Four Fires (69 page)

'It wasn't nothing, Mrs Park,' I say, feeling a bit foolish. 'I just lay in the blankets same as you two.' It's another Mrs Rika Ray situation where I've done nothing much. I hope I don't get a bottoms-wiping certificate out of all this.

'It was knowing you were there, it was a great comfort to us both.' She's walked over to the pony and has pulled its head against her chest and is stroking its nose, making comforting noises. I look over to where the shearing shed and the hayshed once stood and which have been completely razed to the ground. You can see the set of harrows I left behind when I took the tractor from under the lean-to. Now it looks like the skeleton of some strange creature that met its end in the fire, the leaves are its fleshless ribs.

'Well, it could have been worse. We've got the bull, the rams, the cows and the tractor, the house is safe, my pony hasn't come to any harm. Maybe even some of the sheep and cattle have made it out of their paddocks to safety.' She smiles, 'There won't be an apple crop this year and we won't be building a haystack, that's for sure.'

It's like she's doing an inventory in her head, then Edie says, 'I suppose we should count our blessings.'

Just then Ann comes running down to the paddock again and hugs her mother around the waist, 'Do you think Daddy is still alive, Mummy?' she asks.

Suddenly it's all too much for Mrs Park. She hugs her little daughter and both of them begin to sob. I don't know what to do, so I grab them both and start up as well, the three of us howling, holding each other, with the smoking earth all around us.

Then I think of Nancy and it stops me bawling. If it were her standing there in Edie Park's boots, she wouldn't be counting her blessings. She'd be yelling up at God and shaking her fist at the heavens, letting Him know He's not gunna get away with this. Father Crosby would be yelling at her for the thousandth time not to commit a blasphemy.

Edie is made of sterner stuff and she knows better than to blame God. Fires happen, nothing
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you can do about that. I think her tears are just relief that they've come through safely. She's got guts and I admire her a lot.

It's almost sunset and with them two safe, I've got to think of a way to get back to Yankalillee where the fight will still be going on. The party-line phone isn't working, I guess some of the poles have been burnt.

'I've got to get to Yankalillee, Mrs Park,' I say. 'Can I use your tractor?'

'If it's got any petrol, yes, of course.'

Oh shit, she's right, the drum in the shed has been emptied and there's precious little in the tractor.

'You can take the pony,' she suggests, 'but I don't think he'll be that good with fires and the smoke still around. He was pretty jumpy when I took him over to open the paddock gates.'

I don't tell her I've never been on a horse in my life, much less one that's going to shy at every patch of smoke and falling tree. 'No, you'll need him,' I say, 'you'll want to get around the place first thing tomorrow.'

Won't you spend the night, you're very welcome to stay, Mole?'

'Thanks, Mrs Park, but I've got to try and get back. If Yankalillee's threatened I've got to be there to help and be with my folks. I can walk it in just over two hours if I get going now.'

'There's always Ann's bike? It's a bit small, but it's quite sturdy.'

So there I am with me knees pumping way above the handlebars of the little girl's bicycle, dirty, tired and moving through a completely blackened landscape. In the pocket of my overalls, Ive got a bottle of water and four apples Mrs Park has pressed on me from a basket in the kitchen. I dare say they're the last apples they'll get from their orchard for a year or two.

The light is beginning to fade even though it's summer and it should stay light until nearly eight o'clock, but there's that much smoke about it's going to be dark pretty soon. The fires, both of them, must be getting close to the gorge, coming like a pincer movement, the one in the River Red Gum moving remorselessly up the Reedy Creek tributary and the grassfire coming up the other end of the gorge.

There's a bit of lightning around and with nothing else to hit but the blackened earth, I think of myself riding along the rutted farm roads, the only metal object likely to attract it in these desolate surroundings. Just my luck, escape a bushfire and get struck by lightning. There's been lightning this time of the afternoon for weeks and it doesn't mean there's going to be rain, which, if there is and it's enough of a thunderstorm, it will save our lives. As Tommy always says, 'Hope is a whore with a bad nature' and is not to be taken into consideration when planning anything.

'Always look for the dirt behind the shine' is definitely his motto.

