Читать книгу The Firefighter Blues - Alan Bruce - Страница 3

Firefighters around the world will tell you that nothing stirs the blood like the fire station bells. How can one simple sound be so emotive? Excitement, curiosity mixed with trepidation, power and pleasure. It would hit like a hammer, sending my brain into a glorious panic. Beethoven or McCartney could only dream of achieving what one single toneless, rhythm-less bell can do to the human soul.

I joined the NSW Fire Brigades in 1990 and for 10 years, between 1996 and 2006, I was stationed at Macquarie Fields Fire Station. We occupied a block in the suburb of Glenquarie, between the police station and the ambulance station. This was said to be a working-class area, a term from yesteryear as the unemployment rate at the time was one of the highest in Sydney. Macquarie Fields, in particular, Glenquarie was a suburb that had a large Housing Commission (government-assisted accommodation) area located between the Georges River and other private housing estates. It was named after Governor Macquarie (1762–1824) by surveyor James Meehan (1774–1826) in appreciation for 2000 acres of land granted to him by Macquarie.

I held the rank of Senior Firefighter and was a qualified NSW State Rescue Operator. I was a three striper; we were supposedly the ‘cranky old bastards’ who had stayed in the job way too long. We weren’t officers, just ‘baggy-arsed firies’ who had laboured for too many years at the coalface. Although my enthusiasm for action had long gone, I was still hyper-vigilant, always on edge, a strange concoction of emotions that plagued older firies, particularly the ‘rescue dicks’.

So, I rolled up for another night shift. It began like all the rest – a quick chat with the off-going shift while changing into my uniform. I threw my frozen dinner into the microwave, allowing myself to be hypnotised by the rotating plastic container. As usual, I was a little on edge but thinking of nothing in particular, just daydreaming and ready to catch up with my crew around the mess room table.

Then thud! Like a punch in the gut, the air was energised with the screaming of the station bells.

My first instinct was to press stop on the microwave. I’d been caught before. As I locked the mess room door and headed down the hall I was trying to convince myself it was just another ‘Joey’, that’s what we called false alarms or ‘nothing calls’. A quick run in the truck and I would be back in no time, feasting on my gourmet curried chicken and rice. With the bells still echoing through the station, I made my way to the watch room where the duty officer handed me a copy of the printout from the station teleprinter. Immediately, four words leapt from the page.

Person hit by train.

Everything else seemed a blur.

Then, like soldiers deserting the battlefield, every emotion ran from my body, and I was left with just one – dread. It seemed like minutes but, in reality, it was only a few seconds before my breathing settled and I regained my composure.

Person hit by train, Minto Railway Station. There were map coordinates and line after line of Fire Brigades jargon. I grabbed my helmet and turnout coat (firefighting jacket) from my peg and jumped into a backseat of the waiting fire truck.

My fire station was one of the designated rescue stations. Our truck was a specialised vehicle carrying more than a tonne of extra equipment, vital for extricating people or animals from just about every unfortunate situation imaginable. In particular, road and rail accidents, industrial entrapments, high angle building and cliff rescues and, yes, cats in trees. It carried a crew of four, two of whom had to be state-certified rescue operators, highly trained in rescue above and beyond that of a general firefighter. Our crew of four were all rescue qualified. The Station Officer sat up front with our driver, Neil Mahony, while Bill Spek and I jumped in the back.

There was no need to look at the map. We had been to Minto railway station dozens of times, mainly for false alarms activating or other joeys. We all lived locally so choosing the quickest route wasn’t an issue. What we did need to sort out was the best side of the station to position our truck. The printout, now in the boss’s gloved hand, told us ‘southbound track’. That meant a shorter drive, which was ideal; we all knew that every second counts and any minor delay could be the difference between life and death. As our heavy-laden truck lurched and swayed like an overloaded camel, we trundled through the streets of Macquarie Fields and Minto, past modest cottages that housed enough nationalities to rival an Olympic village: Anglo-Saxons, Pacific Islanders, Indians, Australian Aborigines, Chinese, Vietnamese and Pakistanis, all cooking evening meals, resulting in a pleasant potpourri which wafted through our open windows, fighting for attention with the foul stench of sweat and stale smoke that permeated the truck’s cabin. With our siren screaming through the suburbs we overtook a struggling pushbike rider. I’m not sure why, but my immediate thought was, I wonder if he’s experiencing the doppler effect. I often think of odd things at odd times.

