Starting his career as a fire-cadet at sixteen the author rose to senior rank, always in an operational role.

A steady 'plodder' more than a high flier he learnt his trade craft serving, and commanding, the Capital's busiest and most challenging fire station, Brixton. Awarded the Queens Commendation for Brave Conduct he also rowed himself into the Guinness Books of Records whilst raising many thousands of pounds for charity. A talented organiser he was involved in delivering some of the London Fire Brigade's most high profile public events during the 1990's including royal visits and the unveiling of the national Blitz memorial by St Paul's Cathedral. A fireman first and foremost he provides a valuable human story into the life and history of the London Fire Brigade from 1965 to the late 1990's.

BEYOND THE FLAMES

Dedicated to the ultimate supreme sacrifice of firefighters everywhere and to my daughter Abby taken too soon.

David C. Pike

BEYOND THE FLAMES

Copyright David C. Pike The right of David C. Pike to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers. Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library. ISBN 978 184963 396 3 www.austinmacauley.com First Published (2013) Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd. 25 Canada Square Canary Wharf London E14 5LB Printed and Bound in Great Britain

Acknowledgements

London Fire Brigade. Roger Stuart Vaughan a guiding light. Brian Bill Butler MBE OStJ. QFSM a guiding hand. Christopher J. Thompson friend and mentor. Mary Evans a picture library. Robin Griffiths an ace with apostrophes.

Introduction

This is a personal memoir. It offers glimpses and snapshots that gave definition to a fire service career that spanned the last four decades of the twentieth century. Whilst the tales cover the people and events that shaped and influenced my working life, it also offers a special reminiscence of the life and times in the long history of the London Fire Brigade, highlighting personalities, acts of courage, and the ultimate sacrifice that any firefighter can make, to give their life in the performance of their duty. All of which made this so much more than just a job. This story is dedicated to them, the fallen.

Riding the engine One of my early childhood memories was that of running to the front window of our home to watch the fire engines when I heard their clanging bells as they drove up Waller Road, a steep thoroughfare in South London. My parents occupied the top floor flat of my grandmothers three-storey Victorian house. I had a grandstand view of the big red fire engines, with their wooden ladders, as they seemed to fill the tree-lined road, which in the early fifties was bereft of any parked cars. New Cross fire station was located at the bottom of the hill and Waller Road was a frequent transit route for these engines responding to some urgent call. The sight of these magnificent engines with the firemen getting dressed into their fire tunics and black helmets always filled my childhood mind with excitement and the hope of one day being able to join in their adventure.

Chapter 1
Every Cloud
Selection
I left secondary school in 1965. I left it much as I joined it, hopefully a bit wiser but without a worthwhile academic qualification to my name. The school, Samuel Pepys, was a South London secondary modern. Comprehensives were not that common then and this school was the destination for many boys in the local area who had not or could not pass their 11 plus exam. I did eventually get a school certificate when I left at sixteen. This meant that I attended school more than I missed it and managed to get to most classes on time. At school spilling and grimmer were never my best subjects, probably on a par with my maths. I found French and algebra totally bewildering and algebra still is! I was not much of a sportsman either. I played rugby and hockey because I had to and not because I was any good at them. My only saving grace was that I could swim, and very well. I represented both my school and the local borough of Deptford. This gave me some street cred at school with both my peers and some of the teaching staff. It was largely thanks to an extremely enthusiastic physical education teacher that I was introduced into Sub Aqua swimming. I took to it like the proverbial duck to water, soon passing all the snorkelling tests, which qualified me to use the compressed air tanks at the nearby swimming pool where the weekly training took place. The pool was located on the top floor of a three storey health centre in New Cross. Originally built in the early fifties, it was then state of the art but now looked tired, neglected and in need of considerable renovation. The pool training, however, was great and having a twelve feet deepend helped develop my snorkelling skills. The open water training was even better and was undertaken at various lakes in Kent and Essex and harbours along the south coast. I was soon able to qualify as a diver, third class. In the fifth form, my last school year, the form master was a Mr Mills. He was a quietly spoken Welshman in his mid-fifties. He had a halo of white wispy hair surrounding his shiny bald head. As a teacher he was okay but thirty years of teaching teenage boys, overloaded with the trials and tribulations of puberty and high on increasing levels of testosterone, had taken its toll on his enthusiasm for teaching. When teaching his own subject, maths, the bright and talented boys were clearly targeted whilst those, like me, were left to our own devices, working from a teach-yourself maths textbook. Mr Mills also doubled up as the schools career master, a task that he probably performed to increase his weekly

