17September2024
I accepted the invitation from the local education department without hesitation, though not without a hint of resignation. At sixtythree I have spent half my life with the fire brigade, the other half lately on a modest pension of about £7,500 a month. I pull night shifts as a security guard to keep the lights on, and by day I am left wondering why the school wants me to run a new extracurricular club.
That Tuesday in early September I stepped into the schools sports hall for the first time. The linoleum was scuffed, the markings faded, a row of exercise machines leaned against one wall, and a folding table bore a stack of fire hoses, helmets and two coiled breathing apparatus tubes. Around me fussed eight teenagersthree girls and five boys. The youngest looked about fourteen, the oldest was gearing up for his Alevels. They clicked away on their phones, laughing at a handmade poster that read Fire isnt our brother, but were not his enemy either.
MrsClarke, the deputy head, a brisk woman with the borough council badge stitched on her blazer, introduced me: Everyone, this is Victor Edward Collins a reallife rescuer. I gave a quiet nod. Since I stopped answering emergency calls, the word rescuer feels oddly detached, as if it belongs only in old service orders, while the instinct to react to a siren still lives in my muscles.
I began simply, asking each of them to state their name, age and why they had come. I want to save people, Being a fire hero sounds cool, Itll look good on my university application the answers poured out. One girl, Poppy, a slender Year9 pupil, spoke up: Im curious about smoke protection. I want to study safety engineering at college. I noted to myself that already one of the eight was thinking of a specific skill; the rest were still attracted by the uniform and the applause.
The first session lasted an hour. I demonstrated how to lift a hose with both hands, smooth and steady, so as not to tear the cuff, then asked them to unroll a full length down the changing room. The boys sprinted forward, the hose tangled, and giggles filled the space. I didnt raise my voice; I walked over, untangled the loops, then challenged them to repeat the task silently and timed it. The stopwatch stopped at four minutes and thirty seconds a clear reminder that even a game demands concentration.
A week later we moved the drills outdoors, to the disused site of former PCH12. We had dismantled the hosedrying tower but left a concrete ramp that proved perfect for sprinting up with weighted extinguishers on the backs. The morning was crisp, frost sparkling on the grass edging the curb. I made sure everyone secured their straps before giving the start. The first ascent went smoothly; on the second, the boys legs grew heavy, two of them sat on a low wall.
This is still without the breathing apparatus on your backs, I reminded them as they caught their breath.
No worries, well get used to it, grinned James, wiping his forehead with the sleeve of his hoodie.
During the warmup I slipped in a short story. Ten years ago a fire broke out in a warehouse: the temperature under the roof hit 300°C, cardboard stacks collapsed. We were pulling two hoses while wind roared through the open doors like a pipe. Fifteen minutes later the masks were fogged from the inside. I spoke calmly, but the pause after the numbers made the group listen intently.
By the end of September the youngsters knew what a fireline knot was, why a doublelayered turnout coat matters, and why you never run if your helmet has come off. One day I staged a dark drill: lights off, smoke machine on, a mannequin hidden somewhere. Their task was to locate the victim and carry them to the door. After three minutes a hose snagged, Youssefs flashlight died, and the team lost its bearings. I had to herd them to the wall and guide them out one by one.
After the drill the youngest, Ethan, asked: Victor, what if theres real fire?
Wed be wearing our breathing sets, I replied. And youd have only ninety seconds to find anyone.
October crept up unnoticed. The maple leaves by the fire station turned amber, the sun set earlier, and by five oclock the chill was biting. One Friday we let a volunteer crew onto the active stations grounds: they climbed the training tower, were handed out decommissioned breathing sets (without cylinders), and the floodlights were switched on.
When night fell I gathered the teens in a circle. A draught between the garage and the storage shed made the air prickly. They perched on the concrete, James leaning against a coil of hose.
There are things you wont find in any textbook, I began. Ill share one incident. If after hearing it you decide this isnt for you, Ill understand.
I recalled a January night, 2016: a ninestorey block, fire on the fifth floor. Smoke choked the stairwell, the power went out. We climbed with eight minutes of air left in our masks. In the corridor we found a woman with a twoyearold child. We got them to the landing, but the air in our sets ran out, the alarm screamed. The baby was handed to paramedics but didnt survive the night. My voice stayed steady, yet a sting of pain settled beneath my ribs. I rarely speak that story aloud; usually Im reduced to the terse a child died line.
Bare branches of hazel rattled in the silence. Poppy sat hugging her knees; James stopped twirling the hose coil; Ethan bowed his head as if listening to his own pulse.
Why are you telling us this? asked Youssef.
Because you need to know that not every rescue ends up on the front page. Sometimes you come home emptyhanded and wonder if it was worth it.
I turned off the floodlight. A grey twilight draped the area, a distant lantern at the gate marking the way out. The cold pressed me to make the decision each of them would soon face.
The weekend passed without drills; each of us chewed over what had been said.
