ECHO 6 - Incident at Bridgeton Cross

[Moonwatcher]

Echo 6 – Incident at Bridgeton Cross.

A slightly shorter version of this was originally posted on SPDG.

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Summer 2004. Galloway, Scotland.

RGD 743 sits on the cropped grass of Glentrool campsite, basking in her retirement beneath the glorious sunshine of a Scottish summer. Her big back door is swung open wide revealing an interior typical of the many old vehicles of her type converted into campers or ‘caravanettes’. Her original external fittings are long removed, overhead sign blanked off and her exterior body spray-painted a nondescript matt buff colour. Only her unmistakable shape and design identifies her as an old retired ambulance.
Kids run around the van shouting, laughing and playing while their Dad sits on the lowered back steps, smoking a cigarette and reading yesterday's newspaper. Mum, busy in the back, works at the wee sink and tiny cooker preparing lunch. She’d much rather be in a hotel, but the van provides a cheap, flexible means of holidays and weekends away, great for the kids; providing the weather holds out. She hears a scream and looks up, annoyed that she cant see the kids clearly through the dark, smoked glass side windows. She hurriedly dries her hands and goes out to investigate the latest 'crisis'. The empty interior, strewn with the paraphenalia of camping holiday life, is dominated by a fixed couch/bed, covered in a tartan rug scattered with cushions, toys, comics and clothes. Poking out from one corner is the original mattress of dark red PVC, the same material and colour as the long, padded backrest with it's hinged armrests. A small fold-down seat, just to the rear of the cab, guards the way through the sliding door in the bulkhead to the driver and passenger seats up front. A look around the white fibreglass walls reveals marks and holes of old fittings; clues of a previous life; a very different life of three decades earlier, when 743 played an important role in the lives, and deaths, of Scotland's People.

Then, she was known as ‘ECHO 6’.


Circa 1970's Glasgow, Scotland.

‘GLAS AM TO ECHO 6. OVER’
‘ECHO 6. GLAS AM. GO AHEAD. OVER.’
‘TREBLE NINE CALL. BRIDGETON CROSS. REPORT OF A BUILDING COLLAPSE, PEOPLE TRAPPED. BRIGADE ON IT'S WAY. TIMED 1433. DESPATCH SAME. OVER.
‘RODGER’
‘CONTROL OUT’

Welcome aboard. You set for another spell as our 'third man'? [see 'The Model' 18 Apr 2004] As the cab radio above our heads crackles out it's clipped message, you wonder what's in store for you today as Alan, our driver, flicks the switch activating the overhead beacon and, despite the daylight hour, turns our headlights on full beam. A blast of the two tone horns alerts surrounding traffic and, as they slow and pull over, we pull out and take up a position straddling Duke Street's centre line as we speed east. You find the noise of the horns/klaxons deafening as you grasp the edges of the tiny folding seat on which you sit, positioned in the patient saloon directly behind me. You lean through the sliding bulkhead door listening intently to my translation of the radio message above the din. Despite earlier assurances that it comes with practice, you can still only make out the odd word during these transmissions. I explain, at the top of my voice, that we're on our way to a building that's collapsed, and that the Fire Service are also on their way. It appears there may be trapped victims. You nod and feel a churning in the pit of your stomach!

In 1882, Glasgow saw the introduction of it's first organised ambulance service. A very basic affair, crude by today's standards, but a godsend to the people of the city. The service, set up by the St Andrew's Ambulance Association, consisted of individuals trained in first-aid, operating from designated chemist's shops in the town centre established as 'stretcher stations'. Casualties were removed from the streets by litter – basically a large wheelbarrow with a canopy fitted over the top, equipped with bandages, dressings, a couple of blankets and a pillow. One of these litters (without canopy) was still in use at Celtic Football Park, Parkhead into the 1980s. Dr George Beatson wrote an Ambulance Handbook to assist those involved. Considering the small scale of the operation and the limited resources available at the time, the green hardbound handbook proved extremely comprehensive in it's coverage of anatomy, physiology, injuries, medical conditions and basic treatment procedures. It remained the standard first-aid textbook until 1932.
Horse drawn ambulances eventually replaced the litters and, in 1914, the Service was established throughout Scotland, with motor ambulances being donated by the British Red Cross Society at the end of the war. St Andrew's Ambulance Association Headquarters was established in North St, Glasgow, near Charing Cross. It remained there until the early 70s when the M8 motorway replaced it with a big hole in the ground.

