大象传媒

During the war - as Uncle Albert would say -you were expected to make a contribution in your spare time. This was to help the war effort whether you were a young apprentice, as I was, or whether you were older with army experience of the first world war, as my foreman in the printing works was. In my case I joined the National Fire Service, recently formed to take the place of the Auxiliary Fire Service which had proved inadequate to deal with the pressures of a war where civilians were in the front line. In my foreman's case he joined the Home Guard, memories of which have been brought to the TV screens by 'Dad's Army'. The NFS suited me well. There was a promise that I would be taught to ride a motor cycle and in addition, learn something about how to deal with fires. I had been taught how to operate a stirrup pump at work when on fire watching duties, but this was the limit of my experience of fire-fighting although my dad was now a full-time fire-fighter.
I was required to attend a couple of times during the week, and sometimes on Sunday morings. My dad was stationed at Cross Hill in town whereas the messenger boys were based at Abbotsfield in Sutton Road. Abbotsfield was a large, rambling, ex-dwelling house and had been comandeered by the NFS as their headquarters and nerve centre. It had the advantage of being on the edge of town with plenty of car parking space and easy access to the road system. This is where the messenger boys came in. We were the back-up to the full-time motor-cycle team of riders. Plane crashes, enemy action, farm fires, road crashes, heath fires etc, could and did happen round the clock, day or night, week-day or week-end. There were full-time staff to barely supply the cover needed, so part-timers filled in as necessary.
When you were on duty and the bells went down was a very exciting time. If you were on duty you would go to the window of the control room to get your instructions. A slip of paper with an address, detailed or vague, would be slid across the counter. The map was then consulted and when a suitable route had been decided upon you set off on a motor-cycle to the location of the fire. Its exact location in a rural county like Shropshire would probably entail bumping over open country, or rutted tracks, or maybe across open fields. The aim was to find the location on the ground so that heavier and more cumbersome vehicles could be directed to the emergency in the shortest time possible. In an emergency, time was of the essence. The first emergency I was sent to was a plane crash at Atcham. The Thunderbolt fighter had pancaked into a ploughed field. I could see the plane from the road as it happened but it could quite easily have been out of sight and much more difficult to find. I was able to get to within about a hundred yards of the crash and the plane had suffered very little damage that I could see, but was still a fire risk. The pilot was still in the cockpit, probably knocked out by the impact. But the NFS appliances weren't required in this instance because the USAF people were there already. We heard afterwards that the pilot was OK in this case. He was one of the lucky ones because at that time the US pilots were noted for aerobatics and low flying. One of the more spectacular and popular stunts seemed to be flying under the telegraph wires on the A5. Some of them apparently got into trouble doing this and had to eject at low altitudes with often fatal and horrific results. On a couple of other occasions it was a routine exercise guiding appliances to farm fires on cross country trips.
The job of messenger boy in the first instance obviously involved learning to ride a motor-cycle. I well remember spending winter evenings at Abbotsfield learning about the engine of the bike. We had a 250cc BSA motor-cycle to practice on and under the watchful eye of the instructor took off various components for dismantling and re-assembly. The carburettor was the first bit we examined and learned how the float worked in metering the fuel to the cylinder, etc. We next dealt with sparking plugs and cylinder head. Having taken the head off we then uncoupled the connecting rod and eased out the cylinder, and learned about the function of the piston rings, and incidentally how difficult the piston was to put back into the cylinder. We even took apart the gearbox with all those cogs and springs. This was great fun and we learned a great deal in a short time learning about the motor bike engine. We were all dead keen to learn to ride and a knowledge of how the bike worked and how to maintain it, was the way in.
In the meantime we had been learning to ride. At that time there was no formal training and incidentally no official test. Learning to ride entailed being shown the controls and how they worked, and the use of the gearbox. All that was needed in addition was to be able to kick start the engine, an art in itself, to be able to engage gear, and off you went. We learnt all this in Sutton Lane, a stretch of narrow road with a closed off end, ideal for budding bikers on which to make their mistakes. Our training in road handling was acquired by the perilous and daunting method of riding behind the instructor. You were judged to be competent when the instructor was satisfied with your progress, and was a chancy affair dependant, we judged, on the mood of the instructor.
I well remember my test run. I had no notice of what was to happen, and it frankly turned out to be a scary experience. Our instructor briefly informed me that he was going out to Crew Green to fetch some farm eggs, which were then something of a luxury. I was to accompany him. A word about instructors in general of that time. There appeared to be no structured form of training. The instructor passed on his knowledge grudgingly, it seemed to me, and in a cursory fashion in dribs and drabs. You were expected to pick up the skill in what was being taught by attending closely. If you missed it the first time, there was no second chance Respect had to be shown to an instructor at all times, whereas the learner had to get used to being shown none. The gulf between instructor and learner was very real and little communication was encouraged. On this trip the instructor would be riding in front and would watch me in his rear view mirror. The first not insignificant factor was that I was to ride a 350cc bike, the only one available, but by far the most powerful bike I had ridden so far. I was only used to a 250cc bike. Secondly I had never ridden anywhere on the open road before, my previous runs being on local roads. But this not one to be passed up. I had volunteered for the job and this was a test of my resolve. I got into my riding gear. A helmet, jacket and gauntlets were the only protection thought to be necessary at that time..
The bike was on its stand. I kick started the engine and waited for the instructor to appear. He eventually came alongside, and indicated that he was ready to go. I engaged gear and off we went. At that time the by-pass was not in use so the first problem was getting through town. There were a few shaky moments when I failed to engage the right gear or stalled pulling away from junctions etc, but eventually we were on the open road to Welshpool. This was more like it. The 350 had a lovely rumbling sound to it, and for this 17 year old, it had to be the beginning of something very exciting.
As can be imagined I was very pleased and indeed fortunate to reach our destination in one piece. Once or twice the instructor found it necessary to slow down and wait for me to catch up when he found that I had disappeared from his rear view mirror. He seemed to find it difficult to hide his irritation at these hold-ups and the first doubts began to creep in that my best efforts might not be good enough. Anyway when we reached the farm to collect the eggs it was my turn to wait for the instructor and gave me time to regroup mentally.
The journey home was uneventful thankfully and I even found myself beginning to enjoy the experience. I now felt much more confident in my abilities on the bike. On returning to base the instructor disappeared without comment on my performance and I was left to worry about the outcome. However I knew that I had passed when the next time I reported to the station my name appeared on the duty rota. My training presumably had been completed and I was now a fully fledged Fire Service messenger boy.

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