On Friday, July 1, 1988, Hackensack firefighters were bonding over barbecue, getting ready for the long Fourth of July weekend. But by the end of the day, five of them would be suddenly, shockingly severed from their earthly bonds. They died fighting the fire that erupted at the Hackensack Ford dealership at 322 River St., their priceless lives lost protecting the city that they loved. And with their deaths, those who loved them began to say the long goodbye that still echoes twenty years later.

Electrical failure sparks fire, leads to collapse

The profound event that led to the most on-duty deaths at once in the history of the Hackensack Fire Department began prosaically. A Ford dealership employee looking for auto parts spotted the first flames shortly before 3 p.m. in the attic of the service area. Evidence later indicated that the fire was most likely started by an electrical failure in either an air conditioner or fan located in the attic, an area also known as a cockloft, that was used to store potentially combustible auto parts.

After battling the blaze for 20 minutes, and while all 110 employees either escaped or were led to safety, firefighters opted to cut a hole in the roof of the service area, a typical firefighting technique. It was ultimately the roof’s design, an arch-style bowstring truss construction, that led to catastrophe. The truss design turned the dealership into a giant pressure cooker, adding intensity to the flames. If one piece of a truss roof collapses, then the entire structure comes tumbling down. As soon as he realized that the dealership roof was a truss design, Battalion Chief Sandy Williams ordered a retreat.

However, the firefighters never heard this command that could have saved their lives. Between 3:30 p.m. and 3:45 p.m., minutes after the order was made, the 60-ton roof collapsed with a sickening crash, killing Capt. Richard L. Williams, 53, Firefighter William Krejsa, 51, and Firefighter Leonard Radumski, 38.

Even more disturbingly, two additional firefighters, Lt. Richard Reinhagen, 48, and Stephen Ennis, 30, survived the initial collapse. Trapped in a closet and running out of air, the men cried out for help over a portable radio while rescuers held back by heat, smoke and debris struggled to find them. Their voices fell silent before they were discovered.

By 7 p.m., the fire was declared under control. Ten minutes later, a summer shower came and went, leaving a rainbow in its wake over the ruins.

For Walker, the fire still burns in his mind

What was really left in the immediate wake of the fire was shock, frustration, and deep personal grief. Firefighter Dennis Walker, 48, had been on the job for seven years when he arrived with his squad, Engine 4, on River Street that July day.

"I dragged the attack line and went in to the parts department bay," he said. "Later, (Battalion Chief) Williams told me that they couldn’t get a door open to the cockloft area, which was on fire. He then told me to back the line out, which we did. We went to the service area where the cars were and put a ladder up so we could go through a hatch on the other side to get to the cockloft area. I had a pike pole, and I was trying to push the hatch open, but I couldn’t because there were auto parts lying on top of it. When I finally cracked it open, I could see that it was all flames up there."

Williams then ordered Walker and his men to take the attack line and go to another end of the building to get into the cockloft area. Minutes later, the collapse began.

"The roof was coming down toward me and (Firefighter) Howie Thumann," he said. "I grabbed Howie as he was coming off the ladder, and then we got out."

When Walker was outside, he continued to fight the fire with his men. It was then that certain grim realities began to become apparent.

"They started taking a head count," he said. "That’s when you knew. Somebody was missing."

As the missing began to be found, a group of firefighters were assembled to take the fallen men out, including some from the surrounding communities who had arrived to help. But this was a job exclusively for Hackensack’s own.

"They offered to help, but we said no," Walker said. "We get our own out. So we went in and got our guys out."

The five men were out. And the firefighters were in pain as they began the ride back to their houses.

"It hit you. I remember driving back to headquarters, and we were all in shock," Walker said. "Lieutenant Reinhagen was the best lieutenant you could ever have. He knew his job, and Stevie (Ennis) was with him. We got back, and I was crying. We were all crying. Everybody was upset. Families were coming to visit the guys that they knew. It was a bad scene."

Walker’s own family found out that he was still alive thanks to local television coverage.

"My aunt saw me on television getting oxygen," he said. "She called my parents to tell them that I was all right."

