Jack Stewart plunged his hand into the bucket and splashed his face. He pulled a shabby handkerchief out of his trouser pocket, dunked it in the water and wiped some of the black soot from his eyes. The acrid smell of burning chemicals mingled with the stink of his own sweat and he raised an arm to cover his nostrils. He had been on duty for over twenty-four hours and was on his last legs. He looked over at the rest of his squad. Some men were stretched horizontal on a small patch of scrub ground and the others were leaning exhausted against the pump. They had managed to get the main fire under control by mid-morning, but had been kept busy by small isolated outbreaks, which had continued to occur with annoying regularity. It had been an hour, though, since they had had to deal with one of these incidents and Stewart had decided that they had finished the job.
He sat down carefully between two puddles and rummaged in his pockets for a cigarette. The thick, black smoke, which had swirled around them for hours, had finally dispersed and he could look up at the bright morning sky. In the distance, on the other side of the river in Rotherhithe, he saw a couple of small fires blazing away. He looked up again and watched a single fighter, flying at great altitude, creep slowly across his line of vision. British or German, he didn’t care. He felt his eyelids drooping and, with a supreme effort, shook his head and climbed to his feet. “Alright, you lazy buggers. Rise and shine. Let’s get the fuck out of here. We’ve done enough for today.”
Despite his argumentative and recalcitrant nature, acquired as a matter of course during a poverty-stricken Gorbals childhood, Stewart had achieved rapid promotion in the Fire Service and was the senior officer in charge of the Chelsea station. His membership of the Communist Party had been held against him when he’d attempted to enlist and all three forces had rejected him. None had given him a good reason, but he knew that his politics must be to blame. At least he’d been sure that that was the case until he’d been accepted by the AFS. Perhaps they were just less choosy in the AFS, though whether the armed forces had any right to be choosy in current circumstances was highly debatable.
From the day he had started his service he had questioned everything. The lack of action during the first months of the war had allowed Stewart plenty of time to think and to pick holes in the system. He’d got up the noses of his superiors in his first station, not only because of his bolshy nature, but also because of his conspicuous success with the female sex, whom he pursued vigorously in the many idle hours. He’d been transferred to the Chelsea station where he was initially just as unpopular. In June, however, a new head of station had come in and he was a Scot of a very different pedigree to Stewart. Archibald Steele had recently inherited a Highland baronetcy, fifty thousand acres and a substantial banking fortune. Nevertheless, he regarded Stewart’s foibles with tolerance and some amusement. He recognised that Stewart was ferociously intelligent and clear thinking. As the service was increasingly called into action during the summer months to assist other forces in the suburbs, he realised also that Stewart was fearless and a leader. So when Sir Archibald Steele was asked to take up a more senior role in the AFS hierarchy, he spent little time thinking about his replacement. Eyebrows were raised as rumours of Stewart’s awkwardness had circulated beyond his stations, but Steele was insistent. And so Stewart had been in charge of his station for one week when the Blitz on London really seemed to have begun in earnest.