Written & Published to raise funds for the UK’s FIRE FIGHTERS’ CHARITY.
‘Will someone please fetch some ‘f……’ blankets and put them over their faces to give them some sort of ‘f……’ dignity!’, shouted Marco, a leading hand from another station who was very well respected on our fireground. The sharpness of his voice and his stark suggestion had served its purpose, as it succeeded in snapping us all out of the trance-like state into which we had fallen, as we stared in disbelief at what our eyes were trying to convince us to perceive – three corpses, all young lads – each one laid out in a line next to the other, like casualties of war – in the middle of a rain-drenched main road – all of whom had been prematurely torn from life a matter of minutes before. Apparently, the torrent that was now pouring down on us had served earlier to create a fine sheen on the top surface of the tarmac which, when cornering in fast cars, made that particular part of the carriageway notoriously treacherous. In effect, it became the driving equivalent of an ice-skating rink. Quite what had happened, nobody knew for sure, but, as was the case with firefighting back then, questions were always saved for later – it was action that counted. But, on this particular evening, there was very little that we could do, or, in fact, that could be done. (Full story available for 99p using PayPal)