Thursday

by David Ridgway

  There were so many people squashed into the tunnel leading down to the underground platforms that no one was able to move. In and amongst that crush was a mixture of dead, injured and trapped people. Working slowly and methodically, they extricated the bodies. Those needing medical treatment were escorted to Pamela, who was managing a temporary reception area near the pharmacy. After opening his premises, the pharmacist was dispensing drugs and medicines as required. He recruited two burly assistants to keep order at the door to his shop, ensuring that his drugs were protected. Under Pamela’s direction, they were at last beginning to make an impression on the crowd that was still milling about, seemingly lost and without direction.

  Milton quickly assessed the overall situation. He suggested to Pamela that he should try to direct the crowd into three distinct groups. He now called for volunteers. The first group would deal with the dead, laying them out neatly in rows, down the platforms. The second group would help those still living to areas on the concourse where they would not be a hindrance. The third group, a smaller but more active group, went to organise and help with the retrieval of the bodies from the entrance to the Underground.

  They worked in this manner for over two hours, during which time the water steadily drained away from the platforms until, at last, pedestrians were able to walk out of the station, under the bridge which carries the trains to Charing Cross and onto the road leading up to Waterloo Bridge. There was a significant exodus as the realisation struck them that they would probably find better facilities at their places of work, than in the station itself.

  In the city, the panic, which had overtaken so many people earlier in the day, now subsided leaving the roads and alleyways quiet and deserted. Michael Varley ventured out of the office at about half past four, to see for himself what was happening outside. First, he walked to Moorgate station, to find a crowd of people standing around at the entrance. There were two Underground staff explaining that the platforms were flooded.

  He turned round and walked to Bank station, where the crowd was bigger, but the situation was the same. The station was closed. He had no idea what he was going to tell Alice apart from the numbers of people standing around the Underground stations, which were closed. Other than Moorgate being flooded, he was unable to find out any other information. He was already feeling depressed from his inability to make love to Alice the previous evening. Because it was praying on his mind, he was not really interested in the problems facing the people at the stations. His lack of enquiry did little to help. Just a few questions would have elicited the information that very few people were returning to the surface and that no one was able to go down because of the crush of men and women clogging the stairways and escalators leading down to the platforms.

  The river water, after entering the underground system south of the river, blasted its way into the Northern Line tunnels at London Bridge and Borough stations. From there it flowed under the Thames northwards to Bank and Moorgate. At the same time, it flowed southwards to the Elephant and Castle, where it split and turned northwards towards Waterloo and where it also entered the Bakerloo line. Both the Northern and Bakerloo lines acted as conduits for the flood water from Waterloo making its way northwards under the river to Charing Cross and even as far as Piccadilly and Baker Street. The Waterloo and City Line under the river gave access for the flood water to inundate Bank station. Being so deep, Bank station is very vulnerable.

  The loss of power throughout London caused the flood defences to fail and water, under considerable pressure, was able to blast along the tunnels. At Bank, the flood water entered both the Central and the District and Circle lines. With little hindrance, it now blasted along the tunnels both east towards Stratford and west towards Oxford Circus and Ealing Broadway. Any trains that the water encountered were forced towards the nearest station, where the platforms were already completely filled with people. As the trains emerged, like toothpaste out of a tube, they buckled and were swept onto the platforms, mowing down everyone in their path. And as soon as the trains exited from the tunnels, pressurised water followed which simply sluiced away the dead to the far end of the platforms and into the tunnels, as well as up the stairs and escalators. The water pressure was greatest in the deeper lines, like the Central and the Northern, making the death toll even greater.

  The irony of this mayhem was that, on the surface, the city itself and those parts of the West End served by the Central Line were well away from the flooded riverbanks. The people, who heard the message put out by the Environment Agency that morning and decided to leave work early, started a massive and panicked exodus. This, in turn, placed an intolerable burden on the public transport system so that the flood, when it hit, came with such speed that many of the flood defence systems were simply overwhelmed.

  What Michael didn’t know, therefore, was the total devastation on the platforms at Bank Station. The water surged into the underground system just after three o’clock. The press of people, trying to get out of the city, caused death and injuries to others who fell on the stairs and were simply trampled underfoot. Others were suffocated and many suffered heart attacks and strokes brought on by stress and anxiety. This pattern was repeated at station after station. Even those lines, unaffected by the flood water at the surface, were subjected to panic driven crowds showing a total lack of consideration for others.

  At around ten past three, the people already on the platforms at Bank station, could hear a rumbling sound coming from the tunnels that run under the river. The force of air hit them with such power that several people near the tunnel entrance were knocked off their feet. The cause of the rumbling noise suddenly burst out of the tunnel. A train, packed with people eyes wide with fear, screaming, scrabbling at the doors, was forced from the tunnel, dragging behind it yards of cabling like a bridal train. It was already off the lines, sparking and squealing in protest as it was forced against the walls of the tunnel. The edge of the driver’s cab hit the platform breaking the concrete lip, making broken bricks and tiles fly through the air like shrapnel from an exploding shell. The debris hit the crowd, injuring, maiming and killing. It all happened so fast, that there was no time even to turn and run before the pressurised flood water followed.

