Soot, sweat and suffering. The thoughts hot off the firefront from the rookie in the crew.

5:26pm

The tyres of the van screeched to a halt outside the fire station. Feet on the concrete. Through the open door. My heart was pounding. The Reverend followed closely behind me into the heart of the station; the locker and engine room. Inside Michelin Man stood half dressed in his overalls. A tyre changer by trade he is only a few years older than me, although a bit larger. Grizzley and Dutchie stood over by the radio, listening to the murmur of traffic from the communications centre. Dutchie is a middle aged man, of characteristic Dutch height. His tanned skin was worn from hours on buildings sites and his face carpeted with a small beard. Grizzley is shorter than Dutchie, with an unshaven face, he is an experienced firefighter who was the acting officer.

My heart sank. Our water tanker had just been dispatched and it looked like our other firetruck would not be needed. As is protocol we hung around the station in case we were needed.

‘… tree’s fallen…’

‘… smoke seen…’

‘… requesting air support…’

A pause. Michelin moved towards his overalls. I followed suit. Grizzley issued the orders, we were to be dispatched. Hurriedly, I pulled on my overalls, slipping my feet into my boots before zipping this armor up. I grabbed my helmet and hoisted myself up into the appliance. I ended up in the back sandwiched between Michelin and Dutchie, Grizzley was in the front while Reverend had taken the drivers seat. Sirens on, we blazed out of the station in the direction of the fire.

This brief surge of adrenaline lapsed as we bounced around in the back of the truck. It was a good 40 minute drive to the site of the fire. Much commotion was made over the fact we even had a truck to go in. New Zealand’s fire fighting forces had gone through a landmark transformation in 2017. Since July first we were no longer under one of the 38 rural fire authorities, rather being part of the wider Fire and Emergency New Zealand, which merged the rural authorities with the Fire Service, the urban equivalent. This transition could have been smoother, the disparity between the ill-equipped rural branch and the Fire Service has lead to supply shortages in everything from overalls to firetrucks. The very truck we were sitting in had been subject to a tug of war between multiple parties, even though she was far from new. Eventually however she had landed in our hands and this was to be her maiden voyage as Brightwater 5071.

She slowly chugged up and over the range that stood between us and the fire and we were soon roaring down a gravel road. Looking out the right hand window I saw a chopper hovering along at the same altitude and speed as us, preparing to set up an operations base for the monsoon buckets. All this excitement was dampened when the decision was made that we would wait at the bottom of the narrow and winding forestry road to see if we were needed. It was frustrating, seeing the smoke billowing off the hillside, its heavy scent wafting down to us. The choppers blazed overhead, ladened with monsoon buckets. Here we sat for a good 20 minutes, directing the occasional ute up the hill in the direction of the fire.

‘… yeah can you bring the truck up the hill…’

Oh boy! This was it. Adrenalin surged through my veins as we donned our helmets and gloves. The truck crept up the hill in first gear as we bounced round in the back, glad to have our helmets on. At the staging ground the first thing we did was sign a notebook with our name, in an effort to make sure we knew who was going to be on the ground. The last wildfire that the crew had attended was on a steep hillside during the night, and only through sheer luck had accident been avoided as there had been serious failures to put fail safes in place or other protective measures. We had decided as a crew that we would in future take it upon ourselves to protect one another if the higher ups were not willing to.

At the staging point we rendezvoused with our other appliance, the tanker, and her crew — Sparky and Stilts. They had already been briefed on the situation and passed on orders to us.

“Sam, Dutchie and Michelin, you take the right flank of the fire, you are alpha team [The ‘A team’]”

We turned and headed in the direction of the fire. Dutchie picked up a hose pack and handed it to me as the youngest. I perched it on a stack of beehive boxes (smart move I know) and threw the straps over my shoulders. Someone grabbed the end of the hose out of the pack and I motored my way up the rise in front of me before descending down the hill down the flank of the fire. To my left was a smoldering blackened landscape of scrub. We pushed through the gorse until Dutchie took command and ordered an attack on the hotspots to our side.

‘…Water on the alpha flank please Sparky…’

The hose roared to life, as if possessed. Pushing through what scrub wasn’t burnt, we hit the smoldering stumps of trees with high pressure water and foam. We moved further down the hill, laying more hose and skidding down the sooty ground to avoid the gorse. Before long we were sweating and out of hose. I offered to run back to get another hose pack, something that Dutchie readily accepted, adding that I should grab a hand tool to break open the stumps. Crashing my way up the hill, I launched myself from tree to tree until I came to the fire break we had first come down. As I moved along it I saw the hose spurting foam high into the air. Michelin had said something about a loss of pressure I thought, this must be the cause. Cresting the hill I was soon down by the trucks grabbing the gear we needed. Once again at the hose geyser I radioed for water off, before hurriedly threading a new hose on and racing down the hill. I was feeling the pressure, sweat pouring down my face. With the other end linked my jittery hand pulled out my radio ‘… water on! …’ . Holding the end of the hose from the pack in one hand, the other clasped a rubber hose end, a branch and the hand tool. I barely managed to climb up the bank on the edge of the fire break with my hands so full.

Soon enough Dutchie was pointing out hot spots for me to demolish. Skidding around the blackened earth I carried out this work, hot as all hell, smoke billowing. We took seconds to nervously watch the choppers fly overhead, braced to run in case they decided to inadvertently drop their payload on us. The Reverend came after an hour or so with water and muesli bars, which were inhaled as soon as they arrived. All in all, the work took several hours of scrabbling, extinguishing and slashing. It was only by darkness that we were pulled out. As we pushed our way through the scrub to the firebreak Dutchie cursed the damned Englishmen who introduced gorse into NZ. Tired, dirty and ready to go home we emerged. We stripped our unrecognizable overalls and shuffled into the back of the truck.

What I saw at that fire was nothing short of remarkable. Dutchie, a builder by trade, was transformed into a thoughtful and tactical commander. Someone I would strive to make proud. Fires change people. I doubt many people give a second thought to the army of volunteers who take up the challenge to defend their communities.

The fire — Credit: Daniel Chisnall — Chopper Pilot

If you enjoyed this article please give it a clap and check out some of my other stories, such as my recent trip to Stewart Island!