Cotswold fire-fighters

By Cotswold Life on December 20th 2011

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In the January issue of Cotswold Life is the first chapter of Iain Robertson’s forthcoming book about life as a retained fire-fighter in Winchcombe.

Every fortnight, on the Cotswold Life website, you can go behind the scenes with GFRS’s men – and woman – to learn more about the dramas life throws at them, all in the line of service, as we publish a new chapter from Iain’s book…

115

‘Your worst day is our everyday’

Michael Perry: Volunteer Firefighter: Wisconsin

8 Sepia toned faces make direct and proud contact with the viewer from a very old and slightly shabby photograph: our earliest visual record of Winchcombe Fire-fighters. Boots and axes and eyes glint, signalling intent. ‘Bring it on’ is the gist of the picture; and although taken some 100 years ago, things are pretty much the same today.

I guess there might be a slightly different team profile these days, back then the volunteer service would have been made up by Millers, Draymen, Butchers, Bakers and quite possibly Candle-Stick makers: Today we are IT consultants, Builders, Special Needs Teachers and Lettings Agent, but all to one purpose, as then, to make a difference and to provide critical and speedy emergency service. To risk our lives, if necessary, in order to save yours.

There are twelve of us running out of Winchcombe Station, operating a single engine, or ‘pump’.

Callsign 115: as previously advertised.

We are: Watch Manager Russell Parker, a former soldier in the Brigade of Guards, then a senior officer in the Prison Service and now not just our leader but a Whole-time Watch Manager in Cheltenham.

Two Crew Managers: Allun ‘Bourney’ Bourne, and Alan ‘Woody’ Woodward (Imaginative nick-names obviously not our strong suit)

Both local and able builders with excellent reputations

Ten Firefighters

Mike Horton, who has 28 years of retained service. A mine of operational experience and information: works as an occupational teacher of troubled, unsettled and emotionally challenged children (a reasonable description of most people on a bad day)

Scott Febry is another holder of the long service medal, bags of experience and an industrial machinist by trade.

January ‘Jano’ Vibart is actually a wholetime firefighter in Oxfordshire but still prepared and able to serve her home town and county, Nick Brennan a freelance IT-based learning consultant, Matt Graham is in the optical instrument supply business, Liam Jacobs another industrial machinist, Steve ‘Spike’ Charles: a builder and decorator with a sideline in event catering (well, a mobile bar) Adrian ‘Adie’ Knight runs his own pub: which is our local - and myself; Iain ‘Robbo’ Robertson: small family residential letting business and ex-paratrooper.

These days, you might be interested to learn, the equipment is a whole lot better.

In truth you should be interested to learn this, because - and I’m going to say God forbid, although in our experience God doesn’t forbid and you may well find us using it on and around you - there is no way of predicting the nature, frequency or severity of incident on any given day, in any given week. The roads may be slick with fresh rain after two weeks of sunshine but the good people of Gloucestershire drive carefully and we see no evil: or the roads may be dry as a bone; visibility perfect, and yet we attend 4 serious incidents in three days – certainly nobody sets out on the school run with the intent of joining somebody else’s school run and/or the scenery at high speed: but it keeps happening. Batteries are borrowed from smoke alarms to replace failing power in TV remotes, and we get to see the inside of your house in the early hours of the morning, when neither it, nor you are looking particularly well-kempt.

What is certain - is that bad things happen to good people.

We, of course, have a great interest in the quality of modern rescue equipment and clothing: it is staggering when looking at the photo-records that adorn our station walls to consider what little protection our forbears had: 21st Century technology seems particularly adept at measuring stuff. We can now state with certainty that ‘at ceiling height in a house fire, when well alight, temperatures reach 1000 degrees Celcius’.

This is four times the output of a modern oven and I’m not sure how thrilled I would be to work in that viciously destructive heat without the assistance offered from our Breathing Apparatus and Personal Protective Equipment: It beggars belief to think that 100 years ago all that stood between those brave men and oblivion was a good thick coat, a pair of leather boots and luxuriant moustache. From the photograph the moustaches, at least, look as fire resistant as anything we have today…

Of course fire-fighting strategies have changed, and the increased personal protection now allows us to work within a blazing building, rather than having to pour on water from the outside. Testimony to modern equipment effectiveness is regularly provided through proof at operational incident.

Adie and Liam were given cause for thanks, when a false ceiling gave up any pretence it may have had in the midst of an inferno which they were, indeed, fighting from within: as the building burned, its structure twisting and melting; the architectural artifice began cascading down upon them in weighty flaming chunks: they exited the incident intact, and unhurt. Breathing Apparatus protecting their lungs, state of the art clothing, protecting their person and bright yellow fire-helmets nursing brain cells.

The technology around mobilisation has moved on as well – speed of response is probably the single most important factor in any emergency rescue situation – and in the modern era the clue is in the title: We are now ‘Gloucestershire Fire and Rescue Service’: No longer just a ‘Fire Brigade’

Our responsibilities are many and varied: in the first half of the year 115 answered calls that included drowning livestock, ladies that lunch stuck in lifts that break down (more than you would like to think) any number of RTC, very young children locked in bathrooms, bedrooms, sheds and their own houses, very young children with their hands stuck in paper-shredders, railings, drain-pipes – pretty much anywhere that little hands shouldn’t be (but isn’t that what the very young are all about) children locked in their parents hand-cuffs (ours not to reason why: ours but to make ready, carefully, with the bolt cutters) fires of many shapes and sizes, from scrub, tree and bush to dustbin, industrial and full on house - as well as a plethora of AFA (Automated Fire Alarms) calls, which are almost always wasted journeys, but of course, we never know.

We take the view that if it were our property at risk, or one of our own trapped in a car-wreck we would want to see the arrival of emergency aid pretty damn quickly (indeed as a local service it often is one of our own – friends and relatives are all too often the stars of our blue-lit, siren sound-tracked movie).

In any event speed of response is something we take very seriously. Despite our retained status and despite the station being un-manned: 115 will be on the road to answer your call, always within 5 minutes: normally within 3: and regularly on the 2 minute mark.

As we go about our daily business, we carry alerters – individual emergency sirens that clip to our belts: portable and personalised jolts of adrenaline, which go off when least expected. They replicate perfectly the sound of the siren on the engine and damn near as loud – or it seems that way when they crash into REM sleep at 3.00am. You lose count of the number of family meals, business meetings or grocery runs cut short by the invasive and abrasive wail. That strident call brings all available crew, at pace through the gentle bustle of other peoples Cotswold lives, to the station: whereupon the first six to arrive will ride with the engine to whichever incident Control and the station telex point us: it spits information out unveiling the ‘what’ and ‘where’ – detailing the exact nature of the new challenge: detailing a very bad day at the office for someone - detailing the difference between fun and finality on a Gloucestershire ‘B’ road: detailing the thin line between ‘same old, same old’ and families torn apart – In essence, detailing the transient and mercurial nature and integrity of our cars, our houses and our lives.

Bad things happen to good people – it isn’t fair: it just is – but we will always come.

Back in the day, a siren called across the town; before that bells rang and the fire-crews ran.

The process has moved on, the endgame remains constant.

‘QF – II5: Mobile: RTC Stanway Hill: Persons Trapped: Crew of 6: Over’

Pretty much the same.

In the Health and Safety era there are no longer any personal fire-axes.

