The Firefighter Blues. Alan Bruce
equipment, developing extrication plans for the safe removal of the victim and trying to concentrate on intricate, delicate and complicated rescue procedures is challenging enough without the intrusive behaviour of our thrashing, screaming hyper-activated brain. It’s a real challenge for firefighters. Remaining calm and grounded while your brain tries to switch into fight-or-flight mode is counter-intuitive and when repeated over and over, year after year, can have dire psychological consequences.
Even back then I knew, eventually, something had to give. I just didn’t know what to do about it. During that era, for me, male bravado trumped common sense every time. Very little help was available in the way of counselling and the culture of the times ensured that seeking assistance would be seen as a sign of weakness. I was just too embarrassed to cry for help.
A few days later, a couple of cops from the police station next door paid a visit to our station. They filled us in over a cup of tea in the mess room.
‘The kid under the train was a 15-year-old boy, who, for years, had been the victim of bullying.’
It seemed like all flexible thinking had abandoned him and he chose death over the life he had. Today I have a better understanding of how he must have felt. At that time, I remember thinking …
Where was his support? Where were his parents?
How could he let things get to that point? Why didn’t he just get help?
I could never do what he did.
CHAPTER TWO
Ten Pound Tourists
I was born in Scotland and, although very young when my family immigrated to Australia, I can still recall events, places, feelings and smells like it was yesterday. I’m not sure if it’s because my parents continually spoke of ‘home’or if it was such an exciting upheaval in my short life that remembering that period is easy for me. I certainly don’t want to forget where I came from so maybe my subconscious forces me to remember.
In Scotland, we lived in Letham, a small rural village in the county of Angus. My parents rented a tiny council house at 49 Dundee Road. At the time, Letham had a population of 800 and that included the surrounding farmers and their families. Today I believe it’s closer to 2000. Our home was a typical two-bedroom, two-storey flat with an open coal fire for the harsh Scottish winters, living room, a tiny kitchen and not much else. Although the house was small, to my eyes, during our final year there when I was four years old and my sister, Jennifer, was five, it seemed huge.
Nursery rhymes, music, warm fires and the aromas of simmering porridge and sweet homemade jam fills my head when I think of our Letham home. I recall open fields behind our house where giant sheep roamed freely. I was terrified when on occasion they would venture up to our back fence. When you’re four years old, the world is full of giants.
Days spent camped at the local farm while Mum picked tatties (potatoes) infuses my mind with vivid memories of stinging nettles, creepy-looking jackdaws and the smells of tarpaulin and freshly ploughed earth.
My father, Wallace (Wal), was from a large family. His mother gave birth to twelve children, although four died at a young age, including twins who passed away a few days after their birth. I never knew Dad’s father, George Bruce, who passed away in 1945 but I do have a few vague memories of my granny, Eliza Bruce, who was still alive when we left for Australia. In comparison, my mother’s family was quite small. She was born Elizabeth Gray, but everybody knew her as Betty. She had only one sister, Sheena, who was quite a bit younger than Mum.
Letham had a central village square consisting of a handful of shops and, of course, a couple of pubs, the Commercial and the Letham Hotel. To earn extra money my father would tend bar at the Commercial on Saturday nights.
He liked a drink, a singsong and a chinwag and both the hotels were within walking distance from anywhere in the village, including our house.
The nearest town was Forfar, which we would occasionally visit when my father could borrow a truck from his work. Very few people owned cars in our village so you either caught the bus or walked. Our family was one of the lucky ones. At that time, Dad worked in the furniture removal business and quite often he was able to borrow the boss’s truck on a Sunday. All four of us crammed into the cab – no seatbelts, no heater and no worries. If the weather permitted, he would occasionally take us to the seaside at Arbroath or Montrose. Compared to Australian beaches, it had a different look to it, as sand seemed to be non-existent. I remember stumbling over metre after metre of pebbles just to reach the water’s edge.
Although we were working class and probably considered quite poor, we never wanted for food. Living in a rural area had its advantages. The local farms, particularly the potato farms, could always provide for the villagers. When I was very young, one of the few things I would eat was a delicious Scottish dish called ‘stovies’. It was basically potatoes half boiled , half fried in a large pot with oil, onions and maybe a little ‘munce’ (minced meat) if you had any. My sister, Jenny, and I would fight over the burnt onions left on the bottom of the stovie pot. It was a staple in my house for years. Even when I married and left home, I loved visiting my parents for a huge plate of Mum’s stovies.
One of my strongest memories of Scotland is how cold it was and how I hated putting on layers of clothing only to take them off five minutes later when we arrived at our destination. To a small child, all this did was interrupt playtime. An enjoyable winter recollection that stayed with me all these years is when Mum dragged me down to the local shops on a sled as the snow was too deep for me to walk. I can still feel the icy wind on my face though my body was toasty and warm. My sister was in her first year at school so it was just Mum and me, and the family had to eat. Although it was hard work for my mother, it was great fun for an adventurous four year old.
Enjoyable as that was, I think even then I knew there must be better places to play. My Uncle's family, Rosemary and Dave Binnie, were already living in Australia on the outskirts of Sydney and would often mail photographs and letters home to their family. I remember Mum spent ages trying to convince me that the scene I was looking at in one particular black-and-white photo did not portray any snow.
‘No, Alan, it’s white sand, not snow,’ she would say.
When the penny finally dropped, I spent my days dreaming of paddling in the ocean and playing with my pet kangaroo. I couldn’t believe that, in Australia, kids played in shorts, no shirts and bare feet.
~
I’m not sure whose idea it was to move to Australia, Mum’s or Dad’s. I didn’t really care; I was just so excited I would be travelling, firstly by train across the Forth Bridge then down to Southampton, England. On the 15th March 1962 we set sail for Australia. We were off on an epic six-week ocean voyage to start a new life in a new land.
I’ve always admired my parent’s pioneering spirit. To be able to uproot your entire family and leave everything you’ve ever known took some guts. I’m still not sure if things in Scotland were really that terrible or the chance for a new life in Australia seemed too good to resist. Dad was in his thirties and Mum in her late twenties. Dad was leaving behind his mother and nine siblings while Mum was saying goodbye to her mother and little sister, Sheena. Not knowing if you will ever see your family again must have been heart-wrenching, yet, like many of that generation who had lived through the Second World War, toughness and resilience was embedded in their character. I’m not sure I could have done it. Sometimes I think their hardiness made me emotionally weaker. As an adult, I always felt that I fell short of their toughness, resilience and emotional strength. Tagged, ‘The Silent Generation’, their age group suffered through the Great Depression and the Second World War, yet they didn’t complain, they just shut up and got on with the job.
My parents’ relationship always confused me. In some ways they were very similar; both loved a party, travelling, music, were very sociable and both had a very strong work ethic, yet they always seemed to find something to argue