With an Empty Extinguisher

It slammed into the bridge and immediately disappeared over the cement wall and beyond the line of cars and trucks. That’s when I realized it had also smashed into what had once been a mini-van, demolishing its front end and drivers side.

Heading north bound on 395, I already knew the crop duster was in trouble as plumes of white and black smoke streamed from the craft. To me it appeared as if the pilot was trying to turn it around and make it back to Reno-Cannon International Airport in the southeast part of town, when he crashed.

Since traffic was at a stand still, I pulled my vehicle off the road and onto to the gravel shoulder. I grabbed the fire extinguisher and dashed as quickly as I could towards the downed aircraft.

To my amazement the plane had landed right side up, yet leaning against a part of the overpass. However the engine was on fire, and though partly torn from the fuselage, it was growing rapidly.

I could see pieces of the craft scattered across both lanes of the freeway.

Quickly, I aimed the red canister towards the blazing cowling housing the engine. I squeezed the handle and swept the icy, white dust onto the flames inside.

At first it seemed to have worked, but the fire came back to life with a roar. It was orange-red and sizzling.

It was a magnesium fire and I knew there was no way I could put the engine fire out, it would take foam. Instead I aimed the rest of the canister at the fuselage hoping to halt the spread of flames into the cockpit which was filling up with smoke.

It did not take long for the fire extinguisher to run dry. Yet the flames continued to gobble at the plane as I stood there helplessly.

I could only envision the trapped pilot inside.

Racing around, I stood on what remained of the left-wing and slammed the now empty extinguisher against the canopy in hopes of breaking it or jarring it open. I could feel the flames licking at my forearms as I hammered away and my lungs fill with the acrid odor of smoke with each labored breath.

Without warning I felt a pair of arms wrap themselves tightly around my waist.  I was suddenly jerked off the wing and dragged to the dirt and away from the burning plane.

The arms belonged to that of a Nevada State Troop. He decided that it was useless for me to continue trying to rescue the pilot.

He was sure that if he let me continue pounding on the canopy another half-minute I would be dead as well.

While I attempted to wrestle myself from the trooper, several fire engines arrived and started pouring water and foam on the downed aircraft. They had the fire out in minutes and were using the Jaws of Life to open the uncooperative canopy only to remove the lifeless body of the downed flier.

Later that night while I nursed second degree burns to my hands, arms and left side of my face, I watched the news. They said the pilot did his best to miss a bus full of school children, dribbling oil on top of the vehicle and only struck the mini-van, killing the woman driver because he didn’t see the power lines across McCarran Boulevard.