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Chester firefighters work through a controversy

The protesters had come and gone, night was falling, and a sense of normalcy was finally returning to Chester Fire Station No. 2. Inside, next to the gleaming engines, the day crew met the night crew in the usual fashion: handshakes, hugs, a bit of teasing.

Supporters rally at a Chester fire station for firefighter James Krapf, suspended for refusing to take down an American flag decal. The incident was sparked by display of a racially charged cartoon. (Tom Gralish / Staff Photographer)
Supporters rally at a Chester fire station for firefighter James Krapf, suspended for refusing to take down an American flag decal. The incident was sparked by display of a racially charged cartoon. (Tom Gralish / Staff Photographer)Read more

The protesters had come and gone, night was falling, and a sense of normalcy was finally returning to Chester Fire Station No. 2. Inside, next to the gleaming engines, the day crew met the night crew in the usual fashion: handshakes, hugs, a bit of teasing.

"We're like old ladies," said firefighter Travis Thomas, a 16-year veteran, describing the camaraderie born of long hours in tight quarters. "We spend too much time together."

A recent controversy over whether a firefighter could display the American flag on his locker placed the spotlight on the Chester Fire Department, which for decades has been charged with protecting a small urban enclave defined by its big-city problems.

Yet while Chester is changing, thanks to the Harrah's casino and the soccer stadium rising along the Delaware River, the Fire Department finds itself dealing with old problems even as it faces new challenges.

The landscape in town is literally changing. The casino has produced more than $10 million for the city each year, allowing Chester, plagued by budget deficits for decades, to operate in the black. Developers are counting on the $115 million pro-soccer stadium, expected to be completed in the spring, to bring more than $500 million in additional development.

If people and businesses return in numbers to Chester, the impact on the Fire Department will be significant. During the industrial boom years around World War II, the department protected twice as many people as it does now.

When industry left, people followed, leaving blocks of vacant buildings. The city's decay kept firefighters busy extinguishing rowhouse fires, often set by squatters in abandoned buildings. They would fight as many as three fires a night, sometimes leaving a hose at one fire and rushing the truck to the next.

The city's demise also produced the epic Wade dump fire in 1978, the effects of which remain to this day. Cancers and other illnesses that have afflicted some firefighters are blamed on the toxins that were stored illegally at the old rubber-shredding plant under the Commodore Barry Bridge.

James L. Johnson was 21 when the fire broke out, a department rookie. Capt. John Barbato, now 49, was 18.

"Most of the guys who went into it are gone," Barbato said. "Knock on wood, I'm not sick now. I'm not sick yet."

More than 30 years later, Johnson, 52, is the fire commissioner. He presides over a department of 61 firefighters who battle fewer fires than their predecessors but who at times struggle with entrenched problems. Johnson, who is black, heads a largely white force in a city that is 75 percent black. There are now 18 minority firefighters in the department, an improvement but not enough in the eyes of some black firefighters.

Chester often draws its members from nearby volunteer units that tend to be mostly white. The department hopes to increase recruitment in the city itself, a recognition that many black residents don't see firefighting as a career choice.

"Our numbers are the way they are because a lot of people in the black community don't know about the Fire Department," said Charles Hopkins, 50, the only black battalion chief.

Racism was once more overt. Hopkins, who joined in 1983, said black firefighters back then found urine and glass in their boots and had their cars keyed. Now, a racial slur might be uttered or an offensive comment made, he said. A platoon of 14 men may hold a dinner, and the only two people not invited are the two black firefighters on shift, he added.

"It happens," he said. "There's a separation. It's subtle."

On the other side, some white firefighters said it was frustrating to constantly have to fight a racist label they say is too freely applied to them.

Ten years ago, the state police investigated the department after a black firefighter found a drawing of a Ku Klux Klan figure in his locker. Several white firefighters also found the cartoon with their names written on the hoods.

The incident, known at the department as the "Klu Flu," resulted in no charges. The white firefighters who found the cartoons had taken Halloween night off to be home with their families. Some accused them of not wanting to hand out candy to the black children who trick-or-treat at the fire station.

"I was called a Klansman," said Steve Carr, 41, who is white and joined the department in 1989. Firefighters pride themselves on rescues, and in those split-second decisions that define duty, race is not a factor, he said.

"When a house is on fire, the guys don't ask who's in the house before going in. They just do it," Carr said.

In interviews this week, however, firefighters described the firehouse atmosphere as collegial, with disagreements based on personality, not race.

"It's just like having your brothers at the table," said Dan Wilson, 36, who is black. "You'll argue, you'll yell and scream, and five minutes later you're right back eating dinner."

The incident over the American flag was sparked by the display of a racially charged cartoon. Over the summer, Robert Butler, 48, a 15-year veteran, posted a cartoon on his locker that depicted two black minstrel characters and included a racial slur. Butler, who is black, said he posted the cartoon as a protest against the department's union leadership, who he says have targeted him for discipline.

After a union official complained, Johnson removed the cartoon. Butler then posted a sign on his locker that read, "Black man has no free speech." When he refused to remove the sign, Johnson suspended him and removed it.

Johnson ordered firefighters to clear the outside of the lockers of decorations. Seven weeks after the policy went into effect, Johnson ordered 11 firefighters who had not followed the directive to comply.

One of them, James Krapf, 31, refused to take down a small American flag decal and was suspended for two days. Support for Krapf reached its peak Monday, when about 40 flag-waving people held a rally in front of fire headquarters. Inside, Johnson, Krapf, and the union leadership came to an agreement that reinstated Krapf, restored most of the pay he lost, and allowed the flag to remain on the locker.

The flag issue may be over, but other challenges loom. Contract talks are heading to arbitration. Yet despite the frustrations and the disagreements, firefighters say they would not want to work anywhere else. To a person, they say they feel confident to depend on one another when it matters.

"It's like being married," said Barbato, whose 30-plus years on the force make him one of the senior veterans. "Everybody gives and takes or your relationship is just going to be broken apart. When it comes to life or death, those guys will take an order and do it without question."