Dressed in blue and white short-sleeved shirts, crew 1 of engineer company 4 has just started their 48-hour shift.
Their left shoulders are marked with the crest of the Beaufort and Port Royal Fire Departments. Their right shoulders are marked with an American flag. They sit around a table, the same one where they talk over meals or cups of coffee, facing away from the Computer Aided Dispatch monitor. Their heads turn constantly, watching new dispatch alerts appear on the screen.
Despite the crew’s lighthearted banter, the men have grown accustomed to responding to emergency calls from one of the most gruesome stretches of road in Beaufort County: Robert Smalls Parkway, just north of the Broad River.
A treacherous intersection
Just a mile and a half from the station’s towering bay doors, Robert Smalls Parkway and Savannah Highway converge at a Circle K. The surrounding grass is often strewn with car parts, crews say. While there are other intersections with more collisions within their jurisdiction, the accidents at this intersection tend to be severe, leaving metal, fiberglass and plastic parts twisted beyond recognition.
Since 2020, there have been 78 crashes at the intersection, according to data from the South Carolina Department of Public Safety. Nearly 40 percent of those crashes resulted in injuries to 53 people. Just last month, Engine Company 4 used the Jaws of Life to extricate another injured passenger from a wrecked vehicle.
Analysis by The Island Packet and Beaufort Gazette found that intersections with Robert Smalls Parkway are among the most dangerous in the region, with many serious traffic accidents.
Before 2020, the intersection was the scene of several serious collisions. A mother and her stepson were killed in a crash at the intersection in 2019. A man was seriously injured in 2017. Five people were injured, including one who had to be airlifted from the scene, in a two-vehicle collision at the intersection in 2015. In 2012, a motorcyclist lost control of his car as he entered the intersection.
The crew said there are a few reasons why this intersection is so dangerous. When drivers exit the Broad River Bridge, they often speed up to 100 miles per hour to try to catch the green light at the intersection.
The maximum speed on the bridge is 88 kilometers per hour.
The problem is further compounded by the fact that there is no slip road from Savannah Highway to allow for safer merging.
Who are behind the first faces accident victims see?
Lieutenant Matt Domanowski always arrives at the fire station a half hour before the 7 a.m. shift starts. Andrew Cox is the crew’s engineer and has been with the station for seven years. Aaron Sanders is the crew’s newest addition, having joined the ranks a month ago. Lucas Maclellan, known as “Mac” by the crew, has been with the station since 2023.
The roads around their fire station are among the fastest and most dangerous in the region, they said.
According to the team, during a 48-hour shift they responded to at least three reports of car accidents a day, and on some occasions as many as six.
There’s a rhythm to their daily routine: checking in with the crew from the previous shift, loading their equipment into the truck, going through truck checkoffs — engine, pump, medical equipment — training, finishing up chores. The cadence is often interrupted by emergency calls.
Putting on a suit to respond to an alert looks different for each crew member. They’re neurotic about it, they said. Maclellan puts on his bunker pants, braces, radio belt, flash hood, cloth head covering, then his bunker jacket while the truck is moving, in that order.
It all takes a minute to get dressed. But when it comes to the intersection of Savannah Highway and Robert Smalls Parkway, the process is even faster. It’s what the crew considers the intersection with not the most crashes, but the most serious.
“We’re running to the truck at that point. … We know it’s going to be bad. We know the damage is going to be significant,” Domanowski said. Their instinct when they respond to an alert at that intersection, like Maclellan’s instinct to put on his bunker pants before he puts on his suspenders, is to call for additional backup.
The station is Advance Life Support certified, meaning they can provide life-saving services even before an ambulance arrives. Sanders and Domanowski are certified paramedics, and Cox and Maclellan are EMTs. With more fire trucks than ambulances serving the area, they said, they often have to put their life-saving training into practice.
Domanowski describes responding to a call at a traffic intersection where a driver was thrown from his seat into the passenger seat and fell unconscious under the dashboard, or to a call where a child was trapped between the asphalt and a vehicle.
“Bones break much more easily than steel,” Domanowski said.
If you ask what it’s like to respond to serious accidents, the answer, as the crew puts it, is complicated. They’re trained to wade through the horrific scene to save a life, used to the adrenaline rush, used to seeing the aftermath of two cars colliding.
In a staccato manner, the men express the complication: “It’s an automatic reaction.” “We’ve built up mental blocks.” “It’s just another day at work.” “We see mutilated bodies.” “It takes its toll.” “We’ve seen it all.” “I love this job.” “We can make a difference.”
The aftermath
As firefighters get back into the truck after a serious call, they are faced with the “adrenaline dump,” Domanowski says. The return trip is rarely quiet, even in the early morning. They discuss what happened and how they can respond better next time.
After you clear a call,Their clothes are soaked with sweat from the 85 degree night. They have to shower again, but they don’t go to bed. No one goes back to sleep. They are all too tense. Because it is only “A night”, the first night of their two-day shift, they have to keep functioning for the next 24 hours.
They spend a third of their lives together on the clock. Although they have only been together as a crew for a month, they know each other well enough to know when someone in their foursome is not behaving like they are.
The best form of therapy, they said, is to talk to each other about what they have seen. Rarely do their problems reach their loved ones.
A tone blares over the radio, and the four men suddenly rise from their seats and run for the door. In less than 60 seconds, the truck, marked in gold with the number 4, turns right onto Robert Smalls Parkway, lights flashing and sirens blaring. This time it was a diabetes emergency at Walmart, but there’s no telling what the rest of the day will bring.
The same emblem from the men’s shirt is on the back of the truck. In black letters on a white banner is what the firefighters all believe in the department’s motto: “To protect life and property.”
