Michael Moynihan: I'll never forget the giant who lost his life to keep people of Cork safe

A plaque which was erected on the wall of the building on Washington street in which Fire Fighter Richard Beecher lost his life in the line of duty in February 1975.Pic: Gavin Browne

I’m a week late with this anniversary, but better late than never.

If you walk along Washington Street then you may notice something on the wall as you come past the barber shop en route to the traffic lights at the Grand Parade — on the Singer’s Corner side of the street.

It’s a black plaque, not too high up, and the inscription is clear and easy to read: “On the 12th of February 1975 Fireman Richard Beecher lost his life on this site in the service of the people of Cork.” The insignia of Cork City Fire Brigade is above those words.

The events of that afternoon are quickly summarised, and no one is better qualified to do so than Pat Poland, a former firefighter himself and author of For Whom the Bells Tolled and The Old Brigade, two outstanding books which detail the history of firefighting in Cork from the 17th century up to 1950.

Lord Mayor Cllr Mick Finn with Pat Poland in 2018 at the launch of 'The Old Brigade'. Picture: Jim Coughlan.

Only last year he sketched out what happened in February 1975 for The Echo: “Around noon that day 45 years ago, the brigade responded to a fire call at Lee White House in Washington Street. The blaze was first seen at the rear of the second floor of the four-storey building.

“On this occasion, nobody knew that the building had already been safely evacuated, so crews had to be tasked to courageously carry out a search.

“Some members of the brigade, including Fireman Richard Beecher, a young man from Passage West who was engaged to be married, donned self-contained breathing apparatus and proceeded to the upper floors to ensure all occupants had been removed to safety.

“Without warning, a huge explosion occurred, probably the result of a large build-up of gas.

 'The Old Brigade' by Pat Poland.

“Retired fire officer Frank Fitzgerald, speaking about the events of that day for the first time, said: ‘Dick and I entered the building with a hose and were joined by Fireman Adrian Spillett (later Third Officer).

“‘We crawled up the stairs, slowly, looking for the fire. We entered a small room and searched it; somehow, the door closed behind us. We thought we might be trapped so we decided to follow the hose out.

“‘We got out safely and proceeded to the next floor. Although working in total darkness, our search revealed no occupants or any trace of the fire.

“‘As we reached the top landing there was an almighty bang and we were engulfed in fire —the result of a gas explosion. It was fierce. We were burning!

“‘The explosion hit us full on. We could not smell the leaking gas, of course, as we were wearing breathing apparatus.

“‘Dick was blown into a room and the rest of us down the stairs, where we were discovered by the rescue team.

“‘Along with four other members who had also been injured, we were taken to hospital where we were treated for burns. When the rescue team got to poor Dick he was beyond human aid.’ 

“Dick Beecher did not give his young life in vain. Although not receiving posthumously a Fire Service equivalent of the Scott Medal or the Military Medal for Gallantry (there is none), his death accelerated something far more worthwhile: the establishment of the State’s first dedicated Breathing Apparatus Training School at Castlebridge House, Co. Wexford.” 

Cork City Fire Fighters march from the South Main Street to Washington Street in memory of firefighter Richard Beecher who lost his life in the line of duty in February 1975 on Washington Street. Picture Gavin Browne

I have more than one motivation for including such a long narrative here. The details of the fire and the experience of the firemen who dealt with it are worth recalling for the most obvious reason: the danger faced by those on the frontline in situations like this is not an abstract concept but a concrete challenge, one that can put people’s lives in danger at any time.

For that alone it’s worth presenting the stark facts and hard choices that confront firefighters in a situation like this.

There is also the fact that someone making the ultimate sacrifice deserves to be remembered

What percentage of the passers-by on Washington Street take in the words engraved on that black plaque? If you’re a regular visitor to the area no doubt your mind is on an errand, or on work, or distracted in some other way on the stroll home.

Funeral at Passage West, Co. Cork of fireman Richard Beecher, killed fighting a fire at Washington St, Cork on Febuary 12, 1975.

It’s understandable if people don’t absorb what that plaque says, particularly as we all have parts of our daily journey to and from work that we take for granted (or did before our daily journey to and from work was limited to a stroll from bedroom to kitchen).

The key element for me, though, is the simplicity of the description, and, in particular, the part which says that Dick Beecher lost his life in the service of the people of Cork.

The message lands with a punch because there is nothing elevated in the language It describes what happens in plain terms and that underlines the power in what’s communicated rather than weakening it: a man died here in order to keep others safe

However, there’s also a personal element to this story for me. My father worked with Dick Beecher in the fire brigade, and I met Dick not long before he died.

Although in second class in the North Mon,  my classmates and I had the freedom to stroll home unaccompanied — it was the seventies, what can I tell you? — and it was my habit on the way home to call to the sub-station in Blackpool if my father was on duty there. This was usually to see if 5p was on offer for a Cadet red lemonade and a bag of Taytos, before a mid-seventies price rise of 1p for one of those commodities brought ruin on the schoolboy economy.

The procedure was simple: ring the bell at the front door of the sub-station and through the glass panels a giant in navy pants and sky-blue shirt could be seen strolling down the corridor to answer. On one of those occasions, the door was answered by Dick, who called my father over his shoulder and then turned back and chatted to me for a while.

Special memory

I can’t recall what we talked about, but I can remember him giving me a present of a fistful of pencils. The way the pencils shifted and rolled in my hand as I tried to keep a grip on them has never left me.

It must have been shortly afterwards — days? weeks? —  that my father had to explain to me what had happened to the man I met at the front door of the sub-station in Blackpool. 

Brief though it was, that encounter has always stayed with me, even now, when I must be twice as old as Dick Beecher was when he died

Disraeli said the legacy of a hero is the memory of a great name and the inheritance of a great example.

He was right. Why else do I find myself, whether driving or walking on Washington Street, looking out for that small black plaque with its simple message and thinking of the man who gave his life in the service of the people of Cork all those years ago?