The badge binds them
Mike Mullane, the pope of Florian Hall, stood behind the counter in the Firefighters Local 718 office in Dorchester, working the phones, shaking hands, smoking a cigarette, cursing the copier.
"We need a badge," he called out. "We've got to get a badge down here."
Mullane has been a firefighter since Oct. 22, 1969. Since last week, just hours after Boston firefighters Paul Cahill and Warren Payne were killed inside a West Roxbury restaurant, Mullane and an army of firefighters have been working nonstop to dispatch them from this world in a manner befitting their sacrifice.
"I knew Cahill," Mullane said. "He was a good worker. I didn't know Payne, but everybody who did says he was a good worker."
A good worker. It is the highest praise a firefighter can give another.
Every Labor Day brings much talk about the death of organized labor, about the Darwinian tendencies of both employers and employees. It's all for one and none for all.
But to stand in Florian Hall, the firefighters union headquarters, and watch them prepare to bury their dead is to be reminded that some jobs are still more than just jobs. Throughout the long Labor Day weekend, the lights were on at Florian Hall.
Firefighter funerals are Viking funerals - grand in scale, simple but profound in their imagery. Cahill's funeral today, and Payne's tomorrow, are being choreographed with military precision and attention to detail. But this is one of the few instances in which pageantry is personal.
"We aren't some company, staging an event. These are our brothers," said Ralph Dowling, a member of the Fire Department's special operations unit who, with Lieutenant Mike Walsh from Rescue 2, is organizing the logistics of the funerals. "At the end of the day, we produce something that the families will never forget. This is for the families."
It is also for the firefighters, because they know that what happened to Cahill and Payne could happen to any one of them. And not in something as cataclysmic as 9/11, but as mundane as a grease fire. It is why some off-duty firefighters playing softball at M Street Park in Southie dropped their bats and gloves and raced to Centre Street when they heard firefighters were trapped last week. It is why firefighters from Fort Lauderdale drove an engine truck up from Florida for the funerals.
"This was a two-bit fire that went bad in four, five minutes," said Mullane, who as vice president of the International Association of Fire Fighters has gone to funerals all over the world. "We lost two men. We had seven men in the building when it blew up. We could have lost seven."
Mullane grew silent and put both hands on the counter, locking his elbows, shaking his head. Just as suddenly, he brightened.
"Edzo!" Mullane sang.
Ed Kelly, a firefighter and president of Local 718, came in, a suit coat in one hand, a Dunkin' Donuts cup in the other. There were handshakes and some good-natured insults. But the small talk ended abruptly, awkwardly, and Kelly exhaled heavily.
"I've got to bring the Payne family to meet the Cahill family," Kelly said.
A short time later, a lone firefighter hurried through the glass doors to the foyer. He held a small, shiny silver shield.
"The badge is here," Kelly said, almost to himself.
Without a word, a dozen firefighters parted. Kelly held the badge for a moment, turning it over in his hands, like a jewel.
"Where's Mike O'Reilly?" Kelly asked, staring at the badge.
O'Reilly came on the job with Cahill 14 years ago. They worked on Engine 37 on Huntington Avenue together. And so it would be O'Reilly who would deliver the badge to the funeral home. The badge that will rest with Paul Cahill forever.
O'Reilly tucked the badge in his pocket, rushed across Hallet Street, jumped into a van, and drove off.
Kevin Cullen is a Globe columnist. He can be reached at cullen@globe.com. 