By Edwin Heath.

 (The Night Porter’s Tale

‘You may be a failure for having failed … but you’re a HERO for having tried – Ed’s Inspiring Platitudes, Vol 6.

I must admit to having once posted that on Facebook: as a bit of a leg-pull in response to the ubiquitous condescending advice to anyone experiencing some kind of hit to their ego.  For all I know, even that tongue-in-cheek suggestion might have gone down a storm.   After all, who would not relish being considered a hero (or heroine)?

But what exactly is a hero?   The good old Oxford English Dictionary defines heroism as ‘exalted courage, intrepidity or boldness’.   Being heroic is ‘showing courage and admired by many people’.   The Merriam-Webster Dictionary tells us that heroism is ‘heroic conduct especially as exhibited in fulfilling a high purpose or attaining a noble end’.

So, a potential hero must start with bravery – which itself points to a list of synonyms as long as your arm:

 Braveness, courage, courageousness, valour, valiance, intrepidity, intrepidness, boldness, daring, audacity, audaciousness, fearlessness, doughtiness, pluck, indomitability, stout-heartedness, lionheartedness, backbone, spine, spirit, fortitiude, mettle, gallantry, chivalry, guts, grit, spunk, gutsiness, ballsiness, moxie, cojones, sand, balls

Well, enough of that – we need examples.  Who are these unspoken heroes, and where are they to be found?

As one might expect with any investigation, things always get more complicated!  It turns out there are different categories of hero to choose from, such as:

1. Epic heroes 

2. Literary heroes

3. Fictional ‘Superheroes’

4. Real life heroes.  

Ah yes, the ones we are really after, alive or dead: who (hopefully) are what they say on the tin.  Those noble, selfless, courageous individuals who use those same qualities to take risks or make sacrifices to achieve a goal which merits our admiration.  They can come from any background – sports, science, war, medicine, politics, whatever. Heroes can also be considered in groups, such as  the doctors and nurses applauded by us during the Covid epidemic. Or journalists, risking their lives daily on the front line; or the countless healthcare and charity workers killed in Gaza, trying to do their job of saving others.  You pays your money, you takes your pick.

So who might we consider today’s ‘hero of the hour’?   Some might choose Ahmed el-Ahmed, the Syrian shopkeeper whose act of heroism was captured on video, and viewed millions of times around the world, as he sprang from behind a parked car at Bondi Beach in Australia, to disarm one of two attackers raining terror on crowds at a Hanukkah celebration.  He risked his own life, and was himself shot five times seizing the gunman’s rifle, saving an untold number of people in the process.

What impells a person one might  pass blithely by in the street to suddenly become a hero?  Is it simply circumstance – stepping up whenever the chance presents itself?   ‘Cometh the hour, cometh the man’, so to speak?  Or is there some deep-rooted instinct in the human soul to come to the aid of anyone whose existence is in peril?

Whatever the reason, despite our own particular affiliations or beliefs, it is hard not to applaud the bravery and humanity of such noteworthy individuals.

Despite the tragic death of his own son during an Israeli airstrike, Dr. Safiya continued providing essential care to children, meanwhile bearing witness to the collapse of Gaza’s healthcare sector during an ongoing genocide. For this he has been subjected to arbitrary detention without charges or trial, enduring assault and beatings, and the usual significant weight loss, as the Israeli Prison Service continues to impose severe restrictions on Palestinian detainees’ access to food, adequate  medical care and hygiene.

There, indeed, for everyone to see, is a hero we might campaign for today.  There will always be circumstances where a hero needs more than passive admiration.  But many will kick back, submitting to the lure of apathy.  They might point out they do not know this or that person, the news comes from external sources – so what has that to do with their day-to-day lives? 

It is a hard question to answer.  Heroic figures are all over the media – but how many have we ever actually met?   Not that many, I would guess.

Fear not – yours truly may be an exception.   Having at various times experienced the joys of employment as a Night Porter, I actually have a tale to relate!

The Night Porter’s Tale, 1980.

