Sam 7, p.24
SAM 7, page 24
‘What’s the problem?’
‘He wants to move his Land Rover to the forecourt.’
‘Give him a shout.’
As Sturgess left to fetch the man, Thompson reflected that the handling of this whole incident was entering a fresh phase. While he himself had been shaving, snatching a hasty breakfast and making plans at Rochester Row, the implications of the new day had evidently begun to hit the rescuers on the scene. Dawn always had that effect if you had been working all night. During the darkness you laboured on to finish the previous day’s task, countering tiredness by an automaton-like determination to reach the set objective. But first light changed everything. However gritty eyed and sweaty you felt, the routine morning actions of washing and eating, coupled with the rising of the sun, transformed everything, forcing you to think again about what you were doing. Thompson was unalterably a ‘morning person’ and this was the time when his responses were sharpest, even after no sleep.
The ambulance officer, who had taken over only an hour or so earlier, immediately reinforced Thompson’s desire to close operations in on the railway station itself.
‘It’s over eight hours since the last living casualty was brought out,’ he said. ‘The chances of finding any more must be very slim. The medical teams have all gone. I’m cutting the attendance down to a single vehicle. To be frank, Commander, we’ve too many demands on our services to be able to help much with the dead.’
Thompson assented.
‘Fair enough. I gather you want to move into the forecourt. Make it the bus station part, would you? That’s where this trailer will be going. The main carriageway’s going to be needed for low loaders removing the aircraft wreckage.’
The ambulance officer agreed and was about to leave the trailer again when Thompson remembered that sometime this morning he was going to have to give another press conference. Judging from yesterday’s bitter experience, it would be wise to have a reserve of unassailable facts to hand.
‘By the way,’ he asked, ‘exactly how many casualties did you lift to hospital from here altogether?’
‘I thought you might want to know.’ The ambulance officer smiled, and flipped open a small logsheet. ‘The answer is that the London Ambulance Service have taken 362 seriously injured and 603 with minor injuries. The St John Ambulance Brigade took fifty-six serious and ninety-two minor. That makes 418 serious and 697 minor. But of course it isn’t the total admitted by hospitals. Another sixty-three found their own way there. It always happens. Someone receives cuts and abrasions, or is in shock. He can still walk. So his first instinct is to get clear of the accident. Half an hour later he’s wandering around, not knowing where he is, and a taxi driver or a passer-by brings him in. Quite a few were with the Red Cross and the Salvation Army until it became clear that they needed hospital treatment. So the total to date is 1178. That includes the three firemen.’
‘For the record,’ interjected Sturgess, ‘the number of homeless and others not sent to hospital whom the Social Services, the Salvation Army and the Red Cross cared for overnight is more than 2,000. Names are still being sent in to the casualty bureau. Bodies recovered up to 8.00 a.m. totalled 307 approximately.’
‘Approximately?’ queried Thompson. ‘Surely to God they’ve either extracted 307 or they haven’t!’
‘The ninety-eight from the trains are certain enough, sir. But the aircraft corpses were dismembered.’
The ambulance officer looked disturbed. ‘That’s hardly for public consumption, surely?’
‘No!’ said Thompson emphatically. ‘It is not. Make a note of all those figures for me, please, Colin. And forget about “approximate”. The press are having enough of a field day as it is.’
‘I’ll do that right away. You’ll need some facts for the Lord Mayor of Westminster. He’s expected at 11.00. His Council officers have given us a lot of help.’
‘Damn the VIPs,’ said Thompson tersely. ‘Yes. I’ll be here.’
When the ambulanceman had gone, he pulled up one of the folding chairs and spoke quietly to Sturgess.