What I'm going to tell you now is hearsay because the time it's happening I'm pedalling across the scorched earth towards Yankalillee on a child's bike, my knees practically brushing the sky.

It seems that after John Crowe and the rest of the brigade left Hopeless Dig, there was some discussion about trying to back-burn from Boundary Road, which is not far out from Yankalillee. John Crowe wasn't that keen on the idea and wanted to head back to Yankalillee and put in as much time as possible getting ready for the fire. But a number of the fighters insisted Boundary Road was worthwhile, so John decided they'd stop there first and check it out.

Tommy got there from where he'd left me at Woolshed Park just after they'd left, having decided back-burning from the road wasn't an option, just like John Crowe had maintained.

While they were making the inspection, one of the utes coming in after protecting a farm reports to John Crowe that the Ford Blitz tanker being driven by Whacka Morrissey has stalled in the heat and the old bloke can't get it started again. What's more the stubborn old coot has refused to come with them and said he'd get the fucker started if it killed him. They've brought in the rest of the crew, who are jammed into the back of the ute like sardines in a can.

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John Crowe asks where the tanker is and he's told about two miles back, about a hundred yards in from the start of the eucalyptus forest. With Tommy gone to Woolshed Park and the time of his return not known, John Crowe knows he'll need the second tanker when they reach the gorge.

He also knows Whacka Morrissey, an old-style firefighter, won't take instructions from anyone except the fire captain. He glances at his watch. 'Fuck, it's cutting things a bit fine! Righto, you blokes push on into town, you know what to do, I'll see you there later.' Though it isn't necessary, he adds, 'Make sure every house is evacuated three streets back from the gorge.' He knows that Big Jack Donovan will have seen to it already, but he'll have his hands full with other things and people can be bloody stubborn when it comes to leaving their homes and possessions, and often it's only when the fire brigade arrives that they'll take moving out seriously.

John Crowe also knows what the problem would be with the Ford Blitz. Even more than Tommy's tanker, it is prone to stall in conditions of extreme heat. Using one of the fire hoses to cool down the fuel line and engine manifold, he'll be able to tinker a bit and away she'll go.

Whacka's no fool, he would have done all this, but would have failed in the tinkering department. John Crowe reckons to himself that it shouldn't take long to get the Blitz back on the road. Anyway, if he fails, he'll bring Whacka out with him in the ute. 'Be back in twenty minutes,' he tells them, 'You'd better be getting a move on.'

There were people afterwards who claimed that John Crowe should have tried to stop the fire at Boundary Road and not at the gorge. After a fire, post-mortems and know-alls always abound.

Hindsight has twenty-twenty vision. When I asked Tommy later, he said John Crowe made the correct decision. He pointed out that between the grassfire and Boundary Road was the eucalyptus forest going right up to within twenty yards of the road, with Yellow Box, Red Stringy Bark and White Box mostly, and Casuarina in the understorey.

Trees like that and you've got yourself a crown fire that wouldn't be stopped by any road, no way. If we could've back-burned far enough, maybe half a mile or more on the Yankalillee side of the road, we may have had a chance. It'd take a day to do that, John Crowe had less than an hour. No way the fighters could have done the job properly with the men available. He done the right thing pulling back to the gorge, there wasn't no other option.'

Not that meeting the fire at the gorge on the edge of town was much of an option anyway. Once the fire got into the gorge there was no going in after it. What's more, it would soon enough climb out the other side and across a narrow strip of land that formed part of the Historic Park and then it was into the town.proper, with nothing to stop it and with buildings and gardens to feed its fury. In other words, the brigade was caught between a rock and a hard place. If they stopped at Boundary Road to back-burn and the fire jumped the road, they'd have lost valuable time. If they went on to the gorge, it was going to be almost impossible to stop the fire at that point. The only realistic choice was to try to save as much of the town as possible. It's little wonder there was a fair amount of heated debate afterwards. These things are never cut and dried.

So the crews get back to find the whole town has already been alerted. Houses near the rim of the gorge have been evacuated after they've been treated. Cars are packed with things the families want to preserve at all costs. In other words, all the usual stuff that's supposed to happen with fires but which the locals haven't experienced in the lifetime of any of its citizens.

