An R.A.F. bomber, failing to get lift from Stradishall Aerodrome, crashed at Stansfield, to the rear of "The Compasses" public house. The full tank of fuel ruptured, sending the blazing mess downhill away from the 'plane. Some small fires were caused to adjoining property. Several crews arrived to fight the fire which, although blazing like a torch, was isolated. Two members of the R.A.F. crew, alas, paid the supreme price. The fire crews, mainly if not all part-timers, began to contain the fire like old pros.
At that point, there occurred a blimpish incident containing some elements of humour.
An air force car discharged an R.A.F. officer of the old school. Waving his arms like a dervish, he shouted
"This aircraft has a full complement of bombs, bullets and petrol, and could go up at any minute."
Before he had completed the sentence, a retirement of all the fire crews occurred, with such speed as to the make the retreat from Mons (which some of the older crews were in) look like a Sunday morning stroll.
The Glemsford crews, none of whom had been at Mons, made up for that omission by setting a prominent example.
Bombs at that time had a priming device activating the bomb a short time after release. In brief, they had to be dropped from the air. As the bombs had not been dropped , they were as safe as houses.
As the fire had moved away from the aircraft, both they and the .303 gun rounds were intact. There was not a chance in hell of an explosion.
The R.A.F. type did not know his job and being of the old school was naturally devoid of plain common sense.
Meanwhile, the retreat continued over a ditch and through a deep celery trench to all crowd into a smallish single-brick building, held none-too-securely together with lime mortar. A good push would have put it over.
This scene of tightly packed men, in steel helmets, blackened faces, silver buttons and Horse Guards tunics (minus one), lit up by the blazing but rapidly dispersing petrol, had an air of the Crimea or Waterloo about it, totally disproportionate to the lime mortar, single skin, oversized outhouse or toilet. Sanity prevailed. A voice from the gloom announced:
"Come on, together. A good fart will knock this lot down. We'll be better off in the ditch."
Exit the Waterloo brigade to the ditch, a move towards the fire. They passed the ditch, picked up the hoses, manned the pumps and extinguished the fire. It is a lot harder to counter attack than hold the line. They had passed the test and, in doing so, had become real firemen.
Coming home from work about six one night, my mother informed me of a fire at the top of Windmill Row.
"A stack," she said.
It was indeed a stack. Two local lads, by the name of Plumb and Ablett, had decided to smoke their own version of tobacco in private, the privacy being a straw stack.
Having experience of mopping up behind the senior crew, and being on duty at nine that night, I decided to have a look at the incident being attended to by the senior brigade.
Putting on my penguin suit and proceeding to the scene was mistake No. 1. No. 2 mistake was to go up to the fire and have a look. I deduced quite rightly the fire would be out in about two hours. We were safe, it being about 6. 30. As I was about to retire, a hand fell on my shoulder. There stood a section leader of the senior brigade.
"Just the boy," he said, "take hold of the deviser.""Number one crew, of which I am one, are on duty tonight. I'll inform HQ when I 'phone them, "attached to senior crew on orders of a superior officer who now refuses to authorise pay.""
The smiles disappeared.
To call on a fireman of a junior crew is bad enough.
To call on a boy messenger to do a full fireman's work would, to say the least, be a bit of a let down.
I had no intention of carrying out my threat, but no Melford man was going to extract from a Glemsford man without a fight.
"Have a pint, boy," said the section leader.
This was followed by more offers from ordinary firemen.
I accepted the beer. Honour had been satisfied.