It was me who took the first call about the London Bombs, exactly one year ago today. The first call wasn’t as significant as you might think: it wasn’t like someone shouted “Oh my god, bombs!” and we all leapt into action. The call I took was simply the Fire Brigade saying “We’ve had a report of some kind of explosion - we’d like one ambulance on standby, please”. From then on, it was like a mexican wave - calls about explosions went around the room amongst the usual trickle of Thursday morning calls. A station supervisor from Aldgate was in tears, describing a stream of people with debris in their hair and blood trickling down their faces leaving the station. Paddington Police rang to report a possible train crash at Edgware Road, and recoiled in horror as I told them that we’d been called to two other such incidents. The phones rang hot with hospitals wanting to know whether we would be bombarding them with bomb casualties. Victims rang from the scenes demanding more ambulances; ambulances that had to be sent from every station in London. The resource centre frantically rang everyone who was off work that day and asked them to come in. People in fluorescent coats shouted things about death tolls and numbers of casualties. And behind it all, real life went on. Elderly people with pneumonia had no way of getting to hospital. People called 999 for a broken leg and were turned away. Patients with suspected heart attacks refused help, saying that the ambulances needed to be saved for those in real need. Rumours and speculation abounded. Were there two separate bombs at Russell Square and Kings Cross? Had the trains at Edgware Road collided? Had another bomb been found at Victoria? Had people been killed at Canary Wharf? Had a bus exploded near Euston?
By 10am, a state of organised pandemonium had crept in. I was allowed out for 10 minutes to contact relatives. The first call I made was to my mother, who works near Liverpool Street. She knew nothing about it.
“Are you alright, mother?”
“Why wouldn’t I be, dear?”
“There’s been… things going on… people dead… explosions… bombs!”
“Oh my god! Bombs?!”
It didn’t seem real until I’d said it.
Four months later, I was invited to 10 Downing Street for an Emergency Services Reception for those at work that fateful day. They picked me because I took the first call, which made me feel a bit strange, because everyone on call taking that day did the same thing, and the first call itself was hardly significant. I got to meet the ambulance crews who were on duty that day, and felt truly humble when they told me their stories.
“We got to Aldgate, and there was a woman holding a compress to her face, just sitting quietly,” said one crew. “We lifted up the bandage, and there was her eye, hanging out of its socket, dangling on her cheek”.
In a way I felt I shouldn’t be there at all — I wasn’t in any danger that day, I didn’t see the things the crews did — but I was glad that someone from Control had been selected because we’re so often overlooked. And I got to shake hands with Tony Blair! He muttered something about the great job we all do, and I grinned and nodded like some kind of gibbering idiot. I hobnobbed with MPs and met the driver of The Bus. Some of the crews got a bit squiffy on the laid-on red wine. I was too scared to drink anything in case I behaved inappropriately, and stuck to orange juice. I certainly have something to tell my grandchildren now.
A year on, and life in Nee Naw Control is back to normal. No-one jumps when we get a call from London Underground. We don’t have half the fleet on standby whenever the police find a suspect package. An explosion is just an explosion, perhaps a stink bomb or at worse a match that’s got too close to a gas canister. Others, of course, are not so lucky. Those who were involved or who lost loved ones will never be able to get back to normal.
July 7th, 2006, the morning rush hour, and I’m sitting on a tube train after a heavy night shift, thinking of those people who were doing just the same a year ago, unaware of what was to come. What was it like for them? What went through their minds? Is it my imagination, or does this carriage seem a little more empty than usual? Does that guy have a rucksack?
0853, a year from that fateful first call, and I’m safely tucked up in bed.
