“They Come Back Every Night. I Can’t Close My Eyes.” The Fire Chief Who Walked Into Hell — And Came Out Broken

I don’t sleep anymore. I still see them.

Those words, spoken in a voice raw from grief and exhaustion, lingered in the cold air of Crans-Montana. The ski resort, usually alive with laughter and the clatter of ski boots, was silent now. The tragedy at Le Constellation bar had left a wound that would not close, and for David Vocat, commander of the local fire brigade, the pain was only beginning.

On New Year’s Eve, as fireworks burst over the Alps, a fire broke out in the crowded nightclub. Within minutes, smoke and flames transformed celebration into chaos. Forty lives were lost—twenty of them minors. The news broke the next morning, shattering the illusion of safety that had long wrapped this mountain town.

Hundreds gathered on Sunday for an outdoor mass in front of Saint-Christophe Chapel, the crowd spilling into the streets, faces pale and drawn. The procession moved in silence toward the chapel of rest, where thousands of flowers and hundreds of candles glowed against the winter sky. Women clutched bouquets, wiping away tears. A ripple of applause rose from the back, parting the crowd for the rescue workers—many of them visibly shaken, their eyes refusing to meet those of the mourners.

David Vocat walked among them, his uniform crisp but his posture bent beneath a weight no training could prepare him for. He could not hold back his tears, moved by the applause, by the gratitude of a community desperate for comfort.

“It was a scene no one should ever have to see,” he told franceinfo, voice trembling. “When I saw people screaming, young people lying there, people almost on the ground, burned—it was truly shocking. And I thought to myself: ‘This is war.’ One of my colleagues said to me, ‘I didn’t sign up for this.’ But nobody signed up for this. We are volunteers, we give our time to help others. And these men and women did an absolutely incredible job.”

Inside Le Constellation, the fire chief and his team had entered a world that defied description. The flames had devoured everything—tables, chairs, bodies. The heat was suffocating, the smoke so thick it erased the boundaries between life and death. Vocat remembered the confusion, the desperate shouts for help, the faces illuminated by the orange glow of disaster.

“I took a girl in my arms,” he said quietly, “I gave her cardiac massage for a while, and then a medic told me: ‘Come on, now we have to take care of the others because they are the ones we can still save. Unfortunately, this girl is already dead.’ And having to leave someone on a bench like that—it’s so incredibly hard. No one should ever have to experience that in a lifetime.”

He paused, eyes distant. “I do this job out of passion, but I don’t know if I can continue.”

For Vocat, the horror was not just in the sights and sounds, but in the choices forced upon him. Every decision was a gamble—who to save, who to comfort, who to leave behind. The fire did not care about rank or experience. It consumed indiscriminately, leaving only questions and regrets.

“Young people helped other young people,” Vocat recalled, his voice growing stronger as he spoke of the solidarity that emerged in the chaos. “They helped us. We worked together to move victims from point A to point B. They grabbed chairs, equipment from a terrace. It was truly an incredible spirit of solidarity.”

But the spirit of solidarity could not erase the images that haunted him. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the faces of those he could not save. The screams echoed in his dreams, the smell of smoke clung to his skin. The fire chief was not alone in his suffering—many of his team struggled with the same ghosts. Yet as commander, the burden was his to bear.

On Sunday, Vocat stood before the grieving families, his own grief laid bare. He spoke of the girl he had tried to save, of the mother who thanked him even as she mourned her son. “I went to speak to a woman who lost her son that night. I was afraid she might push me away or say, ‘You let him die.’ We did everything we could. Unfortunately, he died. And that hurts deeply—for her. She told me, ‘Thank you for all the people you saved,’ even though her son is dead. That is just unbearable.”

He broke down in tears, unable to continue. The crowd, moved by his vulnerability, reached out—not with blame, but with gratitude. For a moment, the wall between rescuer and rescued disappeared, replaced by a shared humanity.

