In Lunar Shadows Slowly

 As I sit to write this, I feel compelled to issue a warning. In the 15 years this blog has been in existence, I've tried, sometimes hamfistedly, to make it humorous. Unfortunately, in what's about to be written, you'll find no humour.

In 1999 the London Fire Brigade's fleet of appliances included five Fire Rescue Units (FRUs). They were specialist vehicles that attended the most extreme and critical incidents that the natives of London could throw at them. Post 9/11, 7/7 and other high profile disasters, the London Fire Brigade now have 15 FRUs. So in 1999, with just five FRUs serving the whole of the capital, we were busy, busy, busy. It exposed the 2% of staff that made up the FRU crews to many more critical incidents than a standard firefighter, but created an elite and experienced band of practitioners. As I look back, I can say that it was a pretty transient position; FRU firefighters often moved on rather quickly. Those that didn't and stayed for the long haul, are prone to illness, alcoholism, addiction and depression in retirement. That's probably not a surprise, right?

Back to 1999. I was a newly promoted Sub Officer, in love with my job, confident (arrogant, possibly), but cared greatly for my men and women. It was some time during the summer; I can't be precise when, but I remember the stifling confines of the Sub Officer's room on the third floor of Battersea Fire Station. It was a night shift, and we had entered the wee hours.

As I dozed on my perfunctory bed, the familiar sound of wailing alarms and bright lights roused me from my sweaty slumber. In less than 60 seconds I was dressed and seated in the commander's position of the FRU. Moments later, I was joined by my four-man crew, and we were barrelling through the empty London streets on our way to 'RTA: Persons Trapped' in Sutton Common Road. I settled down, with one ear on the main-scheme radio listening out for an informative message from the incident. I never ceased to marvel at the driver's skill and speed as he zipped through red lights and across mini-roundabouts to get us in attendance as quickly as possible.

As we rounded a bend in the road we came upon the incident. Two fire engines were already in attendance along with a couple of police cars, an ambulance and a high-speed ambulance car that replaced the London Ambulance Service's helicopter (HEMS) during the hours of darkness. At an odd angle in the road sat a white Ford Fiesta RS Turbo. It had obviously been on its roof and had resettled on its wheels. From my position I could see two occupants and I could hear one. A high-pitched, male voice shouting and swearing.

My crew dismounted, and without the need for instruction, set about preparing the hydraulic tools we might need to extricate the stricken vehicle's occupants. I followed protocol and reported to the Incident Commander. He was also a Sub Officer, the same rank as myself, but sported a partially fastened tunic and an unshaven chin. The few words we exchanged indicated he had no clue what he was doing and was relieved an FRU was now in attendance. I made a mental note that protocol could fuck right off and it would be my orders alone that would resolve this incident.

I approached the Fiesta which was surrounded by firefighters doing very little. An attempt was being made by a couple of guys to release the mangled passenger door, behind which sat a young woman of probably 17 years or so. She appeared to be unharmed but her eyes were only partially open and she was worryingly silent. Next to her, in the driver's seat, sat a pluke-ridden, shaven-headed young man of maybe 20. It appeared that a broken clavicle had punched through his chest exposing milky, white bone against his grey and bloodied shirt. And fuck me, he was letting everyone know about it. Not too much wrong with him, then.

I saw the person I wanted. Raya, a diminutive, Israeli HEMS Doctor, stood by the car trying to make herself heard by the firefighters surrounding her. 

'Hi, Raya, what needs doing?' I asked.

'Dave, they're not listening to me. I need the girl out right now.'

Nothing more needed to be said. Raya and I had worked together several times before and we both knew what her words meant. While the firefighters were pissing about trying to ensure the safety of the girl's cervical spine, she was dying. I pulled away the two guys that had now prised open the passenger's door. I heard angry comments directed at me but they meant nothing. I pulled out my non-issue lock knife, cut the seatbelt, threw the knife into the footwell, and scooped the girl out of the seat and into my arms. Her eyes fluttered open and a huge, hooped earring and long, blonde hair, settled against my tunic sleeve. As I carried her gently to the waiting ambulance trolley I looked into her eyes and said: 'I've got you.'

She looked back at me, through deep, black pupils set against blue eyes. I realise this sounds dramatic, but I promise I relate only to what happened. There was a connection...both a physical one and a meeting of souls. Then, the girl's eyes fluttered again and she became lighter in my arms. I knew she had died. I literally felt the life leave her body.

I placed her body on the trolley and it was wheeled off to the waiting ambulance with Raya doing everything she could to turn the situation around. There was to be no turning around.

The rest of the incident is something of a blur, but we extricated the driver and he was transported to hospital, swearing and spitting. It was reckoned he had entered the bend at a high speed, lost control of the car, and rolled it. The police accident investigation team would establish precisely what happened, having closed the road due to it being a fatal event.

In 1999 I was a fairly green firefighter, despite achieving promotion pretty rapidly. Although not my first fatal incident, this event upset me deeply. I was the father of three daughters and a son so I felt the unnecessary death of a young person heavily. The connection established in life and death felt elemental and real.

The day that I realised something was definitely amiss was a few weeks after the event. I was off duty, it was late at night, and my body and mind were numbed by strong alcohol. I lay in my bed, knocked out by the booze. However, in the adjoining bedroom slept my five-year-old daughter and my waking was never a problem (despite that, I realise criticism of my parenthood is invited here). Sometime through the night, I heard my bedroom door open and a weight place itself on the end of my bed. My daughter often crawled into my bed during the night, so I pulled back the duvet and said 'In you get, Charly.'

Nothing.

I opened my eyes and looked through the gloom at the form sitting on my bed. It wasn't Charly. The huge, hooped earrings confirmed the identity of my visitor. She looked at me with her hands in her lap, then rose and left through the open door.

How did I feel about this, you may ask? The only word I can find is 'comforted.'

Let's fast forward 23 years. I'm in my weekly meeting with my psychotherapist and tell him the story above. I feel somewhat embarrassed to say that I failed to get through the telling of it without deep upset and tears. I was told that my experience was very common in the recent aftermath of trauma.

'What if I told you I saw her last week?' I asked.

We discussed this and settled that I had failed to let the girl go. EMDR, an end to the connection, and a period of mourning were suggested.

'I don't think I'm ready for that. She feels safe here with me,' I said.

I suppose this, right here, the writing of this blog is my attempt at letting her go. Cod psychotherapy carried out by a mental defective.

But...I'm still not sure I'm ready for this. She still feels safe here with me.