Pity.

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Staff

'After a hard day of basic training you could eat a rattlesnake’

Elvis Presley

‘Yes Staff’ is the only answer that is acceptable. Actually we don’t bother with ‘Yes’ too time consuming – it is truncated to simply ‘Staff’ barked out in assent to whichever fresh demand has been made of us.

‘No Staff’ will simply not cut it – we are a ‘can-do’ organisation and that attitude begins with basic training.

And basic training begins with ‘Ladders’

In the main, 'Ladders' starts with the mainstay of Gloucestershire Fire and Rescue Service the 135. The big one that you see on pretty much every fire-engine, seated straight down the middle, on the roof. The metaphorical spinal column of the pump; and the backbone of our firefighting rescue equipment.

Construction: Aluminium Alloy
Length Extended: 13.5 m
Length Housed: 6 m
Width: 1st Ext 0.66 m 2nd Ext 0.55 m 3rd Ext 0.44 m
Weight: 100 kg
16mm Extension Line
Semi Automatic Pawls
Ribbed Rounds
Bliss Lock
Adjustable Levelling Jacks

100kg: or 220lbs.

It is the equivalent in weight of a ‘Mike Tindall’.

Imagine hauling Mr Tindall up a 4 storey building 100 times in a day. It helps that a ladder crew is made up of 4 persons. It doesn’t help that on day one we don’t really know what we’re doing.

But that is why, pretty much on day one, we repeatedly throw a very heavy ladder up a very tall building. It is the essence of teamwork and it is a perfect distillation of good firemanship, demanding pace, skill, strength and informed decision making. And it is dangerous: the 135 if not under control at all times will move of its own accord – it will 'walk', stuttering like a double amputee struggling to come to terms with unfamiliar prosthetics, balance lost and accelerating forwards in a battle with gravity in which there is only ever one winner.

The 135 conducts electricity; and in the 21^st century there is lots of electricity about – in a small and aged town like Winchcombe, indeed the Cotswolds generally, power cables still arc across streets, streets are not straight, nor are they level and the invisible energy plays hide and seek in the shadows just waiting to announce its presence with a playful nudge. Bang. Here I am. 4 pair of boots for sale, apply Winchcombe fire station.

The 135 likes to play in the wind, think of it as half-cousin to the Spinnaker sail: no great family resemblance but a definite genetic link – this ladder is a superbly effective piece of engineering, but effective in the same way that a White Phosphorous grenade is effective – requiring a little focus, consideration and forethought when being used if it is not to completely ruin your day.

The training staff know all this – everyone of them long term firefighters with distinguished careers – and it is their job to pass forward that experience so that we might also become long term firefighters as opposed to a headline in the local paper involving the words ‘tragedy’ ‘explosion’ and ‘error of judgement’.

GFRS basic takes place in Avonmouth.

Avonmouth is not one of the eight wonders of the western world.

There is bugger all to do here in what little spare time we are given, and that is probably the point.

The course runs over a two month period and it is immediately apparent to me that there are distinct similarities in the process of delivering fire service learning as with those experienced in my first days with The Parachute Regiment - starting with the introductory speech.

Sgt Mac French of 3 PARA advised us that whilst he was delighted we had aspirations to serve with his regiment, his duty was to ensure that he delivered paratroopers who would not shame it's reputation nor put at risk the safety of his friends and colleagues within the regular battalions: of the 50 hopefuls who heard him make that promise, only 14 of us got to shake his hand nine months later as we headed off to start our lives as airborne warriors.

The same sentiments are expressed here - we are informed that whilst the aim is to produce safe and effective firefighters, who will be able to make an immediate contribution to their home stations, there will be no hesitation in failing anyone who is not deemed fit to join the ranks of those already serving their communities – Three months ago I sat in a classroom with some 40 other hopefuls working through the initial aptitude tests – we were the third group of 40, so 120 in total got as far as the first obstacle: our training cadre contains only 12 of that original group - personally. I find that hugely reassuring. We all agree that we want the training to be hard, we want to feel that we have accomplished something at the end of it, and we want to feel ready - most of all, when doing the job in anger, I, personally, do not want to let anyone down.

After ladders we move into pumps, pumping, running out and making effective use of hose length: the nuance of water pressure: generally a necessary understanding of the various means of distributing water and other fire fighting medium, such as foam, to ensure successful outcome. We are made mindful of the limited availability, in most instances, of significant volume of water.

A fire-pump will carry in the order of 1,800litres, and can use every drop of that in 5 minutes under the right circumstances. Hydrants, although reasonably plentiful in Britain, are not always available, particularly at rural incidents.

When they are to hand, they may still be hundreds of meters at odds with the optimum operational demands of this house, or that barn-fire.

We learn about water-relay: how to command its delivery - how it affects different types of blaze - these learnings are aligned with the work we did on ladders and now we throw heavy ladders up tall buildings, and then carry equally heavy fire-fighting equipment up those ladders - we work with fully charged hose-jets that will lift you off your feet and generally slap you silly if not under absolute control and we do this at height, at the head of our old friend the 135 ladder - over time we start to do these things with a degree of confidence, a degree of certainty. We get faster and we get more consistent.

A significant chunk of our two months is given to what has become as critical a skill set as any to the daily demand of the modern Fire and Rescue Service: Road Traffic Collision casualty extrication. More heavy duty, and, actually, just plain heavy equipment to get close and personal with: hydraulic rams, spreaders, scissors, bolt cutters the ‘hooligan tool’ saws of many denominations – window punch’s: we learn where the strengths and weaknesses are in your car – we learn of the significant risk that lies in wait within the explosive element of air-bags, and seat belt pre-tensioners: of just how much of that sucker electricity lurks in the new hybrid vehicle technology, and how fragile the human spinal cord is – how little it takes to upset the apple cart, and how damaging are the end results of collision: we study trauma care and the critical nature of speedy response: the essential need to operate as a well drilled team, multiple life saving and rescue activities being delivered simultaneously to ensure that every second is used purposefully: we learn to respect the ‘Golden Hour’ that slow is smooth and smooth is fast – we learn how hard it is to work with recue equipment for any length of time, we learn how much sweat it takes to fill our PPE suits…

And we get tired. Evenings are spent studying for the written examinations that follow each segment of learning - we learn about the physiology of respiration - how we breathe: we are instructed in trauma care, we study the chemistry of combustion, we study building construction, we study the effect of fire on different construction materials, we learn how fire develops and, in advance of our oncoming Breathing Apparatus and Container Fire training, we are introduced to the two demons in chief of a developed blaze. Backdraught and Flashover.

Hollywood managed to create an entire movie around the Backdraught phenomenon - in essence it is a rolling explosion caused when a mixture of the 3 critical ingredients required to make a really good fire (Heat Fuel and Oxygen) are not quite engaging together: usually this is led by an absence of oxygen - so a fire in a sealed warehouse for example will provide plenty of fuel, the heat will build progressively - but starved of oxygen the result will be an accelerated accumulation of what you call smoke, but what we recognise as fire-gas: the highly flammable product of that fuel changing state from solid to gas, but not properly igniting: Fuel is really anything that will support combustion, which rather inconveniently includes the human form.

So, open the door to the warehouse and you allow an influx of oxygen.

Boom.