“It’s very hard. I do this job out of passion, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to continue,” he admitted.

The fire at Le Constellation was not just a tragedy—it was a test of faith, of endurance, of the limits of compassion. For the fire chief and his team, the aftermath was a landscape of grief and guilt, of sleepless nights and unanswered questions.

The investigation began immediately. Police worked to identify the victims, to piece together the final moments inside the nightclub. Forty names, forty stories, twenty young lives cut short. The community mourned together, but for the rescuers, the mourning was private—a silent struggle against memories that refused to fade.

The chapel of rest became a shrine to loss. Flowers piled high, candles flickered in the cold wind. The names of the dead were whispered, written on cards, etched into the hearts of those left behind. The outdoor mass was not enough to contain the grief—families gathered in small groups, holding each other, searching for meaning in the ruins.

For Vocat, the hardest moments came after the crowd dispersed. Alone with his thoughts, he replayed the night over and over. The girl on the bench. The mother’s gratitude. The faces of his team, some young and untested, others hardened by years of service, all broken in their own way.

“I don’t sleep anymore,” he confessed. “I still see them.”

The fire chief’s words resonated far beyond Crans-Montana. Across Switzerland, news outlets carried his story, his pain. Messages of support poured in—letters, emails, flowers. But none of it could erase the images in his mind.

He met with counselors, spoke with colleagues, tried to find solace in routine. But the routine was shattered. Every call to the station, every siren in the distance, brought back the panic of that night. The fire chief was no longer just a leader—he was a survivor, struggling to find his place in a world changed by tragedy.

The community rallied around the rescue workers, organizing vigils, fundraisers, moments of silence. But for Vocat and his team, the real healing was slow, uncertain. Some found strength in each other, sharing stories, tears, laughter. Others withdrew, unable to face the memories.

Vocat considered leaving the brigade. “I do this job out of passion, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to continue,” he repeated, the words heavy with doubt.

His story became a symbol of the hidden costs of heroism. The world saw the uniforms, the flashing lights, the headlines. Few saw the sleepless nights, the guilt, the fear. Few understood the price paid by those who run toward danger, who hold the dying in their arms, who must choose who lives and who dies.

The fire chief’s journey was not unique. Across the world, first responders face the same demons—trauma, loss, the weight of responsibility. But in Crans-Montana, the wounds were fresh, the pain raw.

As winter deepened, the resort slowly returned to life. Skiers returned to the slopes, shops reopened, laughter echoed once more. But beneath the surface, the scars remained. The fire chief walked the streets, greeted by nods, whispers, the occasional hug. He smiled when he could, but the smile never reached his eyes.

He met with the families of the victims, offering what comfort he could. Some thanked him, others wept in his arms. He listened, nodded, tried to absorb their pain. But his own pain remained, a shadow that followed him everywhere.

The fire at Le Constellation changed Crans-Montana forever. The town mourned its dead, honored its heroes, searched for answers. The fire chief became a reluctant symbol—a man broken by tragedy, struggling to rebuild.

“I don’t know if I can go on…” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

But even in his doubt, there was hope. The solidarity he had witnessed—the young helping the old, strangers becoming friends—reminded him that even in the darkest times, compassion endures.

The fire chief’s story is not just one of loss, but of resilience. He may never sleep soundly again. He may always see the faces of those he could not save. But in sharing his pain, he opened a door for others to heal.

As the candles flickered in the chapel of rest, as the flowers piled higher, as the crowd parted for the rescue workers, the message was clear: no one is alone in their grief. The fire chief walked into hell and came out broken—but not defeated.

The memory of that night will haunt Crans-Montana for years to come. But in the courage of David Vocat, in the solidarity of his team, in the gratitude of a grieving mother, there is a glimmer of hope.

“They come back every night. I can’t close my eyes,” he said.

But every morning, he rises, puts on his uniform, and faces the day. And in that simple act, there is heroism enough for a lifetime.