On a Hot Tin Roof

This is the last of the trilogy of misfortunes I experienced as a unit fire officer. For many years the trauma of these embarrassing events made me push the memories into the deepest recesses of my mind, but now that I'm old and grey, I can appreciate the hilarious situations I created.
In 1959 I slipped a disc playing polo in Benghazi. I spent several months in hospital before I was discharged and given a sedentary job in the Welsh Brigade Depot in Crickhowell, South Wales. My position on the staff roll was Second-in-Command headquarter company but, in fact, I was a 'factotum' with a string of other jobs - one of which was unit fire officer. Those in authority obviously had not heard of the reputation I had gained while serving in Africa.
The army camp in Crickhowell was being modernised when I arrived. Pre-fabricated walls, flat roofs and lots of glass was a new concept as most of the barracks in the country were relics from the Victorian era. There was still evidence of war-time use of the camp in the shape of some old wooden huts; it was there that I decided to hold my first fire practice.
To create realism, the Quartermaster gave me three smoke canisters, each about the size of a five litre can of paint. I set these down among a group of huts, lit the fuses and within a few seconds a dense cloud of smoke drifted across the playing fields to the A40 which runs parallel to the southern boundary of the camp; traffic was unable to proceed until the canisters became exhausted ten minutes later. The village constable from Crickhowell arrived on his bicycle (no panda cars in those days) just in time to start the traffic moving again.
Meanwhile, the response from within the camp was disappointing. A platoon of soldiers marched down the road only a hundred yards away from where I was positioned, without turning their heads. The camp gardener was the only one to show any initiative; it was he who drew the attention of the provost sergeant to the mass of smoke emanating from the area of the wooden huts. At last, the regimental police came puffing along the road with the wheeled contraption which carried lengths of canvas hose. When they had been coupled together, the order: 'Water on!' was given. I pressed the button on my stop-watch when water spat from the nozzle and was not at all pleased with the time taken to get into action. It was obvious the whole system needed reviewing.
I was busy scribbling notes on my mill-board when soldiers appeared carrying red fire buckets and stirrup pumps. Water came from all directions and, as I seemed to be in the middle of the deluge, I shouted: "OK, that'll do, it's only a practice." The provost sergeant caught hold of me by the shoulder, spun me around and said: "Practice, indeed, sir. Just look at the roof of that hut." It was not until I had turned a half circle that I saw we had a real fire on our hands. The smoke canisters, which I had never used before, emitted balls of fire, rather like Roman candles on Guy Fawkes night. While most fell harmlessly to the ground from two or three feet, a few of them went higher and some had actually landed on the tarred felt roof of the hut where I had concealed myself; a substantial fire had taken hold and was blazing away merrily. The emphasis then switched to some real fire fighting which was only partially successful as the hut became a write-off. I comforted myself with the thought that those huts were due to be demolished anyway and made the suggestion in the mess at lunch time that I should set fire to the remainder. The offer was not accepted and it looked as if I had blotted my copy book with yet another commanding officer.
A week before I was married in August 1960, I decided to hold a fire practice in the area of the quartermaster's stores which, in those days, comprised a collection of large Nissen huts with corrugated iron roofs at the far (Crickhowell) end of the camp. The bugler sounded 'Fire Call' this time and the fire (not a real one) was supposed to be in the accommodation stores. The provost staff trundled the two wheeled hose truck down the road to the quartermaster's stores and, on this occasion, earned bonus marks for doing it in good time. The water, when it trickled through the nozzle, lacked pressure to carry it very far and I subsequently found this was due to numerous punctures in the canvas lengths of hose. This might have been beneficial for grass and herbaceous borders but did nothing for putting out a fire - had there been a proper one. After the bugler had blown 'Stand Down', I marked each puncture with coloured chalk and ordered the provost sergeant to exchange the faulty lengths of hose for new ones. Having assured myself that the Welsh Brigade Depot was fire-proof, I threw a suitcase of kit into my car and went off to London to get married.
My wife and I spent our honeymoon in the West Country. One day as we were driving along the North Devon coast, I switched on the car radio just in time to hear the BBC Radio Wales newscaster (just across the channel) read the funny bit at the end: "A fire took place last night in an Army camp in South Wales," he said. He then went on to specify the name of the camp and the location of the fire, which was the camp cinema. He could hardly contain his mirth when he delivered the punch-line: "The place was completely gutted and guess what? - they were playing Tennessee William's film, 'Cat on a Hot Tin Roof'. From that moment, my honeymoon was ruined. Torrential rain did not help and after a week of being mesmerised by non-stop windscreen wipers, we decided to call it a day and head for Brecon where we had been allotted a quarter. A phone call to the Adjutant when we arrived, confirmed that the camp cinema had been burnt down and, said the Adjutant: "The CO wants to see you as soon as you return from leave."