Two pair firefighter boots for sale: apply Winchcombe fire station,

Flashover is the point at which a fire evolves from a developing state to being ‘fully developed’ it happens instantaneously and is best pictured as the moment where ‘some stuff is on fire’ becomes ‘all stuff is on fire’ including the air that surrounds, and, again rather inconveniently - including us.

Boom.

Two pair… etc.

We are taught how to recognise these conditions before they are fully manifest, and we are taught how to manage and control them: in essence to do unto them before they do unto us.

We learn how to make efficient use of compressed air breathing apparatus, or B.A. which is another heavy thing; but now with the added claustrophobic edge of a face mask – and something else to haul up a tall building on a long ladder.

We learn how to work safely in burning buildings, through the management of information – effective communication: knowing where BA teams are operating, how much air they are carrying: their task within the incident – all collated on a pre filled template known as a BA board: An incident or sector commander can with a single glance review the number of firefighters who are tasked within the blaze, and get an immediate picture as to how they are dispersed, when they will need to return etc: all of this is underwritten with clear and regular radio communication.

We endlessly practice BA search and rescue techniques in zero visibility, because zero visibility is the most likely of environments that we will work in when dealing with buildings filled with explosive firegases.

And then finally we combine all of the above learning with an essential additional element.

Fire.

There is a wonderfully relaxed introduction to the manner in which we are introduced to fire development – so far we have only talked about its properties, and now it is time for a ringside seat in a sealed container within which a fierce blaze has been set: we are all encased in our personal protective equipment (the gold fire-suits you see us wearing) all ‘under air’ in full BA, and we file quietly into the well-alight space, taking a knee some six feet from the heart of things while our instructor advises us as to what it is we are looking at.

The fire has already created a highly pressured volume of firegas, which means that visibility above 4 feet is nil – we crouch below this to watch the flames reach out and take the available fuel, growing in severity and intensity – eventually we see tongues of flame quite literally igniting the air around us, like a malevolent aurora borealis: beautiful to watch, but signalling the approach of flashover: Our instructor directs two short pulses of diffused water spray into the firegas above us – the effect is immediate, the visibility ceiling lifts by some six inches and the tongues of flame that were dancing through the ether take their leave. We spend the next twenty minutes or so playing with the flames, allowing them to build toward flashover, but always the instructor retains governance: eventually we retreat from the inferno back into the open – it is time for us to take control of the hose-jet and make our own attack run: back into the blaze in teams of two to fight the fire, bringing it completely under control.

It is the eureka moment for all of us. The point where all of the past drilling and sweating is brought into relief, the moment when through a combination of aquired knowledge, practical skill, discipline and nerve we prove that we can master fire. That we might become fire-fighters, that we are nearly ready to serve.

And we are knackered.

Elvis Presley was dead right – never mind rattlesnake, after a day of basic training we would have happily eaten the northern end of a southbound Skunk.

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Standby: Station 12

‘A rioter with a Molotov cocktail in his hand is not fighting for civil rights any more than a Klansman with a sheet on his back and a mask on his face’

Lyndon B Johnson

It is 0030hrs and I am driving as fast as is permitted, toward the station, wearing not very much: enough to be decent, but naked from the waist up and still half asleep. The alerter did indeed alert – but for once no real surprise.

Two nights ago The Metropolitan Police shot and killed an armed civilian in the London Borough of Tottenham - and hasn’t that opened a can of whoop-ass. Civil unrest turned into looting and riot, which turned into arson which turned into firestorms not seen since the Blitz: The London Fire Brigade are stretched to breaking and the images that crash into our homes seem other-worldly and out of time.

BBC News hints at unrest in Gloucester; and, at around 10.30pm I decided to get into bed ready to hit the ground running. Tracksuit-bottom, socks, pants – on. Not terribly comfortable as generally I like to sleep in the altogether – but if Control turned us out, then this was one shout that I did not want to miss.

Back in the here and now, and the chill night air has wakened me as I turn into the station, I park, rip the handbrake into the ‘on’ position and race to ensure that I’m a part of whatever has dragged us out of bed: there are three tallies unclaimed: so far, so good; Spike, Matt and Adie are already in, Woody pulls in behind and I can see Scott arriving by push-bike:

That’s it.

Crew of 6.

3 minutes.

Done.

Spike shouts across the pump bay:

‘Standby, Station 12, Cheltenham – it’s kicking off’

Scotty takes the engine out onto Gretton road, we head up North Street with the blue lights bouncing off the honeyed Cotswold stone: no sirens at this late hour, and no sirens as a matter of policy during occasion of civil unrest, we do not signal our journey or arrival lest we become targets. We have been called to standby at Cheltenham – this means that all of their resource has already been sent forward, and so cover for the larger town, and adjoining motorways will be provided by 115.

‘QF-115, mobile, standby station 12, crew of six, crew manager Woodward.’

That said we have covered only 400 yards when our alerters kick in again, and control cuts across the airways:

‘115, Control, proceed directly to fire, G1, Brunswick Street, Gloucester Old College, make pumps 8 – avoid Barton Street’

Eight pumps – at least 40 firefighters: we are now en-route to a major incident; in Gloucester and at the heart of the reported unrest: the atmosphere tightens and we all check our equipment, this is a proper job now, a chance to step up and to a man (Jano missed this one) we are looking forward to getting involved.

Immediately upon leaving Winchcombe you begin the long sweeping climb that is Cleeve Hill. In the daytime this affords superb views as far as The Black Mountains, but tonight as we arrive at the zenith: Brunswick Street, although 10 miles away is immediately apparent: a dark and thickening column of fire-gases is spreading across our horizon, at its base lizard tongues of red flame flicker sporadically – control have been back in touch with Woody: there is to be a police escort into the incident, as the level of violence is rising: the radio spits out one after another urgent command to other units and specialist rescue appliances across the county: ‘car-fire’ skip-fire’ building-fire’ but throughout this accelerated activity it is clear that we are heading to the ‘daddy’ and daddy is now commanding 14 pumps.

We are, of course, a Winchcombe crew – and whilst we have all been shopping in Gloucester, and some of us have watched their mighty rugby club from time to time; none of us has the same easy familiarity with the highways and byways of what is effectively foreign turf – so no great surprise that we find ourselves approaching what appears to be the epicentre of unrest despite our (Spike’s) best map-reading efforts: in fairness he has taken us straight to where we are supposed to be, but the situation is best described as fluid, Ted Hooligan and his hooded mates just will not keep still: Scotty swings the engine around, bouncing us within the cab, regardless of seat-belt - as he executes a very swift U Turn and we look for the recently promised police escort: our withdrawl is marked by multiple missiles bouncing off the back-end, but it is too little from them, too little and too late and we are gone…fortunately we pretty much immediately see the boys in blue and now our immediate future is secure we need only be concerned with whatever daddy wants, and we will find that out soon enough.

The Old College Building turns out to be a worn-out, now unused training centre – but it is big, and there are many and varied buildings adjoining that the fire would just love to visit – we are the 6^th or 7^th pump in – Woody calls to me to join him as he reports to the incident commander – not because of my level of experience or knowledge as a fire-fighter, but because this is a riot, and I have a history of jumping out of aeroplanes just to spoil someone’s day: I am to be his ‘minder’ as we leave the safety of our vehicle. We advance around what appears to be a Cheltenham wholetime appliance and another from Gloucester, and within 30 yards the challenge is immediately clear.