‘Whatever else happens, Colin, it’s important that we don’t lose sight of our priorities. Now that the immediate lifesaving and the fire are over, we’re going to be inundated with officials. Some of them matter. Like the Coroner, who’s responsible in law for determining the cause of all the deaths. Help him. Others are not so important. Every ruddy Civil Servant who can think of an excuse will be along here, from the girl who sticks on stamps in the employment exchange upwards. You’ll be surprised. Be polite, but don’t let them distract you. Our job is to safeguard life and property and restore law and order. In other words, to bring our patch back to normal. When we’ve done that there’ll still be a long haul of clearing up and investigations ahead. For the public it’ll be a weekend wonder, for us it could be three months’ hard grind. Whatever anyone tells you, there are no short cuts in police work.’
Sturgess strove to listen attentively. Why, he wondered, did these fatherly bouts of instruction always come when he was dog-tired? His fatigue must have communicated itself to Thompson, who changed his tone abruptly.
‘When are we likely to complete the street search?’
‘Midday at the present rate.’
‘I’d like you to stay on duty until we’ve reduced the cordon to the immediate area round the station. Then you can cut off and get some sleep. We’re going to need you fresh and clear-headed at the weekend.’
A constable appeared at the trailer door.
‘Excuse me, sir. There’s a gentleman here insists on seeing you.’
‘Who is it?’ barked Thompson.
In answer an unmistakable American voice cut in. ‘My name’s Johnson. I own Atlantic Airlines.’
Thompson stepped outside and found himself confronted by the tall, solidly built frame of the airline president. The policeman edged uncomfortably to one side, still reluctant to allow the intruder past.
‘That’s all right.’ Thompson dismissed the constable. He was adept at interpreting faces and he saw from the firm set of Johnson’s mouth and the steady eyes that this man was likely to be what he claimed.
‘Thompson,’ he said, shaking hands. ‘I’m the local police commander.’ There seemed little point in mentioning ‘A’ Division to a foreigner. ‘So you owned the aircraft?’
‘I and a few thousand stockholders. What’s more, the pilot was one of my oldest friends.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’d like to inspect the wreckage.’ Johnson gestured over his shoulder. ‘Brought a couple of my technical boys across with me.’
Thompson sensed that Johnson was trying to bulldoze him and inwardly he cursed Donaldson’s departure. He was unfamiliar with the international protocol on occasions like this, but there could be no doubt from the Home Secretary’s remarks the previous evening that the airline was the subject of an inquiry, which in turn meant that its representatives could have an interest in tampering with the evidence. He weighed this thought against this personal appraisal of Johnson and decided to temporize.
‘Unfortunately,’ he said politely, ‘the senior accident investigator has been called away for a while.’
Johnson’s temper began to kindle.
‘Listen, Commander, we’ve come from New York just as fast as we could. We don’t want to waste any time. Believe me, the pilot of that plane was not, repeat not, accident prone.’
‘Surely no one’s suggesting that he was.’
‘Oh yes, they are,’ Johnson replied heatedly. ‘Every damn newspaper here is gunning for him and us both. Not to mention that Home Secretary guy. I tell you, we want to see what happened to our aircraft.’
‘I would prefer that you wait until the accident inspector returns.’
In spite of knowing that an airline in a foreign crash situation is automatically represented by its own Embassy officials and has little standing in its own right, the frustration of being barred from his objective after so long a journey overcame Johnson. He was also accustomed to steamrollering recalcitrant officials.
‘You mean you want to watch us being crucified?’ he almost shouted. ‘What kind of a set-up is this?’
‘One that I am in charge of,’ snapped Thompson. ‘And while we’re on the subject, you might like to know that clearing up your mess has already needed the efforts of several thousand people, quite apart from its cost in lives. Now, you can either wait quietly, or you can leave.’
Johnson flushed. He had fast been developing a suspicion that the British had it in for him. Thompson’s words reminded him of the traditional image of the London ‘bobby’, fair-minded and impartial. Maybe there was some truth in the legend.
‘This accident is pretty bad news for us, Commander. I apologize.’
‘Frayed tempers are something we try to avoid, Mr Johnson. There’s enough potential friction in this situation as it is.’