pay packet rather than for any altruistic reason. He had a simple career philosophy for those boys, who like me, had no natural academic flair; it was simple, Go to MOLINS boy. He called every pupil boy. Molins was a large local engineering firm, located in the depths of Deptford near the River Thames. We were convinced that Mr Mills actually worked for Molins as their recruitment officer rather than a teacher, especially given the large number of boys who ended up there as apprentices as soon as they left school. I had other ideas. It was no engineering factory for me, nor working in the newspaper industry as my father did. I wanted something different, something exciting and something that did not require at least ten GCEs to get it. The Metropolitan Police Cadet scheme caught my eye, which all too soon proved to be ironic! I sent off my application and much to my surprise I got an interview date at the Police Selection Centre in Borough Road, near London Bridge. On the appointed day I went proudly wearing my school uniform, which consisted of a rather worn school blazer, my faded and discoloured school badge, a prefects badge and my school swimming colours. I was out to impress but it was all, sadly, very short lived. First came the police medical examination. This included stripping naked, then standing on a pair of white footprints painted on the floor and having to face the wall! We had certain teachers who may have liked to get us into that position at school but surely not here? Anyway, whatever was inspected appeared satisfactory and was followed by the eyesight and hearing tests. The medical examination was immediately followed by the written tests. Directed into a large room with individual desks thirty or so of us hopeful boys each found a desk, sat and waited. We were briefed by a uniformed police sergeant on what was to happen next and were provided with the question papers. I was ready for this test and was even feeling reasonably confident. No sooner I had put my name on the answer sheet than I was told to leave the examination room. Another uniformed police sergeant told me I had failed my eyesight test. Giving me my train fare home he unceremoniously sent me on my way. I was disappointed, shocked and upset. I did not wear glasses and thought that I could see perfectly well. Then the mind games started. Maybe what they said at school about playing with yourself was true after all? Did it really send you blind? Thinking my dad would surely put two and two together and come up with the obvious cause for my early failing eyesight my mind was working overtime. Many of my uncles wore glasses so maybe the problem ran in the family? Confused and worried just what to tell my parents I choose to delay the inevitable and walked for a while. In truth I could not actually find my way back to London Bridge railway station! Whilst trying to think of possible excuses to offer for my failure, I came upon a large semi-derelict Victorian frontage next to Southwark Fire Station in Southwark Bridge Road. It turned out to be the defunct exterior of the London Fire Brigades training school and recruitment centre. On its wall was a weathered notice board containing an advert for their Junior Fireman scheme. I thought I would give that a try and apply to join the Fire Brigade as a cadet. Looking at the state of the building I thought their

standards could not be as high as those of the Police. I went in and found the Training School office and asked for an application form. On the way home I promised not to play with myself ever again or, at least, until after the eyesight test! I was nearly sixteen and old enough to apply to become a Junior Fireman in the London Fire Brigade. It was late 1964 and the London County Council (LCC) was preparing to become the newly created Greater London Council (GLC). Among its many responsibilities the GLC would be the Fire Authority for the Greater London area and the London Fire Brigade would become one of the largest Fire Brigades in the world. The GLC would absorb parts of Kent, Surrey, the whole of Middlesex, Croydon Borough and other county areas and Boroughs such as East Ham and West Ham that surrounded the old LCC boundary. There was, thankfully, no family inquest into my failure at the Police medical and no boxing gloves left for me on my bed. I thought my parents were very supportive of me joining the Fire Brigade as a cadet but it could have been they were just pleased I was looking for work, any work! My application form duly completed it was posted back to the Fire Brigade Headquarters. Now the wait for a reply. What my application clearly lacked in any national exam results and academic prowess was made up for by selling my Sub Aqua skills for all it was worth. Whether this actually made any difference I never discovered. But just after my sixteenth birthday, in January 1965, I was invited to attend the Cadets next selection tests at Southwark. I was to attend pure in mind, body and spirit. I also, as a precaution, had my eyesight tested at the local opticians to ensure I would not fall at that particular hurdle again. The London Fire Brigades training school had previously been the Headquarters of the Metropolitan Fire Brigade and the home of its most famous Chief Fire Officer, Sir Eyre Massey Shaw. Sadly the site showed none of its former glory and was now hidden behind its semi-derelict four storey frontage facing on Southwark Bridge Road. Behind this frontage was a random collection of unprepossessing Victorian brick buildings and fire brigade training facilities. The recruitment hut, for that is all it was, a wooden hut, was located at the far northern side of the training school at the end of a long narrow cobbled yard. The civilian staff welcomed us and checked our names off the list of that days candidates, a collection of hopeful, but nervous, adolescent lads. We were in stark contrast to the other fire-fighter recruits at the training school who all looked at least ten years older, much stronger, and far more self-assured. There were about twenty of us expectant cadets in that days selection intake. We were all required to take an educational test; undertake physical exercises; and undergo a through medical examination at County Hall. Finally, and if we got that far, attend an interview at Brigade Headquarters, located at Lambeth. Shown into a classroom in the hut we each sat at single desks. An unsmiling and aged looking man took us through the English, maths and dictation examinations. It was fortunate that they used the same tests more than

once because written on my wooden desk, and on the issued ruler, were answers to the sums and some of the more difficult spellings. With the aid of the desk and ruler I thought the tests were manageable, or was it we just had to prove we could actually read and write? Maybe fate would be kinder to me this time? Next came the two strength tests. These were done outside in the cobbled courtyard and taken by someone wearing a fire brigade uniform. He introduced himself as, Sub Officer Billingham. Squat in stature he looked extremely powerful. In a surly voice he explained what was expected of us whilst trying, at the same time, to put us at our ease, despite our nervousness about what we had to do. We had to pass these two separate strength tests to go on to the next stage of the selection process. Divided into pairs, each pair being approximately the same height and weight, we were required to perform a firemans lift and carry our partner one hundred yards in less than one minute. By way of a demonstration, and without a pause for breath, the Sub Officer hoisted the largest of our group onto his shoulder and briskly walked down the drill yard and about turned at the drill tower, fifty yards away. He effortlessly paced his way back to the starting point without the faintest hint of tiring and walking as though he was not even carrying anyone. Now it was our turn. The first ten to carry moved towards and faced their partners. Three of those being lifted either fell off completely or slid down the backs of those doing the lifting. One poor unfortunate soul was lifted with such gusto that he was thrown completely over the shoulder of this Hercules, landing in an undignified heap on the ground. Sub Officer Billinghams sudden outburst would have done credit to a Smithfield or Covent Garden porter as his colourful language turned the air blue and its tone made us all quake in our boots. He told the power lifter, in no uncertain terms, that he was meant to hold onto his partner and he was not trying to toss an effing caber! Meanwhile the poor lad, lying prostrate on the ground, was feeling the lump on his forehead grow ever larger. He got little sympathy from the still berating Billingham, who seemed unimpressed by the antics of his juvenile charges. Whilst encouraging us to get our act together he dispatched the first pairs off down the yard, some clearly staggering under the weight on their backs. All made it, except for one. I was in this first group and one rather tubby chap was clearly having trouble. As we were coming back up the yard he was still going down, huffing and puffing and struggling with his charge. The Sub Officer was not as hard-hearted as he made out. He let the sweating, and heavily breathing potential firefighter, catch his breath and try again. Sadly he fared no better the second time and was sent back to the hut. We did not see him again. Our number depleted by one, we moved onto the second test. It involved winding the handle on the side of a metal A-frame that was firmly secured to the ground. There was a wire running from a central drum, over a pulley and connected to a large weight that stood on the ground. The weight had to be lifted up by turning the handle. This was geared to make the lift the equivalent of