Evidence of what the next several hours will bring is forcing itself from any and every possible point of exit – any tiny imperfection in seal of building, whether window, door or roof has jets of fire-gas escaping under pressure: This is what you would call smoke, but we know to be something far more malicious. The technical term for the process of combustion is pyrolisis: and the by-product of that process is a flammable gas that looks for an excuse to shape-shift into a rolling fireball, or worse, an immediate explosive blast. That excuse might be a spark from another part of the fire, or it might just be a little extra oxygen – either way fire-gas kills.

Woody reports in to the I.C. and we are immediately briefed on the extent of the challenge and given our first task: The building is surrounded by eight feet tall barbed security fencing, this is severely hampering access, and the first crews to the scene are having to negotiate that fence with triple extension ladders – They are necessarily tackling the blaze from the ground, but we need to get the mighty 135 ladders in, and engage far more directly; 115 are invited to convert the fence into a hole and we are happy to oblige. Woody remains with the Incident Command Group and I double away to pass on the good news.

It is agreed that we will use the cutting gear from the Gloucester pump which is nearest to the preferred point of entry – while that is being organised I test the strength of the materials. In the finest traditions of the service, I take the view that this is best done with a sledge-hammer: very quickly establishing that the fence has been well put together, but the hydraulic scissors make short work of the thick metal, Adie makes two neat cuts and we fold the entire fence construct back on itself creating the requested access. Woody demands of Matt and I that we pull the portable halogen lighting off the truck – and around us now our colleagues from the varied pumps and appliances in response begin forming ladder crews.

Very quickly there are 4 x 135 airborne bridges being eased into the second floor, the head of each is set against the lip of a window, crashing through the glass: safe enough as we have had an aerial platform dousing the building, taking the internal temperature down and minimising the risk of backdraught: multiple teams of fire-fighters wearing Breathing Apparatus and Safe Working at Height harness climb the ladders with 45 mm hose jets and begin to attack the flames. Daddy starts to take a step backward.

Matt and I rig our lights, to join those of other pumps – Adie is ordered into B.A. in support of the fire-fighting effort at the head of the various ladders, Spike is sent to gather the entry control board: Scott has remained with the vehicle, as driver this is his very specific responsibility – and in the current climate of stupidity the vehicle clearly cannot be left unattended.

The Incident Commander now has a complete grip on the situation, and begins to break the incident into sectors – creating individual sector commanders, who will assume responsibility for whichever crews are operational within their jurisdiction: from whichever station - this is possible because of the uniform training: each of us speak the same technical language, each of us can work effectively in any team line-up. Our new immediate line commander is Station Manager Brian Burns – coincidentally, ex 2 PARA and someone I have met on other occasions, although this is the first time we have worked together – he immediately instructs me to get into BA and form part of an emergency response team; a decision has been taken to enter the building as it’s complex internal layout means that it will not be possible to completely extinguish the fire from without.

Spike is given the significant responsibility of BA Entry Control – he will monitor the safety and wellbeing of the various fire-fighters, myself included, who will be moving into the darkness to locate and eliminate every last pocket of flame and to take absolute and final control of the situation. We will work in teams of 3: one team at a time, operational for as long as the individual compressed air cylinders will provide respiratory support, usually 30 – 40 minutes: multiple teams will now work in rotation through the night until daddy takes a knee and learns not to mess with his betters. It is a cyclic thing, Team 1 will be supported by an emergency response: team: 2 - who will eventually relieve team 1: and then be supported themselves by an emergency response: team: 3 - and so it will roll for as long as it takes…

While we prepare for Team1 to make entry; all hands turn to snaking and flaking out sufficient length of 45mm hose-jet to ensure complete coverage of the potential affected floor space; concurrently, Matt and Scott have been tasked to scale one of the 135’s at full extension to examine the roof, and gather vital information on the general integrity of the building – history teaches us that the greatest area of danger is inside a fire-damaged construct when the structure has been significantly weakened by protracted burning – that we are commiting teams internally is just another example of the service being prepared to risk lives in a pre-meditated, measured and controlled manner in order to achieve the necessary successful outcome of a fully extinguished fire which offers no further risk to the surrounding geography and property.

I watch my two crew-mates from 115 as they advance steadily up the ladder, carrying with them the weight of BA and more hose-jet, they move into the smoke and darkness some 50 feet above – and disappear over the upper ledge to conduct the necessary reconnaissance.

Some 15 minutes later Team 1 is given the go-ahead to get ‘under air’ and to advance into the heat and unknown of the stricken college. They perform a last radio check from the relative safety of the entrance and move forward to begin the endgame.

We in Team 2 take a knee and gather our thoughts: prepared to assist Team 1 should there be any emergency, and conserving strength for when it is our turn to carry the responsibility of extinguishing, and damping down. We are 3 in strength, all from different stations: 2 wholetime and 1, me, retained: again, because of the uniform and thorough nature of our training we are all confident in this arrangement.

Another 30 minutes slip by and we are instructed to move forward to the BA board for a brief from Section Commander Burns, augmented with the real-time learning from team 1.

We are advised as to the working conditions we can expect: internal walls are extremely suspect, and will fall if pushed; indeed if leaned into – there is some six inches of standing water, there remain a number of hot-spots that are still technically ‘on fire’ we learn that the interior is a bit of a labyrinth and are briefed on how much was achieved which then determines precisely where our task begins: search and extinguish/damp-down is the bottom line, and we perform our last radio-check before moving inside: our own breathing echoes within the protective face masks; the next 30 or so minutes will be sound-tracked by Darth Vader, but that is the slightly surreal personal environment that breathing apparatus creates, and a small price to pay for the long term security of our lungs.

We are working in the inky darkness of the fourth floor – the heat within is easily bearable, and it is immediately clear that the fire-fighting work to date has been largely successful, we are carrying one 45mm hose-jet, and two ceiling hooks – our helmet mounted torches cast their light beams forward making some sense of the way ahead as we pick our way carefully through the rubble and general detritus. The ceiling hooks are used to rip through any façade, with the intent of peeling back false ceilings and walls to ensure that there is no residual burning or stored heat energy that might re-ignite: perhaps hours later: air-vents and the like will conduct heat and fire-gases from one part of the building to another, and might be insulated from the searching jets of water that we have been pouring on for the last two hours: fire likes to hide in the manner that guerrilla soldiers like to hide, and we are now hunting down and eliminating the last pockets of resistance.

We work thoroughly and systematically, clearing one room after another and we are, as expected, finding small fires in hidden corners, but no great issue so, slowly but surely we extinguish, soak, damp down and carry the search forward – and then after what seems like no time at all we need to think about moving back to safety, and giving the next team some quality time with daddy.

As we exit the building it has been determined that the battle is largely won, it is now 0630hrs and we have worked through the night to get to this place: Woody advises that we are clear to return to Winchcombe, our work is done here, and the county needs to consider the wider protection issues and allocate emergency resource accordingly. This is something that whoever set this fire gave no consideration to – whilst we were occupied in Gloucester City Centre, cover for our patch would have been provided by one or other of our nearby stations: but this would necessarily have lengthened response time.

Quite apart from the risk to life generated by this incident; significant additional risk is generated as fire appliances are focused off-patch.

