WHERE’S THE FIRE?

Bay of Plenty Beacon, Volume 11, Issue 83, 22 September 1947, Page 4

WHERE’S THE FIRE?

HARASSED BRIGADES AND SOME PLAYFUL PUBLIC HABITS

The habits of the public whenever a fire breaks out are always intriguing, but in some places they are downright peculiar. It appears for instance, that whenever the fire alarm rings in Waipukurau, the telephone exchange in that town is always deluged with calls seeking information as to the whereabouts of the blaze.

The word “deluged” is the operative one. Most other towns and cities house people who cannot resist finding out all they, can about fires. A few of them ring the fire brigade, but not very many. Past training has' had its results, and they leave the fire fighters alone to get on with the job. Not so in Waipukurau, however. On one recent occasion, it is reported, about 200 shutters dropped at once when the alarm was given. This was far beyond the capacity of the Post Office staff, and most of the calls were ignored. It is stated, furthermore, that official instructions have now been received to the effect that no information regarding fires should be given in response to such calls, except to fire . brigadesmen or police officials. That is hardly surprising, although it is not difficult to think of some exceptions that would have to be made to such a vigorous ruling. What about the poor fellow whose house is being burned, for instance? Is he to be denied information? Or the ambulance? Or—not least —the Press?

It is true that there are thoughtless people who, in other centres, telephone the fire brigade just because they want to give themselves a thrill by getting quickly to. the scene of the fire, and watching the fun. I have known one or two myself. They’re the people who don’t know how to make use of their leisure.

As one who has had, in the course of his work, to reach an outbreak as fast as possible and to break through the milling populace to get the work done, I am well aware of the difficulties which can be caused by a crowd. On one occasion in Christchurch some time ago, for instance, when there was a huge blaze in the suburbs, destroying a warehouse and contents, valued at £30,000, it was a fearful job to get anywhere near the scene. (And yet the fire broke out at 11 p.m., by which time many people should have been in bed, or at least thinking about going there and keeping out of the way of fire fighters.) By the time I arrived on the scene —transported by fast car—there was a remarkable crowd, which the police had considerable difficulty in Controlling and keeping well back. My task was to pierce the crowd and get inside the ring of policemen. In the first place, no one present seemed at all inclined to yield his place to any newcomer, no matter whether he happened to be the Commissioner of Police in person or any other Very Important One. After half-an-hour—yes, all that time—l succeeded in pushing my way through the mob. By this time I was very annoyed indeed, and the conscientious policeman who did his best to stop me from going any further didn’t have much luck, especially as my story was a good one.

The interesting thing is, however, that the blaze lasted almost all night—the brigade were given the alarm too late, and there was but a poor water pressure—and the waiting crowd showed little sign of dispersing. For the first time in my life I realised the immense attraction which fires have for individuals in a mass. They might have been moths trying desperately to keep away from a naked flame, but hopelessly fascinated by it, and incapable of dragging themselves away. So now I can sympathise with the unfortunate Waipukurau fire brigade. I hope they succeed in educating their particular public.—Hector Wilson in “The Observer.”