What happens when we hire the wrong people

"Hire people who are better than you are, then leave them to get on with it … Look for people who will aim for the remarkable, who will not settle for the routine."
— David Ogilvy

"Do not put the saddle on the wrong horse."
— English proverb

Evaluating people is a supervisory responsibility that has its joys and sorrows. The good news: We usually hire great people whose hearts and souls are in the job and the team. They want to do well, they strive to accomplish good things and for the most part, they do. From time to time, good people make mistakes, but they're never extreme. The bad news: There are times when we hire or inherit the wrong person for the job. They sneak through the system because the manager who was supposed to document their performance did so poorly or not at all, so they slip by on the technical aspects of the job.

Other times, we hire people who simply can't do the job. This doesn't mean they're bad people; it means they may have miscalculated their abilities. Sometimes people think being a firefighter is a cushy job, with great hours and great benefits, and they want to use the fire station as a place to rest. Regardless of their character, your job as supervisor is to know the minimum requirements of the position and ensure the people who work for you meet those requirements on a continual basis.

Who's the Hoover?
One example of hiring the wrong person for the job involves a firefighter we called Hoover. The story goes like this: I was a young captain at Fire Station 3, a busy company stuck back in an alley (we were aptly named the Alley Cats), when we hired Hoover, a new rookie firefighter. Hoover was a big kid, well above the 6' mark, but his mental faculties did not match his size.

According to legend, the nickname "Hoover" stemmed from a specific event that occurred while this young man worked as a volunteer firefighter for Fire Station 2. It seems a Krispy Kreme doughnut store was located just down the street from the station.

In the early morning hours, when the doughnuts were just being made, the station would send someone to pick up three or four dozen hot, steaming and still-rising doughnuts fresh out of the oven. It was rumored that as a young volunteer, Hoover consumed two-dozen fresh, hot doughnuts by compressing them into a single ball and swallowing it in several bites. It was also rumored that the dough-rising process had not concluded before Hoover put the compressed doughnuts into his mouth. As a result, the dough continued to expand in his stomach so that it pressed against his inferior vena cava and shut his blood supply down enough to cause a syncopal episode of some duration, prompting him to take an ambulance ride to the hospital where he got his stomach pumped. I cannot confirm the science or physiology behind this theory, but I know people in the department who swear they were present for this event.

Hoover came to Fire Station 3 as a rookie firefighter with both volunteer fire and EMS experience, but from day one, there was something about his skills and abilities that led us all to believe we had our work cut out for us. He never seemed to get things quite right. He was slow, and on EMS incidents, especially when blood was involved, he suddenly became difficult to find. I spoke with him during several counseling sessions about what I expected from him, and he often asked me if I thought he was right for the job. I told him we would continue to work on it, but if I came to him and said, "I think you should consider different employment," that would be clue No. 1 that I didn't think he would make it.

It was a long first three months — I conducted multiple counseling sessions and wrote up several reprimands, work directions, expectation letters, etc., all in an effort to get him on track.

Bad Blood
One day, as fate would have it, we departed to the scene of a motorcycle accident that occurred at one of our busy intersections. Big Bob drove the engine while Hoover and my master firefighter (we'll call him MFF) sat in the jump seats. Yours truly sat up front. As we rounded a corner and came upon the scene, we could see a car and a motorcycle with its rider lying in the street, a bright-red telltale stream of blood trickling from his helmet and meandering down the road like a small river. This guy's dead, I thought to myself, and with horror I watched the medics exit their unit and start CPR. It all happened in slow motion. I sat inside the cab yelling "Nooo!"

We exited our rig and surveyed the scene. Apparently, the motorcycle had run through the light at the intersection, striking the vehicle on its left rear door and causing the rider to be ejected from the bike. Once airborne, the rider somehow crashed through the vehicle's side window, flew through the passenger compartment — past a little baby in a car seat — and exited out the driver-side window like a human bullet, landing squarely on the old pumpkin after using it as a battering ram.

We joined in the fight to try to save the rider and got two suction machines going with Yanquer catheters into the guy's mouth. It was like a dentist's office; we had to keep suction going at all times just to keep the fluids moving. We were pulling out more blood than the machines could handle. In the old days (yes, I'm old) we had to do the "Roy and Johnny" thing and call the hospital before we could stop resuscitative efforts.

Accordingly, I called the hospital and the doctor said "No, fly him to the trauma center." "But doc," I tried to explain, "his head…" "Fly him to the trauma center," the doctor said again. "But doc," I repeated, "his head." "Captain," he said, "fly him to the trauma center." Click!

