Jack Wolf: The Recruit

By George Farenden

You will be brothers, you will see death and destruction, you will be expected to run into fire when every other living thing runs away, you will work long shifts, days, nights, Saturdays, Sundays, high days and holidays, Christmas days and your birthdays. You will be injured and burned, and don’t kid yourself it won’t happen to you, it will. And consider this: On average two firemen are killed each year in service. You are expected to do this job for thirty years. Nobody wants to pay you decent wages, they will tell you that you sit around all day, play snooker and squirt water for a living. You will be like Cinderella… you will live, eat and sleep behind the red engine house doors and when called to serve, when the fire bell rings you will answer their call, their fear and their alarm. You will risk your life for a stranger, someone you never knew or will ever know and when the alarm has passed, when you are exhausted and done, you will return to the fire station, close those red engine house doors behind you and lick your wounds.
We are their insurance; they never want us, until they want us, then briefly, briefly, we are heroes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jul 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9781398408678

George Farenden

George Farenden followed in his father’s footsteps and joined the fire brigade in Birmingham at the age of twenty, rising to the rank of station officer at Birmingham’s Central Fire Station. After serving his thirty years, he retired but was never far from fire brigades, or firefighting, as his life took another path. He started a new career working for DuPont de Nemours, Inc. as an emergency response consultant. After fourteen years with DuPont he finally retired to Somerset, where he now lives with his wife, Jane, and their dog, Coco.

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About the Author

George Farenden followed in his father’s footsteps and joined the fire brigade in Birmingham at the age of twenty, rising to the rank of station officer at Birmingham’s Central Fire Station. After serving his thirty years, he retired but was never far from fire brigades, or firefighting, as his life took another path. He started a new career working for DuPont de Nemours, Inc. as an emergency response consultant. After fourteen years with DuPont he finally retired to Somerset, where he now lives with his wife, Jane, and their dog, Coco.

Dedication

To the men and women of the world who turnout and fight fires, so risking their lives for us. Service beyond the call.

Copyright Information ©

George Farenden 2022

The right of George Farenden to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author 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 unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398408654 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398408661 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781398408678 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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The Recruit

John Wolf stepped off the bus in Birmingham city centre on 10 July 1972; it was a thirty-minute ride on the cream and royal blue number fifty double decker bus that brought him into town on the fine summers day, having said that there had just been a brief shower which washed the air clean and lightly wetted the city streets.

He walked up Bull Street then right onto Corporation Street, the smell of damp tarmac and city was familiar to him. After all, he was Birmingham born and bred this town was his playground, he knew most of it. He had been born in its heart, just off Broad Street. He had never been far away from its centre; even when he left school at fifteen years old, his work as an apprentice electrician often brought him back to the city centre he knew so well. On reaching eighteen, the introduction to the pubs, clubs and nightlife deepened his knowledge of the ‘City of a thousand trades’.

As the wide street opened up, the sun burst from behind a leaden grey cloud that was hastily making its way northward, the heat of the bright sunlight made the glistening black tarmac of the roadway steam in appreciation of the sun’s warmth. To John, this just increased the familiar smell of the city. He was wearing his favourite summer clothes, pale blue washed and worn Levi jeans with matching Levi jacket, a plain white tight fitting Tee shirt, his light tan suede desert boots completed the outfit. When the sunlight hit him from a gap in between two tall buildings, he felt its warmth, briefly he was comforted and self-assured. This was the look he was going for; this would impress his new employers even the weather had obliged in showing him off at his best.

Walking now, briskly, for no other reason than he thought he was a little late, he would see the white clock tower of Central fire station any minute; it was an impressive building for its age, dominating the end of the street and a landmark from the day it was built. The station also doubled as the brigade headquarters. This was a big investment for a city which like everywhere else at the time was emerging from the great depression, a pile of red bricks on a triangular site with Portland stone detailing gave work to many a skilled tradesmen in an era when work was scarce, with eleven bays it was said to be the biggest station in Europe in 1935 when it was completed.

Little did the city fathers or anyone know that within five years of the station being built, it would prove a great investment for the city as war spread across Europe. Passing the great terracotta façade of the Victoria Law Courts on his left, the tall white fire station clock tower was now in plain view. He passed a trendy boutique, instantly recognising the music that came from the open glass doorway, Hawkwind’s, Silver machine; his brother liked this music but it was not for him. As the music faded, a wave of doubt swept over him. His arms straightened, his fists became clenched, the brisk walk almost turned into a march; he pushed his doubt aside, make a decision and stick to it, he almost said it aloud. The short walk took him closer to his new life.

