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Item Details
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| The Fire |
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| Olmec Sinclair |
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| Awoken from deep inner meditation by the harsh reality of the pager. The sound waves radiating out from the offending object in rapidly expanding spheres of sound. Crashing into the walls and reverberating back, quieter now, to my confused ear. |
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| Awoken from deep inner meditation by the harsh reality of the pager. The sound waves radiating out from the offending object in rapidly expanding spheres of sound. Crashing into the walls and reverberating back, quieter now, to my confused ear. As the sound bounces its way down the dark channel and rebounds of my eardrum A tired mind surfaces sluggishly and tries to interpret this vaguely familiar sound. Suddenly sleep drops like a pain of glass and shatters into a million shards of sharp, glittering nothingness. In one move my body is across the room, slashing wildly at the small black box. A small bare bulb lights the sleep out as I struggle into my overalls and boots. Autopilot has taken over as I dash towards the house. Neville, my father, meets me at the door with a large bottle of water and a couple of oranges. Together we jog down the dark garden path and out through the gate to the car. I get their first and claim my place in the drivers seat. The motor shudders to life, turns over a few times and falls silent. In desperation I turn the key again, the mighty diesel roars to life. The car hurtles backward, turns and, wheels skidding, races off down the drive and into the night, Nev clinging desperately to the seat. The road stretches out ahead in the moonlight like a silver ribbon and, fuelled by adrenaline, I watch as the road markers slide by. It’s only a mere three kilometres to the fire station but the ride seems agonisingly long. Eventually we grind to an abrupt halt in the shingle outside the station. The villages three street lamps light the scene with eerie white fluorescence. Some of the others guys are already there of course and the tender is just emerging from the shed. Murray skids to a stop, his truck angled sideways in the gravel. The three of us run to the shed, grab our helmets and clown pants from the nails along the wall and struggle, awkwardly into them. Daryl emerges from the station house with the map. Trevor is revving the engine, and as we clamber aboard I hear Colin talking rapidly with regional control. Off we go, leaving an assortment of wildly parked cars alone in the night. Fire engines may be red but they are not fast and they are definitely not comfortable. The heavy unit rumbled down the valley to the main road, and then turned right onto the silent highway. The trip is strangely silent save for the occasional communication with other units in attendance, the police or regional control staff. Half an hour later, as we topped a small rise the fire came into view, a wide slash of orange leaping randomly skyward. We already had a status report from the one of the chiefs already on site: Light brush fire, ignited by passing train, potential danger to livestock and house. Stream available in south eastern corner of the field. Digger required. Daryl grinned back at us from the front, “Ok, Colin, you’re water boy, Nev and Ian you go on branches one and two. Remember Colin one is white, two is blue. Trevor and Olmec, get the Wajax set up by the creek and feed the engine.” We nodded agreement and had the doors open as we drew to a stop. We crowded out and spent a few seconds taking in the scene. Flames were leaping three or four metres in the air, hoses trailed of towards the fire and a pale faced family stands alone on the lawn, watching anxiously as courageous men battle to protect their livelihood from the savage embrace of the raging inferno. The smell of smoke and wet ash filled the air, the scene was lit by the slow turning bubbles of red light perched on the roofs of the attending units and men hurried about with shovels, hose extensions… Trevor shook me, “Come man, lets get this thing pumping”, and slid up the roller door which housed the pump. I grabbed a handle and together we rolled it out on its well-oiled runners. I flipped out the other handle, braced myself and we lifted the heavy motor off its shelf and staggered down the slope and across the shingle to the edge of the small stream. I flicked on a small torch and probed the darkness to locate a deep pool from which to draw the water. An alarmed eel wriggled off into the weed as we moved the pump in to position. Hurriedly I threaded on the trunk like suction hose, fitted the filter and heaved it out into the stream. Meanwhile Trevor fumbled with the throttle and began hauling on the pull cord. The well maintained motor leapt to life and soon we had a flow going. I snapped on the delivery hose, unwinding it as I ran to tender, and fed it down into the belly of the tank. At the rear of the engine, Colin was servicing branch requests for Nev and Ian who were working their way along opposite sides of the house dowsing the roof, walls and grass in a effort to prevent sparks catching the old wooden homestead alight. Leaving Trevor to tend the pump I grabbed a shovel, dropped my visor and headed for the flames. The fire had begun in a clump of dry grass near the railway line, swept down the bank, through the fence and across the paddock towards the house. I headed for the fence line, which now consisted of soldering stumps protruding from blackened earth and smoking cow manure. One of the Cheviot crew was busy dowsing the remains of the stumps so I busied myself with shovelling dirt over the potentially dangerous grass clumps. A star filled sky hung darkly overhead. Two hundred metres to the east, the line of the highway was marked by the passage of passing trucks. “Ferry must have come in”, I thought to myself as I continued throwing dirt at the glowing embers that lay, pulsing contentedly amongst charred grass roots. The moon continues its westward pilgrimage across the sky and I head back towards the cluster of fire trucks and grim looking men with sooty faces. Just then the requested digger