At Ladder Company 23 in Walnut Hills, Cincinnati firefighter Vince Sunderhaus keeps the laces on his black shoes loosely tied. Always has.

        When the alarm sounds, his response is automatic: Grab a printout showing the location and nature of the emergency. Walk briskly through an orange door into the firehouse bays. Kick off those loosely tied shoes — left one first, then right. Step into rubber boots that are tucked into yellow, heat-resistant pants. In one motion pull the suspenders up around both shoulders. Push a button to raise the firehouse door. Step into the ladder truck and slide into the driver's seat. Turn on the truck's emergency lights. Roll.

        He did it this way before Sept. 11, 2001. He does it this way now. Every time.

        He's one of dozens of Greater Cincinnati firefighters to whom the Enquirer posed this question: What has changed since 9-11?

        Nothing, they said.

        And everything.

Cincinnati firefighter Randy Freel of Ladder 19, the city's busiest ladder company, searches a house for a fire. None was found. (Jeff Swinger photo) | ZOOM |

        From Greendale to Goshen, from Middletown to Melbourne, several thousand Greater Cincinnati firefighters pull on their boots each day just as they did before terrorists struck New York, Washington and the skies over Pennsylvania.

        On any given day, they respond to hundreds of calls, from horrific car wrecks and raging infernos to playground scrapes and ill office workers.

        Their wives and husbands say goodbye each time they leave, praying they'll return when their shift is done.

        In that respect, it's been a good year for the region: No local firefighters have died in the line of duty in the year since Sept. 11.

        Yet the specter of Sept. 11 remains. It's made the firefighting men and women more aware of the dangers they face. It's brought firefighting teams closer together. And it's made the public appreciate more the jobs they all do.

        “We know it's a dangerous job,” says Mr. Sunderhaus, a 40-year-old married father of two. “But we don't think about it as being dangerous. It's our job. We react. We know what we've got to do, and do it. I'm sure that's the attitude the (New York City firefighters) had: Fire, way up there; let's start humping up the steps and go.”

        That gung-ho attitude exists in many firehouses, along with this: an understanding that the terrorist attacks ushered in a new era in which firefighters themselves can be targets.

SPECIAL SECTION

In a special section, the Enquirer profiles local firefighters, the men and women who protect our lives and property.

        They say they exercise more caution now, and yet, when the alarm sounds, they are no less aggressive in doing what they were trained to do.

        In the rush to battle fires and save lives, they push Sept. 11 from their consciousness. But it never goes away. Not entirely.

        “There is a part of us that feels as though we are unconquerable,” says Forest Park Fire Chief Trish Brooks, the only female fire chief in Ohio. “You almost have to feel that way to lead men and women into (dangerous) circumstances. There is a sense of swashbuckling. But to see and live through 9-11 made us all realize that there but for the grace of God go any of us.”

        “The emotion of 9-11 has taken its toll on all of us,” she says. “Just the fact that so many firefighters and police officers died makes us much more aware of our own mortality.”

PHOTOS ON DISPLAY

The Cincinnati Fire Museum, 315 W. Court St., will host an exhibit of photographs from the Enquirer's special section on firefighters, which appears in today's newspaper. The exhibit opens Sept. 17 and runs through the end of the year. Hours: 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. Monday-Friday; noon-4 p.m. Saturday and Sunday. Admission: $5 adults; $4 seniors; $3 children 12 and under. Information: 513-621-5553.

        And more aware of the dangers that lurk. Several months ago, a report of an explosion at the Zimmer power plant sent firefighters from Clermont County's Washington Township Emergency Services rushing to the scene.

        Amid myriad fears expressed after Sept. 11 was the notion that power plants might be targets for terrorists. En route, firefighters received word of burn injuries. Such calls are unusual at the plant.

        “We were all looking at each other like, "Please tell me this is just a malfunction with some piece of machinery,”' says Chief Greg Thomas.

        In fact, a man had been scalded by steam during removal of slag buildup inside the coal-fired boiler. But had it been an act of terrorism, the Washington Township firefighters would have been there just the same.

        Chief Thomas describes his squad — a mix of full- and part-timers — as “good ol' country boys who'd help you out in any kind of pinch. They were that way before Sept. 11. They're even more so now.

        “They have a great love for the job.”

        And for each other. The bonds now may be stronger than ever.

        “We lost 343 brothers in New York City,” says Capt. Troy Webster of Florence Fire/EMS. “That drew us closer together.”

        And yet, firefighters have always been a close-knit group.

        “(A firefighter) can walk into a firehouse anywhere in the United States and be able to sit down and have dinner, talk and feel welcome,” says Capt. Jenni Lattire of the Whitewater Township Fire Department.