John had been a contract electrician in a factory which, to him, seemed a sentence not a job, deep down he knew what had triggered his decision to change career. A few weeks earlier, he had been part of a 12-strong gang of electricians on Loan Labour to the giant Austin motor works at Longbridge. At eight o’clock one Monday morning, the portly, balding Foreman dressed in a siren suit which was years old and soaked in smelly suds oil, was detailing the week’s work as he had done for the past three months. John was an electrician in name but due to his only being twenty-one he had no apprentice to fetch and carry for him. He would have to wait until the company could afford to employ another apprentice. Everyone else was man and ‘mate’, he was nothing more than an ‘Improver’, his ‘mate’ may be months away. The week’s tasks were called off.

And lastly, John, you’re this week’s Lamp Tramp.

In his five years as an apprentice, he had worked mostly on new build sites and commercial buildings in the city. Maintenance in huge factories was still new but mundane, another new was ‘Lamp Tramp’. He waited until the gang had dispersed, drifting away to their allotted tasks.

Boss.

Yes, John.

What the hell is a Lamp Tramp?

Great job, son, get yourself a pencil and a piece of paper. Here, you can borrow my notebook. You walk the factory, even the offices.

He said ‘even the offices’ with great glee because to him that meant female contact.

Anyway, note any lamps that are out. When you have a dozen or so, get yourself off to the stores, sign out the lamps, then go and fit them, then walk the factory again, find more lamps that are out and so on. That’s your job for the week, the cushiest job on the site, you owe me a drink.

Boss, this place is big, maybe hundreds of acres, thousands of people work here and I alone change the blown light bulbs?

I know, great, isn’t it? What a cushy number, and John, you know better, bulbs grow in the ground lamps, light things up.

John turned away, then hesitated and turned back to the foreman, trying hard not to show emotion but not really succeeding.

Boss, five years an apprentice and college, all to be a Lamp Tramp, is that it?

John, you’re not moaning, at being given the plum job in the Gang, are you?

I’m not moaning, boss, but I’m not jumping for joy either.

John, I’ve been watching you, you have potential, give it another few years, keep your nose clean and you may make Foreman by, say when you are fortyish.

John stared at him, should he apologise to this well-meaning guy, or should he point out that a smelly siren suit and a paunch was not the sum total of his ambition. No, he couldn’t upset him, the Foreman had only ever been kind to him.

Okay, boss, I’ll be your Lamp Tramp.

John smiled and turned away, knowing this was the end, another forty-five years of this was not going to be his future.

John had an older brother and sister, both of whom had achieved grammar school and then went onto university. John had failed the eleven-plus examination and left school with just two very minor O levels from his secondary school. He was more interested in Soul and Blues music than examinations. Otis Reading was a special favourite. Perhaps, if only to please his parents, he should have tried harder at his studies. Although nothing was ever said of his lack of achievement, he knew they were disappointed in not sending all three children to university. He thought back to the day he left school, his father never mentioned his schooling but his mother, in an attempt to praise him for his two O levels had a very short chat with him.

They maybe the clever ones, but you’re more practical, not educated to degree level as your brother and sister but at least you’re good with your hands. You are a good lad.

She meant well but this was not what he wanted to hear. His mother was not helping, it did nothing to quell his feeling of being mediocre; the pat on the head seemed to make it worse.

Through the huge wrought iron gates of the station and onto the wetted granite cobbled drill yard that shone now in the strong sunlight. The station was huge, the drill yard was flanked by the double layered balconies of the flats that were married men’s quarters, the inner face of the station was proudly 1930s in design, something the more formal exterior only hinted at. With a lump in his throat and a feeling of trepidation in his chest, he made his way into the centre of the drill yard which formed the working heart of the fire station; he was now lost, emotionally and actually. Walking as if he knew where he was going, he realised he was on a converging course with a fireman in overalls; he pressed on. The fireman stared at the blond-haired youth walking across his path.

You look lost, he chirped.

Yes, Sir.

Start with a ‘sir’, he thought, this chap could be the cleaner or an officer, best to aim high.

I’m looking for the training school. Could you direct me?

Oh, another lamb to the slaughter.

Raising his arm, he pointed. North-west corner, you’ll see the sign on the door.

He looked John up and down, but the fireman didn’t break step, then he was gone through the back of the station and into the engine house. Walking toward the training school doorway, John looked back over his shoulder at the clock tower; good, not late; in fact, five minutes early.

Sitting in the training school’s number one lecture room behind an old oak school desk which was a little small for a grown man, John looked down at the polished brass inkwell engraved ‘Birmingham Corporation’ that gave away its age. He felt he had slipped back in time, his apprenticeship meant nothing, one of thirty young men in the room, now he starts all over again. His mind drifted for a moment, should he have stuck to his electrician’s job?

It was a trade after all and his mother had told him, You will never go hungry if you have a trade. He thought of the five years of college studying electrical engineering. Had he wasted five years learning something which in his new career, to him at least, had no obvious use? He was starting again back at square one, everyone in the room probably knew more than him, about his new life.