Thompson spoke matter of factly, without rancour. He was certainly different from the average New York precinct captain, Johnson reflected, and his next remark took the airline president totally by surprise.
‘As it happens,’ he said, ‘I was going across to the station. You can come with me if you like, although’ – he indicated the technicians – ‘it will have to be you alone.’
To Thompson the crash appeared transformed since he had last visited it during the night. Fire hoses were still laid out, flat and inert, across the station concourse. The wreckage still lay blackened and tangled in the roof and across the platforms, glistening in places where the fierce heat had left only silvery white ash and runnels of molten aluminium. The foam used to fight the fire had dried to a dirty sludge, while the firemen themselves were still cutting into the forward fuselage of the DC-10 in search of bodies. But it was obvious that order had been brought out of chaos. There was now a sense of control and purpose in the way groups of people were working. Railway engineers were systematically lifting away girders and fixing props under what remained of the roof. All the train coaches except those directly beneath the aircraft’s impact had gone. Chisholm’s railway police were methodically recovering the remaining pieces of luggage and personal property that had survived the fire. Even the TV crews in the press enclosure appeared to have calmed down and were lounging by their cameras, gossiping and waiting for action exciting enough to film. Above all, it was now possible to see clearly within the station. The choking dust and smuts of city soot had mostly settled. Bright sunlight was slanting down through the shattered roof spans, vividly illuminating random parts of the rescue work and intensifying the drama of the whole scene.
Johnson gazed at all this, dumbfounded, shaking his head in disbelief.
‘What a hell of a way to end,’ he said huskily. ‘You know something, Commander? That ship was my dream – the transatlantic service that would put us on the map.’ He drew in his breath sharply. ‘It’s done that all right.’
‘Things are not as bad as they were yesterday.’
The policeman’s attempt at consolation failed.
‘We were in a different league yesterday,’ said Johnson bitterly. ‘A different world.’ He turned away. ‘I guess I’ll wait for Donaldson. He is the investigator, isn’t he?’
If Thompson was surprised, he did not show it. ‘That’s right.’ Then, observing that the reporters had noticed them, he advised, ‘You’ll do best to stay over at the trailer, away from the press.’
He felt a lot of sympathy for Johnson at this moment.
When the airline chief had gone, Thompson went in search of Chisholm to discuss the secure keeping of the lost property. He found the chief superintendent in his office on the Chatham side of the station, poring over a large diagram of the platforms with the Area Manager and another railway official. Chisholm straightened up, an action which his great height made significant in itself, worth a dozen normal greetings.
‘This is our divisional civil engineer. The Area Manager you’ve met, I believe.’
Thompson shook hands, recognizing the Manager as the one who had been suffering from shock the previous afternoon immediately after the crash. He still looked pale.
‘How did you get on with the Salvation Army?’
‘To tell you the truth I can’t remember much. They took me to a hostel near here and put me to bed. I had a job persuading them to let me out this morning.’
Thompson was unsurprised. If the hospitals had not been swamped with serious casualties, the man would be in a ward now.
‘The funny thing is,’ said the Manager, ‘this isn’t the first time that a plane’s crashed on Victoria. A Heinkel 111 was shot down here during the war. The crew were all killed, I think.’
‘We were discussing how soon we can get a train service running again,’ interjected Chisholm, kindly prompting the Manager, who made a noticeable effort to collect his thoughts.
‘We’re in direct touch with the traffic control at Croydon,’ he said. ‘They tell me parts of the line are electrified again. We could start loading Brighton side trains at the far end of the station, using Eccleston Bridge.’ He looked at Chisholm.
‘How soon can the passengers walk through this side?’
‘Straightaway. We could marshal them through Hudson’s Place and the loading dock by platform 1. That’s out of sight of the concourse. But there’ll be no booking-office facilities. The eastern booking hall’s completely full of baggage and our own casualty bureau for relatives of passengers is operating from the Continental one.’
