ECHO 6 - Incident at the Baillieston Lights

[Moonwatcher]

First posted on SPDG. Sometime earlier this year.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Echo 6. Incident at the Baillieston Lights


Out of the east it came! Somewhere out by Edinburgh. At first there were few who took much notice, as it slithered it’s way through the green fields and slag heaps of West Lothian on it’s way west to the Firth of Clyde. But, as it shot through the gap between Bathgate and Livingston, rumours began of it’s coming. Most dismissed the warnings. It would surely bypass Glasgow, the city was safe. With gathering speed, momentum and power, it bore down on the outer fringes, skimming past Coatbridge and slashing through the Baillieston Lights. It sought a route; a path of least resistance. Resistance was futile, but why waste energy if an easy way was available? It found it! Perfect! The Monkland Canal! Drilling it’s base into the ageing waterway, it screamed through the village of Easterhouse. The old pub was first to go as the top part of the village was flattened. Small, secondary twisters shot off from either side, mere playthings compared with those that would follow. The housing scheme shuddered at the passing, but remained unscathed and thankful of escape.

Like a rocket on rails, it followed the canal track. It needed room, much more room. Room to breath, to expand. It squeezed between the schemes of Cranhill and Ruchazie nudging them aside. The approach to Riddrie presented no resistance. Inmates at Barlinnie Prison heard it’s roar as it passed; would hear it’s noise for years to come, a constant reminder of lost freedom. At the Golfer’s Rest it crossed the Cumbernauld Road with impunity, shot out secondaries, and changed the landscape forever. As it thundered towards the city centre it broadened it’s footprint, the narrow canal track no longer sufficient; Blackhill and Gala Street fell before it. Garngad (Royston) dared to stand in it’s way. But the mighty steel and gaswork structures succeeded only deflecting it’s power slightly. It veered to the left, taking out the White Brig and bottom end of Millburn Street, firing off secondaries as it went; secondaries that would complete the devastation. Cut off and in ruins, Garngad was lost.

The towers of the Cathedral and the Royal Infirmary stood proud and defiant. They trembled, but survived along with the tiny and ancient Provand’s Lordship, the oldest house in Glasgow. But occupants of these old buildings watched in horror as Townhead disintegrated in plumes of dust, smoke and debris as it slaked it’s wrath on the oldest part of the city. Castle Street, with it’s cinemas, library and shops ceased to exist. Parliamentary Road followed as it tore down buildings and vapourised streets. A secondary was launched north and struck Springburn, obliterating much of that community.

Now, as the City Centre lay ahead, it had no further use for the canal, it having served it’s purpose in providing the approach and entrance to the city; the trojan horse was discarded. Cowcaddens was next to fall as it crashed through the tenements and shops in a hail of destruction, opening up a scar that would never heal. Turning sharply south it ploughed into Charing Cross drilling deep into the earth, gouging out a massive crater hundreds of yards across, swallowing up North Street. The ambulance headquarters and surrounding buildings were consumed in the pit. The Mitchell Library teetered on the brink of the abyss as the beast thundered past. Secondaries shot out at every angle, destroying much of Anderston, isolating what was left. Then it leapt! Even the mighty Clyde could not stop it. It landed on the southside, impacting on Kingston, shattering communities, wiping streets off the map. Veering right, it ripped through Kinning Park and Bellahouston. Govan and Ibrox felt it’s fury as it continued it’s westerly onslaught. Now it emerged triumphant. In it’s wake, an enormous swathe of destruction, a city severed in two. It sped in triumph past Hillington and the airport towards it’s final destination. At Greenock it stopped. Out of the east it came... The M8.

And people got hurt...

'GLAS AM, ECHO 6. OVER.'
'6 RECEIVING. OVER.'
'THE MOTORWAY CONSTRUCTION SITE AT THE BAILLIESTON LIGHTS. REPORT OF MAN TRAPPED. TREBLE NINE AT 0913, DESPATCH 0914. OVER.
We're already heading eastwards on the A8 Edinburgh Road through drizzling rain and spray, windscreen wipers slapping to and fro, de-misters struggling to clear the glass, on our first job of the day, a routine outpatient pick up. Alan and I look at each other as we try to visualise where this location might be.
'RODGER THAT GLAS AM. DO YOU HAVE ANY DETAILS ON THE SPECIFIC LOCUS? OVER.'
'STANDBY ON THAT 6'
We motor out towards the Baillieston Lights at speed, throwing up a great plume of spray behind us from the water soaked road surface, while our controller tries to pin down the exact location. The construction of the huge M8 interchange, currently underway at Baillieston, covers a very wide area with numerous sites all over the place. Unless someone can meet us and guide us in, we could be in for a difficult and time consuming search. You're getting used to this now – the noise, radio gabble, nerves. As we approach the Baillieston Lights we hear our callsign right on cue;