Not that Ted Hooligan gives a damn, isn’t it funny to watch us race, and aren’t the flames pretty…

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Drill: 1

‘Sometimes, if your training is properly intense it will kill you.
Much, much more often – it will save your life’

Richard Morcinko: Navy SEAL

‘Station Officer’s Discretion’

Which means that tonight, our drill session will consist of any damn thing that Russ deems appropriate.

This is unfortunate.

Earlier on in the day he couldn’t help but notice that upon each and every team photograph carrying his image, some misguided graffiti wizard had carefully inked a comedy afro, and moustache – the sort of moustache that wins competitions, the sort of moustache that demands a double-take – the sort of moustache that Groucho Marx would think twice about.

Tonight, revenge will be meted out. Tonight we will be given the opportunity to make retribution. Tonight we will be on the receiving end of a good fire service beasting.

It is 1900hrs all the BA sets have been serviced, all the maintenance routines squared away – we are standing to attention in full protective equipment on our drill-yard.

Crew Manager Bourne has us number off into crews of 4 while Russell looks on with a quiet smile.

‘Let’s see a few ladder drills Al’

Bourney is only too happy to oblige.

‘Number 1 crew, when I give the command, fall in 3 paces away from and at the rear of the appliance – Number 1 crew, fall in’

Number 1 crew, of which I am a part, smartly obey the instruction.

‘Number 1 crew: mount’

Number 1 crew, of which I am a part, smartly obey the instruction, racing to board the pump.

‘Number 1 crew, when I give the command, I want to see the 135 pitched to the top of the tower – with two 45mm hose-jet hauled aloft: Number 1 crew, get to work’

Number 1 crew, of which I am a part, moves to obey: now departing the appliance at pace moving to the rear, and operating under the instruction of Mike, No 1 on the team, and now calmly but with intent giving instruction.

‘Stand by to slip’

We prepare to release the ladder from any restraint.

‘Slip’

The 135 is released, and fed by hand between the 4 man crew until fully released from the vehicle.

‘Number 3 site the heel’

Spike casts his eye toward the head of the tower – it is now his responsibility to ensure that the ladder is positioned just so, to ensure that when extended it meets its target some 50 feet above us on the right incline and with the head resting in a safe, secure position.

He makes his choice and the heel of the ladder is positioned. Spike and Jano take the holding poles, and place their weight onto the jack-beam.

Mike continues the command sequence

‘Under-run’

He and I move under the ladder forcing it vertically, as we hit the point of upright, Mike gives the instruction:

‘Onto poles’

The 110kg of 135, or if you prefer, ‘A Tindall of ladder’ is balanced now on its holding poles.

‘Prepare to extend’

I move, with Jano to release the working mechanism of the ladder and to extend.

‘Extend’

We work hand over hand to encourage the ladder upward, on to its target above: the 4^th floor of our training tower.

‘Well’

Mike is happy with the height – the instruction ‘well’ is our order to cease the extend, and secure the unit – done.

We now move as a team to get the necessary firefighting medium as instructed up to the point of need.

In the meantime Team 2 have been instructed to make a dam, and fill it, simulating a requirement (as is often the case at rural incident) to pump from open water, and practising the skills of creating an improvised reservoir from the base materials carried on 115: notably, the triple extension ladder, foam carriers, tarpaulin, general line (rope to the layman) and personal lines (thinner rope: that we each carry on our person).

In a matter of moments this is achieved – the two teams have melded into a single unit and there are now 4 firefighters at the head of the tower, with 2 fully charged hosejets fighting an imaginary fire with water provided through an improvised reservoir. A reasonable facsimile of a large barn fire, in the middle of the beautiful, but largely water free surrounding countryside.

And now the fun begins.

Important to point out, that the fun begins for our revered leader – for the rest of us: not so much.

Russ moves toward Bourney, and leans in, quietly issuing instruction.

Bourney barks the words of command

‘Fight the fire down the tower to the first floor – keep those jets charged; I want the axe, sledgehammer two tarpaulins another two lengths of 45 and a spare branch hauled aloft – down below I want a monitor set up – move yourselves’

We move ourselves: On the tower we (Matt and I) now need to move down the very restrictive raking ladders that connect the levels – we have been instructed to do this with fully charged hosejets; as would be the case if this were for real: the nature of the challenge is such that although Adie and Liam can help us by managing the length of hose behind us, we will need to carry, manoeuvre and ‘fight the fire’ on our own – Russell has deliberately set the pressure on the jets at the top end of what is usual: all perfectly manageable, but hard, wet work. I am once again mindful of the wisdom imparted to me by Mac French of 3 PARA in the middle of an exercise known simply as ‘advanced Wales’ which was exactly that, all the worst parts of Wales to an advanced degree, so rain, hail, muck and bullets, conducted in The Brecon Beacons, February 1982. It rained, day and night, for every second of the four weeks.

Paratroopers did not use waterproofs back then, as, pre-gore-tex (or other clever modern fabrics) their rough material was deemed too noisy when seeking to move with stealth.

‘Your skin is water-proof Robertson, soldier on silently’

It has to be said that we made a whole lot of noise once our target had been acquired, there is no such thing as a ‘stealthy’ assault by Parachute Soldiers.

The irony of which was not lost on us as we moved, soaked but silent, through the wind blasted night rains.

However, in my opinion ‘your skin is waterproof’ is a pretty good maxim for a lot of the less fabulous things that life offers up, and Matt and I crack on.

4^th to 3^rd to 2^nd to 1^st floor. Jano, in the meantime has scaled the ladder to begin facilitating the demand for additional equipment – this is an exercise in fire service knots featuring the clove hitch, round turn and two half hitches, assorted other hitches and a cats-claw. She works with Mike and Woody below – securing the requested additional resource before hauling aloft for use in whatever scenario Russell determines to throw next.

Crew Manager Bourne smiles to himself before delivering the order:

‘Fight the fire back up to the fourth floor’

Matt and I glance at one and other:

‘After you Robbo’

‘My pleasure’ I reply, and we begin to work back up the tower with the fully charged jets: Adie and Liam look to take the weight from us as much as is possible while we get back to grips with the tight raking ladders looking to keep water flow directed at the imaginary blaze that has, supposedly, re-ignited behind us – demanding that the same 4 floors be attacked: but this time up-the-ways:

The water from my hose is necessarily crashing into Liam and Adie, as Matt’s hosejet output crashes into me – and as it all drains back down the tower - onto him as well.

All properly wet then; and Russell is just getting into his stride.

Down below he is making additional demand of Mike, Nick, Woody, Spike and Scott: having successfully supported the hauling aloft of multiple pieces of sundry additional equipment, as prescribed, they are now thrown a couple of curve-balls:

‘Additional fire has broken out at the head of the lecture room – get the triple up, get the roof ladder to work, get the safe working at heights gear on, and fight that fire from the apex of the building’

Mike takes charge, and issues the necessary words of instruction – his crew move swiftly to obey.

The triple extension ladder is released – and the roof ladder slipped from its housing: Spike and Scott are getting into the securing harnesses designed to do what it says on the tin: allow a firefighter to work safely at height. Basically this is more fetching and carrying of heavy things – more scaling of ladders, more running out of hose: just more ‘more’ really.

Needless to say, some more ‘wet’ as well.