The Manager agreed, weakly passing a hand across his forehead. ‘I suppose we’ll have to use the Eccleston Bridge booking offices.’ These were the long disused relics of an era when the railway had enough staff to admit passengers at the midpoint of the platforms. The gates by the offices had been opened by Chisholm’s constables to let out terrified passengers immediately after the crash.
‘What I need to know,’ Thompson demanded, ‘is how long the station is going to stay out of action.’
There was a moment’s silence while the Area Manager considered this. He ought to be in bed, thought Thompson.
‘It will be two or three weeks before even temporary repairs to the Brighton side roof are finished,’ said the engineer, and paused. The implications were obvious. Chisholm also understood the problem. Main-line trains could not be diverted from the damaged Brighton side to the Chatham side for the simple reason that the drivers did not know the way in. In spite of being on a track, with points and signals operated by others, a train driver had a lot to learn about a route: the sequence of signals, speed restrictions, gradients, halts. However experienced, he could not switch routes overnight.
At last the Area Manager came to a decision. ‘Until this concourse is usable, it will be best if we continue diverting all suburbans into other stations,’ he said, ‘and concentrate on restoring the main-line services first, working from beyond Eccleston Bridge.’
‘How about the underground?’ Thompson asked.
The engineer took over. ‘Virtually unaffected. The Victoria Line passes beneath platforms 5 and 6 but so deep that it’s as safe as an air raid shelter. The District and Circle Lines run more or less below the bus terminus in the forecourt. The London Transport engineers are checking the tunnel roofs for cracks. So far they’re not too worried. They’ve simply told drivers to take it slowly through this section, otherwise things are back to normal. Except, of course, that no trains are stopping here on any of the underground lines until you say they can.’
Thompson leant over and surveyed the station plan. Looking up at Chisholm, he said tentatively, ‘We could open up the Victoria Street entrance to the underground, I suppose.’
‘So long as the forecourt is kept clear of sightseers. Enough have found their way through the cordon as it is.’ Chisholm’s broad face with its battered nose, a souvenir of many Saturday afternoons on the rugger pitch, clouded angrily. ‘They pretend to be relatives, railwaymen, journalists – bloody anything. You’d hardly credit the way they behave. All for a gawp and a cheap thrill.’
‘We need to allow traffic along Victoria Street before the rush hour starts, even though Buckingham Palace Road will have to stay closed,’ continued Thompson. ‘Apparently the snarl-ups along the Embankment and at Hyde Park Corner have been phenomenal. Tell London Transport they can reopen the underground this afternoon. But the bus station will be closed for several days. Our various press officers had better put out statements too. Now, about the luggage and lost property . . .’
Chisholm was about to explain that the Customs officers were concerned about any possible mix-up of railway luggage with airline baggage which inevitably had not been Customs cleared, when a knock on the door interrupted them. A constable entered and looked inquiringly at Chisholm.
‘Is the engineer here, sir? The fire officer is asking for him.’
‘That’s me,’ said the engineer, and followed the constable out, leaving Chisholm and Thompson to their discussion.
On the main concourse one of the divisional fire officers was standing with a group of firemen, several surprisingly boyish under their high black helmets, all eyeing the place where the DC-10’s fuselage had cracked apart in front of the wings. Further back the massive transverse spars of the wings, largely stripped of their aluminium covering by the fire, were still lodged firmly in the roof. So was the centre section of the fuselage, also burnt through to a skeleton. But the forward part had been less affected by the fire, especially the nose end buried in the hotel wall. The whole section was cocked up at an angle, resting mainly on one of the thirty-foot-high cast-iron Corinthian columns which supported the roof girders and which ran parallel to the platforms. Donaldson’s assistant airframe inspector was pointing at it and talking to the firemen.
‘This was the first-class cabin and forward area of the economy class, with the forward cargo hold beneath them.’ He jabbed his index finger at a confused jumble of metal at platform level, in which blackened shapes of what had been cargo containers were visible.