winding up a fifty foot wheeled escape ladder, which we had seen the recruits using in the main drill yard. Sub Officer Billingham again demonstrated what was expected of us by turning the winding handle. He did it with ease and we watched the weight rise smoothly and rapidly to the top of the frame. Thats it my lovelies, just do that in one minute. He had done it in well under the time allowed. Hercules, the guy who had thrown his partner over his shoulder, elected to go first and we looked on in horror as he struggled to raise the weight in the time. Red faced, he was obviously relieved that he made it. Sadly, another of our number, even after a second attempt, failed and he was on his way home too. The rest of us managed it but not without a struggle. Before lunch those remaining were given the results of the educational tests, fire brigade fashion that is. Two names were called out and told to go to the wooden hut. We did not see them again either. The rest of us were sent off to lunch in the training school canteen. It was here we got our first glimpse of real junior firemen, who seemed rather puny against the other adult recruits. Our small group of potential future cadets felt very conspicuous in our civilian clothes when everyone else was wearing various types of firemens uniform and kit. We huddled together at a large corner table at the back of the canteen, kept our heads down, ate our lunch and said very little. Following lunch we were driven to County Hall, on the South Bank, for the medical examinations. County Hall was the headquarters of the then LCC and would become the new home of the enlarged GLC. Conversation was nervous and consisted mainly of where we each lived, school and football. I was never a football fan so probably made a complete ass of myself trying to talk about something I knew nothing of. Driven in a green box van that had no side windows, we sat on the two rows of hard wooden bench seats located down each side. The driver, a grey haired, middle-aged stout fireman was wearing worn blue overalls. His weathered overall trousers were held up by a wide black leather belt, as it tried in vain to contain his enormous beer gut. He seemed to enjoy the short journey from Southwark, deriving great pleasure by throwing us out of our seats as he turned the corners too fast or braking hard when he had to stop, which seemed all too frequently. We arrived somewhat shaken and dishevelled at the steps of County Hall, a large white stone-faced office complex. We were directed by our grinning driver to its main entrance and told to ask at reception for the medical department. The complex was large, very large, and much bigger than most of us had experienced before. It was certainly more complicated than finding your way around school. Eventually, after various people pointed us in the right direction, we found the medical department on one of the upper floors. We were immediately greeted by a nurse who handed out strange flute shaped glass containers that we were told to pee in. This was like the police medical but for one of our number it was a totally new and embarrassing experience as his flushed face clearly demonstrated. Tentatively he walked into the small cubical, only to return to the nurse saying that he could not pee. Obviously used to such problems, the nurse made him drink what seemed

like a gallon of water and told him to come back later. The rest of us supplied the requisite sample without too much difficulty. The medical continued; poking around in our ears; sticking wooden sticks in our mouths; reading from eyesight charts and having our hearing checked. The examinations were performed by a doctor, at least he said he was? He looked incredibly old. He had pale wrinkly skin, sunken eyes and a narrow unsmiling mouth, he was small and seemingly very frail, his white medical coat came down almost to his shoes. Whilst he listened to our own breathing he wheezed noisily, his nicotine stained fingers giving a clue as to the cause, before he took our blood pressure. It was here the medical took a very different direction from our normal school medicals and I felt distinctly uncomfortable. Told to drop my trousers and remove my underpants I had to expose my private parts so they could undergo his professional scrutiny. I was instructed to cough whilst his shaky hand cupped my testicles. I prayed his hand would stop shaking long enough whilst holding them so as not to cause unwanted stirrings. Fortunately Percy remained flaccid and pointing downward, no doubt in shock. Much relieved, I quickly pulled my trousers back up and the medical was over. The height requirement, then, for a man joining the London Fire Brigade was five feet eight inches. If you joined the Junior Firemen scheme you had to be at least five feet six inches and reach five feet eight inches by your eighteenth birthday. How was this growth potential determined? Well it was all in your ball size apparently. Some clever individual came up with the incredible theory that the size of your balls at sixteen could determine your height by eighteen. It was this medical fact that indicated which of those under five feet eight inches had the potential to grow taller. I was already over five feet eight inches so it was not a problem for me. This was just a well as I was already one ball short due to a childhood accident. This anomaly seemed to bemuse the doctor during the cradling of my manhood, as he spent some time searching for the missing one. At least, that is what I hoped he was doing. Sadly for some height-impaired cadets it was discovered that this very dubious measuring system was not infallible. By the time they reached their eighteenth birthday some balls clearly had earlier had delusions of grandeur and their size proved to be no indication of their owners ability to reach the required height. The old adage that you shouldnt judge a book by its cover seemed apt. Only in this case, just dont judge a cadets potential height by the contents of his scrotum! The last round of the day were the selection interviews. They were conducted at the Brigades Headquarters at Lambeth, located on the Albert Embankment. We were again transported in the box-van and escorted to the second floor on our arrival. Told to wait in an office we were called one by one for interview. Our numbers dwindled as individual candidates were called for and then made their way home without returning to the office. Eventually my turn came and I was shown into an imposing office overlooking the River Thames. Two uniformed senior officers were seated behind a wide wooden desk. Whilst one of the officers introduced themselves the other picked up a file and asked me to confirm if the details he read out were accurate? Clear recall of the