'GLAS AM, ECHO 6. OVER.'
'6 RECEIVING. OVER.'
'BEAR LEFT THROUGH THE LIGHTS. A CONSTRUCTION VEHICLE WILL MEET YOU AND ESCORT YOU TO THE LOCUS. OVER.'
'Click.'
'OUT.'
GLAS AM, EAST STATION OFFICER... RODGER. LET ME KNOW THE SITUATION WHEN YOU ARRIVE. CONTROL OUT.
From the last part of the transmission we know that our Station Officer, JS, is also responding to the call and is somewhere behind us in his staff car. Up ahead, between sweeps of the windscreen wipers, you see the spread of traffic lights before us, their glow diffused by mist and spray. All are showing red. Alan switches on the klaxons and leaves them on. Baillieston Lights is a notorious accident black spot, and in these weather conditions it's one of the most dangerous junctions in Glasgow. Alan drives Echo 6 cautiously against the red, watching out for the sudden appearance of another vehicle from the murk. He makes for the left of the junction where we see a flashing amber light which, as we approach closer, recognise as belonging to a work's van. Leaning out the driver's door, a workman, hard hatted and dressed in a flourescent jacket waves frantically at us with both arms in the air. As we pull alongside, we kill the two tone horns and I roll down the window. He shouts for us to follow him to the scene of the accident. The van leads us off to the left off the main road and through a scene reminiscent of an old gold rush town. Temporary works buildings and cabins, set in squelchy mud, form a makeshift 'village' dotted with various items of plant, construction equipment and materials. The surface is a quagmire and uneven. We see the van slither, it's back wheels kicking up a horsetail of mud as it negotiates the rising track out of the main site complex. We follow suit and, in the back, you feel Echo 6 slide and hear the squeal of wheelspin as Alan does his best to make progress without getting bogged down. Eventually, at what appears to be a turning area on a slope, the van stops and we pull up behind.
'All ashore who's gaun ashore!' shouts Alan. as we busy ourselves grabbing what kit we think may be useful and can carry. We bail out and immediately sink into a couple of inches of thick mud. Thankfully the rain has stopped, but the sky is dark and ominous. Our guide leads the way, taking us up the slope to a grassy rise just ahead. As we struggle to the top; three steps forward and sliding two back, I look back and see the arrival of JS in the staff car. We later learn that he only managed to find the locus by seeing our flashing blue lights in the distance.

At the top of the rise, the scene unfolds. Below us, on the edge of an enormous, gouged track, stands a gargantuan yellow beast. We're told it's a 150 ton 'Earthmover'. It's wheels, with their huge tyres, appear to stand about a storey high. It's length is that of a steam locomotive. Smoke billows from it's exhaust pipe protruding from somewhere near it's top. The noise of it's engine(s) is steady and penetrating. Occasionally someone, presumably in a cab hidden on the machine somewhere, revs the beast and great plumes of smoke rise skyward. The Earthmover is very close to the side of an embankment and seems to sitting on a slope. A small group of men, dwarfed by the machine, are crouched under one of the huge tyres, directly under the belly of the behemoth.

'Looks like wiv found it guys.' We start to make our way down the slope, slipping and sliding as we go. By the time we reach the bottom we're caked in mud and resigning ourselves to the fact that these uniforms were just not designed with jobs like this in mind. We find ourselves in a narrow gap between the embankment and the side of the machine. As we crouch under the huge tyre, the chassis of the Earthmover rises over our heads like a roof. We need to shout over the noise of the engine. I ask the person who seems to be in charge if we can shut off the engine. He shakes his head and explains that to do so would mean a lengthy process to restart it. He goes on to warn that the whole machine is tending to slide forward on the mud and that the driver is keeping it under power to prevent it doing so and crushing all beneath it. It's at times like these that you harbour fleeting thoughts of a job on an assembly line packing widgets into boxes all day. Boring but safe. Such thoughts are abandoned when we see the object of our mission. A young man, a boy really, in late teens lies on his back in the mud, his lower torso pinned down by the huge wheel. He's barely conscious and in pain. A preliminary examination confirms worst fears. Chest, abdominal and pelvic injuries. Secondary injuries to an arm are present. His legs are not visible and cannot be assessed. He's pale, pulse is weak and racing. He's in shock. We start him on oxygen and get some blankets around him to retain body heat. JS arrives, slithering down the channels created by ourselves a few minutes ago.
'What's the score?' He asks.
He's briefed on the situation so far. It appears that the lad was climbing down, or up, the embankment when the Earthmover was passing. He lost his footing in the mud and slid down. He was caught between the machine and the embankment, then fell underneath. Ironically the soft, squelchy mud, the very cause of his accident, is also the thing that's kept him alive. In sinking into the mud, the crush injuries have been minimised to a great extent. The construction guys, spades at the ready are prepared to start digging around and under him to release him from beneath the wheel. They 're confident they can have him free in a few minutes.

