Itchycoo Park
Over Bridge of Sighs / to rest my eyes in shades of green / under dreaming spires / to Itchycoo Park that's where I've been
I. Pugh, Pugh, Barney McGrew, Cuthbert, Dibble and Grubb
The fire station was all of a kerfuffle as the firemen - and woman - arrived in the forecourt. They got their orders. Full tank, and off to fucking Wheatley. Same countywide apparently. Banbury, Bicester, Witney, Carterton. Poor bloody Carterton. Next to frigging Brize Norton. At least it'd be quick.
The four engines from Cowley Road set off in convoy towards the ring road. It was 4am. the streets were quiet. Plod had had a busy few hours with students kicking off outside the Union, but they had other matters on their plate now.
It didn't look good in Germany
Wheatley was much easier on the mind. Rural, green and pleasant. The engines all gathered on the Polytechnic campus on the edge of the village. Twenty four of them in total.
*****
II. Everyone can see it shining, over the sky
It wasn't an easy few hours when it came. Wheatley took a bit of blast. Not much, but sufficient for the station officer to have concerns about the tower block. Halton, Brize, Bicester, High Wycombe. What a fucking mess.
Not Oxford though.
A bit of damage apparently on the Botley side of town, but not much else, the report said.
The air was a mess. They were under orders. Camped out in a bloody student canteen while they wait for the all clear. Five fucking days. Longest five days ever. Their hearts wanted to go to Bicester, to the other fires, but their heads said no.
We're not here to fight fires. We're here to help the living
On the sixth day they went into Oxford, distributing water to the blokes in the barracks off Cowley Road. That routine continued. Soon the public got wind of it and climbed out of their pits, sweaty and unclean. Sick and tormented. The John Radcliffe couldn't cope. Some plod in a suit turned up. Grey bloke in a red jag.
Who the fuck does he think he is? Doesn't he know there's a war on?
A week later the MG plant was working. No one knew what they were making. Spare parts apparently, someone said.
Day fourteen. A rider from Portsmouth. Portsmouth? Oh right. They made it.
*****
III. Here comes Bod
Two weeks after the War, Oxford was one of many places that people were referring to as miracle cities. It didn't look like it on The High as refugees streamed in from the rural areas, the worst hit parts in this neck of the woods.
It wasn't just that though. The government took an interest. Willie himself they reckoned.
It was all about the books.
Millions of them. Underground. In storage. You name it. The Bodleian had survived. By March it was reckoned to be the most complete archive of publications left in the world. It was assumed that Harvard had gone.
Two weeks after the area around the Oxford colleges was one of the most secure in the world, or at least the small part of the world anyone knew anything about, and the Library was the jewel in the crown.
Two weeks after the bomb the fireman had a new role. The books hadn't been burned. He was there to protect them.
It's all too beautiful