interview has now faded but the officers appeared more interested in my swimming and sub aqua achievements rather than anything else. Having rehearsed some really impressive reasons for wanting to join the Fire Brigade I was never asked why I actually wanted to join, something I always found strange. They did mention my failure at the previous eyesight test with the police and pointed out that this is something they would have to look into with the Medical Officer. They said they would be in touch and let me know if I had been accepted or not. The or not sounded rather ominous. Their decision would be notified by letter, and it was. The letter duly arrived at my parents home in Chelsfield, Kent. I had been accepted and I was delighted, not least because I could tell Mr Mills that I would not end up having to go to Molins! My starting date with the Brigade was the 1st April 1965, the day the Greater London Council was to be officially created. It was also another special day; one famous for its practical jokes. Was I the recipient of some cruel practical joke? Dad rang the telephone number given on the letter and confirmed that it was genuine. My last day at school was only a few weeks away, or so I thought. The school, however, had other plans and wanted my start date delayed so I could sit my GCEs, which I subsequently failed with a capital F. So it was not until the 13th September 1965 that I excitedly set off by train to London Bridge and then made the short walk to Southwark Training School. My first day of training in the London Fire Brigade.

Chapter 2
F Squad
Basic Training
I was no stranger to commuting, my parents having moved from South London to Chelsfield a year earlier. This meant I travelled back and forth to school each day by train, getting off at New Cross and walking the couple of miles to school in Brockley. Today, however, I stayed on the train to London Bridge and then walked to the training school. I was filled with a mixture of nervousness and excited anticipation as I began my first day of real paid work. I was to be paid the princely sum of 5.10s.0d per week, which was considerably more than the apprentice rates at Molins. Walking through the arched entrance of the training school I passed unnoticed as I joined the adult recruits, their training instructors and firemen from Southwark fire station either reporting for duty or that days training. My letter had instructed me to report to the Training School office and to report to Station Officer Charlie Swanton. He was not at all what I had expected to find, but we were to discover that Charlie Swanton had been a long-time serving fire officer with a reputation as an excellent governor and an experienced smoke eater. Sadly, he was now crippled with disfigured hands and joints because of his severe arthritis. He had not wanted to leave the Brigade and had been transferred into this post, which meant that he was no longer an operational officer. He and his wife lived in Brigade accommodation above Southwark fire station and, conveniently, next door to the adjoining Goldsmiths Arms public house, his favourite haunt. Despite his considerable pain, he possessed a wonderful sense of humour and it was impossible to faze him no matter what problems he was presented with. This included, among many other things, dealing with the Councils auditors, who on finding the petty cash short challenged Charlie, prompted no doubt by an IOU he had placed in the office safe in lieu of the money he had borrowed and naturally intended to, and would, replace! Together with the other first day cadets we were redirected to the same hut where we had undertaken our initial selection tests. It was here we re-assembled to meet our training instructors. Our names ticked off, we were divided into two separate groups, each group told to sit and wait in one of the two classrooms in the hut. There were ten of us now sitting down together and making uneasy small talk when the door opened and in walked a powerfully built uniformed officer in his mid-thirties. He had a round stern face, with no hint of a smile, no neck, and a head that sat directly on top of his shoulders. He instructed us to

stand in a clear authoritative voice, which stopped all conversation dead. He strutted to a lectern at the front of the class and eyed the now apprehensive and attentive gathering. Good morning gentlemen my name is Station Officer Knight and until you complete you training, or fail it, I am your instructor. Sit down. It was probably the one time he ever called us gentlemen. He was, however, very inventive with his other choice phrases used to describe our collective or individual efforts during our basic training. Removing his cap he revealed a US marine style crew cut, which did little to improve the looks of his lived-in face. The toecaps of his black service shoes shone like mirrors. He called the roll and we each had to stand up in turn to introduce ourselves when our name was read out aloud. As we each stood he gave us all a cursory inspection and said, Hair cut by tomorrow. With roll call completed his face softened into a smile and he even managed to look friendly. Welcome lads; you are now officially F Squad, my Squad. My name is Len but you will call me Sir. We did not know it then but it was his first day too, having been selected to join the Training School as one of an enlarged team of Junior Firemen cadet instructors. The first day was a mixture of introductions to the site; allocation of lockers and getting haircuts (then some getting it cut again!). By the afternoon we were travelling to the GLC stores depot in South West London to be issued with our uniform and personal kit. It was a drawn out affair. We were first measured then issued with uniform that did not always fit anyway. We were given three styles of uniform; fire kit consisting of rubber fireboots, (only recruits were issued with the heavy leather fireboots), rubberised black leggings; black thick woollen fire tunic with two lines of chrome buttons down the front, a wide webbing belt and the firemans axe plus, of course, the large black cork fire helmet. Second was our walking-out uniform including the cap with the red band that indicated that we were junior firemen. This was something that in the months ahead adult recruits would constantly remind us of. We were issued with blue shirts that had detachable collars, but no collar studs! (Both my grandfathers had died before I was born but I had seen pictures of them with their stiff starched collars and collar studs.) I had never used collar studs, and when I did, the bloody things would bore their way into your Adams apple within seconds of putting them on. For some strange reason, known only to the Fire Brigade, the black naval style double-breasted jacket and trousers was called an undress uniform. It was only worn on smart occasions or if you were in trouble and were to get a bollocking by a senior officer. Finally the work overalls comprising separate blue dungaree trousers and jacket. The issued shoes did not have the highly polished toecaps that our instructor shoes had. That was to come and we would soon learn the meaning and art of spit and polish. We were getting to learn each others names and recognise faces. We would grow much closer during the months ahead; some friendships and associations would last throughout our careers. For now F Squad was no more than a bunch of youngsters all with the common aim of wanting to become firemen. The squad was made up of Reg Banks, Mike Brown, Peter Cox, Kit Carson,

