Train Crash - For those whose lives were changed forever

The fast train, non-stop from the Blue Mountains to Sydney, had derailed and smashed into the cement pylon of an overhead bridge about a mile west of Granville. Hundreds of people were trapped in the wreckage. I, along with almost fifty other members of the local bushfire brigade had been called to assist with rescue operations. This was a call that would have such an impact on my life that it would be changed forever.1

Our crew gathered at the station: a sea of people rushing around in their orange overalls, steel cap boots and red helmets to man the tankers that would take us to the scene of the train smash. None of us knew quite what to expect, yet we all seemed to be anticipating that this would be like nothing we’d ever attended before. Nothing could have prepared us for what we were about to face.2

During the twenty minute drive to the accident scene, I sat quietly, trying to prepare myself for what was about to come. Strangely, I found myself trying to imagine the people on the train before the accident. Some would have been reading their morning paper. Some would have been dozing, trying to squeeze in a few minutes more sleep before beginning their work day; and some would have been staring out of the window, searching the rapidly passing and familiar landscapes for something unfamiliar just to break the monotony of this daily train ride.3

Although my first memories of the scene have not faded with time, they are as confused now as they were at the very moment I stepped down from the tanker. The scene was one of chaos: the lights of the rescue vehicles flashed all around me, people shouting and rushing to do what they could in this unimaginable horror, and yet, nobody seemed to know where to begin. As I looked down at the scene I could see what resembled a train lying on its side, with people climbing all over it like ants scattering over an anthill that has been smashed apart by a group of spoilt children.4

I stood, frozen within the moment, watching and listening as I tried to work out where I should begin. The scene ahead of me looked like an abstract painting with splashes of silver, red and blue everywhere. It was difficult to determine where one color ended and the next began, and my mind was unable to comprehend what I was seeing.5

I tried to concentrate on just one thing, to look for an area at which to begin my work and I saw a young woman lying motionless, her bloodstained body twisted around what was once a train seat. Instinctively, I knew there was nothing I could do for her, and I felt the most overwhelming sense of helplessness. I cried.6

After just a few minutes, I knew I had to push myself to find some hope amongst all of this despair. As I pulled away at anything that could be moved, I reached down and felt a hand, warm, soft and wet. For a moment I panicked, but I knew that even in the middle of all this turmoil and death, I had found life. As I climbed down closer, still holding the hand, I found a young man, barely conscious. I knew that would do whatever it took to get him out of there alive.7

I climbed down even further into the wreckage so that he could see me, letting him know that help was here, and promising him that I wouldn’t leave until they got him out. I placed one hand on his forehead gently, and with my other hand I bought my radio up to my mouth and called in our location to the control centre. All I could do now was try to keep him calm, talk with him, and wait.8

He looked up at me, his face twitching and contorting with obvious pain. “What’s your name?” I asked, trying to sound calmer than felt. He moaned, pushing himself to answer, “Warwick”. I asked him, “Where do you live Warwick?”. Sensing that he needed to feel a human touch, I kept wiping his brow, and he looked at me with a confused look on his face. After an eternal few seconds he said, “I have a new baby, I don’t want to die”, and he slipped into unconsciousness. I bent down and began to talk softly, telling him he’d soon be home with his precious baby, telling him he was going to be okay. I just kept talking, my steadiness belying the anguish I felt.9

In the fifteen minutes that I sat alone with Warwick, I felt as though three lifetimes had passed. The putrid, stale smell of death was lingering, potent, in the air around us. When the ambulance officers finally reached us, I breathed a sigh of relief and somehow forced myself to move back a little, out of their way. The only words I remember hearing them say were, “He’s alive”. Again, I cried.10

The next seventeen hours passed in a blur of emotions and raw, unadulterated, nervous energy. Finding death. Finding life. Calming. Reassuring. Trying frantically to find even the faintest glimmer of hope amid this inconceivable tragedy. The one thing I learned was that no matter how hard you try, you can’t push your feelings and emotions aside. When you reach out, you get touched.11

Several days later, I learned that Warwick had died, and a paralyzing numbness washed over my entire body. This time; I couldn’t cry.12