“George, Jim, we’ve had a call-out to a cow stuck down a hole on the river bank. It’s a chance to try that new piece of kit!”
Neil sounds excited. He’s our new OIC – Officer-in-Charge to those not up with Fire Service jargon. He arrived three months ago, straight from college, full of bright ideas, keen to ‘develop best practice’ and ‘elevate the station’s performance in the national league table’. Most of us have been here a good long time and we’ve heard it all before. Supers, gaffers, OICs, they sweep in like stiff new brooms, brushing up policies and procedures, shaking up things for the sake of it, before moving on to a larger station where they get more challenging call-outs than a smoke alarm gone off because someone’s smoked a fag under it, or a tractor swerved into a hedge. We have a whip round for a card and a Boot’s voucher and wish them luck… then we revert to the tried and tested way we’ve always done it.
To be fair to Neil, he’s not as bad as some we’ve had. He doesn’t throw his weight around and he does listen to the voice of experience – sometimes. He’s just a bit wet behind the ears. As soon as he saw the length of stout rope we keep to haul cows out of holes – a not uncommon occurrence in our neck of the woods – he was poring over the latest Fire and Rescue Service catalogue that Jim had used to prop up his wobbly desk leg.
“During my training, I was shown a device specially designed for this sort of situation. It’s a fully adjustable harness that you can use on cows, or sheep or horses; you attach it to a cable and the cable to a winch and it runs off a rechargeable battery. Now, if I could only find it…”
Well, the upshot was, Neil somehow persuaded Regional HQ that the Animal Retrieval and Recovery Unit Mk2 was an essential addition to a rural fire station’s arsenal. A week later, a delivery van turned up and all four of us (except Neil, who was overseeing) were enlisted to give the driver a hand to unload our new acquisition. We staggered into the garage with it, breathing heavily.
Jim looked at me and I looked at him. “The rope’s easier to carry,” he said. I agreed.
Since then, not a single cow, sheep or horse has been in need of rescuing – until today. Jim and I heave the ARRU onto the engine and we set off to trial it on the poor cow that’s fallen down a hole. Neil comes too, confident that his marvellous equipment will transform the rescue experience.
We bump along the track running across the field. We hear the cow before we see her: she’s in fine voice and isn’t afraid of demonstrating it. Jim turns off onto rough grass and then we’re only a short distance from the cow who, alarmed at the big red vehicle heading straight for her, increases her bellowing.
The field is right opposite the showground and, as luck would have it, it’s the very day of the County Show. A knot of spectators, intrigued by the loud mooing, have torn themselves away from the attractions on hand and gathered on the river bank.
Neil takes charge. “Just unload the ARRU and set it up here, lads. Now, one of you secure the animal in the harness.”
Jim and I look at each other. Lassoing a beast with a rope is one thing; clambering into a hole in close proximity and fastening straps around its chest and belly (as per the instructions) is quite another.
“Well, go on then! George, you do it.”
I reluctantly grasp the harness and scramble down the slope, making what I hope are soothing sounds. When I reach the cow, I attempt to place the straps around her not insubstantial middle. She does not appreciate this and shifts round as far as she can in the confined space, almost squashing me in the process. Jim makes sympathetic noises from above. Eventually, I succeed in fitting the cow snugly in the harness and wave at Neil who is standing by the winch ready to press the red button. He is thrilled to be the first to use it, I can tell from the gleam in his eye. I’m gleaming, too – from exertion. I’m also slightly anxious that the cow, imprisoned though she may be, might still kick or bite me. But she seems resigned to her fate and stands, panting a little, waiting to be airlifted to safety.
“Jim, throw the cable to George so he can attach it. George, manoeuvre the animal to face the winch.”
This is easier said than done.
“Now, if we’re ready, I’ll start the motor and up she’ll come!”
There’s a whirring sound, then a grinding. The cable tightens. The cow does not budge. Neil gesticulates at the machine as if willing it on. I can tell he’s becoming agitated. The knot of spectators has swelled to a small crowd. Clearly, we’re more entertaining than whatever’s happening in the arena.
“There doesn’t seem to be enough power. George, come out of there and help Jim to pull.”
“Pull?”
“PULL!”
Jim and I add our combined manpower to the winch. The cable goes taut, the cow moves maybe an inch. Then…an ominous creaking sound – and the cable snaps. Jim and I collapse in an undignified heap. I can hear laughter drifting across the water. The cow gazes at us in some surprise, then nonchalantly nibbles a blade of grass.
Neil is horrified: his pride and joy failed at the first hurdle!
“I’ll have to ring the station for reinforcements. We’ll never get her out on our own.”
“No need for that.” Jim picks himself up and saunters over to the engine. He ferrets around and produces a coil of rope. I hide a smile as he walks over to the cow, loops the rope round her neck and clicks at her encouragingly. She stops chewing and tentatively stretches one leg up the side of the hole. She finds a purchase and with one mighty bound she’s free. I rush to release the harness before she canters off, tail swishing, to catch up with the rest of the herd. A cheer goes up from the audience. Jim removes his helmet and bows low. I wipe a clod of mud off my face and address my OIC.