David Melbourne, John Norris, Keith Popple, Dennis Stevens, Bill Wise and me. It was far too early to determine individual personalities or abilities, that would come later. Basic training in the first few weeks was aptly named. It would be weeks before we even got near a fire engine. Those early days consisted of learning to march; keeping in step; running out heavy canvas hose, joining hoses together and connecting a nozzle (which firemen call a branch); putting a standpipe on a water hydrant; turning the water on, then trying to control the hose against the pressure of water coming out the nozzle. We learnt about ropes (called lines), practised tying different knots used in the Brigade, plus we did lots and lots of cleaning. We cleaned everything; the drill yard, the toilets, our locker room and classrooms. We could certainly handle a mop and bucket by the end of the first couple of weeks even if we could not do much else. As for our progress with the training, but especially the marching, it was not long before Len Knight demonstrated his particular oratory skills and his sense of the dramatic. His frustration at our pitiful efforts at trying to do things the way he had just told us to do them resulted in him pulling off his cap, throwing it to the ground and telling us in no uncertain terms what he thought of us. Our initial attempts at marching as a squad were pitiful. Some would be turning right when they should be turning left or kept on going forward when they should be about-turning. We could also manage to fall over the hose when rolling it along the ground, or worse still, try to join identical hose couplings together, which is something that is impossible to do, although we tried! Each lad was issued with a personal set of the Brigades Standard Technical Notes. These notes, and instructions would make up the major theoretical part of our training course. It was the accepted teaching practice then (and would be for many years to come) to place a lot of emphasis on facts and figures concerning weight, size, diameters, construction, and what things were made from and why. Many of the notes had remained unchanged for years and contained information that would only have been useful in a firemens trivia quiz. Some of the information was far more important however and gave valuable details and instruction on building construction; hydraulics; pumps and pumping water, and elements in the art of practical firemanship. This information, useful or otherwise, had to be committed to memory over the coming months but used rarely in practice after that. Some information, however, was important straight away. This included how equipment was tested, how to make certain it was safe to use and when to test it. These Standard Notes, as they were called, were the same as issued to all recruits, but the adult recruits had to absorb the contents within their twelve to fourteen weeks of basic training before their final examinations and passing out as firemen. Junior Firemen also attended the City of London day college, located near the Barbican. This was to provide additional educational training as well as technical studies including chemistry and physics. A highlight was the hydraulics and building study sessions but only because the unassuming tutor was a sixth Dan Karate expert. If the session got a bit heavy he could often be

talked into breaking a brick or two! Our sister squad, G squad, combined with us for these twice weekly afternoon college sessions and we regularly joined forces to annoy our teenage college rivals, trainees from the Post Office, also on day release. In those early days of intense training the historical background of the Brigades training school made little or no real impression on us. Our world consisted of the locker room, classrooms, drill yards and towers; the canteens and, of course, the loos which we seemed to be forever cleaning. Yet the site, which now formed the training school, had a long and colourful history long before the Fire Brigade got its hands on it in 1878, nearly ninety years earlier. Once a burial site for the Great Plague victims in the mid-1600s, it later became a pleasure ground in the eighteenth century before a three-storey hat factory was finally erected together with the owners twenty-room home called Winchester House. The Victorian factory remained, as did Winchester House, which still retains the name today. The original hat factory buildings formed a major part of the current training school site. Londons fire brigade, then called the London Fire Engine Establishment, originally had its Headquarters located in the City of London but had outgrown the site. The site at Southwark was purchased and impressive new buildings and facilities were added to the existing hat factory. It became the new Headquarters of the renamed Metropolitan Fire Brigade under the command of its first Chief Officer, Captain Eyre Massey Shaw. He was to live in the twenty-room house and became quite a celebrity on Londons privileged social scene and enjoyed in his circle of acquaintances the then Prince of Wales. His home, in later years, would become an important listed building and heritage site and the home to the Brigades unique niche museum. But in 1965 the site had lacked funds for maintenance and had done so for some time. With the transfer of the Brigades Headquarters in 1937 to a new location in Lambeth much of the Victorian frontage facing Southwark Bridge Road, built of red brick with magnificent white carved stonework and ornate features, lay unused. Time, and the lack of maintenance, had taken its toll. The building looked forlorn and tired with much of it being left semi-derelict. When first built this impressive frontage, some two hundred and fifty feet in length and five storeys high, sent out a clear message about the standing and pride of the Metropolitan Fire Brigade. An imposing arched entrance was incorporated in this new frontage that gave access to the private courtyard in front of Winchester House, the Chief Officers private residence. On either side of this arch were large hand carved reliefs, sculpted in Portland stone, depicting heroic scenes of the Fire Brigades derring-do and showing firemen and their engines in action. Above the arch, and again in hand carved stonework, was the new crest of the Metropolitan Fire Brigade. Built on the roof was a tall latticed signalling tower, used to semaphore messages to other local fire stations, which looked much like a church steeple with two arms located at its tip. At the southern end of the building, on the ground floor, was the Headquarters fire station. Its three fire appliance bays housed the hose-carts and horse drawn manual fire engines. Later

