Roberts was furious. ‘Why wasn’t I told earlier? I could have got away and someone could have deputised for me. Are you telling me I’m stuck here all night? What’s the bloody airport like? Oh, shit! Mary is going to go berserk. She really needs this holiday.’
Fred was short on sympathy.
‘Just look outside Quince! You can’t even see the bloody car park for snow, let alone contemplate driving home. Best thing you can do is man the desk, let the great British public know what is going on and help them with our best advice. The editor and director are next door. You could do worse than go and see them – I’ve got work to do to try and sort out this mess.’
Roberts turned and left the office, reaching for his mobile phone. He had to give Mary the bad news.
Day 1 - Burnley, Lancashire – 10:00pm
Police Constable Graham Harman had just started his shift at Burnley Central Police Station. He had only just made it into work – which was more than half the relief had done. He was lucky – if you can call it that – as he lived a short ten-minute walk from the station. However, today it had taken thirty minutes of plodding through the snow and he’d arrived cold and wet for his eight-hour shift. They were fifty percent down on numbers and several of the outgoing team were still at the station. Departing drivers were having great trouble getting their vehicles in and out of the car park due to drifting snow. The duty Inspector had assembled all available officers in one group and was trying to update them on the local and national situation.
The situation on the roads was becoming treacherous.
Snow was falling from mid-Scotland down to the southeast of England and well into Wales. Traffic was grinding to a halt. Luckily, it was late on a Sunday evening so traffic levels were relatively low – but people were still ignoring the usual warnings to stay at home unless their journeys were absolutely necessary. It would be a very, very busy night for the relief and the Inspector spent the next half-hour briefing his men.
‘You will be paired off for mutual protection. Cars are out of the question and we only have three 4x4s on the patch. These will have to move out to the M65 as soon as possible, since reports of hold-ups and accidents are starting to filter in.’
He continued in this vein until he was satisfied that he had urged enough caution. Harman and his partner, Phil Taylor, were allocated a 4x4 and they left the warmth of the station to go and clear the snow from the outer surfaces of their vehicle. There was about three to four inches of fresh snow lying in the car park, and some helpful fellow had finally thrown a container of grit around the entrance area. That, at least, should help them to crawl out without skidding too badly. They climbed aboard their vehicle, started the engine and heating and slowly edged their way out of the car park and onto the road. They were headed out through the town centre towards the motorway where a small accident had been called in from Junction 10. Happily, the roads were fairly quiet and gritters were already flitting up and down the main roads, dispensing their loads, in an attempt to keep traffic moving. PC Harman was driving and was taking it steadily. Too steady for his younger colleague, who made a few sarcastic comments about the lack of speed.
‘Better we get there than not at all, Phil. This blizzard is bloody awful. If you want to drive, then please be my guest!’
He turned and glared at Taylor who started to reply but never got a word out. At that moment, a gritting truck, coming the other way, was careering toward them at about forty miles per hour. The driver had been going far too fast and had lost control of his vehicle. He was skidding at forty-five degrees to the pavement, and smashed head-on into the police 4x4, forcing it off the road and into the plate glass window of the local W H Smith newsagent.
Graham Harman and his colleague Phil Taylor were the first fatal victims of the snow.
Day 1 - Greater Manchester – 11:00pm
Ollie Probert was cashing up after a very quiet night in his Italian restaurant neighbouring the Piccadilly area of Manchester. The weather had kept his customers away and even two of the normally lucrative Christmas parties had cancelled due to the snow. Never mind, he considered, at least they had paid a twenty-five percent, non-refundable deposit – so all was not entirely lost. He had sent his staff home, and was preparing to turn off the lights and lock up, before climbing the stairs to his bachelor flat above the restaurant. He was third generation Italian on his mother’s side, unmarried and the owner of three similar establishments in the Manchester area. He wanted to phone the other restaurants to discover how their evenings had panned out, and would do so once he was safely ensconced in his warm bed upstairs.
However, the snow had been building up and drifting around the back entrance to the restaurant all evening, and was starting to block the exit. Ollie toyed with the idea of just leaving it until the morning, but supposed it would be advantageous to clear at least a small area, so that he could supervise the brewery delivery at 9am the next morning, when the snow would have probably stopped.
It would only take a minute or two to clear a path, so he opened the door in his shirtsleeves, and when a sharp gust of wind suddenly blew it wide open, the edge of the door struck him a vicious blow to the side of the head.
He dropped like a sack of Italian polenta to the floor, and as the snow drifted in through the open doorway, it rapidly began to cover his legs and torso. Ollie Probert didn’t regain consciousness, and died from hypothermia within the hour.
No one ever found his body.
