An earlier generation knew the neighborhood where I live as "Hell's Hundred Acres." Outside of history books, the name is all but forgotten, now. But around the corner, the firemen of the local company remembered, and christened one of their engines that. Unostentatiously. You would only notice if you passed close by the open garage door where, on pleasant days, they would pass the time. If you didn't know the men by name, you did by sight. We often laughed watching them shop, planning gourmet meals for their duty. These men. Strapping. Almost surly, if you can mean that 'in the best sense.'
Being no near the disaster, the company was among the first to arrive on the scene. Presumably, before the buildings toppled. Because they were too close. The engine, flattened. Of that company, none survived.
And the company on Broome Street, just a block or two further away, lost half its men.
