Four Fires

by Bryce Courtenay

  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.

  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 knowalls 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 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 4000degree 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 oldtimers 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.

  There is not the slightest trace of John Crowe or Whacka Morrissey, they have been cremated, disappeared in a furious puff of smoke, reduced in an instant into being a part of the burning, malevolent air.

  I suppose I must have been in a state of near collapse by the time I got to Yankalillee where the fire has arrived before me, though not yet into the town proper. It has now reached the outer rim of the gorge and is beginning to enter the town itself. The firefighters have given up any further hope of stopping the fire before it tumbles into the gorge. Yankalillee cannot be saved.

  Tommy must have pulled them all back into town. The streets are strangely quiet as I enter the outskirts. On the hill I can see the gaol and, further up, the loony bin. I think of the twin aunties, confused, fingering their rosaries, their thin lips supplicating. There is no movement, no cars and the King Street I cycle down on little Ann’s bicycle is completely empty. There are no lights on in the post office, which means Mrs Thomas and Marg O’Loughlan have been pulled out. I pass the deserted service station and wonder about the petrol bowsers. Will the underground tanks explode, a Red Steer of man’s making?

  I’m too tired almost to think. I suppose that everyone’s gone, Nancy and Bozo and little Colleen, the town empty except for those volunteers who remain, though I can’t see any of them about either. Many would have left when things became hopeless at the gorge, they’d have gone to salvage what they could from their homes and to get their wives and children to safety. Then I think of Lake Sambell, the only decent stretch of water anywhere near. Big Jack would have moved them all down to the lake shore, which is the furthermost point from the fire.

  Somewhere there is a bell ringing, not the fire station bell, it’s St Stephen’s. It’s near the rim of the gorge and will be one of the first buildings to go as it’s constructed almost entirely of ship-lapped wood. What would Father Crosby be doing ringing the church bell? Too late for that! My mind is too tired to figure things out. Should I rescue him? How could I do that? Imagine a bottoms-wiping certificate for rescuing Father Crosby! Nancy would never forgive me.

  It’s suicide to go down there anyway. Maybe it’s the wind? There’s a Force 7 blowing, driving the fire up to and into the gorge, maybe it’s catching the bell tower, ringing the bell of its own accord? I can’t be bothered to think it out. Anyway Father Crosby, being a priest, will probably go to heaven. Nancy says priests don’t have to qualify first, which is all wrong, and they should change the law.

  The streetlights are on but they’re not helping a lot, the acrid smell of fire is everywhere and the sky is filled with billowing black, white and grey smoke mixing with the low cloud. I think this must be what the last day on earth will be like. The air crackles and explodes and is filled with sparks, crazy fire embers darting everywhere. You can sense that death is on its way, it fills my nostrils. There’s rolling thunder and a streak of lightning crosses the tumbling sky, a closer burst of thunder follows. I look to the west where the rain should come if ever it does. The sky is mocking us, it’s been like this for weeks, growling, taunting us, dry-eyed and uncaring. I glance back towards the gorge and see the orange sheets of flame rising up out of it and St Stephen’s is briefly caught in its light. In my mind’s eye I see the statue of the Virgin Mary behind the altar enveloped in flames, the Mother of God burning in an Australian hell.

  It’s downhill to Lake Sambell and the last bit is a fairly steep incline. My legs are so tired, they’ll barely move but from now it’s coasting all the way down, with the road ending in a small pier right at the lake’s edge. The fierce wind is behind me, increasing my speed, and the air in my face is like a constant slapping from a hot towel. I try to put on the brakes but the heat pumping through the blackened fire country has long since melted the brake pads and I’m going at a thousand miles an hour and out of control. The little bike reaches the end of the pier and takes off and I’m flying through the air and come crashing down into the lake. The water embraces me in a gargle of bubbles and I’ve never felt anything so lovely in my whole life.

  When I surface, I can see hundreds of townspeople gathered on the shore. They’ve seen me coming and it’s the only funny thing that’s happened all day. They’re still laughing as I struggle out of the water, which isn’t much higher than my waist. Then Bozo comes running, knees high, splashing through the shallows. He grabs my outstretched hand, pulling me against his chest, he’s crying and hugging me in the water. Then the first drops of rain fall and you can see them sizzling on the shore, each drop like a tiny explosion. There’s a cry from the crowd, then a clap of thunder to drown it, then another. People have their faces to the sky, you can see them in the orange glow from the direction of the gorge. The drops come harder and faster, beating the surface of the lake. Bozo hugs my head, ‘You’ve brought the rain, Mole, you’ve brought the fucking rain!’ He’s bawling his head off. The rains have come at last.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Funny that, a fire, so big there was no way of stopping it, is about to gobble up a town and all it takes is one downpour, one big thunderstorm and it’s not only tamed but it’s effectively out. Yankalillee is saved, people can go back to their houses and climb into the same beds as they got out of this morning.

  Most of the men head for the pub, six o’clock closing ignored. If a bloke can’t have a drink after he’s fought a fire then the government can get stuffed. They’ll have to arrest the whole bloody town is the general sentiment. Anyway, Big Jack Donovan is the law around Yankalillee and he’s the one going from pub to pub, thanking everyone for a good job done. So while the women are busy unpacking their precious things from the car or the ute or the council trucks Big Jack’s organised to take the possessions of people who don’t have their own transport, the men are busy getting well and truly pissed. By morning the tales of derring-do will have reached mythical proportions.

  Tommy isn’t with them drinking, though we don’t know this at the time. The firefighters and townsfolk are offering him drinks but he refuses, it’s probably the first time in his life he’s knocked back a free drink. Meanwhile he’s asking anyone who will listen if they’ve seen John Crowe or Whacka Morrissey. He’s been told about his mate going back to help start the Ford tanker, but he has to make sure nobody’s seen the two of them since.

  There’s been a lot of confusion and the gorge is fairly long so he may have missed John Crowe, Tommy thinks. Or he may have returned after they’d pulled back into town and he’s missed him in the crowd. His commonsense says they are not reasonable assumptions, John Crowe would make his presence known. In his heart Tommy hopes what he’s beginning to fear i
sn’t what’s happened.

  It’s not that the other fighters are not concerned, they’ve had a long day and fought hard and they reckon, quite correctly, that John Crowe is an experienced firefighter and knows how to look after himself. Moreover Whacka’s a stubborn old bastard, but he’ll listen to John Crowe and do what he says. ‘They’ll be right, mate, no worries. Take more than a fire to get them, they’ll turn up in the mornin’, you’ll see’ is the general tenor of the replies Tommy receives.

  Tommy’s been to the post office, where Mrs Thomas and Marg O’Loughlan are back on duty, trying to contact the surrounding farms. If John Crowe hasn’t returned, maybe he’s taken shelter at one of the valley properties. Mrs Thomas tells him the Woolshed Valley line is still down and they can’t send a linesman from Wodonga until morning. She tries places nearer to Yankalillee but comes up with no news about the two firemen.

  While all this is going on, I’ve been taken home from the lake by Bozo, with Nancy and little Colleen and all the Bitzers in the restored Diamond T. The old truck is packed with our precious stuff. Nancy’s sewing machine, embroidery materials, one small suitcase containing all Mike’s blue ribbons, the family photo album and the scrapbook.