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.
~
Although it was a very gory and horrific scene, the blood and guts disturbed me the least. In relation to that particular incident, the hardest thing for me to deal with was, and still is, guilt. As I was delicately untwisting body parts from the unforgiving steel undercarriage I kept thinking, Thank God, he’s dead. It wasn’t because of any pain or suffering this poor kid would have to endure; I was praying he was dead long before I arrived at the scene, because a live victim is much harder to deal with. There is less pressure carrying out a body retrieval than rescuing a living, breathing human being who may require intensive first aid, if conscious, probably kicking and screaming, or at the very least groaning in pain. I didn’t want any complications. It was much easier not having to set up intricate hydraulic and pneumatic rams, jacks and cutters. It was pure selfishness on my part and coping with those
