Peccadillos…

I had been sitting in the front of a fire engine, ringing that bell, for ten years now. I did occasionally use the b-bar’s, especially when some twat refused to give way, but with drivers like George Perrin, Peter Jansen, ‘Bunny’ Halford (RIP), and Rob Rance, all on Brixton’s White watch, their colourful use of a string of expletives were normally far more effective than any two-tone horns!

I had enjoyed a career a-kin to winning the lottery, not that the lottery was around back then of course. But I was blessed with working on watches that always came together as a winning team. The early years had little to do with me because I was just a player, not the captain. My first ‘old school’ Sub Officer-Dick Richardson (and renown sage) once told me;

“Learn from those that set good examples Pikey and ignore those that don’t.”

I was more than happy to ignore the skates, the p-takers and the occasional bullies and concentrate on those who took a pride in their craft. That does not mean they were all angels, especially when you consider their individual peccadillos, but their score sheet always fell in favour of them being good firemen, positive role models, than anything to the contrary.

I had enormous pride in my Brixton watch in the early 80s. We worked hard and could play harder. I was not untouched by the odd peccadillo, having a strong tendency to see the Brigade in shades of ‘grey’ rather than just plain ‘black and white’. 95% of the time, and with some luck thrown in, we dealt with what was thrown at us with a fair degree of professional flair and style. Occasionally, when the Gods where against us, things took a wrong turn. On the very rare occasion we simply got things wrong. It was like missing a decisive penalty in football match. That was always a bit of a wake-up call, so when in the space of just twenty-four hours we went from ‘premier’ league to amateur status there was some licking of our wounds!

That first particular night duty was a Sunday. After parade, and with the regular appliance checks completed, my crews stood down free from normal work routines. Wally Dolezal was both the mess manager and an accomplished cook. Brixton’s ‘dinner parties’ were quite an event. Wally was a bit of a ‘cause-célèbre’ with his regular, special, three course mess evening meals. We even occasionally invited our two watch ADOs along as paying guests. Both Bert Dixey and Dave Aldrich loved these special evenings as once again they enjoyed the cut and thrust of mess-table banter whilst enjoying a glass of Chateau plonk along with their meal. Peccadillos, they both had them, but they were firemen’s officers too. However, on that particular Sunday it was just the watch. Our supper cut short by the station bells ringing and dinner plates hastily shoved into the hotplate before we all ran towards the pole house.

“Fire at Tulse Hill, junction of Brixton Water Lane,” was the only information on the ordering slip as both machines turned right out of the station and headed up towards Coldharbour Lane. Our suppers would not be seen again for many hours as additional calls to a warehouse alight were received and Clapham’s pair were sent on additionally. If it’s possible to have a text book fire, where everything fell into place at the right time, and the crews responded without hesitation and demonstrated the art of firemanship (firefightingship never sounded right!) this was it.

The warehouse, I subsequently discovered, was owned by Forte (the hotel chain). It stood on a site that was, on two sides, surrounded by residential property. Although a single-storey structure its pitched roof was about fifty feet high with twenty feet high exterior brick walls. Around forty feet wide and sixty feet deep it was set back from Tulse Hill. The force behind the plume of smoke being driven out through the roof vents, and the deep red glow that could be seen through the barred and reinforced glazing, indicated a serious fire. The warehouse was extremely well secured. Well, it was Brixton! Strong security padlocks were fitted to the double corrugated metal front doors and prevented any speedy access into the building.

I knew this location including the position of the surrounding hydrants. I did not need any prompt from a crew member shouting out the hydrant’s position from the hydrant location book. (We had had a previous serious fire directly across the road whilst I was at West Norwood.) But now, even if we made a quick entry into the building (something which was extremely doubtful), three or four BA crews would be needed to attack the blaze. As the PL pulled past the incident, and the pump stopped before it, I told my driver to “Make pumps eight”.

The ‘boys’ did good. Twinning the supply from the double hydrant on the nearby corner, hose lines flew from the lockers and jets were made ready. The PL crew tried to force an entry, via the front entrance, whilst I made a quick reconnaissance of the building. Through the frosted wired glazing fire could be seen rapidly involving a large proportion of the interior. Within a minute of our arrival three jets were charged and ready. One was already being directed to cool the side of the warehouse but the PL crew still had not been able to force their way in.