Casualties are introduced to the scenario as Russell quietly raises the ante, through his vessel: the ever-helpful Crew Manager Bourne - and for the best part of two hours we are tested. Our knowledge of what it is we are doing is tested, as Russell challenges each decision we make – not because we have made a bad one, but to be certain that we have the courage of our convictions and have a rationale that we can explain and stand behind

‘What knot have you used to secure the branch on that monitor? Is that the prescribed method for scaling the 135 with a jet? Are you sure that is the best way to secure the dam?

Finally we hear the order

‘Knock off, Make up’

And we are able to draw breath and start putting away. Not that this is any easier; The Fire Service demands that everything be executed smartly and at pace, and we still have a lot of very heavy things that are, by and large, on the roofs of tall buildings. Everything needs to be squared away, and everything needs to be checked and everything needs to be cleaned and everything needs to be dried, and everything is heavy and now that includes our limbs and our water-soaked protective clothing. But the end is in sight, and Russ has moved into the station kitchen to charge kettles and make a brew for all.

Eventually, as we knew it would be, everything is done and we take a knee while Russ, Allun and Woody offer a critique of performance – not to be bloody minded, not to find fault, not to single out this or that chimp: but as with all things in the service: to learn and make sure, as suggested earlier, that the learning is not lost.

Our protective clothing is drying, but we are now sweating into the smart blue working uniforms changed into. And we will continue so to do for a little while yet.

Oddly, these are our favourite types of drill sessions – hard and without forgiveness, but real and speaking to the potential risk that we might have to face down, the next time the alerter screams at us.

There are many barns and farms that are not serviced well by fire hydrant – but rather a pond or a pool or a river will have to be made to work – and this evenings’ effort accurately replicates that simple geophysical fact, and is a pretty reasonable preparatory exercise: sensible insurance against some of the bad things that happen to good people.

There is the sense of a job well done. There is a sense that we might have moved forward in respect of individual and collective capability, that anything worthwhile is hard and there is a certainty that we weren’t completely terrible.

Finally; there is the familiar willingness, at the end of the hard work, to see off some more rattlesnake…

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Duty

‘England expects that every man will do his duty’

Horatio Nelson

Admiral Nelson is not alone in that sentiment: Gloucestershire Fire and Rescue Service take a similar point of view. Our contract is defined in exactly those terms – we operate within a set of parameters tagged as RDS: this stands for, Retained Duty System, and forms the basis upon which we serve.

We are contracted collectively to provide a 24/7 fire and rescue service over a big chunk of spectacular Cotswold countryside.

From our stone built listed station in Winchcombe we reach out to Tewkesbury, to Broadway, Snowshill, Stow on the Wold and to Cheltenham: this is a beautiful part of the world, and quite apart from the businesses, and quiet country cottages that fall within our watch, we are responsible for Sudeley Castle, Stanway House and one of the main arteriel gas sub-stations in the UK. A combination of Englishmen's homes and castles, priceless and idyllic lumps of irreplaceable British Heritage - and an installation with the capability of tearing a big piece out of the scenery and throwing it, and us, into one of the adjoining counties.

As a collective, then, we provide emergency services around the clock - to achieve this we are contracted individually to be at the mercy of the banshee alerter for 90, 100 or 120 hours per week.

As to the precise level of commitment, that is our choice, a choice we make based on our other commitments: like family, career and whatever falls under the heading of personal.

We take an holistic view as to how many hours we are truthfully able to make ourselves available and having made that decision we contract accordingly with GFRS.

In my case (and in most instances at Winchcombe) for 120 hours of the week and 48 weeks of the year, I will be within 5 minutes of the station and stone cold sober. This 120 hours per week is the equivalent of three standard working weeks for most people, and although in the reality of statistical analysis we are only called to perform our duty for around 6 hours per week, we can never know when those 6 hours will fall, and so must be ready throughout.

It can create some pressure at home, and our decision to commit, usually a selfish one in some respect, wears heavily on family:

The drivers, for me, were threefold. I wanted to make a contribution to my community, I wanted to find a reason to be as fit as I had been when a parachute soldier: and in honesty, I was a bit bored with the humdrum and day to day. Happiness lies in an ability to find magic in the ordinary – and I wasn’t fully achieving that, and that in itself is a selfish thing.

Now, any social event has to be coordinated around the responsibility of ensuring that I am able to do my duty. It impacts in small but significant ways - rarely being able to enjoy a glass of wine with a meal: having to really think about the timing and logistics of shopping, or family outings - or anything really. Nothing particularly taxing in isolation, but cumulatively it can be hard: more so for the family, who see none of the benefit – but are equally at the mercy of our personal banshee.

And then there are the laws of Physics. A real pain in the arse at times.

Regardless of how rapidly I respond to a call in the early hours of the morning - it is unlikely that I will catch the pump for as long as time equals distance divided by speed. Liam and I live furthest away by a good margin: so unless we are running at a minimum crewing level we both arrive to see the engine already disappearing into the distance. This is frustrating. It is one thing to have the normality and routine of life shattered - to have, at the end of a long day, your slumber torn into: If as a result of responding to the call you end up travelling with your fellow crew, lights and sirens calling into the night, as we bravely travel to save property and life.

It is quite another to haul arse at stupid o’clock with an end game that is nothing more than an arse scratch and a read-through of the telex that has commanded others to 'do'.

This is especially true when the shout is of a serious nature. None of us elected to do this in order to watch somebody else perform. Fire and rescue is not a spectator sport. To look at the departing pump and read ‘Fire Grade 1, make pumps 6’ leaves us all cold.

Someone is in trouble, and we missed the shout.

Daytimes are different, my office is reasonably close to the station, and I make most, if not all, of the calls. In addition, I’m organised: the car is always parked facing the right way: my keys are to hand in the same place always:

Basically, I’m ready to drop everything and roll – it is highly competitive, with the revised system: introduced during the writing of this account (to ensure even faster response times) only 5 ride, and the greatest challenge is restraining the urge to speed through the unsuspecting town: very often we find ourselves stuck behind a dithering tourist as he/she/they look left and right at the softly aged architecture, completely unaware that the journey behind is of a more urgent nature – no point sounding the horn or flashing lights, it would only create confusion and resentment. We do not have blue lights fitted to our private vehicles, and are obliged to obey all road traffic regulations – if we get stuck - we have to suck it up patiently.

So we sit and seethe at the wheel of our stationary motor and the alerter taunts us.

Loudly!

In these situations, the siren has an ability to sound like discordant mocking laughter: not least as we see the pump pulling from the station before we have even arrived.

But it is what it is, and as with so many things duty and service is found in the smaller sacrifice of being available for the call rather than the overt activity around a house-fire or RTC. We all understand this – In service there is a lot of standing about; of waiting to serve.

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RTC 2

‘We say that the hour of death cannot be forecast, but when we say this we imagine that hour as placed in an obscure and distant future. It never occurs to us that it has any connection with the day already begun or that death could arrive this same afternoon, this afternoon which is so certain and which has every hour filled in advance’

Marcel Proust

Inevitably we are not the first vehicle at the scene: if we were able to be the first vehicle at the scene we could probably prevent the RTC. Sadly it doesn’t work like that.

The first vehicle on the scene will be the victim.

And then, with the ungainly and noisy arrival of the victim into an unyielding piece of Gods creation, or another vehicle it becomes a ‘scene’ and not just another B road.

Today there were two vehicles looking to share the same piece of real estate, moving in opposite directions, at speed, and very unfortunately - arriving at precisely the same six figure grid reference at precisely the same time.

