Christmas Eve is traditionally the time to share a ghost story. Here is one from Bermondsey and to those not versed in the jargon of the London Fire Brigade I am sure you will get the gist....... Nothing was working out for Olly as he had hoped. A recently qualified BA fireman he served at a busy inner London fire station. Not only was he working nights on Christmas Eve, but his name was not pulled out of the hat either, something that would have seen him go home to his wife and young family. However, his name had been called out on roll call but not in the manner he had so wished for. He was ordered to stand-by for the watch at a dock side station, on the far side of the Division. He wouldn’t even get to enjoy the special Christmas supper that all the watch had all chipped in for, (nor the glass of plonk the guvnor had treated the watch too) and which the talented mess manager was now busily preparing as he passed by the kitchen on his way out of the station. There was a festive mood as the other hands bade him a Merry Christmas as he placed is kitbag, with his fire helmet tied on top, in the sidecar of his trusty motorbike. They were clearly joyful that he was going and it wasn’t any of them. Olly was an extremely likeable man. He was keen to learn and listened to what he was told by the more senior hands. Now just into his third year he was a respected member of the watch and even had a couple of Proto BA jobs under his belt, although his seniors would still prefer to cough and spit out soot rather than put on a sissy BA set unless told to do so by their old school Station Officer. The guvnor ran a tight ship, not overly friendly but neither was he a mean man. On the fireground his word was law and his judgement considered sound. Much to Olly’s surprise his guvnor strolled over to him as he was about to depart. “Take care old son” he said “that station can have some surprises if you are not careful!” With that he turned away and strolled back into the station and was gone. His Station Officer’s words played on his mind has he navigated his way through the almost deserted London streets, drawing ever closer to his distant out duty station. The ‘old man’ had never spoken to him before when he did an out duty, in fact he did not say much to him at all unless it was to bark an order or issue an instruction. Moving closer to the riverside the buildings now reflected their change of use, the once busy warehouses and wharves clearly falling on recent harder times. The cobbled streets gave the area a timeless quality that the once Victorian workers would have felt right at home with had they come back to visit. Olly considered, given it was Christmas Eve, that it was the type of street old Scrooge himself might have had his counting house located in and he smiled to himself as he thought of Alistair Sims playing the old rascal in the black and white film he loved so much as a child and had watched many times at the Saturday morning pictures. The river mist was thickening and gave everything a surreal feel. One might even be forgiven for thinking it a tad spooky. He was glad he was not heading towards Whitechapel and the thought of Jack the Ripper stalking similar streets gave him a sudden shiver. Then in the distance light shone out onto the narrow street from the open appliance doors of his stand-by station. It was one of many London stations that had no side or rear entrance. Everything had to pass through the appliance room to get into the rear yard and where he would park his combination motorcycle. But with both doors wide open his assumption was the station had had a shout and not all stations would delay their turn-out to close the appliance doors before proceeding onto the shout. Clearly this was one such station. What he had not expected to see was an unfamiliar pump standing there in the station? Parking his bike in the yard, he walked towards the appliance room. He had travelled to the station in his fire gear, only exchanging his fire helmet for his favourite leather crash hat and flying googles that he loved to wear when riding his beloved motorbike. He noticed something strange about the fire engine he had not noticed before. “Bloody hell, they must really be scraping the bottom of the barrel when it came to spare appliances” he mused. The engine was red and it carried the requisite ladders but it could easily have come from a museum. He walked passed it and on into the watchroom where the three man crew just stood silently. There were clearly all old hands, each at least in there forties and none seemed overly joyed to see him walk in. “I am here to stand by for the watch”, said Olly. “They are out and have picked up a make-up down the road” said the Sub Officer. The other two firemen not giving Olly a glance. “What a crap machine you have been given,” commented Olly, hoping to lighten the mood. “It will do us” said the Sub Officer. Olly gave up on