FIRE CALL

I could never understand why I was selected to be unit fire officer. I had no qualifications for the job, very little interest - compared with one member of the regimental police who loved fire duties so much that he used to start them, and what seemed to be the most remarkable thing of all, I missed every real fire we had during my first overseas tour; all four of them.
I remember sitting in my office in South Barracks, Khartoum smarting under the injustice of being saddled with this onerous job when, as signals officer, I had enough to do keeping my old wireless sets working. The quartermaster made me sign for scores of stirrup pumps and red buckets, all of which had to kept full of sand or water. The former commodity was no problem as sand got into everything in the Sudan. I also had two fire engines which had to be kept in pristine condition and ready for action.
The commanding officer expected everyone to follow his own high standard of good order and cleanliness; fire precautions were high on his list of priorities. His eagle eye could detect a missing flake of paint on a fire bucket or a defaced copy of fire orders at two hundred yards range; I soon got used to the routine of being summoned to the adjutant's office after Saturday morning barrack inspection and asked to account for my idleness. After receiving a particularly nasty reprimand for not noticing that a length of rubber pipe was missing from a stirrup pump, I decided to do something spectacular to restore my standing with the commanding officer.
The colonel was a well regulated person and I had a good idea how he would respond to a given situation. One of the events in his weekly routine was to go for a sail on a Sunday morning on the Blue Nile, which ran only a hundred yards or so in front of the officers' mess. The clubhouse was one of the boats General Kitchener used on his expedition of 1898 and was anchored close to the bank a few hundred yards down the road.
A plan began to take shape in my mind. A more than ample supply of water was available in the river, the fire engines had suction pumps capable of drawing water and the flowers in the mess garden always needed watering. The whole scenario fell into place and I only had to smooth a few edges to show the commanding officer what an imaginative fire officer I had become.
On the dot, at 08.00 hrs the following Sunday, the colonel entered the dining room to have breakfast. A bevy of white robed Sudanese waiters attended to his needs and the latest copy of The Times was propped up in front of him as he tucked into his kedgeree. He must have wondered why I kept popping up and down outside the window, but my feigned interest in the spiky plants which passed for flowers was merely a cover so that I could keep my eye on him. I was ready to run out to Kitchener Avenue at a moment's notice and give my fire engines the signal to advance. That moment arrived when I saw a couple of waiters descend upon the CO's empty plates as he rose from the table. He picked up a few things to take on the boat and marched smartly down the broad stone steps of the mess portico towards the large wrought iron gates that opened onto Kitchener Avenue.
I was in position in the middle of the road, like a race starter at Le Mans, and I waved my handkerchief as a signal for the fire engines to advance.
The timing could not have been better. Both vehicles were far enough away to get into top gear and they made a fine sight as they charged down Kitchener Avenue with sirens blaring towards the colonel and me. I began to explain what I was doing and I recognised the CO's approval by the nods and smiles as he listened to my plan.
The fire engines were travelling much faster than I had expected; it was not supposed to be a race but I had not taken into consideration the rivalry that existed between the two crews to be the first one to bring succour to the officers' mess flowers. I had to break off my conversation with the CO to take control of the second phase of the operation which involved directing the vehicles towards the river.
During the winter months, the Blue Nile is swollen with flood waters that come from Lake Tana in Ethiopia. But during the summer, the water level gets lower and lower exposing the muddy banks which bake hard into a crazy paving design. Anyone with a grain of common sense would have appreciated that the closer one got to the river the softer the surface would become, but not the two drivers who continued the race, now going backwards, to the water's edge. I shouted at the top of my voice and waved my arms, but it was no good as the crews were looking the other way. Slowly and inexorably the surface of the bank collapsed and both fire engines sank into thick brown mud. They were not even near enough to throw the pipes, with wicker baskets on the end, into the river to suck up the water.
I looked at the colonel and his eyes had narrowed into thin black slits. "How do you propose to get them out?" he said. The vehicles were wallowing in the mud like a couple of hippos and I wondered if they were going to disappear completely. Trying to sound brisk and business-like, I said: "I'll have a word with the motor transport officer, sir. The Bren gun carriers (tracked vehicles like small tanks - with an open top) should be able to pull them out." "No, you won't," he snapped. "The annual vehicle inspection takes place tomorrow and I'm not having them messed up at this late stage. You'll have to think of something else." With that, he strode off in the direction of the sailing boats.
The transport officer was not available, he had gone to shoot duck, and 'Tiger' Morris, the transport sergeant, let me know in even stronger terms than the colonel that the carriers, or any other vehicles in the transport park for that matter, were not going to be used. Instead, he gave me the telephone number of the local REME workshops who, he said, might be able to help with a Scammel breakdown vehicle.
Trying to get a Scammel in Khartoum on a Sunday in August turned out to be quite a problem and I spent most of the morning pacing up and down on the bank of the river waiting for it to arrive.
At last, at about 1pm, it appeared. A Scammel is a large beast and as it drew level, a head popped out of the window high above me. I pointed towards the fire engines in the mud and the driver gave a nod of understanding. The cab door opened and three soldiers clambered down the side of their vehicle to survey the problem.
"OK, we'll fix it in no time," said the corporal, while the others pulled a large hook from the inner depths of the vehicle. They attached this to one of the fire engines, took up the slack and slowly pulled the first vehicle from its muddy hole. An identical operation was carried out on the other vehicle and within a matter of minutes they were both back on the road. My morale, which had taken a nasty knock, was restored and the prospect of a cold beer in the mess began to occupy my thoughts.
The crew of the Scammel were replacing their kit and getting ready for the return journey to Gordon's Tree, on the White Nile, when who should come around a bend in the river but the colonel. What a perfect piece of timing I thought.
As the driver of the Scammel had seen how my fire engines had got into difficulty, I did not think it was necessary to warn him about the unstable bank. I gave the crew a wave as they moved off but within seconds I could see they were on a disaster course. Instead of taking the shortest route back to Kitchener Avenue, the driver took a wide track which brought his huge vehicle too close to the river. With a lurch and a grunt and a sound of spinning wheels it broke through the surface of baked mud and started to sink.
Even though he was a hundred yards away and sailing fast with a following wind, I could see the colonel was not amused. It was not long before he had tied up at the moorings, returned to dry land and was striding purposefully towards me. "Are you playing some sort of game?" he said. The lack of humour in his voice gave me no reason to think he wanted to join in.
There was no other recovery vehicle in the Sudan, the nearest was in Egypt about a thousand miles away! It was obvious that the only way to get the Scammel out was to use the bren gun carriers and 'Tiger' Morris was ordered to get them at once.
The carriers, in immaculate condition for the following day's inspection, were harnessed to the Scammel like a pack of huskies. Their engines roared to full throttle and slowly the recovery vehicle was pulled free from its muddy embrace. The transport sergeant was almost in tears when he surveyed his carriers that were now covered with mud and dust.
I have never been so unpopular with so many people in all my life. The carrier platoon worked all afternoon and well into the evening to get the carriers into the gleaming state they had been until I got my hands on them. The regimental police were turned out and spent hours restoring the shine on the fire engines, The colonel was furious and so was the adjutant - but he was always furious. The transport officer returned without shooting any duck, and he was furious as well. It was without doubt the worst day of my life.
I have often wondered why I was not given the sack on that disastrous day. Maybe the colonel and the adjutant despite their severe expressions really did have a sense of humour. Perhaps they anticipated some of the other remarkable things that were yet to happen. Even to this day, elderly retired officers greet me with such remarks as: "Remember the time you blew your hair off in Eritrea?" - but that's another story.