucket, Snorkel, articulating boom, tower, tower ladder or, sometimes, quint. (There is insufficient room here to delve into all of the competing designations for squads, rescues or special-purpose rigs.)
To the general public, a “tanker” is a big ship that carries oil, and “tenders” are pieces of fried chicken. However, the difference between the firefighting application of these two words can stir up a healthy debate. NFPA specifications aside, the water-carrying capacity of the motorized variant that’s required to earn this title likely is left up to local sensibilities. If you happen to be from Australia, you can add to the discussion by inserting the term “bomber” to describe the one that has wings.
Just as regional terms, such as “pop,” “soda,” “tonic” and “Coke,” are used to define carbonated beverages, so, too, are there geographic differences in the name of the place where you park your apparatus. It might be the “firehouse,” as in the title of this magazine, but it also might be the “station,” “hall” or “quarters.” I even heard it referred to as the “barn,” a potential throwback to the early days. There can be territorial references for those who ride or drive these machines, too. In New England, you might be a “Jake,” but I haven’t encountered this term elsewhere. Regardless of where you are, if you get behind the wheel, you could be a “driver,” “chauffeur,” “engineer,” “MPO” (motor pump operator) or, occasionally, “whip,” although the latter generally is reserved for the most senior firefighter, no matter where that individual is positioned. With a similar nod to the horse-drawn days, the chief’s automobile still is referred to as the “buggy” in some circles.
Potentially confusing plain talk even can enter into play when it involves operating nomenclature. Although “rapid intervention teams,” or RITs, are an integral part of firefighter safety, they also can be called “firefighter assist and search teams,” or FAST. As the saying goes, a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, but when a mayday is called, everybody who is involved must speak the same language.
Another term that isn’t applied universally is “still alarm.” According to Merriam-Webster, this is “a fire alarm transmitted (as by telephone call) without sounding the signal apparatus.” Here, “sounding the signal apparatus” is what causes the disconnect. In some larger cities, this is interpreted as a response that’s generated by a telephone call and not a pull box, because the alarm circuits remain silent. In smaller communities, this might be looked at as a dispatch for which the siren/pagers aren’t activated or that comes as a result of a phone call to the station rather than from an over-the-air dispatch. I’m sure there are many more examples of how this status is applied, but all serve to illustrate how neither 10-codes nor plain talk are agreed on globally.
Misunderstandings even can come from personal assessments of situations. What exactly is a “working fire?” Can it be applied to vehicle, trash and brush fires, or is its use strictly limited to structures?
What defines “fully involved?” I have my mental picture, but is my picture the same as yours? While we communicate within this article, this remains an innocuous question. However, at 3:00 a.m., when my size-up materially affects your response, a crystal-clear mutual understanding is critical. Let’s hope that both of us use the same system to describe the sides of the building that are involved, because numerical as well as alphabetical descriptors remain in use. If we aren’t on the same page, the result certainly won’t be A-1, in a manner of speaking.
Of course, there always are quasi-official terms—such as “it’s humming,” “it’s cooking,” “it’s rolling” and “it’s a ripper”—to add to the list. If you’re told to connect to a water source, you likely will understand that “hydrant” and “plug” can be used interchangeably and as modern replacements for “Johnny pump.” Depending on where you are, you alternatively might be ordered to “hit it,” “make it” or “pick it up” then “stretch” or “lay in.”
Because terminology typically is as geocentric as the aforementioned names for a carbonated beverage, some of the conflicts that are discussed admittedly can be rare. However, rare doesn’t mean nonexistent, and the potential for miscommunication on the fireground can’t be ignored. Just as there are urban/wildland interfaces, so, too, are there places where dialects, languages and firefighting terminologies collide. It’s in those places that particular care must be taken to create commonality.
On the same page
Finally, regardless of nomenclature, all personnel should know potentially encountered terms. A funny incident from the 1970s involved a neighboring chief who called for my department’s Telesquirt for mutual aid by summoning “the whatchamacallit.” The dispatchers figured it out.
A less humorous event is discussed in “Adapting in the Confined Space,” by Mark McCabe, which was published in the March 2021 issue of Firehouse Magazine. The article explains how emergency operations were hampered by the lack of local knowledge of what to call the confined-space rescue team’s specialized equipment.
To effectively operate and communicate, plain talk must be standardized to the highest degree that’s possible, and training must be provided to both firefighters and telecommunicators. Without this basic understanding, the next time that you request a tower to the scene, you might wind up with a Tower of Babel.