We will probably not be the third vehicle at the scene.

The third vehicle (and probably fourth, fifth etc) will, usually, be ‘civilians’

The first two vehicles, or rather their occupants, are now very much occupied. They are occupied with the unremitting new reality that their, and a lot of other people’s plans for the day have changed.

Now our scene has some players, and an audience. The audience will phone the accident in through Control…

As I finish the pint of lime and soda, and nod across the room to Terry Hilyard, the alerter begins.

No goodbyes to my wife, who is halfway through her lunch – I run.

She has seen it before: Terry hasn’t and, along with a room full of diners is doing a pretty damn good goldfish impression.

Door: Carpark: Car: Gone.

Two minutes later I pull into the station, catapault from driver seat to tear a tally from the wall:

Third in and I’m definitely riding on this shout.

Woody was first to respond and is at the telex:

‘RTC – 2 Vehicles: 4 persons trapped; 1 person not breathing’

A crew is already in: Woody, Nick, Liam, Matt and me: Nick driving and we are away – chasing the moment, we know, with 4 persons trapped, that this is a significant impact: that one of them has no respiratory signs speaks for itself.

We race along Greet Road, slowing as we pass the secondary school, our sirens turn the children’s heads as we pass, and they laugh and wave – we wave back, which seems dramatically at odds with the moment, but that moment passes as we leave the school in rear-view and Nick hits the loud pedal again.

We surge past the Winchcombe Pottery, under the bridge that carries the Great Western Steam Railway, and turn left toward the ridiculously chocolate box villages of Stanton and Laverton.

We are a noisy fast moving brightly coloured ‘thing’: the antithesis of the peacefulness that we shatter with our passing – from A road to B road and the challenge of moving a big thing through a small space, but 115 handles well and we are very quickly on hand.

Two police vehicles already in attendance we move up around the waiting traffic of civilian onlookers: tasks already allocated, and hit the ground running. Woody goes into incident commander mode and commences a 360 degree scene assessment receiving a briefing from the senior police officer present.

The vehicles involved in the collision, having arrived in the same place at the same time have taken the massive forces of impact and, like battling tops, have thrown one and other off the road and into the pretty wildflowers that nuzzle the tarmac. Both front-ends have been decimated and there is a very strong smell of petrol.

Oil and other auto fluids are seeping outward, discolouring as they bleed into the undergrowth. Liam makes both vehicles safe and stabilises.

Nick deploys a foam extinguisher and one hose-reel: then assists Matt in the tool dump.

I grab the trauma pack and race toward the vehicle where our most urgent attention is required – not difficult to determine, as I can see a member of the public administering CPR to the driver, the seat thrown back and almost vertical. I enter through the back nearside door and begin to unpack the oxygen and defibrillator. Nick moves next to me through the front nearside and I pass the defibrillator to him while attaching the oxygen mask and administering the healing gas – the man engaged in CPR advises me that he was first to the scene and has been working for 5 minute, to no effect. He is, it transpires, a Belgian firefighter.

Other emergency services are now arriving: one paramedic, one ambulance – the air ambulance is once again contributing its familiar roar as it comes to rest in an adjacent field.

A defibrillator will detect any fluttering and uneven heart rhythm, and through the issuance of a powerful electric shock, it will seek to regulate that, and bring it back into line – our Belgian colleague has been carrying out accurate and textbook CPR for some five minutes prior to our arrival – the machine can detect no heart beat: it is not able to re-start a heart and so instructs us to continue CPR: Nick takes over and begins a shift in applying the necessary rhythmic compression: Having checked and ensured that the casualty has a clear airway I continue to supply oxygen.

The first paramedic to the scene is now kneeling outside the car and we brief her on the situation:

In truth we are now reasonably certain that any life-saving effort is redundant: there is evidence of a massive chest trauma in the terrible bruising around his heart – but he is somebody’s Father, and by the looks of it, Grandfather: we don’t want to give up the cause.

In the end, and after some 15 further minutes of work, the doctor from the air ambulance brings the ministrations gently to a close, and we realise that there are three casualties in the other car that need help.

By now the Stow pump has arrived, and noting our engagement, and having been briefed by Woody has taken over the rescue efforts with the second vehicle.

Sadly our task is now that of searching for personal effects and to prepare the car in such a way as to be able to remove the fractured and lifeless body with some facsimile of dignity.

Liam, Matt and I bring the cutting gear into play: the Police are slightly bemused as the rear door remains serviceable – but I make the point that it will be a graceless final act to pull him from the wreckage through the battered portal, and that by removal of the ‘B’ pillar and both doors we will be able to effect extrication gently: and that, regardless of what is easy, we are happy to do the extra work.

Matt covers the body with a blanket and I begin to dismantle the vehicle: Liam and I share the load of cutting and spreading the metal: this is a well built and modern car, so there are a few booby traps to be mindful of: explosive seat-belt pre-tensioners, air bags, front and side: we need to strip out all of the smart interior design and get back to bare metal to see where the trigger points are, and to inform our decision as to where to make the cuts. An air bag will erupt with a huge percussive force, ripping the heavy hydraulic equipment from our hands and converting the rescue tool into a vicious piece of shrapnel. We work carefully; but still with a degree of urgency, our help will soon be needed on the opposite side of the road…

The Stow crew are well into their rescue task and thankfully, there will only be the one fatality here today.

However, all three persons in the other vehicle are injured, with one female passenger in serious need of medical attention, our colleagues from over the hill are working systematically and determinedly to get her out of the vehicle and into the air ambulance: by the time that Matt, Liam and I have finished creating space the only task remaining is to carry the casualty, now secured to the spinal board, through the hedgerow, over a dry-stone wall (This is the Cotswolds, there is always a dry stone wall to negotiate) over the rolling field and onto the waiting aircraft.

We get involved immediately, bearing the weight, sharing the load and very quickly she is airborne and only minutes away from the necessary medical care. The remaining injured and wounded are transported by the more traditional ambulance – the police are already measuring up and looking for a full explanation of ‘how’

We busy ourselves with gathering equipment together, and getting everything squared away on our engine – it is entirely possible that we could be re-tasked from this moment forward.

Once all is stowed, and both crews are done, all fire service personnel present form a quiet group around the senior officer for the standard operational discipline of ‘hot’ debrief.

We have worked fast and efficiently, and have saved life:

But not all life.

The focus of the debrief is in the ‘what if’

The truth, though, is that two vehicles in a head on collision create an enormously destructive force, and the blessing is that we have only to deal with the emotional challenge of a single person passing, and not multiple loss. In this instance we are comfortable that we responded to the situation appropriately, that the best of care was given, that no more could have been done given the circumstance and severity of injury. It is likely that the casualty expired on impact, and that all of our subsequent input was pointless. None of which makes us feel any better, and we return very subdued to the business of cleaning equipment and getting back to our real jobs.

As we pass the school, on our return journey, it is emptying, and again we receive the waves and shouts from the younger kids. It is a perfect example of the relative nature of all things.

I look forward to getting home and seeing my teenage son.

As we leave the brightness and cacophony of youth, for the second time today, in the rear-view mirror I reflect quietly that tonight I will spend some quality time with my family.

