Fire Service Messengers

No-one ever seems to mention the NFS (National Fire Service) Messengers. They were recruited in 1943, mostly from local schools. We were from about 15 to 17 years old, and worked one or two nights a week, and during the day in school holidays. We were issued with navy blue battledress, NFS greatcoat, army gas-mask and steel helmet. The idea was that we would take urgent messages on our bicycles if there was a complete breakdown of communications and generally run errands and make ourselves useful. There was, of course, no likelihood of communication breakdown and anyway we were never asked to bring our bikes to work. So we acted as ‘firemen’s boys’, doing odd jobs, like holding on to a branch (the business end of the hose) while the fireman lit a fag. We were only attached to the ‘red stations’ — the old-established ones with red appliances. We often rode with the crews to incidents, both domestic and due to enemy action. It was the time of the flying bombs and us lads would sometimes help to dig victims out of collapsed houses. I was the Senior Messenger for the Bromley division and often used to ride with the Divisional Officer in his car, with little to do on those occasions, except to try to look alert and busy in my tin hat with two red and white bands on it. Riding on some of the old pre-war appliances was much more tricky. I remember once standing on the back of one, hanging onto the brass rail for dear life, at high speed down Bromley High Street in the middle of the night, when my ill-fitting battledress trousers fell down. Terrified to let go of the rail, especially as the driver would occasionally swerve to miss piles of broken glass and delighted in going round roundabouts the wrong way, I had to wait till we reached Farnborough before I could pull them up.

Life was full of fun. At the height of the V1 bombardment, instructions came from HQ that all personnel must sleep on the ground floor. The only space available to us messengers was the petrol store, so we slept on the ground between jerry-cans of petrol — hardly the safest place in the world. At least it cut down on our cigarette consumption.

Another instruction from HQ was that every appliance should have a member of the crew who would listen for flying bombs and ring the fire-bell if they were going to land nearby. The job often fell to a messenger. When flying bomb engines cut out, the bomb either dived straight down, or went on gliding. So, one would stand there listening to the sound of the bomb’s engine, when it would suddenly stop. You then thought you would be on the safe side and ring the bell. Everyone in earshot would throw themselves to the ground, and several long minutes later, there would be the distant faint sound of an explosion. Everyone would get up again, shouting “why did you ring the f-ing bell, you stupid c***”. Next time, you knew better, and when the engine stopped you kept quiet. Seconds later, there would be an enormous explosion with everyone shouting “why didn’t you ring the f-ing bell”. It was an early lesson that you cannot please anyone any of the time, no matter how hard you try.

Towards the end of the flying-bomb bombardment, HQ had the brilliant idea that the NFS should set up observation posts on high buildings and report by telephone where the bomb had landed. The scheme was to get the fire crews on the scene before the fire-watchers, or whoever, had told them of the incident. We messengers manned a post on top of the Gaumont cinema, in the High Street. It was another plan that didn’t work. Firstly, at night it was usually impossible to work out where the explosion had been. Secondly, even if one could, Communications seemed always to know about it before one could contact them. Fortunately the idea was soon abandoned, much to my relief as I was scared stiff by the perilous journey over the roof to the little hut on the edge. At least it gave me the experience of looking down on a doodle-bug from above, when one went past lower than our frail building. I often wonder what the Health and Safety Executive would now make of the hazards of those days.

One of my more vivid memories was of the obsession of the firemen with playing solo whist. If the bells went down in the evening, they would dash out, knocking over chairs etc., but never disturbing the cards on the tables. After hours of hard dangerous work, they would come back, collapse in their chairs, and you would hear remarks like “you just led with a jack of diamonds”, and the games would continue as if nothing had happened.

We had some training and I think we served a useful purpose. We were disbanded in 1945, just short of the two years we needed to qualify for a 1939 — 1945 medal. The state can be an ungrateful master — no-one even said thank you!

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