        True, says Amos Johnson. The 24-year-old firefighter/emergency medical technician is a full-time member of the Forest Park Fire Department, and works part time for the Woodlawn department. On vacations, he has been welcomed at firehouses in Trenton, N.J., and, earlier this month, in Gatlinburg, Tenn.

        “If you go out of town, you just have to (visit) the fire department, see what they got. We get many people coming through here, too,” he says, noting recent visits to a Woodlawn station by firefighters from Detroit and Chicago.

        “It's a family,” he says.

        And in times of tragedy, a family's true nature reveals itself.

        Whitewater Township's Capt. Lattire also works for Hamilton County's Miami Township Fire Department, where Bill Ellison was a firefighter.

        In March 2001 Mr. Ellison suffered severe burns while battling a house fire in Miami Township. The 38-year-old, who also was a firefighter for Anderson Township, died 12 days later.

        “When Bill died, we received sympathy letters from (fire departments) all over the world,” Capt. Lattire says. Less than six months later, she tearfully watched television as the World Trade Center towers collapsed.

        “Maybe it hit harder for those of us who knew Bill and worked with Bill, because it was almost a reliving of his death,” Capt. Lattire says.

        It hit everyone hard. And changed them in ways that many find hard to describe.

        Lt. Michael Washington, who is assigned to Engine Company 23 in Walnut Hills, says he now has more respect for the job. That's hard to imagine, given that he grew up idolizing firefighters and hanging around firehouses in Over-the-Rhine, Avondale and Walnut Hills.

        Shortly after 9-11, he felt compelled to drive to New York City with three other Cincinnati firefighters.

        They spent three days searching for victims in the World Trade Center rubble, and at night were guests of Engine Company 71 in the Bronx.

        After laboring for hours one day amid acrid smoke at Ground Zero, they encountered more than 100 apartment dwellers outside their building.

        The New Yorkers saw their helmets. “Cincinnati's here,” someone said, and the crowd began applauding.

        Lt. Washington says that for him, that day epitomized what it means to be a firefighter.

        In Fairfield, people have asked Chief Donald G. Bennett if he knew any firefighters killed at the World Trade Center.

        “On one hand, I didn't know any,” the chief says. “But on the other hand, I knew them all.”

        Shortly after 9-11, Chief Bennett learned that a missing New York City firefighter, Michael Lynch, had family in the Fairfield area. Fairfield firefighters contacted the family, and in December, the chief and two colleagues traveled to New York for Mr. Lynch's memorial.

        They met with firefighters at Ladder Company 32 and Engine Company 62, where Mr. Lynch was assigned. (He was on rotation to Engine Company 40 the day of the attacks.)

        “I've been on the job for 32 years,” Chief Bennett says, “and never fully realized what my job meant until I went to New York to meet these people. We were embraced like we had known each other for 100 years.”

        He says Sept. 11 made firefighters even more aware of the responsibility they have to their communities. “With that in mind, we've got to walk tall,” he says. “I think we're driven to do (the job) better.”

        Like other firefighters, the chief has seen an outpouring of appreciation from a grateful public. It has subsided in recent months, but hasn't disappeared. Not long ago a stranger saw the uniformed chief in a restaurant and offered to buy him dinner.

        “Thank you for everything you do,” the man said.

        What they do has not changed since 9-11.

        When the firehouse alarm sounded for Ladder Company 23 on a warm Sunday morning in July, Vince Sunderhaus kicked off his loosely tied black shoes, stepped into his boots and drove to an apartment fire in Evanston.

        From his side of the truck, firefighter Frank Gorrasi saw a woman screaming. “My husband's in there!”

        Mr. Sunderhaus, meanwhile, ran to the front door where a man was calling for help. “There's a guy inside,” the man said. “I can't get to him.”

        Mr. Sunderhaus peered into the thick black smoke. He yelled. From somewhere inside, he heard a cough.

        Firefighters are taught to enter a burning building with a hose line. That way, if the firefighter becomes disoriented, he can follow the hose to safety.

        But the engine company had not yet arrived with a hose. And there was no time to spare.

        Air pack strapped to his face, Mr. Sunderhaus crawled into the building. About 25 feet in, he found the unconscious victim and struggled to pull him out.

        Firefighter Tony Traum arrived moments later and lifted the victim's legs. Then Mr. Gorrasi joined them and helped carry the man outside. It was, the firefighters would say later, “a good save.” The man recovered.

        Much has changed since Sept. 11. But some things have not.

        “I didn't crawl in that building thinking nobody was gonna come in behind me,” Vince Sunderhaus says.

        He is sitting in the Station 23 firehouse next to Frank Gorrasi and Tony Traum. “I know these guys, and I depend on them to be behind me. We look out for each other.”

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