“Is there a money back guarantee, boss?”
Neil sounds excited. He’s our new OIC – Officer-in-Charge to those not up with Fire Service jargon. He arrived three months ago, straight from college, full of bright ideas, keen to ‘develop best practice’ and ‘elevate the station’s performance in the national league table’. Most of us have been here a good long time and we’ve heard it all before. Supers, gaffers, OICs, they sweep in like stiff new brooms, brushing up policies and procedures, shaking up things for the sake of it, before moving on to a larger station where they get more challenging call-outs than a smoke alarm gone off because someone’s smoked a fag under it, or a tractor swerved into a hedge. We have a whip round for a card and a Boot’s voucher and wish them luck… then we revert to the tried and tested way we’ve always done it.
To be fair to Neil, he’s not as bad as some we’ve had. He doesn’t throw his weight around and he does listen to the voice of experience – sometimes. He’s just a bit wet behind the ears. As soon as he saw the length of stout rope we keep to haul cows out of holes – a not uncommon occurrence in our neck of the woods – he was poring over the latest Fire and Rescue Service catalogue that Jim had used to prop up his wobbly desk leg.
“During my training, I was shown a device specially designed for this sort of situation. It’s a fully adjustable harness that you can use on cows, or sheep or horses; you attach it to a cable and the cable to a winch and it runs off a rechargeable battery. Now, if I could only find it…”
Well, the upshot was, Neil somehow persuaded Regional HQ that the Animal Retrieval and Recovery Unit Mk2 was an essential addition to a rural fire station’s arsenal. A week later, a delivery van turned up and all four of us (except Neil, who was overseeing) were enlisted to give the driver a hand to unload our new acquisition. We staggered into the garage with it, breathing heavily.
Jim looked at me and I looked at him. “The rope’s easier to carry,” he said. I agreed.
Since then, not a single cow, sheep or horse has been in need of rescuing – until today. Jim and I heave the ARRU onto the engine and we set off to trial it on the poor cow that’s fallen down a hole. Neil comes too, confident that his marvellous equipment will transform the rescue experience.
We bump along the track running across the field. We hear the cow before we see her: she’s in fine voice and isn’t afraid of demonstrating it. Jim turns off onto rough grass and then we’re only a short distance from the cow who, alarmed at the big red vehicle heading straight for her, increases her bellowing.
The field is right opposite the showground and, as luck would have it, it’s the very day of the County Show. A knot of spectators, intrigued by the loud mooing, have torn themselves away from the attractions on hand and gathered on the river bank.
Neil takes charge. “Just unload the ARRU and set it up here, lads. Now, one of you secure the animal in the harness.”
Jim and I look at each other. Lassoing a beast with a rope is one thing; clambering into a hole in close proximity and fastening straps around its chest and belly (as per the instructions) is quite another.
“Well, go on then! George, you do it.”
I reluctantly grasp the harness and scramble down the slope, making what I hope are soothing sounds. When I reach the cow, I attempt to place the straps around her not insubstantial middle. She does not appreciate this and shifts round as far as she can in the confined space, almost squashing me in the process. Jim makes sympathetic noises from above. Eventually, I succeed in fitting the cow snugly in the harness and wave at Neil who is standing by the winch ready to press the red button. He is thrilled to be the first to use it, I can tell from the gleam in his eye. I’m gleaming, too – from exertion. I’m also slightly anxious that the cow, imprisoned though she may be, might still kick or bite me. But she seems resigned to her fate and stands, panting a little, waiting to be airlifted to safety.
“Jim, throw the cable to George so he can attach it. George, manoeuvre the animal to face the winch.”
This is easier said than done.
“Now, if we’re ready, I’ll start the motor and up she’ll come!”
There’s a whirring sound, then a grinding. The cable tightens. The cow does not budge. Neil gesticulates at the machine as if willing it on. I can tell he’s becoming agitated. The knot of spectators has swelled to a small crowd. Clearly, we’re more entertaining than whatever’s happening in the arena.
“There doesn’t seem to be enough power. George, come out of there and help Jim to pull.”
“Pull?”
“PULL!”
Jim and I add our combined manpower to the winch. The cable goes taut, the cow moves maybe an inch. Then…an ominous creaking sound – and the cable snaps. Jim and I collapse in an undignified heap. I can hear laughter drifting across the water. The cow gazes at us in some surprise, then nonchalantly nibbles a blade of grass.
Neil is horrified: his pride and joy failed at the first hurdle!
“I’ll have to ring the station for reinforcements. We’ll never get her out on our own.”
“No need for that.” Jim picks himself up and saunters over to the engine. He ferrets around and produces a coil of rope. I hide a smile as he walks over to the cow, loops the rope round her neck and clicks at her encouragingly. She stops chewing and tentatively stretches one leg up the side of the hole. She finds a purchase and with one mighty bound she’s free. I rush to release the harness before she canters off, tail swishing, to catch up with the rest of the herd. A cheer goes up from the audience. Jim removes his helmet and bows low. I wipe a clod of mud off my face and address my OIC.
“Is there a money back guarantee, boss?”