Back in 1980, working at the Kirkwall Hotel, encountering real-life heroes seemed the last thing on anybody’s mind.  During the week, most hotel guests – appreciative holidaymakers or socially aware professionals, quietly taking their tea and biscuits before retirement – rarely stood out above the average.   They caused no trouble, made little impact, just got on with their lives, as most of us do.

At weekends, however, the tables were turned.  The unassuming residents dwindled to a small, silent minority, as the Disco reverberated downstairs, and shrieking and laughter took over.  I would be made to stand in the hallway – unwillingly, as it was never part of my job description – presumably to deter vandalism or aggressive behaviour. That was, of course, a losing battle.   The ‘gents’ was typically in a mess, with broken glasses, blood or vomit to clear up, or the towel rail senselessly wrenched from the wall.

Being something of a cerebral young man, such brawling revelry made little sense to me, as I would have infinitely preferred to spend my hours reading the sayings of Buddha, or perhaps one of the ancient philosophers.  Smug as it sounds, I was probably imagining Confucius shaking his head, saying:  “Ah!   This is the habit of immature men, of uncertain men, who have yet to prove their masculinity”.

There were pleasanter moments, of course.   One time, a couple of girls came up and told me there was no toilet paper in the ‘ladies’.  I had to explain that everything, including toilet rolls, was locked away at night; but then said, “wait” – and went into the dining room to get them some nicely-folded breakfast napkins.   “Don’t tell the management!”, I whispered.   They smiled, looked at each other, and said, “What a sweetie!”   Why I never forgot that moment, I do not know.  But, laughably, re-purposing those fancy paper napkins was probably the closest I got to heroism during my time there …

That was all to change one dark October night – at first, most notable for its wild and stormy nature.  Not that such weather is surprising in Orkney around the time of the equinox.  So, apart from the raging gales outside, it looked like an uneventful night lay in store.   All the residents had gone to bed, the cleaning was finished, the early calls, trays and breakfasts noted.   At half-past one there had been a telephone call, asking if we had room for four men from a helicopter.  This was not an unusual occurrence; probably they were oil-rig men, unable to fly out to their platform.

The line was bad, and I did not hear the words ‘rescue crew’, nor gather that the call was from the Kirkwall Coastguard.

With nothing left to do, I sat in the office awaiting the new arrivals.   Outside, the sea frothed ferociously into the harbour, heaving and cascading over the pier.  On the tempestuous scale it was probably the worst storm of the year:  a vicious roaring from the Atlantic that made one feel grateful to be safe indoors.   What it must have been like for any vessel at sea in such conditions was hard to imagine.

An hour later a land rover pulled up outside, emblazoned with the words, ‘MARINE RESCUE’ – and four commando-type figures leaped out of the back.   A fair change indeed from the usual pin-striped resident.   So much so, that it never even occurred to me to sign them in.  Instead I gave them their room keys, and  made them some tea and biscuits, for they certainly looked as though they needed it.

It was then that the true story emerged – and a horrifying one at that.  A Swedish cargo vessel, the ‘Finneagle’, laden with hazardous chemicals and all kinds of inflammable liquids and gases, was on fire in the Atlantic, with twenty-two people on board, including women and children.  The fire was spreading rapidly, with a series of violent explosions.  The rescue crew had tried desperately to get to the victims, but the high masts of the ship made it literally impossible.  Weather conditions were atrocious, and things had reached a critical state.  The captain had radioed that he thought his ship was going down.  Worst of all, the helicopter was running short of fuel, and they were forced to turn back.  Their pilot looked grim: his expression suggested little hope for the survival of the stricken ship’s crew.

The four men stood or sat on the floor in the midst of their gear, going over their experiences in an atmosphere of barely concealed despondency.   They described the hard slog of reaching the ship against seventy-mile-an-hour winds, which at times slowed their machine to thirty knots an hour.   They revealed their frustrations at seeing the distress flares, then the would-be survivors huddled beneath the prow of the ship, appealing for deliverance.  All they could do was to encourage them to try removing the impediments on the deck.  A second R.A.F. helicopter had reached the scene as they were forced to leave: perhaps they would have better luck …

The phone rang again.  It was the Coastguard.  Eight survivors had been taken to safety.  So the women and children had been rescued, at any rate.  The tired crew went to bed.   Half an hour later the Coastguard called again.  All the ship’s crew had now been rescued!  I sped to communicate this message, knowing that none of those gallant men would mind being woken up to hear such news.

