The Bellboys Story

My first conscious awareness of anything to do with fire brigades and fire engines was probably the loud ringing of the fire bell on the landing of our house in Denton, six miles east of Manchester, in East Lancashire, as it was in those days before Greater Manchester. We lived with my grandparents and both granddad and Dad were both industrial firemen; Granddad was the Captain of the works fire brigade – hence the fire bell at the top of the stairs. The works was Oldham and Son Ltd., makers of batteries and mines lighting equipment, later to make lighting equipment for the Royal Navy and the Royal Air force.
It was Spring 1939, even to my young eight year old mind things were looking and sounding very different. Air Raid Precautions (ARP) – leaflets ”What to do now and if war comes”; stirrup pumps; fire buckets; gas masks. Even our regular trips to Ringway (Manchester) airport looked different with sand bagged gun emplacements, military aircraft outside Fairey’s hanger on the western edge of the airfield. The older men told about war in the trenches of France and gas attacks in the first World War. I didn’t like it at all!
War was declared in the following September. We started to help to dig air raid shelters at school and soon I was to experience the gut grinding sound of the first air raid siren. Then the noise of anti-aircraft fire, the dull crunch of distant bombs falling; then the blast and noise of one seventy five yards away with Dad out on fire guard duty and wondering if he was O.K.
Uncle Jim, a member of the St. John’s Ambulance Brigade, came back a few days later to tell of the horror that was Liverpool and Bootle.
Later it was our turn in Manchester. Dad described a raid he saw from the lookout post on the highest point of the works. An armoured steel box with slits from where the watchers could look for incendiary bombs which might fall on the works.
“A ring of incendiaries first to get the fires started and then the second wave of aircraft came in with high explosives and tipped them into the middle of it all, to spread the fires.”
Dad came home from work the following night and Mam was pouring the tea when there was a knock on the back door.
“Is Alf in?” asked the neighbour.
“Yes, he’s just come in from work,” said Mam.
“Well, he’d better get back there quick – look!”
“My God!” exclaimed Mam as her eyes followed the pointing finger. “Quick, Alf, it’s the works.”
“Bloody hell!” gasped Dad as he arrived at the door. “Get me bike, lad.”
He pulled on his boots and waterproofs and grabbed his respirator with his ‘tin-hat’ attached, briefly jammed the whole lot, himself and the bike, in the back gate, and was off down the road as Mams “be careful.” echoed after him.
“What happened to the bell, Mam? Why didn’t it ring?
“It looks as though it’s Nelson Street where the bell controls are,” came the reply and she was right.
What a fire! It was the offices behind the brick façade of the Main Offices and they were made of wood. It couldn’t have been better as a candidate for total devastation – wood and paper from the offices and something else, as Dad was to learn later.
His main concern when he got there was to get the lads of the works brigade together and cut off the fire from the main offices. This is exactly what they set about doing. They ran out several lengths of hose and got the water on, to form a wet wall, and stood firm with a good pressure behind their jets.
Bang! A massive explosion and a vertical jet of flame. It was one of the gas mains in the canteen. Then a crack and a whine followed by several more until the scene sounded like something out of a cowboy film.
“Watch yerself, Alf!” shouted Steve Wright from out of the smoke somewhere. “It’s the bloody ammo in the security section.
“That’s all we need,” grimaced Alf. “Hey, what’s happening to the pressure?”
The jets were hitting the floor about twenty feet in front of the firemen.
“Right, lads, take care of things for a minute. Watch yourselves, I think I know what’s happening.”
Dad’s idea was right. By that time every available fire engine and the crew in the area was attending and as each put their standpipes down you can imagine what was happening to the main’s pressure. Later it was learned that at one time during the night there were fifty fire engines there!
“Who the ‘ell put more hoses on this job?” shouted Alf as he got out into the open.
“Me, I’m in charge,” retorted a senior fire officer.
“Right, just the man.” announced the soggy black-faced fireman. “You can knock off at least half of them. Can’t you see what’s happening?
“What do you mean, man and who the devil are YOU?”
“The pressure – the bloody pressure. Can’t you see yourself? I can piss further than those jets. And who am I? I’m Alf Wag staff, in charge of the works brigade.”
“Hell, lad, I didn’t recognise you Alf, you black bugger,” he gasped. “Get those outer crews to shut down and arrange a relay.”
Dad explained his strategy and where his men were.
“I wondered why the flames weren’t reaching the main offices. How long have you been here?
“Since about quarter to six.” came the reply.
“What! Have you seen the time? It’s gone eleven! Time you went home, got a bit to eat, and a change of gear. We’ll cope for now, I’ll get some of my lads to replace yours.”
“Come on then, and I’ll show you where we are, but get us some pressure quick.”
“It’s coming up now look,” said the other as he pointed to the renewed vigour at the branches.
“Good lad, Alf,” greeted the weary Oldham’s crew as the fresh crew took over the now lively branches.
So Dad came home for the second time that day.
This all happened when the Auxiliary Fire Service was changing over to the National Fire Service, hence some of the chaos. Long will I remember that night because the following night we had another air raid. What would have happened if they had arrived twenty four hours earlier? The factory was producing vital war equipment and essential equipment for the coalmines.
So one could go on, just like each fireman reading this story. Funny times, sad times, frightening times when you think adrenaline could well be coloured brown! After the war, in the fifties and sixties, there was great interest in fire competitions amongst the Industrial Fire Brigades and Dad was responsible for organising the works annual fire competition when neighbouring brigades were invited to come and take part. He was still in charge operationally and for training.
By this time they had uniforms – a far cry from the strictly functional oilskins and tin hats of wartime. I can remember how much I thought he deserved to wear the proper uniform of a fire officer after all he had done for the brigade he loved so dearly. My word, he looked a real smarty!!
Eventually in 1966,a heart attack, just two weeks before he was due to retire, brought his career to an end. Members of the works brigade were his bearers at the funeral.
“O.k. lads – get to work and let’s have a nice clean drill,” I said quietly as they took the box and off went Dad on his last turn-out.

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