Well, if you're going to play, play, I always say. After the doctor hung up, I figured an airway was in order if for no other reason than to make our attempts to sustain the rider look good. So Big Bob hands me the laryngoscope, the suctions are going, but I can't move the victim's tongue to see past the pool of blood in his mouth. And while all of this is taking place, Hoover is nowhere to be seen, but I'm past that now. "Bob," I yell, "hand me the Magill forceps." I figure if I can grab the victim's tongue, I can move it enough to at least see vocal chords or some bubbles. So I reach in, and lo and behold, I snag the tongue and pull, and when I do, the entire soft pallet, tongue, teeth and oropharynx come out in my hand. I'm holding it in the air like a trophy; it's hanging from the Magills like a large bloody fish down to about my forearm. "Holy sh*t, Bob, look at this," I say. As I glance to my left I see the young woman whose vehicle had been struck by the motorcycle look at me with wide eyes and pass slam-out on the grass. Bob can hardly contain himself. "Whatcha gonna do now, Mr. Paramedic Man?" he says. I looked around, stuffed the entire mess back in the victim's mouth and looked at the medics. "Bag him!" I declare.

The helicopter arrives, the patient transfer is made, the looks of disbelief are passed, and the flight paramedic is pissed because blood is sloshing back and forth across the entire helicopter floor. They take off, and we go clean up. "MFF, where's Hoover?" I ask. "I don't know," he says.

As I round the rear of the engine, I spot my wayward son, sitting on the rear step, shaking and mumbling, "I can't do this. I can't do this." We console him and take him back to the station. Shortly thereafter, he leaves for six weeks to attend our employee assistance program (EAP). I think to myself, this is probably not the job for him. I document the incident, check on Hoover from time to time and await his return.

The Return of the Hoover
As luck would have it, Hoover returned and was sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee on his first shift back. Little did I know that MFF had gone over to the Be-Lo's grocery store and purchased a pig's brain that same morning. So, as Hoover sat drinking his coffee and reading a newspaper, MFF entered the kitchen and yelled "Heads up!", casting the pig's brain down the table like a hockey puck on ice. It slid under the paper and landed squarely in Hoover's lap. Before I could even gasp, Hoover dropped the paper and started shaking and mumbling, "I can't do this. I can't do this." The result: another six weeks of EAP for the Hoov. (In today's fire service, we would more than likely have been looking for a job ourselves, but those days were kinder and gentler.)

When Hoover finally returned again, we had a long talk about the requirements of the job. I suggested that it might be in his best interest to find a job he was comfortable with, and it would be to his advantage to take the initiative to resign rather than have me fill out all the paperwork and documentation on his job performance. Unfortunately for both of us, he chose not to resign. As a result, I spent the next eight months documenting, developing and implementing work plans, and evaluating him on his performance. In the end, he saw it coming and resigned anyway. I liked Hoover; he was a fun guy, and I'm sure he found his calling. He just wasn't cut out for the fire service. 

Conclusion
For the most part, life in the fire service is very good. We're surrounded by great, dedicated people who really care about human beings and their fellow coworkers.

But sometimes we hire or inherit people who are not right for this job. Some are smart enough to realize it and move on. Others require "suicide by supervisor," which isn't fun for anyone.

You may never have to face this kind of situation in your career, but if you do, you'd better have the leadership and management tools to deal with it (e.g., knowledge of how to mentor and how to document problems as well as interviewing, evaluating and communications skills), a supportive and educated chain of command and a strong will.

"If your managers prove to be incompetent, or let you down, get rid of them. This is often the hardest part of a top executive job, unless you are sadistically inclined, for there is no kind way to kick someone downstairs. To minimize the pain, be straightforward (no double talk), spare the victim's ego (no scorn, no anger) and make it fast (no twisting in the wind)."
— William Atwood

Chase Sargent retired in December 2005 as a division chief/paramedic for the Virginia Beach (Va.) Fire Department after a 30-year fire-service career. He is recognized internationally as a consultant and instructor for fire, EMS and special ops teams — as well as owner/partner and president of Spec. Rescue International. A prior member of the NFPA 1670 Technical Rescue Standards Committee, he is well known for his straightforward, common-sense approach to teaching new and seasoned company officers how to become effective leaders.

Chase now works as an independent contractor for the U.S. government and teaches at the bomb school in Sicorro, N.M., as well as the Blackwater Lodge. He maintains his certifications and connections by riding backward as a volunteer firefighter and paramedic.