'I felt like I was in hell,' retired chief says of fire that killed Lt. Randy Parker
For 12 months, Stephen Stafford could hardly talk about the night that Lt. Randy Parker died in a house fire.
Each time he thought about it, emotion choked the words of the now retired Macon-Bibb County fire battalion chief, who was hospitalized for more than six weeks after the blaze.
Stafford, now 60, kept vigil at the front door of the house where Parker and other firefighters fell through the first floor into the basement.
For more than 30 minutes, he led the rescue efforts.
Thick smoke funneled up from the cluttered cellar, but Stafford didn't budge.
"I felt like I was in hell and I couldn't ask anybody else to take my place in that situation, and I knew it was unbearable for me," Stafford said last week on the eve of the first anniversary of Parker's death.
He knew Parker would have done the same for him.
The two were spiritual soulmates, and their relationship has helped Stafford heal emotionally after the loss.
What began as a routine fire ended catastrophically at 2320 Fairview Drive.
Homeowner Don Coffey was burning items in an outdoor barrel near the carport.
Due to the extensive damage, investigators from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives could not determine whether flames spread from the barrel, or if extension cords to an outdoor space heater for dog kennels sparked the fire.
Flames spread, consuming the carport on the left side of the house.
Firefighters thought they had contained and extinguished the blaze after it spread into the attic of the ranch home, a few blocks off Rocky Creek Road near Bloomfield.
As a crew went into the basement searching for some of the Coffeys' dogs, they noticed a "heavy fire load" of combustible materials.
Stafford called Parker's crew to cut a hole in the floor so they could use hoses to keep the fire from spreading. The last snapshot taken of Parker shows him by a fire truck, waiting for one of his crew members to get ready to go back into the house.
Capt. Danny Angelo, who was not at the scene but was on duty that night, was listening on the fire radio to what initially seemed to be a routine fire.
"Capt. (Ferrell) Cromer headed back with a line to attack the fire, and he said he saw the floor in the house look like it was about to give way," Angelo said.
Almost simultaneous calls of "code red" blared over the radio from Cromer and Stafford, who had heard what sounded like an explosion and ordered everyone out of the building.
Firefighters Adam Michie and Matt Couey were on their knees putting water in the hole, Angelo said, and Ben Bollinger and Cromer also were making their way out of the house with Parker.
Then the floor gave way, plunging the men into the basement full of steam and smoke.
Stafford ran around to the front of the house and heard the cries for help.
"I'm right here, I'm right here," Bollinger said.
The chief ordered a ladder and got it down to the men.
Bollinger did not fall all the way down, but he was separated from the door by the gaping hole. A large section of the floor boards had fallen down at an angle toward the middle of the basement, but they were still attached to the baseboard at the wall.
"Bollinger was on the other side of the hole and jumped onto the ladder," Stafford said. "And from the ladder, I was able to grab his hand."
Intense heat and smoke funneled into Stafford's face as he scrambled to get the ladder to the others.
"I knew from the fire scene that something was going to happen to me, and it wasn't going to be good," Stafford said. "I asked, 'Lord Jesus, take care of my wife and kids and grandkids and my mother.'"
He kept repeating the 23rd psalm.
"I felt I was walking through the shadow," he said. "It was hard to imagine all this was taking place."
'KNEW IT WAS BAD'
Couey, Michie and Cromer made their way up the ladder, but Parker was trapped under debris.
Angelo headed to the fire as soon as he heard the code red.
Brad Beasley, a second generation firefighter who was recently promoted to captain, was off duty and cutting grass when he got a call that a firefighter was missing.
He was compelled to go.
"Especially when you hear 'firefighter down,' if I'm off, I'm going," Beasley said. "I was just there for support."
By the time Angelo arrived, the four rescued firefighters already were in ambulances.
He suited up and joined the rotation of two-person crews who spent several minutes at a time looking for Parker. Stored furniture, clothing and other items were now burning.
"It was slap full," Angelo said of the basement.
Other firefighters kept water on the fire to protect rescuers.
"I knew it was bad when Danny (Angelo) couldn't find him," Beasley said.
The supply of air packs was running low as firefighters searched frantically for about 30 minutes.
Angelo was told Parker had gone down near the door, and that's where he concentrated his efforts.
He finally heard the alarm from the breathing apparatus, which sounds when the air is low and when a firefighter stops moving.
"I could hear it and just started digging through the debris until we found him," said Angelo, who pulled off Parker's mask and started giving him oxygen.
Stafford, still at the front door, stood by the 8- to 10-foot drop as a rope was tied around Parker.
A line of firefighters in the front yard pulled until Parker was lifted up.
"Thank God, thank God, thank God!" exclaimed Stafford, who started to keel over.
Beasley was right there.
"When we put Randy on the stretcher, Chief Stafford collapsed," said Beasley, who caught Stafford as he went down.
Angelo called firefighters together.
"I told everybody to take a knee and we started praying," Angelo said.
More than a dozen firefighters knelt in the yard as paramedics tended to Parker and Stafford.
"I started praying until I couldn't talk anymore," said Angelo, who by that time was overcome with emotion.
A chaplain picked up where he left off.
In 34 years of fighting fires, Angelo had never faced anything like that.
"I hope nobody has to do it again," said Angelo, who had worked closely with Parker in recent years.
On the gurney, Stafford pleaded that he ride in the same ambulance as Parker.
"Don't separate us. Keep us together," he said. But Parker, a married father of two, was already on his way to the hospital.
Stafford suffered smoke inhalation and a brain bleed that initially paralyzed his left side.
"It was a combination of lack of fresh oxygen, smoke inhalation and the stress from the scene," he said.
He was airlifted to Augusta, where he would undergo intense therapy to regain the use of his arm and leg.
Alone in his hospital room, days later, he learned on the news that Parker had died. He had not been told because doctors had thought it best for his recovery that he not know.
"I was mortified," he said. "I just cried and cried, and the only thing I could think about was Sandie, his wife, and his two boys."
He wanted to call Parker's wife as soon as he was strong enough to talk.
"She was just a tower of strength," Stafford recalled. "I wanted to call her to console her, but it was reverse roles. She consoled me."
Randy Parker believed "nothing just happens." His faith taught him God is in control, and his wife echoed that sentiment.
"She made things seem like God had a way of handling things, and this, too, would be handled," Stafford said.
Over the months of recovery, Stafford has thought a lot about his last phone conversation with Parker, who called hours before the fire.
"Chief, I know you're busy," Parker told him. "I just wanted to call to tell you I love you."
Stafford was stunned.
"When I hung the phone up, I couldn't move for about 5 to 10 minutes. I just sat there," he said. "It wasn't the fact he said 'I love you.' It was the tone in which he said it."
The chief wondered if Parker was OK. Was there something else he wanted to tell him?
Now, looking back, he feels Parker may have had a premonition of what was ahead.
"It seemed like he had a farther insight," said Stafford, who now walks with a cane.
On his left side, Stafford's thumb continually shakes, his face is still numb and he can't taste anything on that side.
He credits fervent prayers for his physical recovery and draws emotional comfort from Parker's phone call.
"It has been one of the spiritual building blocks for me in my recovery," he said.
As Parker might say, "Nothing just happens."
To contact writer Liz Fabian, call 744-4303 and follow her on Twitter@liz_lines.
This story was originally published February 15, 2016 at 6:50 PM with the headline "'I felt like I was in hell,' retired chief says of fire that killed Lt. Randy Parker ."