the conversation but could not help feeling a distinct chill, something that he put down to riding to the station on his motorbike. Olly looked over at the station log book and noticed nobody had booked in from the crew, nor had they booked the strange looking pump in at the station. Not wishing to make a fuss he made a note on the watchroom message pad stating he had arrived at the station at 1845hrs. Any further attempted at conversation was interrupted by an old, breathless, man running excitedly into the station and shouting that there was smoke coming from the warehouse just around the corner. The only words spoken were by the Sub. “OK old chap, were are on the way. You (meaning Olly) can ride with us” Olly had ridden his bike wearing his belt and axe so had only to don his fire helmet and he was sitting on the rear of the pump as the engine roared into life. The driver just seemed to know where to go despite the old man not giving any actual address. They turned left out the station and within a short distance pulled into a riverside alley. Even to Olly it was clear they had a job on their hands. There was thick smoke a plenty coming from the loophole openings above, the sound of cracking timber and a red reflected glow in swirling mist above the four story Bermondsey terraced warehouse. Olly was expecting the Sub to reach for the RT but there was no RT. Some bloody spare this he thought. Instead he got down from the pump, told the driver to find a public phone and to make a “fire-flash call and make pumps six”. With that the Sub kicked the locked side door open that gave access to the internal staircase leading to the upper floors and the basement. “Get your sets on you two and have peek down stairs. I am going to have s shifty up above.” With that, and seemly impervious to the thick and acrid smoke he made his way up the narrow staircase. The next thing that Olly noticed was that his Proto set was clearly not the one he had recently trained on. His was the Mark V set with its recently added safety features. What he was throwing over his shoulders now was the older Mark IV, with its leather harness, but he knew how to start it up and his oppo was looking as though he was not going to wait for him. He had been told by his BA instructor that slow steady hand clapping was the former distress signal so he thought that a useful thing to remember right now. The smoke was thick and visibility was almost non-existent, even with their CEAG lamps turned on. They headed on down the open wooden stairs into the sub-basement. As they reached the floor a sudden rumble seemed to shake the building to its very core, and a loud whoosh of escaping hot gas and fierce flames exploded into the night sky. The upper floors started to collapse one on top of the other, filling their heads with the sound of falling masonry and other debris. Olly made a dive to his left, his BA colleague dived to the right. Olly found himself trapped in a small alcove room with a barred half-light window at head height showing the pavement outside. Then there was silence. No other sounds, then he heard it. It was the sound of slow regular clapping hands from somewhere behind the wall of debris... The stations two appliances, a Pump Escape and pump, returned to the station from their false alarm call at the far end of their ground. Reversing into their respective bays the Station Officer walked into the watchroom only to discover the old man still trying to regain his composure after the evenings excitement. “What are you doing in here “demanded the officer. “ “I came to report the fire” said the old gentlemen, clearly offended by the attitude of the officer. “What bloody fire” insisted the officer. “The one your other engine is attending shouted back the old man, irritated that his act civic duty was being questioned in such a fashion. By now the dutyman had entered the watchroom and passed the Station Officer Olly’s note on the watchroom message pad. “Book us back” said the officer “and ask Control why they sent a stand by appliance in to cover our station?” The dutyman did as instructed and look bemused when he informed his guvnor that no stand-by machine had been sent to the station. The Station Officer looked menacingly at the old man, “Now you tell me exactly what happened and what you saw.” The old man reiterated his tale adding that he was surprised that they never asked him just exactly where the fire was and added that the young fireman took off his cycle helmet and put on his fire helmet and was told to get on the engine. It was then that Olly’s kitbag was noticed in the corner of the watchroom. “Search the whole station” demanded the Station Officer, and the crews set about their task. “Nothing Guv”, as they ran back to the watchroom, “No one here except this old bloke.” “Just where was is this fire? asked the Station Officer. “The warehouse in Druids Alley, just around the corner” said