arrives, accompanied by Mr Smith the fire authority co-ordinator. The white hats separate from the yellow and congregate around Len as he steps from his expensive looking council truck. After a short discussion Daryl returns looking worried. “Wind’s turning Nor’ West” he said “We’ve gotta pick up the pace here guys or we’ll loose the house for sure”. The digger began to move again, steel tracks rattling as it heads of towards the northern side of the house. Daryl’s on the radio, gesturing wildly as he attempts to obtain a helicopter or even a tanker. He pauses in his efforts to distribute his men. Uncle Ian snaps a splitter into branch two about halfway along. After clipping on the male end of a 50 millimetre forestry hose I’m off running, with the role of hose spinning wildly out behind me. The sound of the end fitting clicking metallically home is reassuringly definite, breaking through the momentary panic that was beginning to swell and rise, blacking out the stars. Nearing the stream the digger rattles to a stop, then skews itself perpendicular to the water. The halogen lamps mounted on the roof and hydraulic arm turn the surroundings into day, The arm descends, bucket tilting up, a huge iron claw poised to tear the earth. The lip of the scoop meets the ground, rocking the machine backward slightly before sinking into the stones accompanied by the harsh sound of metal on rock. Suddenly reality caught up and crashed in around me. “Water on two” Ian yelled into the radio, behind me somewhere, Colin throttled up the engine and eased on the water. Nev and one of the Cheviot team were attacking a small bunch of shrubbery at the far end of the garden that had suddenly sprung alight. The red of the emergency lights mixed with the glow of the fire and the directional spotlights to produce a liquid, flowing quality to the air. Suddenly the wind came, soft at first, whispering over the hills and sighing through the trees. Then gradually increasing in strength, fanning the embers and lifting the flames skyward. Spinning clouds of ash and sparks spiralling across the paddock towards the house. By now the digger driver had succeeded in creating a trench ten or fifteen metres long, connecting the river to an old irrigation ditch. The ditch, which ran along the edge of the paddock and between the house and fire was beginning to fill with muddy river water. A similar rivulet of fire was making its way across the dry grass, It was going to cut in front of the water that was flowing in from the river, I saw Nev as he turned and sent a powerful stream of water directly at the base of the flames. The fire, faced with water, roared in defiance and darted left engulfing a wide belt of grass and sending burning particles of pasture spinning up through the night air. The blaze split and sped, consuming all in its path, West along the edge of the moat. I felt the fear erupt in my stomach and explode outward with cold, gripping authority. On the edge of sanity I heard the distant sound of an approaching siren and seconds later the Waipara appliance was on the scene. Hope began to creep back as it dawned on me that these guys had the foam pack and were in the process of assembling it as we all stood looking at the forest of flame that had sprung up on a once fertile field. Ian and Nev were both playing their hoses on the nearer flames. A fine mist of steam and water droplets billowing back in their faces as the wind swept across the plains. Two of the new arrivals were dragging out the mighty chemical hose that generated the suffocating foam. I watched as they poured the concentrate into the access hatch on top of the truck and started the pump. The two men pulled on their gloves, dropped their visors and opened the valve. A white stream of bubbles arched from the end of the giant hose, scattered in the wind and fell to the ground amongst the ever hungry flames. Opening the valve on my own hose I braced myself and directed a powerful stream of water at several of the larger mounds of foam, which exploded in a shower of white and covered the ground like a blanket. The flames nearest were extinguished almost instantly and the more distant ones, having no where to go, were forced towards the foam and in turn also died out. The field, part of the garden and the remains of the fence were a blackened smouldering mess. It was a sense of victory and success that filled me now, rolling slowly and warmly around my mind and body, fuelling me into action. Small pockets of grass were still burning fitfully as tired men, armed with shovels, water packs and beaters headed out into the smoking ruins. It is easy but tiring work, locating the embers and coals lurking at the base of plants and abolishing them. Later, after a lot of pumping, shovelling and beating we stand around talking about events of the night and laughing now that the danger had passed. Len wanders over with a couple of dozen cans balanced precariously on one arm. The guys fall upon the beer and the night fills with the scraping crack of cans being torn open. Having made the usual jokes and exaggerated to each other about how hot or how big the flames were it is time to gather up the equipment, conduct a final inspection of the fire ground and return to bed. The wet hoses covered in ash and dust must be rolled and placed in the well on top of the engine while the side hoses can be wound back onto their reels at the rear of the unit. Once all has been accounted for, the last of the beer consumed and handshakes exchanged it is time to clamour back into the engine. The truck, now considerably lighter, heads off down the highway in the pale dawn light. Its passengers, tired and grubby, talk intermittently, awaiting the return to the station. Unfortunately for us the night is not yet over. The engine must be filled with petrol, water and fresh hoses in readiness for the next callout. Regional control is informed we are once again standing by for action and the wet hoses are hung out to dry. As the big red doors hinge noisily shut I look about at the early morning scenery, now so different from that time seven hours ago when we arrived. The men stumble wearily to their cars while Trevor wanders down the road. I hope I make my science exam, I think as we drive slowly home. |
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