At half-past four, as my eyes were threatening to close, I was roused by yet another call from the Coastguard.   Did we have room for five more men, from the second rescue helicopter?  I should say so!

Another hour elapsed before they arrived.  Intense, unshaken men, who flung their gear on the floor, disdaining the use of chairs.   They had just saved twenty-two lives.  But if they were proud of the fact, they did not show it.  They paid tribute to the efforts of others.  Their faces were earnest and grave, as they reviewed the technical aspects of the exercise.  It transpired that the ship’s crew had managed to cut down the obstructing mast.  But even then, things were far from easy.   How does one manage to winch a score of people to safety from a blazing ship, thrown about in the ocean like a leaf in a whirlwind?  

The pilot depicted the intense concentration and tenacity required even to hold his machine steady in those abominable conditions.  Another crew member admitted that for the first time in his career he had almost been air-sick.  They spoke of an estimated three-minute survival chance for anyone lost in such a sea, where thirty-foot waves were rampaging through the darkness.   The wind had been so severe that it had taken them several flying hours just to reach the ship.  That had seemed like an eternity, they admitted: especially when, with some distance to cover, they received the captain’s message that his ship might be sinking.   Racing against time, all had prayed against arriving too late.

It was now six in the morning, and the rescue crew were treated to a vivid account on the radio-news of their daring mission, and of the treacherous condition of the abandoned ship, which, with its cargo of dangerous chemicals, was likened to a ‘floating bomb’.   For the rescuers, no doubt, it was just another hazard among many.   The pilot had mentioned Ekofisk, tragic scene of an earlier  mission.  How many chances must they have taken already with their lives?

As they went off for a couple of hours’ sleep before flying back to their base at Lossiemouth, I could not help wondering what distinguished these quiet heroes from the average self-seeking human being – or indeed from the intoxicated braggarts in the bar.   Was it, as Confucius might have concluded, just a question of habits or training?  If so, there must be hope for the world, since habits can always be altered for the good.

By late morning the wind had decreased, the sea had lost its wildness.  As they came down to breakfast after their short sleep, I remarked on this improvement to a member of the rescue crew.  “Don’t you wish”, I said to him, “that the weather had been as it is now, and not as it was then?”   “Ah”, he replied, “but it never is.   It’s always like that, and always at night!”  So there I was, having a perfectly normal conversation with an exceptional person who, just a few hours earlier, had helped to save many lives.  Yet I sensed he would never truly acknowledge such praise.  He was, from his point of view, just an ordinary person in extraordinary circumstances, no doubt full of adrenaline, using his training to good effect. But still, a hero to you or me.  Methinks one should add  modesty to their list of traits.

And then the heroes – the atypical hotel guests – were gone.  The establishment reverted to its customary daily – in my case nightly – round.  Guests continued to arrive, from all nations and all walks of life, together constituting a microcosm of humanity at large.   I had to learn all over again that naked courage – the sharp edge of a soft society – has small appeal when set against the ubiquitous worship of bourgeois comfort, or the wallowings of ‘pleasure-seekers’.  Now and again when disasters threaten, those who can demonstrate selfless bravery are found somewhat useful.  But they are soon forgotten, apart from the intermittent media interest.  One might argue that today’s technology, with all the freedom of communication it affords, could pull us still deeper into self-serving, possibly even sinister directions…

All the more reason to salute our real-life heroes, wherever we find them.   To salute the genuine is, perhaps, a first step forward.  The crew of the Finneagle rescue mission were certainly that – and I hereby salute them through memory.  True, they did not swagger or brag.  They did not need to.   They had saved many lives, and unhesitatingly risked their own.  They were real men.