The Board of Inquiry pronounced its findings before I reported for duty: 'There was insufficient hose to allow water from the nearest hydrant to reach the camp cinema' I was at a loss to understand how this could have happened until the Commanding Officer reminded me that I had given an order to the provost sergeant to withdraw all hoses that were punctured. I told him that the operative word was EXCHANGE, not WITHDRAW - but that didn't do me any good. The CO fixed me with a cold look and said: "Did you check that the exchange had taken place?" "No, sir, I did not. I left for London the following day to get married." It is only recently that the Army has admitted that wives have a place in its structure. In the old days, they were described as 'camp followers' and there are still some traditionalists who would like to keep it that way. The florid faced lieutenant colonel who was beating his table top with clenched fists was obviously in that category. "Because you put your wedding first and fire precautions second," he stormed, "we now find ourselves without a cinema. Do you realise I've had to lay on trucks to take soldiers into Abergavenny twice a week, while you've been swanning around the West Country?"
This was like a re-run of the time I appeared before the Second-in-Command of the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers in Eritrea. Then, I had to account for the failure of my signals despatch service to collect and deliver the mail on time and landed myself in deep trouble after pleading I had been 80 miles away. I should have known better on both occasions; the buck stops with the officer - even if he is on his honeymoon.
I hoped the Commanding Officer would release me from this onerous duty which I had been saddled with, off and on, for quite a few years. This did not happen. Instead, I was told the fire adviser of Western Command would carry out a fire inspection of the camp in two weeks time. "You'd better make sure that everything is in order by the time he arrives," said the Colonel menacingly. I made good use of the time in hand and by the day of the visit, I was confident that everything was in order.
At exactly 10.00 hrs on the day of the inspection, the fire adviser from Army HQ in Chester was ushered into my office by the Company Sergeant Major. "Would you like a cup of tea?" I enquired. "No, thank you," he replied. "I think we should start the inspection at once, I'm one minute late already." His response to my friendly overture warned me that this pernickety servant of the Army Fire Service could cause trouble if he was not handled carefully.
Before the inspection started at the east (Glangrwyney) end of the camp, Inspector Shorthouse (a name that lends itself to some amusing permutations) told me he had parked his car just off the main road in the camp. "I hope I'm not breaking any rules leaving it there," he said, pointing in the direction of the chapel. I assured him that it was in order to park his car anywhere he liked (it would be another ten years before the IRA started their campaign for 'home rule' in Northern Ireland, and car bombs were unknown).
We started in the Junior Soldiers' Wing and worked our way through every building until we were almost back to where we started. Inspector Shorthouse was appalled by everything he saw. "Just ready to burst into flames," was his invariable comment followed by much sucking of teeth as he made notes on his mill board. On one occasion, I asked him: "How could this place burn down - it's all concrete?" "Heat anything hot enough and it will burn - even concrete, have you never heard of spontaneous combustion?" was his terse reply and I saw him write some more notes which I felt sure were comments about my frivolous attitude towards fire precautions.
We were heading back to my office after the most uncomfortable couple of hours I had spent for a long time, when Inspector Shorthouse gave a yelp and ran up the road ahead of me. It was then that I saw a car parked alongside the camp incinerator, and realised it was his. Anyone with a modicum of common sense should have known that a brick built oven-like structure with a chimney stuck on the top was used for burning or cooking things. The camp gardener had just emptied a wheel-barrow full of grass and leaves into it and the swirling smoke enveloped the fire adviser's small Ford Popular saloon. Shorthouse disappeared into the smoke and a few seconds later the car shot out as if it had been fired by a mighty cannon. It did not appear to have suffered any damage, but for someone whose sole function in life was to prevent fires, he was taking no chances. When I caught up with him, he was squirting foam from a hand held fire extinguisher all over the engine. When that ran out, he took another one out of the car and sprayed under the chassis. When he was satisfied that his car was not going to blow up, he slumped to the ground and mopped his brow.
There have been a number of occasions in my life when my 'fairy god-mother' has come to my rescue, and this was one of them. "You had a close shave there, didn't you?" I observed. "Wait until the Commanding Officer hears about this. He's been as hot as mustard about fire precautions since the cinema burnt down; your car could have been a write-off, didn't you see that incinerator when you parked it there?" I suggested he put something in his report about catering for people who could not recognise an incinerator when they saw one. On that note, when I had won 'game, set and match', I bade him 'good day' and went off to the mess for lunch. The CO asked me if the fire adviser had been pleased with everything he had seen "Oh yes, sir," I replied. "I'm sure we'll receive an excellent report."
Inspector Shorthouse's report arrived a week later and was the linchpin for an 'outstanding' annual administrative report on the Welsh Brigade Depot. The CO was delighted and bought me a large gin and tonic.
"There's only one recommendation," he observed. "He wants a NO PARKING sign put alongside the incinerator. What's all that about?" I told him it was something to do with 'spontaneous combustion' and left it at that.