  Still pushing the train, half on and half off the platform, the pressure of the water swept round the obstruction sluicing the platform clear of all the people, living and dead, before entering the tunnel at the far end. The water also burst into the side tunnels and up the stairs. The lights flickered, dimmed and went out. There was no escape, as the tunnels were now completely filled with water. All those people that escaped the crush on the platform, the train bursting out of the tunnel and the pressurised water surge, simply drowned. Inexorably the water rose up through the connecting tunnels, the stairways and escalators, until it finally reached its equilibrium. For a moment there was complete silence.

  As he retraced his steps back to the office, Michael was still unsure as to what was really happening. The only lights he could see were from passing vehicles which, as they negotiated their way through the crowds, lit up their faces drawn and frightened. The office blocks looming over him were dark and inert, like the cliffs of some man-made diabolical canyon. As he looked up to the sky, Michael noticed that the clouds were parting and he realised that it was no longer raining. He slowly trudged back to London Wall, wondering what had happened and how on earth he was going to get home.

  As he entered the reception area, Alice was there to greet him. She had found a couple of candles and in their glimmering light, she saw fear in Michael’s eyes.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, somewhat needlessly.

  “No… Not really,” Michael stammered his reply. “It’s not so good out there.” He glanced apprehensively over his shoulder.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Moorgate and Bank stations are closed and there are people just sort of milling about. I can’t begin to imagine what’s happened, but it’s obviously cause
d a massive disruption to the Underground. Someone said that Moorgate station was flooded.”

  He walked unsteadily towards his office, with Alice following behind, carrying a candle to light their way.

  The rescue operations organised by Fred Shemming were beginning to bring considerable relief to the people living on the devastated estates in Millwall and Cubitt Town on the Isle of Dogs. Using the fire station as a command HQ, Fred firstly ferried all the children with their teachers as well as Rajinder Singh across to the Queen Victoria Seaman’s Rest on the East India Dock Road. Following his phone calls before the wave struck, he was pleased that the management and the staff at both the Salvation Army Citadel and the Seaman’s Rest were already organised.

  To get down to Millwall and the Isle of Dogs, it was necessary for his boats to cross a number of roads and his firefighters were already bringing back a continual stream of wet, cold and unhappy people, who were telling tales of ruined homes, dumped sea containers and drowned people. Slowly the water was receding and, as the roads became passable once more, the traffic slowly returned.

  On his first recce from the fire station, Fred realised that he needed hi-visibility jackets and light sticks, in order to control the traffic. He stopped a car driving towards London from Canning Town.

  “How far have you come?”

  “From Plaistow,” the driver replied.

  “Isn’t it all flooded up there?”

  “Well, yes! It is. I’ve had to skirt round the worst parts on Prince Regent Lane until I reached Newham Way.”

  “What’s the state of the road?”

  “Everything to my right seems to be under water. I guess that Bow Creek will have burst its banks. But a lot of Newham Road is elevated and most of it’s clear. When I was stuck in traffic at the Canning Town flyover, the bloke in the car next to me said that the river had burst its banks and flooded the City Airport. He had been trying to get to the university campus in North Woolwich but couldn’t get very far.”

  “Thanks. That’s really helpful. How far are you going?”

  “Hoping to get to Whitechapel.”

  “With the tide now going out, you should be OK.” Fred informed him that he should find the road free of water from Limehouse onwards but suggested that he should proceed with great care.

  In considering his options, he realised that the Salvation Army Citadel and the Seaman’s Rest would quickly fill up and might only be useful on a temporary basis. It would be necessary to organise a more specific destination for all the people that he and many others would be bringing northwards from the flood. Without light and without telephones, it was rather like punching in the dark. He knew that Newham General Hospital was not far and he considered trying to utilise Leyton Orient Football Club at Brisbane Road and the old West Ham ground at Upton Park. He would have to organise transport, drivers and carers, until someone else arrived to take over operations.

  It was now half past seven. The tide was ebbing fast and the river banks were returning to normal. Fred decided to return to his HQ at the fire station to assess the overall situation. When he got back, he was advised that because the water had receded the inflatables could no longer be used. Instead, his team were using the station’s fleet vehicles as well as commandeering the school’s minibus. They were bringing back far more people. He went to the Seaman’s Rest, where found the staff well organised, handing out warm blankets and drinking water. He saw that Dinah was assisting the warden. She excused herself and went over to Fred.

  “Hi, Fred. How are things out there?”

  “Improving. But there’s still no light and there’s an enormous amount of rubbish strewn about all over the place.”

