Jumpline magazine Spring 2025 - Flipbook - Page 4
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President’s Report
William McAllister IV
President
One Final Drill
A Tribute to Captain Bill Gustin
I wouldn’t be an
MDFR 昀椀re昀椀ghter
if it weren’t for
Bill Gustin.
The 昀椀rst time I met him,
I wasn’t wearing bunker
gear—I was just a kid stopping by Firehouse 2 with my dad. I didn’t know who Bill was,
but I remember how genuinely interested he was in me—my
education, my future, where I was headed. That stayed with
me.
Years later, I came back to Firehouse 2—this time in uniform.
Fresh off probation, 昀椀lling the only bid I’d ever hold as a 昀椀re昀椀ghter: Rescue 7. Battalion 5. My 昀椀rst drill with him was at the
Heart of the City.
And there he was. Not just the friendly guy my dad worked
around for decades—he was Captain Bill Gustin. A legend
among us, not because he said so—but because everyone
else did. You didn’t want make mistakes or even hesitate in
front of Bill. More than that—you wanted to rise to his level.
His intensity didn’t come from ego. It came from love. For the
culture. For the job.
Drills with Bill weren’t optional. They were daily gospel. At
Ward Towers, we’d stretch lines over and over, 昀氀oor after 昀氀oor.
Each crew got a rep. But Bill? He did every rep. in full gear.
Five, six, seven times up those stairs. One day, he cramped
up and couldn’t 昀椀nish the 昀椀fth run. He was frustrated—not because anyone expected more from him, but because he did.
He was trying to outwork time. Trying
to stay strong enough to do this job forever, and he did for nearly 5 decades.
When I began teaching SOPs to rookies, I caught some heat.
“Three years on the job and you’re already teaching?” But Bill
pulled me aside and said, “Billy, if after three years here you
can’t teach a kid how to survive their 昀椀rst day, then I did something wrong.” He bolstered my con昀椀dence to move forward.
When my 昀椀rst recruits hit the street, he called me that night,
grinning through the phone, telling me he’d drilled them for
hours and couldn’t 昀椀nd anything I hadn’t covered.
That was a lie, of course. There was plenty more I could’ve
taught. So much I hadn’t experienced yet. But Bill wanted me
to believe I belonged. He inspired me to keep growing.
When I wrote MDFR’s traf昀椀c incident policy, I sent it to him
over and over again across several years. Each time, he
nudged it gently toward better. Even when I was the one at
the podium, Bill sat front row—locked in, notebook open and
asking questions.
That was Bill. Driven by a love for the job so deep, he gave
every part of himself to it. Even as he aged, his spark never
dimmed.
I recently saw him in an interview where he was asked what
he’d give to ride the truck again. He paused, and I said aloud,
“oh no.” This lone dark inevitability was his Achilles’ heel. I
saw a 昀氀ash of regret in his eyes before he answered: he’d
give up everything—all his experience—for youth. Not for
nostalgia. Because he still wanted to do it all over again. He
was never ready to let it go.
As company of昀椀cers, Bill and I ran some tough calls together.
A day or two later, he’d call and say, “Billy, I think I really F-ed
that one up.” It always surprised me. The calls had gone well.
We made good decisions. No one got hurt. But Bill always
found some imperceptible 昀氀aw. Something to sharpen.
I didn’t realize it then, but that was part of the drill. He wasn’t
calling to be reassured—he was teaching me how to debrief.
How to own mistakes. How to think like a professional. How
to stay a student, no matter how many years you’ve got. And
maybe… he was processing more than just the job.
Then that Sunday morning call came. That kind of early call
that only carries bad news.
Chief Jadallah said, “Bill Gustin killed himself.”
I sat frozen on my couch. I heard it clearly. But I thought about
calling back—just to make sure I’d heard it right. And another
Gustin lesson rang in my ears. One he gave me years before:
“You know, Billy… sometimes when you get to a call, and you
look at it, you don’t quite know what you’re looking at. And
that’s okay to say. You tell them you’ll get back to them. You
take your time. You 昀椀gure it out. And then, only then, do you
give direction. Ask questions if you need to. But 昀椀gure it out
昀椀rst.”
That’s where I found myself. Sitting there. Unable to move.
The silence ringing louder than the phone. Then the calls
came in, con昀椀rming what I already knew. The world expected
me to act. But no action mattered. Bill was dead.
The Final Drill
Bill used to say, “You’ve got to master the job—and then teach
it. That’s how you prove you know it.” He lived that message.
Every rep. Every rookie. Every late-night phone call that started with “I think I screwed that one up.”
He trained like a machine. He outworked time. He climbed
Spring 2025 | JUMPLINE Magazine
