Several months ago, Captain Frank Farrington of the New York City Fire Department was involved in a minor traffic accident at the corner of 83rd Street and West End Avenue.

The Captain took this as a sign, and a none-too-subtle one, to get moving on the plaque dedication ceremony for three deceased firemen of Engine 56.

Many years earlier, that same intersection had been the scene of another accident, only three blocks from the firehouse.

On June 29, 1926, as the engine raced west on 83rd street, it swerved to avoid a motorcycle heading north. Five firemen were thrown from the rig and two later died of their injuries, Jim O'Dwyer and William Moran.

Even as Jim was a part of their legacy, there was no trace of him on the premises. Nor of Bill Moran or Samuel McMahon, who died in 1889. Prior to the 1940s, fireman who died on active duty did not have a plaque dedication, only the striking of the "four fives". Whatever was once known about them had been lost in time, save for the newspaper account of the accident.

So the flinty Captain set out to find someone from the O'Dwyer family who might know something about it.

The first thing you notice upon entering Engine 74's firehouse is a glass case containing a black-and-yellow coat, a keepsake that once belonged to Ruben Correa. Ruben was the catcher for the house softball team and a former Marine. He was also one of the three-hundred and forty-three, a number known to every fireman. Behind the kitchen is a spiral, iron staircase, built by Dr. Harry Archer during the equine era. Upstairs, there are enough photos on the wall to fill a museum. Among these is a recent picture of Babe Ruth and Columbia Lou Gehrig, playing in the annual charity game between the Fire and Police Departments. The light shines on a blank space that will soon be filled with a photo of Jim and his mates in their halcyon days, standing proudly on the engine in front of the firehouse.

Jim was a handsome chap, with a square jaw and deep, blue eyes. He was born in Bohola, Ireland, the second of eleven children. In 1912, he emigrated to New York, following in the footsteps of his older brother, William. When war came in 1917, he joined the renowned 77th Infantry, also known as the "Statue of Liberty" division. After the war, he returned to New York and joined the Fire Department.

William was then a clerk in a law office, a position without status or influence. The blow would land hardest on his wife, Mildred, and their only child, Joan, born three months after the accident.

Downstairs, the men had gathered in the kitchen, drinking coffee and enjoying a festive breakfast. Captain Ciro is telling the story of how they saved a man's life the night before. As you dig into your bacon and eggs, Yogi approaches you with doleful eyes, as if he had not eaten in days. Yogi is a Dalmatian and fire dog nonpareil, trained to ring the bell at the first sign of trouble.

On a different night, Jim would have been home already, as his shift had ended hours earlier. On that Tuesday, he was waiting to hear word from his youngest brother, Paul, who had recently emigrated from Ireland. As Paul would later write in his memoir, "Our deepest respect and affection was reserved for Jimmy. He was the family favorite."

The accident must have happened late, as the hospital reported that the emergency department closed after nine. "I could not believe that the private hospital would turn away those injured firemen," said Fireman Pat Carey in a low tone, as if the accident happened last week. One almost expected to find his name on the board, his coffee mug drying on the rack, as if he was still on light duty and would be back at any moment.

News of the accident merited only a brief mention in the next day's paper. For the city was in a hurry as usual and was not going to come to a standstill over the deaths of two firemen.

Yet the years in between were kind to Jim O'Dwyer, as time would cast these events in a different light. His last known address was a patch of green next to an old Church on Staten Island. From the top of the hill one could see New York Harbor and Ellis Island, looking much as it did the first time he saw it from the deck of a steamer, sans the billowing smoke from the factories.

The ceremony unfolds with a military cadence, until it is your turn to speak, surrounded by the men in their full dress uniforms. "While individual firemen may fall, the fire Department itself keeps going. Just like the family keeps going." The day ends too quickly, and you all promise to keep in touch.

Looking at his inscrutable gaze, you had to wonder if we were all actors in a dream that was dreamed long before we got here. For what were the chances that eight decades after your death, more than a hundred people would gather in your honor, salute the flag, and say a few solemn words? Not to elicit sentimental tears but for a full-throated, Celtic lament, replete with the skirl of bagpipes, clearly audible from the outer boroughs.

As for Joan O'Dwyer, she would graduate from Columbia Law School in 1950 and serve as a New York City judge for almost fifty years. When she passed away in 2011, we were entrusted with her old photos and Jim's Victory medal from the war. (Liam O'Neill)

Now it's your turn. If you have a story that you'd like to submit, or have an idea for a story please let us know. Send it to: fdnytales@Fire-Police-EMS.com

Thanks, Ira Hoffman