We stop them! Everyone looks in disbelief! I turn to JS.

'Let's get the Emergency Team Jimmy.'

He thinks for a moment, his gaze flashing between us and the lad in on the ground.
'You sure?' He asks, unconvinced of the wisdom behind this decision. Even Alan seems unsure. You struggle to follow the debate above the sound of the engine.
He's sustained serious multiple injuries, in shock and has had considerable pressure on his abdomen and limbs for over half an hour. If we release him and move him up to the ambulance in his current state, chances are we'll lose him to shock or crush syndrome before he reaches the hospital. He needs IV infusion, medication and full resuscitation support. Things we cant give him.

'You absolutely sure about this?' asks Jimmy again, knowing the risk we're taking. He knows that if the lad dies, we stand to be criticised for not taking the opportunity to move him when we had the chance. He has the authority to overule.
'Okay it's your call. I'll get the Team.' He makes his way up the embankment again to the staff car, to contact our Control and request that the emergency surgical team from Glasgow Royal Infirmary are despatched to the locus URGENTLY!

Meantime, we settle down and do what we can to keep the lad alive. The news from the Site Foreman that the Earthmover is running short of fuel does nothing to raise spirits! The clock is ticking and we feel many eyes us. Like a watched kettle that is slow to boil, the time moves v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y. Alan and yourself, aided by a squad of construction workers bring more gear down to the slope. A trolley bed (gurney), 'scoop' stretcher, and more blankets.

The noise of two tone horns in the distance brings everybody's heads up and soon surgeons and A&E nurses, each decked out with bright flourescent jackets emblazoned with the words 'GRI SURGICAL TEAM' are slithering down the well worn mud slide. They carry a number of large hard plastic cases which are soon being opened and contents extracted. You watch as veins are located, cannulas inserted. IV giving sets assembled and polythene bags containing plasma expanders and saline connected up to provide a lifeline directly into the lad's circulation; held aloft by burly construction workers only too eager and pleased to be 'part of the team.' Blood pressure is monitored, remains low but rises slowly. The surgeon decides to wait for as long as possible, allowing his patient's condition to stabilise as much as possible before extracting him. JS slaps you on the shoulder. 'Good call guys!' he says.

Extraction is dictated by two things, the condition and physical stability of the patient and the remaining fuel in the Earthmover. The Earthmover wins! When we can wait no longer and the machine is in danger of spluttering to a halt, so beginning it's slide into the mud. The spade work begins. When enough mud and earth has been removed we separate the aluminium 'scoop' stretcher down it's centre and position each half on either side of our patient. After adjusting for length we bring both sides together, locate the head and foot brackets, snap and lock them together. The device literally scoops under the patient and separates him from the ground. We then gently lift the assembly, with him on top, on to the waiting trolley bed, checking drips, tubes, oxygen and dressings. We secure everything as best we can and enlist the help of the construction workforce to get us all up the embankment and into the ambulance; a process of slipping, sliding, slithering and cursing, with frequent stops to check how our man is faring.

It's crowded in the ambulance. People and equipment fill every available space as we begin 'foot to the floor' journey to the hospital. Drips sway and rattle from overhead clips, equipment slides and falls over, nurses hang on to whatever they can while assisting the doctors. I radio on ahead and inform the A&E department of our iminent arrival, relaying information and instructions from the doctors. Alan concentrates on getting us all there in one piece. There's a moment of alarm when we see JS's staff car spin off the road onto the central reservation. He had to take avoiding action when a motorist, mesmerised by our ambulance screaming along the Edinburgh Road, almost collided with him. He's okay and follows us into the A&E entrance somewhat abashed. Our patient survives – just. We hear later that he'll spend many months, perhaps years, in therapy recovering from his injuries. Although one of the earliest victims of the M8... he wont be the last.

[CatrionaL]

A good read