That legend that is Pete Gwilliam was Clapham’s Sub Officer in charge then. Reporting to me I ordered him to take his two crews into the next street, behind the warehouse, and to make an attack on the back via the private houses’ back gardens. Ensuring our EVAC’s (radios) were working (often they didn’t!) I told him to let me know what the situation was when he got there.

With the sound of more two-tone horns moving closer, Lambeth’s and West Norwood’s appliances were deployed to cover the Brixton Water Lane side of the fire. As the B divisional BA control van arrived Sub Officer Mike Harvey (bless his memory) established his control point and was preparing for the arrival of the Brigade’s major control unit.

Making them ‘eight’ gets you eight fire engines but other supporting crews as well. I wanted the two ET crews, plus the hose laying lorry. Soon senior officers would arrive and take over control. I would become just another ‘make weight’ but for now I was in charge. Peckham and Forest Hill’s crews made up the balance of the make-up. With the exception of Forest Hill, I knew all the B division crews and had a good rapport with them all. The legacy of the 77 strike provided a strong bond and, despite my own peccadillos, I had some reasonable street-cred on the fireground.

Giving a clear brief of what I wanted, and communicating via the EVAC’s radios, we waged a formidable attack on the blaze. A blaze that had broken through part of the roof and had blown out some of the side windows. As the front doors gave up the struggle and succumbed to the combined physical assault by a combination of large axes and sledgehammers, we finally had access into the building. In my head I had a good understanding where all my crews were deployed and was satisfied that I had sufficient water supplies available to feed the six jets in use. Hopefully, the ET crews would back up my and Peckham’s BA crews and the plan was to enter and put fire out from the inside not pour water in on it from the outside!

Sub Officer Mick Harvey was picking my brains to draw up the fireground map, a map that would be duplicated on the Brigade Control unit when it arrived. Mick had already sent his leading fireman to collect the appliance nominal roll boards and place them in the holders on the BA van. They made for a good team.

The late Roger Vaughan was then a B Divisional temporary Divisional Officer. Slightly built, slim, articulate and an intelligent man ‘Rog’was a bloody good fireman. He had transferred those skills into officer rank. ‘Rog’ was also a friend and he too had the odd peccadillo-normally in the form of a shapely female. (But what do they say about ‘people living in glass house should not throw stones’-so I won’t). Roger had beaten the duty ADO to the scene. Having booked in with the BA van he found me at the front of the warehouse, monitoring the fire situation and ‘encouraging’ the BA crews getting stuck in.

Although the blaze looked dramatic, flames seventy to eighty feet reaching up into the night sky, it was going nowhere other than out. After I briefed him on what I had done Roger took over command. Roger was now in charge. I didn’t know it then but Roger thought further assistance was necessary and made pumps ten and had to hand over command to the duty ACO when he arrived.

With the Brigade control unit in control, its crew monitoring and recording fireground activity, I was free to re-join my crews. The initial BA crews had made good progress and had subdued the main body of fire. Hot, sweaty there were satisfied nods, and smiles, as they started to exit the warehouse and were replaced by fresh BA wearers. After another hour the “fire surrounded” was sent. The stop message followed a little while after.

With the blaze under control, I was left in charge of the four pumps tasked with continuing to damp down and turn over the considerable debris, quenching hot spots, and ripping down false partitions whilst searching for any remaining signs of fire. With the details gathered for the fire report, and a senior fire prevention officer tasked to investigate the cause of the blaze, our pump crew made its way back to Brixton in the early hours of Monday having handed over to the two pump relief crews. Arriving back at the station the only other charred remains to contend with was the congealed and dried-up dinners!

                                                        ***

The following night shift (Monday) who would guess that things could be so utterly different? The call came in after supper and we were able to eat in peace for a change. Brixton’s ground was mainly B risk and the PL and pump were called to a disused chapel alight, Brixton Hill. The former chapel was a well-known “squat”, used by vagrants or other local “street” people. But what might have been a good little ‘bread and butter’ jet job turned into a nightmare! Following the same route as the previous night we stopped short of Tulse Hill in Effra Road.

