The office of Engine 232 which was initially located in the basement of the quarters of Engine 231, Ladder 120 and the 44th Battalion was later relocated to a newly constructed space on the 2nd floor of the firehouse. This area of the 2nd floor was designated as the members bunkroom, and a small portion of it was then partitioned off to create an Engine office space complete with wall lockers, bed, desk, chairs and filing cabinets. Oh yes, and let's not forget the primary tool of every office space, the dreaded typewriter.

The typewriters found in the firehouses of the sixties were usually a vintage of the late forties. The old Underwood uprights was the most popular brand. In addition to fighting fires, the officer on duty had to complete a typed fire report. The large number of responses that were occurring in those years meant that the officer was either responding to a fire or busy typing. Most officers were of the two finger typing variety and were usually bitching about the typing and the condition of the typewriters that they had to use.

Around the corner from the firehouse on Pitkin Avenue was a business called Brownsville Typewriter Sales and Repair. One evening, as I was driving in for a night tour of duty, I passed the typewriter repair shop and saw a number of typewriters stacked by the curb. I went inside to inquire what they intended to do with the curbside typewriters. I was told that they were being thrown out because they were found to be longer serviceable.

Looking through the stack, I found an Underwood similar to the one currently in use in Engine 232's office. Tossing it into the trunk of my car, I continued driving to our quarters.

Later that evening I retrieved the typewriter from my car and took it into the firehouse where I examined it on the workbench in the basement. It was in such bad shape that there wasn't anything that I could salvage as a replacement for the Engine office typewriter. I decided to have some fun with it before dumping it into the garbage.

During the mealtime, I slipped into the Engine office and switched typewriters. Before replacing the cover over the broken typewriter I twisted a few of the striking arms that held the letters and characters. They were so badly twisted together, that if you struck one key about ten others would pop up together. It was perfect, since Lt. H. who was on duty that evening was always complaining about having to do fire reports. In fact, there was an unfinished fire report in the good typewriter which I removed and fed into the roller of the replacement.

Lt. H. lingered a bit after supper enjoying a cup of coffee when a box hit and all the companies responded. I told a few of the brothers what I had done and when we returned to quarters, a group of us followed Lt. H. upstairs to his office. The ceilings on the bunkroom floor were quite high so when they partitioned off a space for the Engine office, they only used 8 foot partitions leaving about 12 feet of free space above each partition wall. Standing on the headboards of the bunks that lined the office partition, we could easily look over the wall and down into the Engine office. It wasn't too long before Lt. H. rotated his chair and facing the typewriter, removed the cover.

He didn't immediately pick up on the fact that he wasn't looking at the usual machine. It wasn't until he tried to straighten out the report behind the roller that we heard "What the hell?" We all started laughing above him, prompting a quick glance upward and a smile while his head bobbed knowingly. "Alright, what ja guys do with it?" "What's the matter Lou, don't you like the replacement?" He just sat there scratching the back of his head, so we told him, "It's under your bed Lou." We laughed again as the overhead gathering began to disperse. A short time later we could hear the lieutenant two-finger typing.

Later that evening we were returning from yet another run, when we saw Lt. H. climbing the stairs to his office with the chief from the 44th Battalion walking up behind him. It was getting late into our tour and so a few of the brothers were also walking up the stairs heading to their bunks. We heard the chief questioning Lt. H. about some missing fire reports. Turning at the top of the stairs, Lt. H. headed into his office while the chief continued walking on towards his office.

Just as we reached the top of the stairs, we witnessed Lt. H. bounding out of his office carrying a typewriter.

He then yelled in a loud voice, "I'VE HAD IT WITH THESE FRICKEN REPORTS!" Startled, we stopped in our tracks. The chief also stops and looks back in time to see Lt. H. turn sharply to the right and toss the typewriter with the fire report still attached, out through the large open window facing the rear of quarters.

Following the sound of the typewriter smashing into the concrete courtyard two floors below, we silently watched Lt. H. step away from the window and reenter his office, slamming the door behind him. Without a word of exchange, the men and the chief glance at each other and with a few shrugs of their shoulders continue on their respective way.

I quietly climbed up on the headboard of my bunk and from the darkness of the bunkroom above, peered into the Engine office. There in the faint light of his desk lamp was a smiling Lt. H. placing the real typewriter onto its stand.

It would probably be a long time, if ever again, before that chief would question Lt. H. about missing fire reports.

I then laid on my bunk with my hands behind my head staring into the darkness. I was also smiling and marveling how a broken down piece of equipment, slated for the scrap heap only a few hours earlier, had managed to become the implement that triggered a rather broad span of emotions for so many people. (Lou Augier)

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Thanks, Ira Hoffman