  “Is it hampering the rescue parties?”

  “Well, the big sea containers that have been dumped on the roads by the wave aren’t helping. So, we’re having to drive about quite slowly. There’s also a lot of dead bodies just lying about!”

  “That’s dreadful,” Dinah responded.

  “Listen, Fred!” she continued. “Very soon, we’ll be inundated with people. Mary is running things at the Citadel. It’s basically the same over there. You’re going to have to take these people somewhere else very soon.”

  “Yes, I realise that. I’ll have to make contact with Newham General Hospital. We’ll have to requisition some buses and start the transfers immediately.” He stopped and looked at his wife. “What’s the situation towards the river?”

  “Your guys have told me that many houses have been totally destroyed. It’s almost as though something big has rolled through the estates like a combine harvester. I expect containers from Tilbury and Thameshaven have been swept into the water by that wave and they’ve just destroyed everything in front of them. It’s difficult to tell in the dark, of course, but already the guys have decided to ignore the bodies floating in the water. At the start, they pulled them to the boats, but each one they got was dead, some with horrific injuries. Arms or legs ripped off, one with its head completely missing.”

  “That’s awful,” Fred muttered. “Are the guys OK?”

  “Not really, but they are coping. But the good news is that the teams who were waiting to come on shift have all arrived early and are already staging those that were on the boats.”

  “Thanks, Dinah. I know this isn’t really your job, but I do appreciate what you’re doing.” He checked his watch and was surprised to see that it was already nearly eight o’clock.

  “The tide will be flowing out very fast now.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “The teams will have to take extra care, because the water will also be draining off the land. Look around. Very soon, these guys will be able to walk up the A12 and that’ll relieve the pressure considerably.”

  As Fred and Dinah were talking, the lights flickered and then came on.

  Martin Havers and his family, together with a few of their neighbours, gathered near the gate next to Hadleigh Castle. They made up an odd collection of vehicles. Landrovers, tractors and trailers piled high with metal sheeting and corrugated iron, two diggers and more trailers crammed full with wooden posts, electrical cable and generators. They met at the gate just before six o’clock. In the moonlight, they could see that the river was flowing out very fast. The water was also draining off the land and Martin reckoned that they would be able to assess the damage to the seawall in about an hour. In the far distance, on the Kent side beyond the river estuary, they could see traffic moving on the main roads. The lights of the vehicles were the only indications of human activity.

  “I’m not sure whether we’ll be able to cross the railway line through the bridge. We might have to drive up the embankment and go over the top. If we have to do that, I suggest we try, over there, where the land rises up a little.” Martin pointed a little way to the west of the bridge. “On the other side, it will be very boggy and we must keep to the grassy edge of the fields, especially when we turn towards the sea wall.”

  “What about the neighbouring farms?” James, ever practical, was already wondering whether his father’s neighbours would also be gearing up. “I hope it won’t be necessary to build a dyke between us.”

  “I don’t think so.” Martin considered carefully. “The further up Hadleigh Ray, the less damage will have been done. I doubt there’ll be much flooding beyond Benfleet Yacht Club.”

  “Anyway, we’ll soon know,” said Charlie. “The tide’s going out very quickly.”

  As they watched, they saw parts of the seawall slowly re-emerge from under the waves. The water was quickly draining off the land, but in the moonlight it was difficult to observe anything with any real clarity.

  “Come on,” said Martin. “Let’s drive down the track to the railway line and check out the situation. And drive carefully!”

  They started up the vehicles and slowly the convoy drove down the track, towards the railway embankment. The track leading under the bridge was still under water, but it was only about two feet deep. />
  They all stopped and Martin got out. Behind him, James was driving a tractor and trailer piled high with corrugated iron. He got out and joined his father.

  “Do you think we can get through the bridge?”

  “I’m not sure.” Martin got his flashlight and walked through the muddy water to the bridge. “James, come over here!” he called his son.

  “What do you reckon, Dad?”

  “Well, you can see that the water has come through here with some force. Look there!” He pointed the flashlight at the brickwork foundations.

  “They seem OK to me, Dad.”

  “Maybe. But I thought they looked rather bashed in,” Martin replied, moving further under the bridge. “If the foundations have moved then the whole bridge will be unstable.” He pointed his light upwards, where they both saw a large crack. “That’s new.”

  They waded further and finally emerged on the far side, where they saw that the water had eroded some of the embankment itself. James pointed to the damage and said, “I don’t fancy driving down this side of the embankment and finding it disappearing under my wheels. I’d rather take my chances with the bridge.”

  "Yes. I agree with you, but the first vehicle must be clear before the next starts through. I realise that will take time, but it’ll be better to get all our equipment through now, rather than driving all the way round.

  “And we must carefully watch the walls and the roof to make sure that the vibrations from the vehicles don’t cause any further damage.”