He had disappointed his parents at school, then he quit his chosen trade to be a fireman, once more his parents had looked disappointed when he told them what he had done. What happened if he failed this recruit’s course? What if he was scared of heights? What if he was just plain scared of fire? Oh shit, I’ve messed this up, he thought to himself. He considered walking out. He looked around the lecture room; he might be able get out without being noticed. But he knew what had to be done. Make a decision and stick to it, once more he almost said it aloud.

As the entrance door at the rear of the lecture room burst open, someone shouted, STAND! Everyone in the room unconsciously jumped to their feet. Training Officer Bianchi walked, well, almost marched to the front of the classroom flanked by two officers, one each side of him. They seemed to mirror his every step. John watched the training officer closely. He had no idea of his rank but he had pips on his shoulders rather than the bars worn by the other two, which surely meant something. He walked with a swagger or was he strutting? This guy was full of his own self-importance.

He mounted the small dais which was placed in front of the two wall-mounted black boards, standing behind the centrally placed plain wooden lectern. He deliberately took a long breath; his chest swelled, pulling his shoulders back. He grasped each side of the sloping lectern top, as his chin came up his mouth seemed to droop downwards at the edges. He curled his lips, slowly he looked down his nose with heavy lidded eyes at the assembled recruits. The gaze held nothing but disdain for the men in front of him. It was pure theatre.

SIT! It was one of the officers with bars on his shoulders shouting the orders.

The arrogance of Benito, ‘Il Duce’ came to John’s mind. The room of recruits sat as the training officer’s chest and ego swelled even more in preparation of his speech.

You are joining the fire brigade, my fire brigade. That is, if I decide you are good enough. We have a long tradition of service, we are a family.

This wasn’t a pep talk or a lecture; it was a well-rehearsed piece that he had delivered many times and he was getting into his stride.

You will be brothers, you will see death and destruction, you will be expected to run into fire when every other living thing runs away, you will work shifts, days, nights, Saturdays, Sundays, high days and holidays, Christmas days and your birthdays. You will be injured and burned, and don’t kid yourself it won’t happen to you; it will, and consider this, on average two firemen are killed each year due to service. You are expected to do this job for thirty years. Nobody wants to pay you decent wages. They will tell you that you sit around all day, play snooker and squirt water for a living. You will be as Cinderella…you will live, eat and sleep behind the red engine house doors and when called to stand too, when the fire-bell rings, you will answer their call, their fear, their alarm. You will risk your life for a stranger, someone you never knew or will ever know and when the alarm has passed, when you are exhausted and done, you will return to the fire station, close those engine house doors behind you and lick your wounds. We are their insurance policy; they never want us, until they want us, then briefly, we are heroes. At fifty years old, you will not be able to keep up with operational firefighting, you will be old and slow. So you will retire on a pension, which, they will begrudge you. Yet, on average, firemen die within ten years of receiving it, so statistically you should be dead before you reach sixty five, any more will be a bonus. He paused and scanned the room once more.

Now, remember this all of you. I don’t know you, I don’t want to know you, and I don’t like you. I am not your friend, I am not your mother or your nursemaid, and you are shit to me, the lowest of the low, mere sprogs, so remember that. You will stand whenever I come into the room, you will not talk to me unless I talk to you first, then you will call me ‘Sir’, nothing else. Do we understand each other?

The thirty young men mumbled a begrudging Sir.

He paused and looked around the room at thirty sullen-faced youths all of which looked as if they had been hit with something rather heavy.

Now is the time for a decision; if you have doubts this is your chance, you should leave, I will not think any less of you as that is not possible.

He paused, again deliberately scanning the room, his head moved slowly from left to right, still with his chin high in the air, he looked into their eyes searching for the fear, the insecurity in every individual and, maybe, he was feeding on it. He paused a long pause. Then, as if he’d had a change of heart, he spoke again.

There is tea at the back of the room. I shall be back in fifteen minutes to sign in those that remain.

He left the room with the swagger and pomp of his arrival. John had been watching him closely; it was as if he had two personalities. Was he separating the wheat from the chaff? Or was he enjoying too much the small amount of power he held over this, his latest batch of unsuspecting new recruits? Whatever it was, this man wasn’t going to intimidate him. John had taken an instant dislike to the horrid man. If the training officer’s speech was supposed to rattle him, it didn’t; it did the opposite. Twenty-eight sat down after tea; Training Officer Bianchi had got to two of them already. The remainder would be split into three squads. Little did they know that four of them would not make the grade; the winnowing had begun.

By 1000 hours of day one, Training Officer Bianchi was detailing the squad’s two tens and an eight.