Fear of the unknown is a very real fear and, sometimes, for me at least, the excruciating weight of expectation could be as heavy as the truck I was riding in. Although I was the senior rescue operator among the crew, an inspirational pep talk was the furthest thing from my already cluttered mind. I would leave that for the boss, although, he would have his hands full juggling all the radio messages and organising additional crews and resources. I certainly didn't want any added pressure, it didn’t sit well with me; I had a habit of awfulising incidents and often doubted my ability to be a leader. A trait, no doubt, handed down from my father, which was probably the reason I was still a baggy-arsed firie and not a high-ranking officer like some of my college mates.

There was another crew turning out with us, from our neighbouring fire station, Ingleburn. That was a ‘retained station’, that is, they were a part-time station. This meant that when their pagers activated, they would down tools at their workplace or stop whatever they were doing at home, jump into their cars and drive to the fire station. The truck could then proceed to the incident only when the minimum number of crew members arrived. From the radio chatter filling our cab, we knew Ingleburn were on their way but were a few minutes behind us.

As Neil swung our truck into the railway station carpark, my head was spinning with past training drills, rescue protocols, scenarios and scene assessments. Trying to ignore my whirring nerve ends was like trying to ignore a toothache.

If the poor victim was actually under the train, I needed to liaise with the railway station personnel, place a signaller up and down the track, lower the carriage pantographs, locate the driver and ensure he has removed the keys, chock the wheels, decide on the equipment needed. Had I forgotten anything? Oh yeah, take a few deep breaths and calm down.

Once on the platform, I was confronted by a very young uniformed cop. It was bad; I could see it on his face, his contorted brow and owl-like eyes gave him away, his cover was blown, his bravado had abandoned him. Along with the stationmaster, they confirmed my worst fears.

The stationmaster whispered, ‘A teenage boy jumped down onto the tracks.’

Apparently, for reasons unknown at the time, he had laid his head on the cold steel rail then waited for the inevitable to happen. This was confirmed later by the station’s CCTV footage and the train driver:

‘I saw someone lying on the track from over 100 metres away but I just couldn’t stop in time.’

The boy was located two carriages back, still under the train. There was a very high probability he was dead, but at that stage we just couldn’t be sure. Owing to the shape of the train’s lower panels and his location in relation to the station platform, in the dimming light, we could just make out what appeared to be an arm. It was impossible to confirm if we were going to carry out a rescue or retrieve a body, although I think we all knew.

The extended side panelling on modern trains give the impression that they sit low on the tracks. Thankfully this helped to obscure the boy from commuters. Due to the victim’s location, it became painfully obvious that we would have to gain access from the platform side; we could only reach the boy by crawling through the tunnel-like area between the side of the carriages and the overhanging platform. We would have to start at the front and make our way back two carriages until we reached him. It was relatively dark and torchlight was all we had until the crews could set up permanent lighting.

It was difficult to crawl, even though we were wearing our heavy over-trousers the jagged stones forming the track ballast cut into our knees. The low height of the platform overhang made it impossible to stand upright so we just did our best alternating between a duck-like waddle and a hunched crawl. Luckily, we weren’t dragging too much in the way of heavy rescue gear. During a quick inspection we decided that any equipment we needed could be passed down to us between the platform and the carriage once we reached the desired location. The gap was only 300 millimetres or so but hopefully that would be enough. Sadly, the only gear we took with us was a couple of body bags and a few smaller zip-lock plastic bags to collect any ‘bits and pieces’ that we were likely to come across.

It was dark and cramped, with just enough room to crawl single file. I was up front followed by Bill and Neil.

We had made it past the first carriage when small, unrecognisable fragments of flesh started appearing. I convinced myself that these ghastly little chunks hadn’t come from a human being; it was just like something you’d see on a butcher shop bench – offcuts. I picked up what I could reach and placed them in the zip-lock bags. I assumed the other guys were doing the same. We hardly spoke a word; there was nothing to say. Besides, I was certain my thumping heart beat would’ve drowned out any conversation.