the man. “Pull the bells down dutyman.” ordered the officer “We’re going.” The Station Officer immediately made pumps eight and turntable ladders two before he even got down from the pump. The upper floors of the warehouse were totally ablaze. Olly had managed to break the window pane level with the pavement but could only fit his hand between the bars to attract attention. Whilst an attack on the fire was made, and with each reinforcing appliance adding greater success, two of the PE’s crews worked feverously to prise away one of the stout window bars. Removing it gave sufficient space for Olly to be lifted and then pulled through the narrow gap, but not with him wearing his Proto set. Taking a deep breath of the life giving oxygen he dropped his set to the floor and allowed the men to haul him up through the narrow gap. Olly’s first words were not “Thank you” but, “Get the others, they are still inside.” “What others mate?” said the Leading Hand. “We were the first two machines here, there was no one else! That old bloke must have got confused and saw you run round here.” Olly was too confused and shocked to argue, but to his credit the Leading Hand passed on the comments to a senior officer and it’s there that shit hit the fan! A full roll call was taken but no one was discovered to be missing or unaccounted for. With the first reliefs ordered and in place Olly returned to his stand by station on the pump. He was ordered into the watchroom by the Station Officer to see his Division’s ADO who was sat in the dutyman’s chair. The officer was both senior in rank and service. He had a gruff reputation on the fireground and known to be fond of the odd expletive to those slow to react to his commands. But here Olly saw a more human side to this man’s character. “I have already spoken to the old gentleman who gave the ‘running call’ son, I just want to hear your side of the story.” So Olly told him everything, from his arrival at the station, to his rescue from the basement by those on the station’s PE. It was whilst the ADO was considering what he had heard that Olly noticed the small memorial plaque on the watchroom wall for the first time. It recorded the deaths of a LFB Sub Officer and Fireman on the 24th December 1949 whilst standing by covering the station. Olly felt he had nothing to lose now so he asked the ADO what had happened? “Their pump stood by here and they picked up a shout in Druids Alley. It was well alight when they arrived. Whilst the Sub went up the stairs to investigate the extent of the fire the floors collapsed and he was killed outright. The driver who ran for a phone box seems he went the wrong way, by the time he eventually returned there was nothing he could do. The firemen in BA had gone down into the basement alone and became trapped by the fallen debris. No one could reach him although the driver said he heard the man’s regular slow hand clapping for help-but no one can be certain he actually heard it. The BA fireman’s oxygen eventually ran out and his body was recovered the following day. It was said their deaths lead to the subsequent death of the driver who sadly took his own life.” “Why is his name not recorded here also?” asked Olly. “He was your guvnor’s brother and it was his wish not to have the name added,” relied the ADO. “So now what?” asked Olly. “Nothing,” said the ADO, “my report will say you responded to the running call whilst the station’s machines where attending the false alarm. You acted in finest traditions of the service and we will say no more about it. So much went through Olly’s head that night and Christmas Day brought him no Christmas cheer. At the change of watch that Christmas morning he got back on his motorbike to return to his base station. However, he could not return without taking one last look at the scene of previous night’s fire. All the reliefs had now departed. The warehouse was a smouldering ruin. The overpowering smell of burnt wood and debris filled his nostril as he parked his motorbike in the eerily quiet and deserted alley. He looked at the street level window, with the bar missing, and from where he had been hauled to safety. He knew what had really happened and he just needed to look to see if the old leather harnessed Proto set still lay where he left it on the floor. The sub-basement was now filled with the remains of the thousands of gallons of water that had been poured into the burning building throughout the night. But he looked in anyway. It was deathly silent…or so he thought. Then he heard a sound. He heard it again. His heart was pounding and Olly turned an ashen white. It was the unmistakable sound of someone clapping their hands, steadily, slowly and repeatedly. The regular clapping became louder and louder. It filled his head as he mounted his motorbike and drove swiftly away. DCP.
Posted on: Wed, 24 Dec 2014 12:54:56 +0000
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