Monday arrived early. The sky hung low, a thin grey mist crawled over the pavement. By the back exit, where a concrete stairwell led to the fourth floor, I laid out two training hoses. The stopwatch, a cold metal weight, found a place in my palm, ticking like an old station alarm.
The stairs creaked as Poppy appeared, wearing an old fleece jacket over a plain turnout coat. She nodded silently and clipped her carabiners onto her belt. The others followed. Counting reached six Youssef and Ethan were missing. I didnt ask why; I gave a minute for warmup and prepared for the talk.
When the minute elapsed, hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor. Ethan burst out from a side door, fortythree seconds late, breath ragged, a helmet in hand. Youssef trailed behind, rubbing his eyes as if fighting sleep. The group was whole again, and the knot in my chest loosened.
Decisions made? I asked quietly.
Yes, James replied. We want to keep going. The questions have only multiplied.
The first task was a rope ascent and descent. The width of the passage allowed only two sidebyside. Poppy and Youssef led, Poppy bearing the coil, Youssef securing it. James and Ethan followed, then the younger pair, with Harriet anchoring the chain. I hit the start button; the stopwatch buzzed.
By the second span their muscles felt leaden. On the third platform Ethan dropped the hose; the strap bit his wrist, but he pulled himself up. I watched without intervening: without real fire, a slip is simply a lesson in calculation. The first pair reached the top in one minute fiftynine seconds; the whole team in four minutes twenty. They descended, settled on a bench with their helmets, breathing slowly returning to normal.
Ask me anything, I offered.
James looked up: How do you live after those calls where you cant save everyone?
I thought of the smell of melted wiring, the wail of sirens, the slam of an ambulance door.
I still wake up in the night, I said. At first I blamed myself: why didnt I get the child out faster? Then I realised that if you cling only to guilt youll never climb the next rung. This job isnt about heroics; its about choosing, every time, to go forward even knowing you might be late.
A pause, then back to practice: Two more ascents. The one who carries the hose secures it, the one who secures it carries it. Goal: finish under five minutes.
This time Ethans hose stayed tight; Poppy adjusted the loop from behind, issuing short commands. We finished in three minutes fiftyeight. I kept my satisfaction hidden, noting the errors: keep the hose tight against the thigh, dont jump on the turn, pull the hood down, tighten laces. Small details, but without them survival slips away.
When the session ended, Poppy handed me a notebook: According to the regulations, volunteers need at least sixteen hours of practice to be allowed on citywide drills. We have eleven left. Will we make it?
I glanced at the tidy columns of times: We will. Not by speed, but by discipline. Tomorrow knots, the day after darkcorridor navigation, Friday well do stairmarches in the station.
I walked home through a drizzle that left a thin sheen on the pavement. The smell of fried chips drifted up from the groundfloor flat of my fivestorey block. Behind my door, the flat was quiet. I turned on the radio; the static gave space for memories to settle. My pension barely covered the basics, but I needed fireproof gloves for the kids. My nightguard wages would stretch if I found a discount. Its a small thing, but such minutiae keep the volunteer crew afloat.
Later that Friday morning, frost nailed the puddles into thin crusts. The stations perimeter was lit by streetlamps and the smell of damp coal from the boiler room. The training tower loomed like a dark silhouette. I checked the carabiners and handed out brandnew gloves.
Where did these come from? asked Harriet, eyeing the bright orange patches.
A sponsor, I shrugged. The sponsor is me and two night shifts in a row.
The drill ran under the stopwatch. The first pair topped the third floor in one minute fortyfive, the second a couple of seconds slower. At the finish, James tapped the display: 1:52 a new record.
The teens leaned on the railings, cheeks flushed, eyes not showing bravado but focused confidence. A familiar knot of guilt eased, as if someone had loosened the strap on my own harness.
See those numbers, I whispered. Its not about glory. Its work. If you want more, go for it, but always remember the price.
From below the gate, the sound of a fuel tanker departing for a pump check rose. The youngsters instinctively looked toward the vehicle, and I realized that in their heads there were no badges or stickers, only the real callouts that might one day be theirs.
I turned off the stopwatch, slipped it back into my coat pocket. The crunch of ice under my boots, the low hum of the engine, and the faint breath of steam formed the soundtrack of a job they were just beginning to hear.
Fiveminute break, I announced. Then another round, then home. From Monday we start using the breathing sets.
The teens smiled, briefly, without fanfare, as if theyd signed an unspoken pact. As they descended, they argued about how many hours each still needed for the credit. I lingered, watching them go, feeling a steady warmth settle in my chest: the truth didnt crush them; it gave them a way out of illusion.
My hand brushed the pocket where the stopwatch lay, its metal warm. A new record would click soon. One day Ill pass this timer to another mentor. For now, time moves forward, and together were learning how to fill it with purpose.
The sun, a pale disc trembling above the garage roof, brushed the clouds. I took a step toward the group. Tomorrow, and every day after, work awaits.