And Squad three will be: Brown, Edison, Ford, Harvey, Marchant, Nelson, Wolf, and Wright. You eight sit in this row of desks. You are all Birmingham so get to know each other. As for the rest of you, from brigades all over the bloody place, Staffordshire, Warwickshire, Holland Counties and not forgetting some of our local friends and neighbours. Make two rows of ten, here and here. Okay, move.

The scrapping of chairs and the shuffling of joining papers took a few minutes to die down; the three neat rows filled the classroom, now, everybody was in place.

Squad instructors will be; Squad One, Sub-Officer Martin, Squad Two, Sub-Officer Hughes and Squad Three, Sub-Officer White.

Sub-Officer White picked up eight bundles of papers from the floor, approached his recruits and started walking the Birmingham row of desks.

Course notes, one for each lecture, just one hundred and twenty. Read them, write on them, colour in the pretty pictures, if you want.

He dropped a pack with a hefty thump on each desk.

They’re all yours, gentlemen, study them, keep them, never be caught without them. He continued down the row.

Bianchi was at the front of the room again.

Right, you bunch of bastards, you look like some hippy drop-outs from Woodstock or somewhere, so all of you get yourselves short haircuts, a crew-cut would be best, by next Monday at the latest. If you can’t get it done by next Monday, don’t bother coming back. Now, today before anything else I want everyone out of civvies and into uniform, each of you will find your issue in the basement, the leading firemen there will sign you out with your undress uniform, your fire-kit and your working rig. You have thirty minutes to be back up here in working rig, okay? Move.

Thirty minutes later, they were back in the lecture room in blue overalls. Bianchi was still there, looking agitated. He had probably been waiting for them on the dais and that hadn’t come easy to this impatient man. There were no preliminaries; he just barked his next orders.

Squad One, stay where you are. Squad Two, go to lecture room Two. Squad Three, drill ground, full fire kit. Go.

The wooden chairs scrapped the floor once more, and a queue of excited chatting recruits quickly formed at the rear exit door. They jostled each other to get to their posts, nobody wanted to be last to arrive.

Squad three was on the drill ground feeling very uncomfortable, dressed in full fire kit for the first time, the smell of their new woollen tunics and freshly waxed leather fire boots filled the air. The eight Brummies’ had raced down to the basement locker room to change once again within minutes, they had little time to talk to each other but a series of nods and smiles was a good start. Sub-Officer White stood in front of them looking at each man in turn as they took up their places in the squad line, then he walked the line in front of them, then behind them, returning to the front and centre, he shrugged his shoulders as if in resignation of his lot.

You will call me Sir, when we get to know each other I may let you call me Sub-O which is short for Sub-Officer; note the two bars on my epaulettes. I’m going to teach you how to be a recruit firemen, how to use the pumps and ladders and the basics of firefighting. True firefighting will come during your four years qualifying on station. We don’t have time to do all that here and now. I’m going to turn you from ignorant little shits into something that resembles a fireman, a fireman that can be let loose on a station without killing himself or more importantly somebody else. This is initial training, nothing more nothing less. The next twelve weeks you’re mine, you answer to me. Do you understand?

Yes, Sir.

Let’s start with running hose.

Death of a Salamander

A crisp morning in late October at Aston Fire Station, Fireman Wolf was the complete fresh out of the box recruit, in his undress uniform, a woollen double breasted reefer jacket and trousers complete with his peaked cap tucked safely under his left arm, he looked every bit the fireman on parade. He was excited at this being the real start of his life as a fireman.

Fire school had been good but this was the pay-off for three months of running around a drill ground, of completing the initial course successfully; he had made it. Some had fallen by the wayside, but he was here, his first shift on a station. No more being shouted at by impatient training officers, no more Sub-Officer White making him run ladders or running out endless lengths of hose. He was going to ride fire engines around his town and maybe pose a little. He was confident of his newfound abilities; this was going to be so much fun; how could anything possibly go wrong? Directly off the engine house was the station office, knocking purposely on the half-glazed door he felt self-assured, he had been posted to a busy inner city fire station. He was envied by the other recruits who had been posted to less busy fire stations on the edge of the brigade. How good is this, to be on his three-engine fire station? I’m going to be right in the middle of the action. There was a short pause.

Come in.

A high-pitched voice commanded. Jack’s confidence instantly evaporated, he was nervous once again. The station office was small, no more than twenty feet square. Behind a large mahogany desk in the centre of the room sat Station Officer Sidney Jackson, standing on his left was Sub-Officer Dwyer and sitting at a very small desk in the corner of the room tapping away at an ancient imperial typewriter was Leading Fireman Miller. John took it all in quickly and bringing himself to attention, he gave his salutation.

Fireman Wolf, reporting for duty, Sir.

The station officer’s stare seemed never ending and unnerving but, the tap, tap, tap, of somebody who had never been trained to type but was doing okay with just his two index fingers was somehow comforting. The station officer broke his stare.

"Very well Miller enough typing get yourself