Day 1 - Grantham, Lincolnshire – Midnight
Wing Commander Andrew Brady OBE AFC, stood at his bedroom window watching the snow drift across his back garden and continue to cover the shrubs and garden furniture. As far as he could tell, his small son’s prediction may well be correct and schools could well be closed in the morning. Brady was also considering his own potential problems come daylight. He was Officer Commanding Operations Wing at RAF Cottesmore, a Harrier base twenty miles down the A1 trunk road. It was his job to keep the airfield open and co-ordinate runway clearing so that the famous jump-jets could get airborne if necessary. He had already been in contact with the Station Duty Officer, who was the man on the spot this Sunday evening. Three or four inches had already settled on the runway and having consulted the Station Commander, who lived on base, and the Senior Air Traffic Control Officer (SATCO), they had decided to leave things until the morning. After all, it was the last week before Christmas and there were no flying detachments due in or out of the airfield until January. Nevertheless, Brady was a go-getting, career-minded officer who usually left nothing to chance. His time in the RAF had been very successful and he was marked for rapid promotion – up to very senior rank in years to come. Consequently, he needed to be sure that he had done everything possible to reduce the effect of the snow affecting his airfield. He would leave nothing to chance.
Brady watched the snow accumulate and the scene transported him back thirteen years to a tour of duty in RAF Germany, at the Winter Survival School in Bad-Kohlgrub. He had been an instructor on the staff, which trained miscellaneous European aircrew and other military officers in the skills of snow survival. He was a very good skier – athletic, tall and slim - and having jokingly put this particular posting down as a choice on his annual report, he was mildly surprised, but pleased, to be posted to the south German mountain region – where his blond hair and deep blue eyes allowed him to intermingle nicely with the local female population. And it was a damned better ground tour than being an anonymous Station Navigator in outermost Scotland! If one couldn’t get a flying post then two or three years of free ski-ing was an exceptionally good alternative. Brady was enthusiastic, ambitious and uncompromising, and would make the most of this tour of duty. It was also good for moral-fibre building!
The young officer had become expert in all of the winter survival skills as he completed the basic course first, and then joined the staff. It was then his job to instruct the aircrew officers joining the training course on how to survive the cold and sn
ow if they were forced to eject or crashed their aircraft in winter conditions. It was hard work but enjoyable, as gaps between courses allowed for all the ski-ing he could take and as a bachelor, he had no domestic responsibilities to prevent him from doing so.
Consequently, the two years in Germany had taught him a hell of a lot about snow and just how dangerous the cold could be. Many, many people underestimated the dangers and treated snow with a mild contempt – just something to have a bit of fun with. Brady knew differently: on the course immediately after he left Bad-Kohlgrub, a student had become lost when he had wandered off in a moderate snowstorm, and they had found him dead – only three hours after going missing! He had taken his gloves and hat off as he thought he was overheating – but it was just the anxiety of being lost. He was discovered only three hundred metres from the main camp.
Anyway, that was all many years ago and he was now in cloudy old England, waiting for the snow to stop so that he could drive to the base in the morning. However, he wasn’t too confident that he’d even get out of the driveway. The snow seemed to be getting heavier, and it was now covering the main road outside the Georgian end-terraced house his family had occupied for the past two years. He had wanted to live on base, but his wife had persuaded him that it was long past time to buy a house of their own. She wanted the children to live in the community and not on yet another RAF station. Therefore, although he demurred, Brady commuted up and down the A1 every day and everyone was happy. It meant slightly longer days for him, but so be it. If he was lucky, his next tour would see him get a command of his own and then the family would be forced to live on base.
He moved away from the curtains and contemplated calling the SDO again but decided that everything was probably in safe hands – and anyway he’d be in at work by 0730 the next morning.
Day 1 – Long Bennington, Nottinghamshire – Midnight
Chris Davies lay awake in bed with his copy of the periodic table cast on the floor. He’d had enough of chemistry for one weekend and had now decided that there would be no test in the morning. In fact, with a bit of luck, there would be no school at all. The snow was continuing to fall and settle on the street outside, and his mum’s car was already well covered. He thought about what else he could do with the time off and had already called his best friend, Stephen, to see if he fancied a day in the snow tomorrow. Perhaps they could build a giant snowman and post it on ‘You Tube?’
Anyway, all of that could be sorted in the morning. Just a bit more snow and that might be it as far as school was concerned until after Christmas. As he settled down to sleep, Chris mentally crossed his fingers.
Day 1 - Warwick, West Midlands – Midnight
Jane Kelly was really irritated by the bloody weather. After a row with her boyfriend, she had rung her editor to see what the score was with her Lincoln interview and he’d had no sympathy.
‘If a little bit of snow is going to stop you getting this story, then I can always send some-one else’.
Man management was not his greatest skill.
However, she knew that if that happened, she would be side-lined for months and she couldn’t afford that if she ever wanted to be picked up by a national newspaper. So Jane had packed a bag and dug out her snow boots from the cupboard under the stairs. She was planning to leave the house at 5.45am to catch the 6.23 train from Warwick to Birmingham, and then via Nottingham to Lincoln for around 10am. Her partner was none too pleased as he kept going on about snowstorms and being trapped in Lincoln tomorrow night, when she knew that his mother was coming to stay. She had tried to explain again, but to no avail and harsh words were spoken, which is why she was in the spare room. Jane would slip out unheard in the wee small hours, and by 6pm tomorrow she would be back home, and all would be forgiven.
