Читать книгу 155 - Hubertus Godeysen - Страница 13

At 9:12 am, sirens start to wail in Kaprun. The alarm goes out to members of the volunteer fire department. In the surrounding towns of the Pinzgau region, more and more sirens follow. The biggest rescue operation in the history of the modern Austrian Republic is underway. In the end there will be 400 fire fighters, 100 emergency physicians and paramedics, as well as many police officers and mountain rescuers in the Kaprun valley. Twenty-five helicopters, some from neighboring Bavaria, fly to the site of the catastrophe.

The first group of helpers at the scene of the accident is the advance team of the volunteer fire department. What they experience on their way to the tunnel takes their breath away. First they hear a hiss coming from the tunnel entrance, which gets louder and louder and finally swells to a clangor. They press themselves against the bridge railing when they see the immensely heavy counter-cable of the train rushing down in loops. It must have been melted off by the fire, they think. What else is coming down?

Panic breaks out in the valley station. On the boarding ramp and at the turnstiles, hundreds of skiers are still waiting for the next train. They have no idea what has happened in the mountain about a kilometer above them. They’re just wondering where the train is. When they hear the cable, which weighs tons, falling down the mountain and then see it coming, they surge away from the danger zone. Skis and snowboards fall off the bridge.

Someone yells, "The train’s coming down!"

Chaos ensues. "Don’t panic, it’s just a cable derailment," shouts a railway employee to the crowd at the valley station. But it’s already too late: some people are injured trying to flee the station. The moderator on the stage nearby tries to calm them. "Don’t panic, everyone. You can have fun here until they get it working again."

The thick, black cloud of smoke now pouring out of the mountain station is not yet visible from the valley. A telescope might reveal the twelve bruised and battered people emerging from the tunnel at that moment, no more than dots to the naked eye. It’s the only sign of the dramatic events that can be seen from the valley station. Many skiers go up to the Panoramabahn, the aerial cable car, hoping it will take them to the glacier. Although the fire has knocked out the entire resort’s electricity, the cable car is running with an emergency power generator.

Firemen with basic respiratory protection followed the advance team and are now at the tunnel entrance. They pause to deliberate. They are aware that components of the train could start falling towards the valley station at any time and discuss what to do in that case. "Flatten yourself against the wall. And pray," they conclude. With minimal equipment, they set off towards the fire. It’s just before 10:00.

Step by step, the firefighters make their way forwards; about 1600 steps to the train. Their headlamps light up the stairs, and the fire above them provides a flickering light. After 530 meters, the men are facing the train’s burnt-out wreckage: an eerie sight. The back carriage is completely burnt up. Less than an hour ago, the fire had reached temperatures of several thousand degrees in this very spot.

Where the cab once was, there are now only remnants of the steel frame covered by a pile of ash, from which the skeleton of the attendant’s seat protrudes. Even the blackened tunnel ceiling has partly broken up from the immense heat. It reinforces the oppressive feeling of standing in an anteroom to hell.

The firemen can go about 15 meters to the middle of the train, but further up, the flames are still blazing away, so high that it’s impossible to go on. On the steps, they encounter the first bodies. Dense smoke is still pouring up, obscuring the men’s view of the tunnel above.

The perilous mission is unrewarded. There’s no one left to save here. Numbly, they turn around and head back. At 11:00, they report to the head of operations: no survivors, at least not as far as anyone can tell.