it would hold the latest in innovative fire engine design, steam fire engines drawn by teams of horses. The Metropolitan firemen manning those engines were on call twenty-four hours a day. They lived with their families at the station in accommodation above the engine room. The unmarried firemen shared barracks also located in the Headquarters site. Now this dilapidated and sad looking frontage of the former Headquarters building was unoccupied except, that is, for the hundreds of pigeons who called it home and probably a large rat or two. It did have some human occupants however; Junior Firemen. We had been allocated a ground floor area that was called the B Locker room. This locker room was meant to keep us safe and sound and distant from possible interference from the grown up recruits in the main locker room on the far side of the training school. Even bunking with the grown ups would have been preferable to the constant smell of rotting bird shit that we had to endure. The remainder of the training school site consisted of former stores; stables and the old Brigades workshop building. All had been adapted and converted over the years to provide the range of training facilities that the fire brigade needed to meet the requirements of the day. Its drill yards were nearly all laid to cobblestones and it was once reputed to be the largest enclosed cobbled area in London. There had been some recent improvements to the site, which included modernisation of some classrooms in the old hat factory and a new eight storey concrete drill tower that was meant to be dedicated to the Junior Fireman scheme. However, demand for scarce training resources caused occasional clashes. It was not unknown for recruit and junior firemen instructors to come eyeball-to-eyeball, haggling over who was to get priority on the tower or a drill yard. Weeks quickly turned into months and we were getting our act together. I was now capable of performing hose drills; carrying and pitching a ladder into a drill tower and even made my first exploratory ascent on a hook ladder. The hook ladder was a test of nerve and climbing ability. This ladder was climbed on the outside of the drill tower, suspended from a steel hook that was secured over the windowsill. To start, the ladder would be lifted and placed up against the tower with the extended steel hook secured over the first floor sill. You would climb using the right hand and foot together, then the left hand and foot, so as to maintain a natural balance on the ladder. On reaching the head of the hook ladder you would grip the top, whilst swinging one leg into the tower and, with your bum on the sill, the other leg would be taken off the ladder and your foot would now point down the outside of the tower. Lifting the hook ladder out of the drill tower, with the hook pointing away from you, and grasping the ladder on either side you pushed it up, hand over hand to the next windowsill and then swing the hook back in again securing the hook on the sill above you. Climbing back on to the hook ladder and by repeating the process at each floor you could eventually reach the required height. But that was still some way down the line. For us, just lifting the ladder off the ground demonstrated one of the reasons why the strength tests were necessary in the selection process. By the end of our course, and in order to pass out as a fireman, I would have to climb the hook

ladder to the fifth floor, firstly on my own and then in a two man crew (with lowering lines carried on our backs) to the same level. Oh joy!

Outward Bound
Just before Christmas 1965 we were allocated our Outward Bound Course schools which are located in various places around Great Britain. This course formed an integral part of the syllabus for all Junior Firemen. Although the four Junior Firemen squads were at various stages of their training it was decided that we should all attend at the same time. We thought the Brigade probably got a cheaper rate sending us in the middle of winter, when no one else in their right mind would want to go, which actually proved not to be the case. The individual squads were split up and cadets divided equally between the three different locations. The schools were in Wales, Yorkshire and Devon. I was allocated to Ashburton near Newton Abbot in South Devon. On the 3rd January 1966 and still recovering from an over-indulgence of cider after the New Year celebrations, I found myself bound for Newton Abbot by train. Upon arrival I was collected, with a gang of other lads armed with either suitcases or backpacks, and put on a coach and driven off into the night. It was incredibly dark! Living in London I had not realised just how dark the night sky could be without light filtering from streetlamps, factories and peoples homes. We eventually arrived at an isolated country house, its lights illuminating the tall, uncovered windows. Ushered inside by the staff we were greeted by the Director of the Outward Bound School and joined other lads, already waiting, in a grand room for the Directors introduction to the course. He quickly outlined the four-week programme and set out the house rules. No smoking. No drinking and definitely no sex! As none of us had seen any sign of a female the last rule did not seem too hard to manage. Just good old-fashioned fun and hard work. We were then sorted into prearranged mixed groups. I joined twelve other lads, all under eighteen, that formed our team. A tall, lean, bespectacled man in his late twenties joined us and introduced himself as Michael Vinney-Wilson. He was our team instructor and told us he was a former RAF pilot (Flight Lieutenant). He showed us around the school which contained several communal dormitories, a canteen, the sick-bay, which seemed ominous, and the staff quarters. They were strictly off limits to us lads. Then it was into supper and off to bed. Vinney-Wilson said he would see us again in the morning, early. What with the general chitchat, chatter, and introductions it was not until the early hours of the morning before anyone got to off to sleep. We were rudely woken at 5.30 am by Vinney-Wilson turning all the lights on and standing there in his running kit for the first of our daily 6 oclock morning runs. There was no trainers or running shoes for the Junior Firemen just fire brigade issue black rubber and canvas, very cheap, plimsolls. They were crap and horrible to run in. Led by Vinney-Wilson we joined all the other teams and their instructors and started running, almost blindly, in the still near total darkness. Following the dimly lit path we stumbled around the four-mile route until we got back to the