Bloody snow!
Day 2
Monday 16 December
Day 2 – Bristol Channel – 03:43am
The MS ‘Oscar Wilde’, sailing on the Irish Ferries route from Rosslare, departed on schedule at 6pm on Sunday 15th December, and was due in Cherbourg at 2pm the next afternoon. On board were Paddy and Mary O’Sheridan, heading in their Volkswagen Passat to L’Orient in Brittany where they planned to spend Christmas. They owned a small cottage in the area and later in the week they expected members of their families to join them for the festivities.
The ship was only half-full with around 260 cars and 650 passengers looking to experience a French Christmas. The weather was overcast on departure, with a two-metre swell in Force 6 winds – around twenty-five miles per hour. However, the shipping forecast was not at all good for the English Channel and the Captain, alert to the issues, remained on the bridge to keep a wary eye on sea conditions. He had received a clear signal to proceed with the sailing from his operating authority, so he determined to get the job done.
It started snowing at 7:45pm.
Paddy and Mary settled into their Club Class cabin and after taking the anti-seasickness pills issued by the crew, they went down to the ‘Left Bank Brasserie’ for a meal. There weren’t many passengers about and by the time they had finished eating the restaurant was empty. Both were fairly good sailors and the pills were helping, but it was clear that the sea conditions were deteriorating quickly. They walked back to their cabin and glanced out of the porthole only to be greeted with a view of a heavy snowstorm raging outside. The ferry was only doing three or four knots, Paddy reckoned; he should know being a boat owner himself. They left the cabin and tried to go out on deck but all access doors were locked, so they had to content themselves with a seat in the Gaiety Lounge, where they partook of a nightcap. All on-board entertainment had been cancelled, as the ship was now rolling quite fiercely. It would have been difficult for entertainers to keep their feet.
Most of the passengers seemed to have retired and only a handful remained at the bar. A ships’ officer was having a chat with the barman, so Paddy approached him to see if he could glean any information regarding the crossing schedule, as it seemed there might be an arrival delay.
The officer happened to be the Purser who chatted freely, giving Paddy no cause for alarm, but did mention that the ship’s stabilisers were not functioning correctly, which is why the ferry had slowed to four knots. He expressed no reason why the ‘Oscar Wilde’ should not arrive in Cherbourg on time – and the speed would be increased when the sea conditions improved.
Paddy related the tale to Mary, who suggested another brandy and then bed. She was actually feeling a little queasy by now, so lying down would probably help. By 10:45pm, they were safely tucked up in their bunks, trying in vain to read the day’s newspapers.
However, on the bridge, matters had taken a very serious turn. The sea state was now gale Force 9 with fifty mile per hour winds and ten-metre waves. It was getting extremely rough and the captain was on the radio attempting to get permission to return to Rosslare. They were only thirty miles out into the Irish Sea and he now judged that a speedy return to port was the better part of valour.
However, the problem was that all movements in and out of Irish ports were now impossible. The snowstorm had swept onto the Irish coast with a speed and venom never witnessed before, resulting in a strong and irreversible negative to the Masters request.
Therefore, the ‘Oscar Wilde’ had two options – continue to Cherbourg, riding out the storm – or – get into a safe port as soon as possible. He chose the latter and set about finding a suitable landing place for his ship. However, this was not an easy task since the storm at sea stretched right around the south coast of England. He beseeched his operating authority to find somewhere to go, but to no avail. Every single harbour or major port was closed to traffic. All sailings were suspended or cancelled.
In short, he had nowhere to go.
The ferry currently lay about twenty-five miles off Pembroke in Wales, but that was also closed to shipping. Normally, he could have ducked in there quite happily as he was familiar with the facility. However, it was not now an option, an
d he quietly cursed his operators for letting him set sail at all.
He had a decision to make, and scanned the charts for further options. The only thing to do was to head into the Bristol Channel hoping that it would provide a modicum of shelter, and then proceed to Cardiff or Bristol. The sea might be calmer inland. Therefore, he ordered the ship onto a course of one-two-zero degrees which would take the ‘Oscar Wilde’ towards the Welsh coast. He literally had no other option. These were some of the worst seas he had experienced in his long career - even in the South Atlantic in 1982, when he had sailed as a young officer on the North Sea ferry, St Edmund, transporting troops to the Falklands War. Those waters were incredible, and he was amazed that the St Edmund ever made it through. The storm tonight presented the added complication of heavy snow, which made visibility less than one hundred metres. The captain had a very bad feeling about this weather, and wasn’t at all confident about the final outcome. However, all he could do was to try to make it safely to Cardiff.
Snow! The Series [Books 1-4] Page 2