With the formation of the National Health Service in 1948, the St Andrew's and Red Cross Scottish Ambulance Service was established. The Red Cross later withdrew from the contract. By 1974 the Service, now headquartered in Milton St, consisted of two distinct, separate organisations – the voluntary section and the professional service running the public emergency fleet. Following the 'Miller Report' of the late 60s, all professional UK ambulance personnel had to pass a tough six week training course. In Scotland, a national training school was established in the grounds of Gartloch Hospital, Glasgow for this purpose. It was the first of it's kind in the UK.

Although the voluntary organisation remains to this day as The St Andrew's Ambulance Association, the professional Service was taken over by the Common Services Agency following a National Health Service re-organisation in the 70s, becoming – The Scottish Ambulance Service...


As Echo 6 screams down Belgrove St, towards the Bridgeton area of Glasgow, the radio continues to blare out.

‘RODGER NOVEMBER 3. ECHOS's 6 AND 7 ARE ON THEIR WAY. YOU HEAD OUT THERE ALSO. OUT.
GLAS AM TO SIERRA 10. YOUR POSITION? OVER.’ The radio provides only one way communication; we don’t hear the reply.’

‘RODGER 10. LET ME KNOW WHEN YOU'RE CLEAR.’
‘GLAS AM, ECHO 6. OVER’ You're startled to recognise our call sign and the words that go with it. Your brain is beginning to tune into the transmissions.

‘SIX RECEIVING. OVER.’ You hear me respond into the hand held radio mike.
‘WERE GETTING MORE CALLS FOR THIS. LET ME KNOW AS SOON AS YOU ARRIVE AT THE LOCUS. OVER.’
‘CLICK’
'CLICK' [Clicking the button on the mike, producing a burst of static, replacing dialogue as an acknowledgement, is bad radio practice but it saves words!]

‘GLAS AM TO ALL VEHICLES INVOLVED IN THE BRIDGETON INCIDENT. SWITCH TO CHANNEL TWO. ALL VEHICLES INVOLVED IN THE BRIDGETON INCIDENT CHANGE TO CHANNEL TWO. CONTROL OUT.’

I explain to you that a radio channel has now been dedicated to this emergency to control the flow of radio communication relevant to the incident and that the major accident procedure has now been initiated.

From your wee seat in the back, your eyes are fixed, through the big windscreen, on the scene unfolding ahead. Down Abercromby St, past the Model. Approaching the London Road junction, a solid queue of vehicles block our way. Traffic is piling back from the main road; probably jammed up from the site of the incident at Bridgeton Cross. Your first thought is that the game is up and that we'll come to a halt. But an ambulance stuck in traffic is of no use to anyone.
'Okay guys, mercy men comin through!' Alan cries out flippently. He's referring to the cringing catchphrase the media love to use of ambulance personel in Scotland.
The two tone horns are deafening; reverberating off the tenements on either side as we cross the centre line and challenge the oncoming traffic. You grip the seat tighter as cars, vans and buses pull into either side, opening up a ‘passageway’ down the centre of the road. Someone panics, pulls the wrong way and stops dead, snarling up everything and forcing us to mount the off-side kerb to squeeze past. Your adrenaline is running high; thoughts about what might await our arrival, as the vehicle lurches and swerves through the traffic. I give you a quick run down on the procedure, shouting over the noise of the two tones. First vehicle on scene becomes incident control. Setting up control points. Assessing danger of further collapse. Triage. Your palms are sweaty and your heart is racing as you try to take it all in. Echo 6 is a white, dazzling banshee as Alan noses her out into the London Road junction. She commands the attention of all around, screaming for right of passage as she picks her way through the dense, stationary traffic. Our flashing blue light reflects off car windscreens and shop windows. Alan is sweating; concentration etched into his face as he manouevres the ambulance forward, this way and that, seeking the narrowest of gaps to make progress. He is one of the best. One of the very few to be police driver advanced trained. All the more unusual when you realise that he undertook such training voluntarily at his own expense. Official advanced driver training will not be introduced into the Service for a decade. You and I trust Alan with our lives; literally. Contrary to popular belief, emergency vehicles are subject to the same road regulations as everyone else. As long as we don't screw up, the law allows some dispensation. To collide with someone means stopping, perhaps wreckless driving charges and disciplinary procedings. But above all, an accident means the ambulance wont make it to the incident. Alan knows the stakes and pushes on. We narrowly skim through the gap between an oncoming Corporation bus and a taxi. 'Woahya! Anither coat a paint an wae widnae hiv made that!' he mutters. I believe him and you wonder how he can find humour at a time like this. A pall of dust over the tenements ahead alerts us to our objective.