school with our chests heaving and lungs burning. None of us were prepared for what that followed next, a very cold shower! However, some lads quickly got to grips with this early morning treat by blocking up the centre holes of the shower heads with soap and standing in a water free cone. The course was clearly already working and developing our personal initiative and survival skills. We were a mixed bag, coming from a variety of organisations that sent its under eighteens on the course. Some were cadets from Police or other fire brigade cadet schemes. Others came from larger companies that ran apprentice training. The London junior firemen, however, made up the largest single grouping. To counter this, we were evenly divided amongst the other teams. I joined eleven others that included two older London junior firemen, Ray Ford and Mike French. Mike was the size of a giant, well over 6ft tall and built like the proverbial brick shithouse. Over the next four weeks the courses aim was to develop and stretch us both mentally and physically. It would help build our physical strength and, hopefully, increase personal confidence besides showing us the benefits of working as a team. However, some lads were already showing signs of being confident, to the point of arrogance. Most of the instructional staff, like Vinney-Wilson, had a military background. They were ex-army, marines or the RAF. They all seemed in their late twenties to early thirties, were extremely fit and highly motivated. Whilst they could, and did, push us hard at times, they were not out to undermine our confidence or prove that they were better or stronger than us, which of course they were. They all possessed an excellent attitude towards their role and their teenage charges. If we played up at times, and we did, they knew exactly how to handle us in a firm but friendly manner leaving us in no doubt as to who was in charge. This is more than can be said of our own people skills. For when tensions or conflict arose, between individuals or groups, it occasionally resulted in fists being used to settle the argument. Thankfully, I managed to avoid those situations but by some strange coincidence it always seemed to involve the police cadets and it was not always entirely their own fault. The course was out of this world. I had not experienced anything like it before. It was both testing and varied. We had adventures climbing the tors of Dartmoor; abseiling into deep quarries; caving on Exmoor; canoeing down the River Dart and performing cliff rescues on near sheer cliff faces at Berry Head (well they seemed sheer at the time!) The exercises had been developed to make us work and think together as a team and to bring out individual leadership skills. Such tasks involved, for example, getting large heavy objects from one side of an area to the other, but without them touching the ground. We had to utilise the equipment given to us, to improvise and we were given no direction as how to achieve the task. Mostly we managed it, after a fashion, but sometimes we got our knickers in a real twist and it all went horribly wrong. The debrief afterwards let us know how to arrive at a possible solution and how we might have worked better as a team. There were also various hikes and extended forced walks. These started with easy half-day excursions that built up to the

twenty-four hour solo hike on Dartmoor and a three day endurance hike from North Devon back to Ashburton. My own twenty-four hour solo hike tested my fear of the dark and my overactive imagination. One very cold morning we were taken to separate locations on Dartmoor. Each lad was given his map bearings and told to make his way back to the school by breakfast the following day. Issued with only a small tent, primus, billy-can and food for twenty-four hours we each set off from our individual starting points in the direction of Ashburton. Some dry clothing was packed in our backpacks but mainly what you wore was it. Thankfully, despite the cold, it was a bright, clear winters day with thick frost covering the ground. I enjoyed the walking and even read the map correctly managing not to take compass bearings on moving sheep! This was something I had achieved in my compass practice much to my embarrassment and to the amusement of the others on the training session out on the moor. I found the required landmarks for the route I had planned without too much difficulty. With all ten of us on the moor, although taking different individual routes, it still felt strange not to see anyone else not even the instructional staff that were meant to be keeping a watchful, if distant, eye on us, in case we got lost or injured. Their only contact came in the early evening when a staff member checked up on each lad to make sure things were alright and we had set up camp properly for the night. To say I was enthusiastic about camping out on Dartmoor, on my own, and in the dark, would be a gross overstatement. I was shitting myself. I made my hot drink and cooked and ate my ration pack, which tasted utterly disgusting. Tented down I climbed fully clothed, less boots, into my sleeping bag and drifted off into a fretful sleep. The evening mist that came down when I set up camp had cleared and now a bright shining full moon was illuminating the star filled night sky when I awoke in the very early hours of the following day. In fact it was so bright you could walk around without a torch lighting your way. I thought it was a good move to make tracks, regardless of the time, and head off back to the school. After a quick hot drink and breaking camp I set off across the moor looking forward to my cooked breakfast back upon my return. It was about 3 am and my early start would put me ahead of schedule. I could get back in time to see the others having to endure that bloody early morning run. Although the moor was lit by moonlight, I still had to navigate by compass as it was difficult, if not impossible, to make out distant landmarks clearly. I kept to my bearings and knew that I had to locate a stone slab bridge that crossed a stream, if I was to follow my chosen route. I could see moonlight reflected in the stream and looking ahead I could see the glistening slabs of a granite bridge crossing the stream in the distance. I was really pleased with myself; maybe being on your own at night was not so bad after all. I have always had a fear of the dark but this was not dark was it? But here on my own, on Dartmoor, I still had my imagination to contend with.

Moving purposefully towards the bridge I suddenly froze. I felt cold and clammy as the blood drained from my face and I could feel my heart pounding violently in my chest. In the distance, sitting or crouching just by the side of the bridge, was somebody or was it something? My recollection is as clear today as it was then. This something, that my rational brain told me was only a boulder or jagged rock, had the distinct outline of an old hag or witch sitting there, waiting. For what; me? My imagination overruled my rational thoughts and there was no effing way I was going anywhere near that bridge. So leaving whoever or whatever it was behind me I turned and walked quickly in the opposite direction out onto the open moor. Within a short time I had got myself totally lost. Not quite sure where I was, I saw a light in the far distance and made for it, falling waist deep into a bog in the process. Now wet, cold, and getting colder by the minute I made my way towards the light. It came from a barn next to an isolated moorland farmhouse. Exhausted I lay down on some straw and fell into a deep sleep only to be woken by the farmer inspecting this strange new addition to his livestock. A kind and friendly man, he quickly guessed I was yet another lost outward-bounder. After giving me a cup of hot tea he pointed me in the right direction and sent me on my way. I left the farm at about 6 am and even made it back to the school for breakfast. As I grew nearer my goal, the hike almost over, I met up with other equally weary hikers heading back to Ashburton. None of us, it seemed, had an easy night on the moor? During the course it was strongly rumoured by us, not so worldly wise, lads that our drinks were laced with bromide so as to keep our sexual arousal and activity in check. This was probably untrue but, even so, the early morning cross-country running, cold showers and long active days did not leave much energy for playing with oneself or anyone else for that matter (male or female). Nevertheless, the subject was a popular topic of conversation at lights out. The lure of the attractive matrons underwear, left hanging in the laundry, became a magnet to those needing an antidote to the alleged effects of the bromide. Ray was determined to publicly disprove the bromide theory. One night in our dormitory and in the privacy of his own bed, thankfully, Ray gave a narrated wank. It turned into a highly amusing, one-handed, affair with a string of Rays sexual exploits thrown in to set the mood. His climax was greeted with loud cheers and a round of applause. Although from the look of some of the faces around the room they had already disproved the bromide theory for themselves. With most of the course completed, only the final three-day hike was left. This was a strenuous hike against the clock that would test both our resolve and team spirit. Split into groups of sixes or sevens and provided with maps, camping equipment and food we were dropped off seventy miles from the school on the northern side of Dartmoor and told to get on with it. We had to phone the school on the first and second evenings to report progress and were expected to arrive back on the third day. Each group had to select its own leader and much to my surprise, especially as Mike the gentle giant was in our group, I was elected. It was to be Mike that stood out as the champion of our small band