Walker’s heart told him what to do in response to what he had just been through.

"I went in to work the next day. I couldn’t stay home," he said. "My parents wanted me to go down the shore. But I had to be at work. I had to be with the guys. That’s where I wanted to be. It’s your second family."

Shock sticks with other witnesses

Firefighter John Linquito left his vacation at the shore to be with his second family as well that day.

"It was the longest drive of my life," said Linquito, who is also president of International Association of Fire Fighters Local 2081, Hackensack Professional Firefighters & Emergency Medical Technicians. "When I came to the fire house, we didn’t really know what to do or how to react. We were in shock, and we were numb."

The following days were filled with funerals as the five firefighters who died were laid to rest.

"It was a long week," Linquito remembers. "You knew that you had to do your duty to take care of your brothers and put them away properly. It was definitely a tough time. But we took care of each other."

Mike Kelly was taking care of reporting the news while the Hackensack Fire Department was taking care of its own. Now a columnist for The Record, he was one of the first reporters to rush up River Street after hearing the initial report of the fire on a police scanner in the news room.

"I ran up there, and it was horrific," he said. "We knew that the ceiling had collapsed, and we knew that there were firefighters trapped inside. You stood there watching this horror show take place right in front of your eyes."

In the process of writing down what he had seen, Kelly used a new gadget that was part of the media’s transition to the present 24/7 news cycle.

"In 1988, cell phones were not all that common," he said. "I called into the office to ask for a cell phone, and they brought me something that was about the size of a shoebox. It was almost like an Army radio unit that you carried over your shoulder."

The use of the unwieldy piece of new equipment would later have unforeseen consequences.

"It was really the first time that technology got in the way of notifying next of kin," Kelly said.

"Later in the day, as we knew that firefighters had been killed, Chief Anthony Aiellos came out and announced the names of the dead. He gave us the names, but he didn’t tell us that at that moment, firefighters were being sent out to notify next of kin. He assumed that we wouldn’t be reaching out to people for a while. I immediately called the information back in to the office, and we started working on it. Unfortunately, in one case one of our reporters got to the house just as the fire department was arriving to tell them that their loved one had died."

Another unexpected development resulted from the Ford fire.

"At that time, The Record did not publish a Saturday newspaper," Kelly said. "I believe that this fire was the singlemost important factor that caused The Record to become a seven-day newspaper. We broke a major story, but had nothing to publish it in."

For Kelly, a major part of his memory of the fire was watching Hackensack’s bravest live up to their name.

"I remember the sheer courage of the fire department," he said. "Once again, this is an example of when the rest of the world runs away from a fire, it’s the job of a firefighter to run into it. These guys ran into a garage even though they knew that the attic above them was on fire. They just didn’t know that it was going to come crashing down on them."

"When the World Trade Center was burning on 9/11, no one expected it to collapse," Kelly continued.

"By the same token, no one expected that the roof of the Ford dealership would collapse and kill five people. What happened in Hackensack in 1988 and what happened on 9/11 underscores the fact that this is very dangerous work. But Hackensack is really a small town. People knew the guys who died. They saw them every day. The Ford fire was such a blow to the town and to the fire department. I’m not surprised that they remember it years later. You go to the memorial in Hackensack today, and when you see those five granite columns that represent the five men who were lost, you realize how this tragedy really scarred this town. I think that the town on many levels is still feeling the pain of this loss."

Walker goes on, but sees nothing the same way

Walker went on to get married, move to central Jersey and put 28 years of service to the Hackensack Fire Department under his belt. But for all of that satisfaction and achievement, some memories are hard to shake.

"When I was on a ferry boat going over from Weehawken to Ground Zero on 9/11, it brought back memories," he said. "It clicked in my head."

Walker has since made sure that what has stayed in his head since July 1, 1988 stays with him when he goes about his work.

"It’s still in my mind," he said. "Whenever I pass the area where that building was, I think about what happened that day. We’re a tight department, and I tell all the new guys about it. I learned to keep my eyes open. No call is routine. Nothing is routine anymore."