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Remembrance

‘They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn:

At the going down of the sun and in the morning

We will remember them’

From ‘For the Fallen’ by Lawrence Binyon

We gather right in front of the station: across the road Pates Grammar School Cadet Force are being given a swift revision cadre in the various drill movements that they will be smartly carrying out later. The Royal British Legion group together, medals boots and war-stories polished and present – hand-shakes are exchanged and the familiar greeting ‘not many of us left’ passes through the ranks:

As is the case every year, we are also in attendance: working dress ironed, shoes shone, poppy tucked in the left side of our service hats and smart as two coats of paint.

Not entirely true.

It is ‘Movember’ which is to say, November as re-interpreted by a new charitable drive towards raising increased funds and awareness for Prostate Cancer.

Basically throughout the month those entering into the spirit look to grow a moustache – hence ‘Mo-vember’

All of us (Jano necessarily excluded) have signed up, and consequently we appear as a cross between a police identity line-up, and a group of Seventies’ porn stars.

Oh well.

We are present, sort of correct, and we will remember.

It is a cut-glass clear morning, and the golden sand-stone cottages are looking particularly Squirrel Nutkin: a perfect day to march and to pay respect. Last year it rained constantly, and although that gave an air of solemnity to the day, we prefer sunshine.

Bourney and Russ make a final check to ensure that the fire service is getting a fair shake out of us, and that, under-developed moustaches aside our appearance suggests some effort has been made.

In fairness, it does – we all take the day seriously and are proud to be a part of it.

The 2011 Remembrance Day Parade is now fully formed, and the Royal British Legion takes command.

We are brought to attention, standard bearers are called to account, right turn and by the right, quick march.

Russ and I are the only two members of the watch with any military experience, and so we lead the way for 115, following the legion, who follow the cadet force (by far the most orderly and well drilled).

We have practised some drill ourselves over the course of the past couple of weeks, but there remain some potential weak links within our ranks. Knowing this family and friends follow with digital video cameras like wolves trailing a sick bison in the hope of catching something for later… last year Nick was singled out from the pack and mercilessly filmed as he boogied and bounced in some grotesque approximation of ‘marching’ moving to the beat of his own drum, and with a permanent look of terror etched onto his face, it was a remarkable, and frightening performance.

This year he and I have spent some time working through last years hip-hop moves and turning them into something more akin to the traditional and accepted ‘left, right, left right’.

As we step off it is clear that the work has paid off and the digital recorders will need to hunt elsewhere. Winchcombe retained have clearly got it together: our synchronised progress is a thing of sharp movement, angles and beauty – move along people there is nothing to see here this year… but, hey, check out the cubs and brownies behind us.

The parade moves off from our station, up and along North Street, before wheeling right toward the memorial and town square.

As we march and I take in the passing scenery through peripheral vision, I reflect on a recent shout that took us to a blazing garden shed just 50 yards from where we step-off: the alerter had made its noisy demand at around 4.00am. shortly after which time 115 arrived on Cowl Lane to a very well alight backyard and fought a hostile battle, made more challenging by the fact that the shed was full of propane gas containers: each one a little improvised explosive devise – Russ was in charge on the day and made sure that everyone kept something of substance between them and the possibility of super-heated flying metal: the challenge was met from a distance, and from behind cover: Although Matt had to be advised that whilst the fire service helmet is a sterling piece of kit – it will not protect against a direct hit from a piece of flaming shrapnel, and so, as pretty as the maelstrom was, would he mind terribly getting his head down…the request may actually have been expressed more succinctly, and with a little local colour.

There is always a fantastic turn out amongst the citizens of Winchcombe for the ceremony of remembrance, and this year, with the weather on side, is no exception: the narrow streets are edged six deep with those who are not a part of the formality of parade but want to remember and to pray.

As we halt, left turn, stand at ease, then stand easy – we see that front and rear they have turned out in their many hundreds to be a part of the day.

Having arrived at the square, and in front of The Plaisterer’s Arms (try the steak and ale pie) Major Tom Hancock takes command of the ceremony and introduces the various elements that take us to what I suppose should be considered as the essence of things:

That is the laying of wreaths, the minute of silence, the very act of remembrance and the aching simplicity of the last post bugle call.

In between there is a chunk of sermonising that some of the elderly members on parade would visibly prefer to be a good deal shorter.

It seems that every councillor and bishop present needs to express an opinion, rather than simply bow their head to a greater power and cause: but that is the first law of office when it is confronted with a microphone and an audience that either can’t run away, or is simply too well mannered to.

The National Anthem is sung, and then we are marching off: the hour spent in hymn, prayer and reflection has passed, and, as we move back toward the fire-station the town breaks out in spontaneous and continued applause.

It is, as it always is, a very moving moment for all of us.

Multiple generations are represented in the marching ranks – from cadets, through those currently serving to the veterans represented by the legion. Soldiers; Sailors and Airmen; The Emergency Services; Cubs; Scouts; Brownies and Girl Guides – moving in step (pretty much) and to one purpose.

Parade done, we take ourselves as a crew to the working men’s club, and join the rest of the days cast for a chat and a couple of pints – we have nominated the five riders, who will sit and sip juice: but this year I am able to enjoy some Cornish ‘Doombar’ Ale.

The place is packed, and I find myself in conversation with a couple of old soldiers, Rob Clayton, formerly of The Gloucester Regiment, and another friend, who must remain nameless, but who won a very good Military Medal with 22 SAS in The Radfan campaign. We talk about nothing much, but a few gentle anecdotes of our service lives. Rob is now a talented artisan dry stone wall builder, and is about to undertake a project for our letting company – so we debate the passing of craftsmanship in the modern era: a popular subject in the country. We are joined by Sandy Skinner, formerly a Commando Engineer, and our discussion turns toward the re-opening of a local Pub: There is no danger that any of this will lead to a cure for cancer or major scientific breakthrough, but in the gentle telling of story and reminiscence with good people, there is some comfort and a temporary sense of well-being while around us the global economy goes to hell in a handbasket.

It is a great coming together for the town, and there is a buzz and crackle about the room – Russ is obliged to patiently explain on more than one occasion, that rather than poor personal grooming or any lack of hygiene on behalf of his watch, the developmental moustaches are a charitable undertaking, and with any luck his quiet PR campaign will pre-empt any letters of complaint to The Gloucestershire Echo.

We see the day as an opportunity to engage with the citizens that we serve, and with each other: and I imagine it is the nature of those that undertake this kind of duty that we all of us value the experience of remembrance – we are reasonably pleased with our performance during the parade, it was notably better than previous years and this is remarked upon by more than one person. In truth, it couldn’t have been much worse.

All in all, then, we have acquitted ourselves reasonably well: the alerter kept its counsel during the ceremony – the day will surely come when the klaxon sounds as the last post begins and five of us peel off to begin the unforgiving sprint back to the station, and whatever new catastrophe calls – much to the amusement of those of us not nominated, and probably very entertaining for the onlookers.

But not this year.

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Iain Robertson’s career has been colourful and varied. He has been a part of the Cotswold community for some 20 years, currently running his own residential lettings agency in Winchcombe as well as a promotions company called Karmacom. Previous roles have been as tour manager with some of the biggest rock stars, including John Lee Hooker, Spandau Ballet, the Sisters of Mercy and Oasis, and has written about his experience touring with Oasis in a book called ‘Oasis: What’s the Story?’. He also saw active service with The Parachute Regiment.

Cotswold fire-fighters

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