of hikers, however, and showed what determination under adversity was all about. All those attending the school had been issued with hiking boots from their parent organisation or had bought their own. The fire brigade had issued walking boots to the Junior Firemen. (Army surplus, what else, although I am not sure from which war!) Whilst we had to wear these army boots, Mike had feet to match his height, size fourteen! Apparently nothing was available in that size from the army surplus stock. The GLC Supplies Dept had had to find Mike suitable sized boots, which they eventually did. His only problem was that they were mountaineering boots and not walking boots. These boots had rigid soles and were not meant for normal hiking. Short hikes for Mike had been uncomfortable, but he had coped. Now he had to cover over seventy miles in three days. Without the three-day expedition under your belt you could not complete the course, which was something none of us wanted to happen but especially Mike. For late January the weather was exceptionally kind. We had experienced some flurries of snow high on the moor; the occasional passing sleet shower, but in the main it was dry, bright and cold. We camped at night with two sharing a tent and managed not to fall out over the allocation of chores. Day one had taken its toll on Mikes feet. We had covered nearly thirty miles that first day, but Mike had walked more slowly in the last hour and we decided to let him set the pace, prior to camping for the night. When he eventually took off his boots he had painful raw blisters on each foot but there was not much we could do about them. Day two started at about 6 am. At least there was no cross-country run and cold shower out here. After porridge, we packed our gear and set off again. Mike had decided to burst his blisters and had put plasters on them during the night. He was quiet during the mornings hike, clearly in some discomfort, but never asked us to stop or for others to help with his backpack. We had agreed, prior to starting the three-day event, that we would try to be the first group back to Ashburton but we recognised we had lost time on our self-imposed schedule. Our designated route combined moorland, across open country and road walking. The roads seemed worst of all for Mike and his feet were obviously hurting yet he never once complained except, that is, of what he thought about the bloody boots he had to wear. On the second night I had reported in, from a telephone call box, and told the instructor that Mike was suffering badly from sore feet but that he wanted to continue the walk tomorrow, our final day. When Mike removed his boots that evening we looked on in horror as we saw his socks soaked in blood. The boots had rubbed his feet raw or, at least, it looked like they had. After washing his feet they did not look quite so bad but the blistered areas had grown in size and looked painfully sore which, Mike assured us, they were. Refusing any special treatment, he undertook his share of the tasks as we set up camp for the night.

The weather on day three matched our mood; grey and overcast. We knew we would never be first back now. We agreed this was not a problem; now it was just a matter of getting back together as a team. Even putting his boots back on hurt Mike but his determination to complete the hike was obvious. Despite his protests we divided his backpack contents between us so that he only had to walk; although limp would be a more apt description. We had to stop more frequently so Mike could rest his feet but only once was it at his request. Mike was probably the biggest and strongest of all those attending the winter school yet never pushed his weight about. His strength was always focussed on getting the job done and not wanting to let others down. By the afternoon he was walking with his boots undone, the laces removed to ease the pressure on his feet. We were now ambling along rather than walking and Mikes only concern was he was letting us all down. We said, with a few extra choice expletives thrown in, that the stupid bastard who issued the boots should be walking in them. Late afternoon and with the last few miles to go it was clear, no matter how hard he wanted to finish, Mikes feet were not going to let him. The instructional staff were now watching the routes around the school and they transported Mike the last couple of miles to the school and into the sick bay for treatment. It was a privilege to have shared the company of Mike over those three days and understand what determination and commitment to a team can mean. Thankfully Mikes feet, no longer encased in those boots, made a rapid recovery. We never saw Mike in those bloody boots again and they were last seen floating down the River Dart towards the sea. Because of his resolve Mike was deemed to have completed the hike. It had been a great fun filled four weeks and most of us seemed sad that it was now all over. We had learnt things about ourselves and each other. We had faced up to some of our fears and tried to overcome them. Not always successfully; I remain fearful of the dark but can now hide it better. On the final morning, after the Course Director addressed us all, we returned to say farewell to individual team instructors. Vinney-Wilson had been an excellent tutor, a great guy, funny and intelligent. We had all gained from what he taught us, most of all about ourselves. We had clubbed together to get him a couple of bottles of whisky, which seemed to genuinely surprise him and he was moved to receive them. It was not the only surprise of the morning. In each group the instructor awarded a special Outward Bound tie to the individual who had made a noteworthy or outstanding contribution to the team over the four weeks. I naturally thought of Mike or even Rays wank as news of his disproving the bromide myth had travelled far and wide! When my name was called and Vinney-Wilson presented me with the tie I was speechless. (I still have the tie as a memento of a wonderful time and a unique experience.) After a group photo it was off to the railway station, home for the weekend and back to training at Southwark on the Monday morning. But not for long because we cadets were being moved to a new dedicated college. We were off to Swanley in Kent.