Even in Death, He Offered Reasons to Be Thankful; Mourn Fire Lieutenant

"You have a real brotherhood," Father Louis Jerome told the firefighters packed into Sacred Heart Church in Staten Island Nov. 26 for the funeral of Fire Lieut. Robert J. Ryan.

The Chief-Leader/Joan E. Velazquez A HERO'S LAST SENDOFF: The fire truck bearing the casket carrying the body of Lieut. Robert J. Ryan moves past the thousands of firefighters who turned out for his funeral Nov. 26, three days after an attic collapsed on him as he battled a house fire in Staten Island.

'A Debt of Great Gratitude'

"One of your brothers had laid down his life so that others could live," he told an audience that also included thousands of firefighters in the street outside and in a school gym to which the service was being simulcast. "It is what you are supposed to do. We owe all of you a debt of great, great gratitude, and we honor your sacrifice."

All the familiar touches were there for an FDNY farewell to one of those who had died in the line of duty: the buzzing of the large crowd in almost a festive spirit suddenly quieted by the hum of the police motorcycles leading the procession, and then the sound of the bagpipes and drums of the FDNY Emerald Society pipe and drum corps. Engine Company 155's truck had "In Memory of ... Lt. Robert J. Ryan Jr." decaled across the top of its windshield, with three members of the company standing on the back step of the vehicle, an American flag rustling softly against their faces.

The Chief-Leader/Joan E. Velazquez PAIN AND PRIDE: Kathleen Ryan is escorted from Sacred Heart Church following the funeral of her husband, Robert. At top wearing sunglasses is his son, Christopher.

Then came a hearse, followed by the Emerald Society band, and then a second truck, covered in black and purple bunting, with the casket bearing Mr. Ryan's body draped in a flag with the FDNY insignia sitting on top.

Lieutenant Ryan, who died at 46 three days earlier after the attic above where he and his colleagues at Engine Co. 155 were battling a house fire collapsed on him, was lauded in eulogies as a devoted family man who left four children and a painstaking teacher who would run young firefighters in the company's quarters through a verbal gantlet he called "Nozzle Jeopardy" to prepare them to operate a hose line.

Lt. ROBERT J. RYAN

 

'Tough to Count Your Blessings'

But even as his life was celebrated, there was an extra poignancy to the marking of his death that was only partly attributable to it having occurred just before Thanksgiving, prompting Mayor Bloomberg to say, "It is a little difficult to count your blessings when you've lost someone who made such a difference in this city."

The gathering of the family that is the primary characteristic of the holiday, as he noted, had been given an unwanted context. Lieutenant Ryan's sister, Nicole Iacovano, read a letter from his cousin Joe, who remembered being present for his graduation from the Fire Academy 17 years earlier and wrote, "I was probably the only one who wasn't happy."

The reason he felt that way, the cousin continued, was that he feared what did in fact eventually happen. But his concerns about Mr. Ryan's well-being, he said, wound up being balanced by what he had been able to become.

"In a world of unprecedented evil," Joe concluded his letter, "you were one of the good guys. You didn't talk about helping people; you just did it."

Came Back From Serious Burns

He kept on doing it after suffering severe burns on his neck more than two years earlier that would have allowed him to retire on a disability pension equal to three-quarters of his salary and tax-exempt.

"No one would have blamed him for it," the Mayor said. "But it was clear that you couldn't take the firefighter out of him. Bobby Ryan was a walking, talking billboard for the best of the FDNY."

And so Lieutenant Ryan underwent a painful, year-long rehabilitation and returned to his Staten Island firehouse, nicknamed "The Hot Corner." Fire Commissioner Nicholas Scoppetta noted that in addition to the hard work he did to resume his duties, he also became a fundraiser for the Staten Island burn center where he had undergone treatment.

'Always Did the Right Thing'

"He did the right thing, always," Mr. Scoppetta said, noting that Mr. Ryan, who painted houses on the side, was once discovered painting the firehouse ceiling at 3 a.m. "He wanted to use every waking moment as a teaching tool for the younger firefighters."

One of them, Kevin Connolly of Ladder Co. 78, which shares the firehouse with Engine 155, spoke of the Lieutenant's passion for imparting his wisdom to those who crossed his path. He said that perhaps what most impressed him was that, when he met Mr. Ryan's oldest child, Christopher, at the hospital where he had been taken before he died, the 17-year-old told him, "Be strong."

"That showed me, Chris, what a great job your mom and dad did in raising you," Firefighter Connolly said, his voice breaking.

Lieutenant Ryan was given to putting up hand-written signs with worthwhile messages in the firehouse, he noted. It wouldn't be hard to find an appropriate one to remember him, Firefighter Connolly said: '''It's nice to be nice' describes Bobby Ryan to a T."

'The Rock of His Family'

The final eulogy came from the Lieutenant's widow, Kathleen, who said, "He was the rock of his family and the strength of his mother and sisters."

Addressing the firefighters in attendance, she said, "As much as you loved him, he loved you. The job was his life, and you guys are the reason why."

Then, speaking directly to her husband, she said, "You are my love, you are my life. Rest in peace, Bobby, rest in peace."

Those gathered in the church and in the Sacred Heart school gym silently watching the simulcast rose to applaud. Then Cardinal Egan gave the final commendation, and a firefighter carrying Lieutenant Ryan's helmet emerged from the church to lead the pallbearers out, while the mass of firefighters gathered on the street saluted.

A bugler played "Taps," an NYPD helicopter flew past the church in tribute, and after those heading to the cemetery had gone to the vehicles that would take them there, the pipe and drum corps played "America the Beautiful" as it led the motorcade away, a somber yet life-affirming start to that most American of holidays.