I didn’t realise it at the time, but one day that scene would come back to haunt me.

We shuffled further down the track, careful not to miss anything or damage the scene. Our collective uneasiness seemed to thicken the atmosphere. The tension was heavy and debilitating. I could feel beads of perspiration rolling down my breastbone and the salty sweat from my forehead seemed to form a continuous, ant-like trail to my eyes. My need to continually squint was a distraction I didn’t need.

‘How long was this carriage?’ someone asked.

It seemed to take forever to reach him. Then, just as my torchlight caught a glimpse of a disfigured silhouette, it hit me: the smell. It was death. I’m not talking about the pungent smell of a rotting corpse. This was the aroma of death. It’s the subtle smell of every organ shutting down, of fluids that have stopped circulating; the smell of a brain that ceases to think and eyes that trickle tears as the heart completes its terminal beat. It’s a staleness that clings to nasal hairs like fleas on a dog. It was death, we all knew it; once again we didn’t feel the need to speak.

Sadly, the young boy’s plan had worked to perfection. The train wheels left a ghastly rut that ran through his neck and face. Everything was held together by paper thin flesh and skin, flattened by the enormous weight of the train.

It was times like that, through painful practice, I had learned to remove myself from the situation, at least some of the time. I would tell myself:

It’s nothing human – it’s just something I have to place into a bag. No big deal.

On countless occasions in the past, I had rescued victims from the most horrific car accidents, yet I couldn’t tell you one significant thing about them. Not hair colour, age, clothing … nothing. Sometimes I didn’t even notice if they were male or female. I found it much easier to do my job if I dehumanised the poor souls and place as much emotional distance between me and the unfortunate victims as possible. I was to find out many years later, that doesn’t work forever. As traumatic as it was, we had volunteered to be rescue firefighters. I loved being involved, loved the engineering aspect, the pride of having ‘Rescue’ on my helmet and just being able to get my hands dirty while helping the community. I was a lab technician and a qualified fitter and machinist when I joined the Fire Brigades – a tradie – so I was very confident when using the various tools required at rescue incidents. I enjoyed the challenge and the analytical aspects. In the early days, assessing complex incidents and quickly working out the best plan of attack was something that appealed to me. I loved the practical aspect of being a firefighter, which is probably another reason I held back studying for higher ranking positions. I was a hands-on bloke and wanted to stay that way. Also, concentrating on the practicalities of the job at hand allowed me to avoid dealing with any harrowing, heart-rending feelings that were trying to manipulate my thought process.

Be the hard arse now. There will be plenty of time later on to deal with the emotional consequences.

I once believed I am not my emotions, I am me.

Today, I believe the two are inseparable.

I could tell from the mutterings from the rest of our crew that no-one liked the idea of dragging the poor kid over sleepers and rocks to the front of the train, even if he was in a body bag. We all felt he deserved to be treated with a little more dignity.

Also, from a practical point of view, which was the only view we could allow ourselves at the time, it would be extremely difficult, time-consuming and bloody hard work to drag him to the front of the train. I was able to talk to our boss through the gap between the carriage and platform. He knelt down so I could just see his face. I assumed the inevitable spectators were starting to gather and I just couldn’t be sure whether any relatives were at the scene, so in a hushed voice, I told the boss and crew:

‘We’ll untangle the boy from the train’s undercarriage, place him in a body bag and slide him under the overhanging station platform. We can then cover him and our smaller bags with the salvage sheet. Once he is secured we’ll crawl back to the front of the train and get out.’ Then, with all safety protocols in place, the train could be moved slowly up the track to a point where we could access the victim and respectfully remove him from the scene.

The plan was confirmed by all parties involved and the extrication process was carried out perfectly. Einstein once predicted that time slows down as we approach the speed of light. My heart felt like it was pumping at the speed of light and time definitely slowed down. The entire retrieval only took around 40 minutes to complete, yet it felt like hours.

We were all pretty happy to get out from under that train. Little did I know I would go back under there, time and again, night after night for years to come.