A police car falls in behind us, it’s two tone klaxons adding to the bedlam. At last we reach Bridgeton Cross, it’s central umbrella packed with crowds of people and children watching the ‘show’. Almost every tenement window is open with one or more people leaning out, straining to see more. You suddenly realise that all eyes are on us! Whatever awaits us around that corner, people are expecting us to be cool, calm, and in control. You try to stop your leg from shaking! More klaxons, as two fire tenders emerge from the other side of the Cross. Children hold their hands over their ears as the cacophony of noise descends on the historical circular junction. A police car, positioned at right angles across the road, blocks non emergency traffic from entering the street of the collapse. The constable, with flambouyant sweeps of his arms, waves us through. As we accelerate the last 100 yards we get our first view of the scene.

[During the 60s and into the 70s a number of Glasgow tenements collapsed. It came as no surprise. Many of these buildings, built in haste a hundred years earlier to accommodate the huge influx of labour into Glasgow, had been teetering on the verge of self destruction for years; even when occupied. Most of them, or at least the worst ones, had been derelict for some time, their occupants moved out to the housing schemes or into the high rise flats dotted throughout the city. It was common to see these old tenements shored up with huge timber buttresses in an effort to keep them standing until the demolishers could move in. Glasgow was changing, shaking off it’s slum reputation, bracing itself for the revival to come. But it was a mammoth task and it was going to take time. Sometimes, time ran out. Such is the case this day at Bridgeton Cross.]

'Damn it! Sooth boays goat here furst.' Alan's frustration at not being first to arrive is a reflection of the competition among the younger element of the Service. We're not the first vehicle on scene, a ‘south wagon’ has arrived just ahead of us from the other direction. [In the 70s ambulances were still referred to as 'wagons'. A throwback to the days of the horse drawn carts that were once used to transport the sick and injured.] Echo 7, another vehicle from our own station, crewed by Des and Sammy, falls in behind us. An assembly point is quickly established and we get out to assess the situation. The five of us take in the scene. The Fire Brigade are taking up position, running out hoses in case of fire. Police are erecting barriers to keep the growing crowd of onlookers at bay. As we cautiously approach the rubble you see that the whole end section of a four storey tenement has come down. A number of men and women are clambering over the huge pile of rubble, their faces and clothes white with dust. We find ourselves standing on the periphery, alongside the Firemaster and a group of firemen. Concerns about victims trapped under the rubble are tempered by the potential hazards of gas, electricity, and further collapse of the remainder of the building. Those in charge would dearly like to get all civillian rescuers off the rubble and moved back a safe distance. But people in this situation dont think like that. Those searching desperately will not be easily persuaded to withdraw. A man comes running over to us screaming;

‘Don’t jist staun ther, thirs kids in ther!’

A woman breaks throught the barrier and runs towards us, a policeman and two other women in pursuit. She’s hysterical.

‘Aw naw Jean, go hame hen!’ The man shouts to her. The two throw their arms around each other in an futile effort to console. We approach one of the women who chased her through the cordon; try to get the story from her, finding it difficult to be heard above the klaxons of more emergency vehicles arriving on scene.

‘Ther wurr some kids playin itt eh en eh the buildin jist afore it kim doon. Jean’s wee lassie wis among thim ah hink. Oh mah goad ah hope she's no wan eh thim!’ Our witness, covers her mouth and breaks down in tears before being led away. As other men and women appear through the cordon, distressed, wide eyed with shock, it becomes clear that there are a number of children unnaccouted for; last seen playing in the shadow of the buttressed gable end of the derelict tenement. Des and Sammy lead the distressed parents to the waiting ambulances. The Divisional Ambulance Officer arrives in a staff car and adopts the Ambulance Incident Officer role. We update him on what little we know. He gives me a row for not wearing my cap, before strutting off to talk to the Fire Officer, all the time keeping an eye open for photo opportunities with the Press! Alan chuckles and explains to you my aversion to wearing the skipped military style cap that goes with the equally military style uniform of the 1970s ambulance service.

Firemen and civilians stumble over the rubble, shouting and clawing through the debris. We join them. There's nothing technical about this, thermal imaging is still in the future. Bare hands and desperation are the order of the day. Looking up, the remainder of the building looms above us. It doesn’t look safe. Overhanging segments of brick, mortar and wooden joists jut out precariously above our heads. Old fireplaces are exposed on each of the collapsed floors and torn wallpaper flutters in the breeze. Regular cries of warning, followed by falling masonery crashing around us, serves as a reminder that we shouldn’t be here. Nobody’s being brave. It’s just easier to search for victims than to walk away or stand and watch!