It started when the PL driver parked on top of the nearest hydrant. As the two drivers ran up and down Effra Road looking for a hydrant first the three-hundred gallons of water in the pump’s water tank, and then the three-hundred gallons in the PL’s, tank ran out. The blaze inside the semi-derelict building had regained a strong foothold in the ramshackle interior of the once house of worship. Years of discarded rubbish seemed to fill the place. Then with a hydrant finally located, and five lengths of hose bringing the water to the pump and my stop message overdue, a drunken vagrant came staggering out from the undergrowth looking for his pal! Seeing the blaze in the building, or rather the considerable smoke coming out of it, (which now had a jet and a hose reel directed onto the fire) he started to shout for his pal saying;

“He’s in the building, he’s in the building.”

With considerable irritation I interrogated the poor soul rather harshly. But he held his inebriated ground insisting that his pal was definitely in the building. I was stuffed! With a rapid search to undertake and keeping the fire under control I had no choice but to send a priority message, “Make pumps- four persons reported.”

We were too shorthanded to search the building for the drunk’s pal and fight the fire at the same time. With the fire not contained Clapham, once again, supported us. A thorough search was made but no one was found. However, that did not stop that night’s duty Divisional Officer-John Norris-from telling me that my future looked very uncertain when he arrived because of the delayed “persons reported” message. (John and I had joined the LFB together as junior firemen in 1965.) As firemen our previous friendship never grew and he clearly enjoyed commenting on my lack of officership. However, there was no defence to offer so I did not try. I was duly bollocked and he left.

As the crew was making up the gear a bag of rubbish, laying against a wall, was kicked away revealing a hydrant tablet! Seeing it I found the hydrant cover under the front wheel of the PL. The atmosphere, when we returned to the station was strained, to say the least, as we had a frank exchange of views…Silence reigned as we took to our beds and I reflected on the uncharacteristic under-performance of us all.

My mood was not improved any when at about 5a.m. we got another shout. As I read the teleprinter ordering I did a double-take. It was to the very same premises as the previous evening’s debacle. This time the fire had managed to get a considerable foothold and I, reluctantly, had to “make ‘em four” again.

Now every member of the crew knew exactly where the hydrant was located and there was no delay in getting a couple of jets to work and my crew, in BA, got stuck in. Making pumps four at the same location, in the space of a shift, always raises the alarm bells with senior management and none more so than my own Divisional Commander Brian Butler.

Had we put the first one out properly or not? I thought we had but there was no denying the evidence before my eyes. The bloody building was alight yet again. This was the very question that a gleeful looking DO Norris put to me as he returned for the second time. But until I could get back into the building to investigate, I could not reassure him otherwise.

I was not the only one having these doubts as my crews looked equally crestfallen as we started to turn over the debris. Small pockets of fire can continue to smoulder, for considerable periods, under debris and re-ignite whatever surrounds it. I know I made a thorough search, and examination, before leaving the night before but I was feeling more and more uncomfortable thinking how could I have missed the signs?

Out of sheer bloody mindedness I made my crews work longer than was necessary as I was still miffed about that damn hydrant. Whilst the seats of the second fire were concentrated in different areas this did not discount the possibility that we allowed the fire to spread or had left a “bull’s-eye” to re-ignite.

Before the Divisional Officer departed, he warned me; “You haven’t heard the last of this Station Officer Pike.” My own self-doubt was brought to an end by the arrival of a local police patrol car. I had requested their attendance “to assist in fire investigation”. In truth more to cover my ‘arse’ than for any hard evidence that I had discovered. When the police constable came over, he said, “No need to investigate. A guy was seen running away from this fire and he was subsequently picked up on Brixton Hill. He has already put his hands up to starting the blaze and the one last night too”.

Feeling relieved, no one was more pleased than me that that particular night duty was over. As for Bill Butler, I never heard a word. Come to that not from John Norris either…he got posted out of the Division after that. It seems we all have some peccadillos!