By Chloe Appleby
The Island Packet
BEAUFORT COUNTY, S.C. 鈥� Dressed in blue and white short-sleeve button-ups, Shift 1, Engine Company 4 has just begun their 48-hour shift.
Their left shoulders are marked with the crest of the Beaufort and Port Royal Fire Department. Their right shoulders are marked with an American flag. They are gathered around a table, the same one where they talk over meals or cups of coffee, faced away from the Computer Aided Dispatch monitor. Their heads are on constant swivels, checking for new dispatch alerts to appear on the screen.
Despite the crew鈥檚 lighthearted banter, the men have grown accustomed to responding to emergency calls from one of the most gruesome stretches of roadway in Beaufort County: Robert Smalls Parkway just north of the Broad River.
A treacherous intersection
Just a mile-and-a-half from the station鈥檚 towering bay doors, Robert Smalls Parkway and Savannah Highway come together at a Circle K. The surrounding grass is often littered with car parts, the crew said. Even though there are other intersections with more collisions within their jurisdiction, accidents at this intersection are usually severe, leaving metal, fiberglass and plastic parts twisted beyond recognition.
Since 2020, there have been 78 collisions at the intersection, according to data from the South Carolina Department of Public Safety. Nearly 40% of those collisions led to the injury of 53 people. Just last month, Engine Company 4 used the Jaws of Life to free another injured passenger from a demolished vehicle.
Analysis from The Island Packet and Beaufort Gazette show that intersections with Robert Smalls Parkway are some of the most dangerous in the county, with a significant number of serious injuries as a result of car accidents there.
Before 2020, there were several severe collisions at the intersection. A mother and her stepson were killed in an accident at the intersection in 2019. A man was seriously injured there in 2017. Five people were injured, one of which had to be airlifted off the scene, in a two-vehicle crash at the intersection in 2015. In 2012, a motorcyclist lost his while heading into the intersection.
The crew said there are a few reasons as to why this crossroad is so dangerous. When drivers exit the Broad River Bridge, they tend to accelerate to speeds as high as 100 miles per hour to try and make the intersection鈥檚 green light.
The bridge鈥檚 posted speed limit is 55 miles per hour.
Compounding the problem is that there is no acceleration lane coming off Savannah Highway that would allow for safer merging.
Who鈥檚 behind the first faces accident victims see?
Lt. Matt Domanowski always arrives at the fire station half an hour before their shift begins at 7 a.m. Andrew Cox is the crew鈥檚 engineer and has worked at the station for the past seven years. Aaron Sanders is the newest to the crew, joining its ranks a month ago. Lucas Maclellan, who the crew calls 鈥淢ac,鈥� has served with the station since 2023.
The roads that surround their firehouse are some of the fastest, most dangerous in the county, they said.
In a 48-hour shift, the crew said, they respond to at least three car crash dispatches, with some shifts closer to six.
There is a rhythm to their daily routine: checking in with last shift鈥檚 crew, loading their equipment on the truck, running through truck checkoffs 鈥� the engine, pump, medical equipment 鈥� working out and finishing chores. The cadence is often interrupted by distressed alerts.
Getting suited up to respond to an alert looks different for each member of the crew. They鈥檙e neurotic about it, they said. Maclellan puts on his bunker pants, suspenders, radio strap, flash hood, fabric head covering and then his bunker coat while the truck is already 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鈥檚 what the crew deems as an intersection not with the most crashes, but with the most severe ones.
鈥淲e run to the truck at that point... We know it鈥檚 going to be bad. We know the damages will be significant,鈥� said Domanowski. Their instinct when responding to an alert at that intersection, like Maclellan鈥檚 instinct to put on his bunker pants before 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 on the scene. Sanders and Domanowski are certified paramedics and Cox and Maclellan are EMTs. With more fire trucks than ambulances that support the area, they said, they often have to put their life-saving training to use.
Domanowski details responding to a call at the interchange where a driver was launched from their seat to the passenger鈥檚 side and trapped unconscious underneath the dashboard, or a call where a child was pinned between the asphalt and a vehicle.
鈥淏ones break a lot easier than steel,鈥� Domanowski said.
When asked how it feels to respond to severe accidents, the answer is, as the crew puts it, complicated. They are trained to wade through the gruesome scene to save the life, accustomed to the adrenaline rush, used to seeing the after-effects of two cars colliding.
In a staccato fashion, the men verbalize the complication: 鈥渋t鈥檚 an automatic response.鈥� 鈥淲e鈥檝e built up mental blockers.鈥� 鈥淚t鈥檚 another day on the job.鈥� 鈥淲e see bodies mangled.鈥� 鈥淚t takes a toll.鈥� 鈥淲e鈥檝e seen it all.鈥� 鈥淚 love this job.鈥� 鈥淲e could make that difference.鈥�
The aftermath
As the firefighters file back onto the truck after a severe call they face the 鈥渁drenaline dump,鈥� Domanowski said. The ride back is rarely quiet, even if it is in the early hours of the morning. They debrief on what happened and how they can respond better next time.
After clearing a call, their clothes are soaked through with sweat from the 85-degree night. They鈥檒l have to take another shower, but they won鈥檛 get back into bed. No one is going back to sleep. They are all too wired. Because it鈥檚 only 鈥淎 night,鈥� the first night of their two-day shift, they will have to continue functioning for the next 24 hours.
One-third of their life is spent together on the clock. Even though they have only been paired together as a crew for about a month, they know each other well enough to know when someone in their foursome is not acting like themselves.
The best form of therapy, they said, is talking to each other about what they鈥檝e seen. Seldom do their troubles make it home to their loved ones.
A tone comes over the radio, and the four men are suddenly up from their seats, jogging toward the door. In less than 60 seconds, the truck, marked in gold with the number 4, turns right onto Robert Smalls Parkway , lights and sirens blaring. This time, it was a diabetic emergency at Walmart, but there is no telling what the rest of the day could hold.
The same crest from the men鈥檚 shirt is printed on the back of the truck. In black letters across a white banner, it says what the firefighters all hold true to the department鈥檚 motto: 鈥渢o protect life, property.鈥�
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