Tommy arrives not long afterwards and takes over until John Crowe gets back, hopefully with Whacka Morrissey following behind in the Ford tanker or with him in the ute.

In the meantime I'm coming in behind the fire. The ground temperature is blistering and the smoke-filled air makes breathing hard. At one stage I take off my overalls and bunch them up and, using a bit of string I find in one of the pockets, I tie the bundle to the frame of the bike. I take a drink of water and eat an apple. My clothes cling to
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my body and, while I don't realise it at the time, my eyebrows and my hair are already singed.

There's still sparks flying around and every now and again one lands on my bare arms and burns like hell.

I can see the fire way ahead and observe as the grassfire reaches the eucalyptus forest that starts about two miles back from Boundary Road. One moment the fire is racing close to the ground, feeding on grass and shrub, a brilliant orange and magenta line stretched across to the immediate horizon, and then it disappears into the dark line of the forest.

For a moment it seems as though it's just been snuffed out, then, even where I am half a mile back, I hear the roar as the flames leap into the air. Within moments the crown canopy is alight, flames licking skywards, then a blast of heat hits me in the face and damn nearly knocks me off the little bike. The combination of eucalyptus oil and 4000-degree heat driven forward and upwards by a Force 6 wind makes it crown with a demonic ferocity. The volatile gas causes the fire to burn in the air above the canopy. It hovers, or appears to do so, petrifying the leaves in the upper canopy, sucking all the oxygen out and, in moments, large trees are reduced to blackened candlesticks.

If there was a house or anything in the way it wouldn't be like Woolshed Park, where the grassfire roared over the building and raced on. I reckon a forest fire would take everything with it, explode the windows and be inside the house in moments, the fire roaring through the rooms and out the other side like Red Box roaring in the furnace of a Lux stove. Despite the intense heat I shudder at the thought. A fire going through a eucalyptus forest must be the land equivalent of a tidal wave, there's nothing going to stop it and nothing in its path it can't destroy.

Then I see something I've only heard about in stories. It's called the Red Steer and is a phenomenon that old-timers sometimes talk about, tall stories you think of as old men's dreaming. One of those things they talk about in pubs when they've had a few and they all claim they've seen, but you know they haven't. You know it's just bullshit, legends passed on, spooky stuff, because men have to have stories larger than their lives.

As I watch, the fire in the forest gains even more intensity. Its roar, even half a mile away, is now deafening. Then a huge fireball rises above the canopy, it's maybe fifty yards across and, in a split second, the hair on my arms and legs disappears and the heat on my face and uncovered skin feels as if boiling water has been poured over them. Later my face, arms and legs will blister.

The fireball rises above the burning canopy and, as if gathering momentum, swirls in the air like a Catherine wheel sucking up oxygen into its furious belly. It moves higher still and seems to hesitate a moment. Then, with a roar that cracks open the surrounding air, the huge, balled inferno shoots forward in a flaming arc to land in the forest a mile ahead of the fire itself.

It is exactly as if a monstrous bomb has hit the forest. Huge uprooted trees fly high into the air as the eucalyptus explodes with flames leaping higher above the forest canopy than I've ever seen. A mushroom cloud of smoke, like the pictures of the atom bomb on the Bikini Atoll, rises into the towering clouds above. It is as if the entire bushfire has consolidated into one huge ball to hurl itself forward. I shall forever think of it as being alive, a creature beyond all human reckoning. I have seen the Red Steer. I shall never forget the sight for the remainder of my days upon this earth. I have stared into the eyes of hell.

The following day we will find the spot where the Red Steer landed. The remainder of the forest stands blackened and charred. The forest where the Red Steer has been is totally destroyed, everything in a circle two hundred yards across is gone. Not a single tree stump stands as witness to the holocaust. Large rocks have been reduced to gravel and sand, the charred and blackened forest floor is fourteen inches deep in ash. After searching through the residue, we find a few twisted metal parts from the Ford Blitz tanker and some yards further on what looks like the remains of John Crowe's ute chassis and, beside it, two feet of stainless-steel chain, the links welded into the shape of a hunchback's spine.