Every now and then there's a call for silence. It takes a few moments to get everyone to be quiet, and there’s always the noise of radios, horns, shouting and crying in the background. We hear nothing. The dust gets up your nostrils and your eyes become gritty. Everyone is coughing. Some searchers have sustained minor injuries; cuts, abrasions, bruises, but they toil on. As you clamber over the rubble, sometimes on all fours, your eyes strain for a sign of a hand or leg sticking out from beneath; your hope tinged with dread.

A cry goes up from our left! Kicking up plumes of dust, we clamber over great chunks of broken brickwork and splintered wood to a huddle of men, It turns out that one of the civilian rescuers has taken a tumble. From the way he's sitting, holding his leg it looks like he's injured his ankle. The guys around him back off and we kneel down beside him to have a look.
'Ah pit mah fit doon a bliddy hole and ah heard a crack!' he grimaces.
'Okay, let's hiv a look at it mate?' You hold his leg steady as I remove his shoe and begin to cut his trouser leg along it's seam. A quick examination reveals swelling, and pain over his ankle. No sign of broken skin and the joint seems stable enough.
'Iz it broke dae ye hink?' he asks, not really wanting to hear the answer.
'Could be. We'll hiv tae get ye up tae the Royal furr an x-ray tae find oot. Whit's yer name?'
'Tam!'
'Okay Tam, I'm Bob, ah'll tell ye whit wurr gonnae dae. Ah'm gonnae pit an inflatable splint oan yer leg. It's jist lik a temporary plaster cast. It'll stoap it movin aboot an we kin get ye tae the ambulance. Okay?'
Tam nods. From the large plastic case, that you've been carrying since we jumped out of the ambulance, you hand me what I need. You steady his leg as we carefully apply and inflate the splint. As I zip it up and start inflating it you overhear Alan shouting to someone to look out as a piece of debris falls from above. It's easy to forget we're still in the danger zone so, as soon as we've got Tam's leg immobilised, we recruit the help of those around to help carry him unceremoniously across the rubble towards safety.

Back in Echo 6, we make him comfortable on the bed.
'Ah feel sich a fool!' he says shaking his head.
'Why's that?' I respond.
'S'pposed tae bae oot ther helpin in eh rescue an whit happins? En up a casualty massell!'
'Away ye go, yer a hero mate!' I retort. 'Wance wae get tae eh Royal, yer gonnae hiv tae fight aff eh reporters lookin furr yer story. Mark mah words man, ye'll hiv yer nem an face in eh Evenin Times eh night. A hero ye'll bae.!'
He laughs.

Alan and the Divisional Officer, suddenly appear at the back door.
'They've found the kids!' says Alan.
'Aw naw!' cries Tam, assuming the worst.

The news that the kids have been found safe among the ‘spectators’ under the umbrella, pulls everyone off the rubble. Unless anyone else is reported missing there will be no more excursions into the danger zone.

The Divisional Officer pulls me aside as I raise the back steps of the ambulance. You overhear the conversation.
'Bob, where's your hat?'
'Eh, it's in the cab, ah'll get it in a minute.'
'You should be wearin it all the time, you know that. I keep tellin you.'
'Look, what difference does it make?'
He points to the enamelled badge on the front of his own hat depicting a crest with the blue and white St Andrew's flag topped by a crown.
'This is the symbol of your authority allowing you to do what you do. It stops anyone from questioning that!'
'Does it stoap bricks?' I say sarcastically, pointing over at the danger zone. Maybe it would be better if you issued us wae hard hats instead eh these stupit ....
Alan appears at my side.
'Aht's Control callin us Boab!' he lies.
His intervention breaks the tension and I jump into the back of the ambulance, slamming the big door shut behind me.

[Nowadays ambulance crews are equipped with hard hats, specially designed jump suits and a range of protective gear that includes visors and gloves. At the time of writing, consideration is being given to the issue of police type protective vests. In the 70s we had a jacket with silver buttons and a soft, skipped cap with a badge!]

Meanwhile, parents hug children, tears are shed and the comment; ‘Jist you wait tae ah get ye hame!’ is heard.

‘ECHO 6 to GLAS AM. OVER.’
‘GO AHEAD 6. OVER.’
‘READY TO LEAVE SCENE. ONE ON BOARD FOR THE ROYAL. LEG INJURY. OVER'
'RODGER 6. CONTROL OUT.'
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This account is based on actual events. Some details may have been modified, either for the sake of privacy or because memory has failed in the years since these events took place.

Dedicated to the Emergency Personnel lost three years ago today in the events of 9/11 and to the staff of FDNY Engine 54. Ladder 4. Battalion 9. 'Pride of Midtown' [who lost 15] where my cap badge now resides.
http://www.angelfire.com/ny5/paulgill/index.html

[CatrionaL]

A good read