Facing the Flame

by Jackie French

  ‘Give it a go,’ said Sam. He doubted he and the other blokes had the strength left to climb up to the blaze, but what was only a quarter of a hectare or so of fire now would spread beyond control if they waited for the next crew. Tubby locked the truck in low-range, four-wheel drive.

  The tanker groaned, muttered and generally complained as Tubby wound it between the trees and smoke-dark air on a ridge too steep for either soil or much vegetation. He parked it on an almost level spot, side-on to the slope. They piled out wearily.

  ‘Backburn,’ said Tubby laconically.

  So that was why he’d cut off the two-way radio. Technically you were supposed to get permission for lighting a backburn — only an expert could manage one in conditions like these. But you couldn’t easily explain conditions over the radio — and by the time you did, like as not they’d have changed. Nor did the people who had the power to give permission necessarily know this country, or even have much practical experience in bushfires.

  ‘Give it a go,’ said Sam. He wasn’t sure it was the right decision; wasn’t sure that any of them were clear headed enough to make a right decision. But the fire was at the top of the ridge and burning down towards them. A fire lit down here should race up the mountain, meet the fire coming down, then they would both fizzle out — or die down to a point where it could be controlled.

  If they lit it in the right place. If the wind didn’t change. If . . .

  They formed a line again. Lit a line of fires, watched sparks flare to flames, flames eat the tussocks, catch the bark on trees.

  The light grew dimmer still. Not from this fire that was so hot that it was almost smokeless. Sam supposed it was from Jeratgully. Smoke here meant fire from there heading this way too . . . but it also meant that when it did, it would meet the burned-out area.

  Which wouldn’t stop it, but would — should — probably would — protect Rocky Valley and give the firefighters a decent chance of controlling it on this side, at least.

  The backburn had nearly reached the fire front now. A gust of wind almost knocked him off his feet. He saw the mountaintop flare, embers flying off logs, trees. For long minutes Roman candles reached for the sky, more massive than any New Year’s Eve display. Then faster than they had flared, they were extinguished by the sheer strength of wind as it ate too fast through its fuel.

  Good. That left just one fire front, with the backburn meeting it.

  And then they clashed, flames rising high as if in greeting. He could feel the shockwave of the heat.

  They waited. And slowly, gradually, the force lessened as the fire consumed the fuel in front of it but found no more to eat. Tubby arched forwards, beating at a tree with enough bark hanging from it to knit a thousand macramé plant hangers . . .

  ‘Sam . . .’ said Bill, his voice a strange slur.

  Sam turned. Time slowed.

  A wall of flame swept up the hill towards them. Another spot fire, blown from above. Another minute and the tanker would be engulfed.

  Bill crumpled to the ground.

  Sam kneeled, lifted and heaved him over his shoulder; was aware of others running for the tanker, Tubby far behind.

  The other three were inside by the time Sam reached the back door, threw Bill inside, on top of the others, looked up at Tubby, back at the fire wall, then at Tubby again.

  ‘Drive, Sam! Drive!’ yelled Tubby, too far uphill from the tanker.

  A fraction of a second became a lifetime as he realised Tubby wasn’t going to make it into the tanker before the flames hit. And nor would they survive if they sat in the tanker waiting for him while the fire ate it too. Sometimes life gave you less than a second to make a choice.

  He thrust himself into the driver’s seat. The engine muttered into life. How far did this bloody ridge extend anyway? He could see nothing, except smoke. He backed, mentally crossing fingers and toes, felt the back wheels begin to slide, accelerated forwards.

  Now to find the ridge they’d come up. If he missed the ridge, they were going to plunge over the edge and die, but if he didn’t try, then they were dead anyway, and no, he wasn’t the best driver there, but he was the one who’d had time to grab the wheel. He took a stab at the right direction as the flames touched the back of the tanker, saw Tubby ahead of them, prepared to brake to let him in, even if it meant the flames got them all . . .

  The world vanished. Literally. Flames about them now. Kill five men or venture into the fire for Tubby . . . but no one outside the tanker could survive in this. Nor could those inside the truck for long.

  He acted faster than he could even think the words. Just drove. Reversed down the ridge, in what he hoped was the right direction, blind with flames, the smoke, grinding the side of the tanker against a tree, lurching, counting seconds, as if that mattered. One second, two, three . . .

  Flame. And more flame. Jed! Damn it, he was going to see his kid. He had to make it . . .

  And then there was room to turn and the flames were behind them, the ground below them black and smoking but flame free. He swerved just enough to stop the tanker rolling further downhill if the park brake failed, opened the door and leaped out.

  The ground burned his feet, even through his boots. They’d blister. He gazed the way they’d come, half hoping to see Tubby emerge from the far side of the ridge, where the fire was not, afraid he would see his friend burst from the flame, a part of the flame, one last glimpse before he was gone.

  ‘Hell’s bells, that was a bad one.’ Tubby swung himself out from under the tanker. ‘What the —?’ he swore.

  He’d grabbed the axle.

  My God, thought Sam.

  Tubby grinned at him, white teeth in a dark face, his usual skin colour ten shades darker from the ash, his eyes startlingly white. He probably looked like that to Tubby too.

  Tubby inspected his hands. The gloves had crisped away along the back of his hands, leaving burns edged with black remnants of fabric.

  ‘Better get you to the hospital,’ said Sam, when he had found enough breath to talk.

  ‘Nah. Just burns. The vet at Rocky Valley will see me right. Look at that.’ Tubby swayed as he gestured up the hill. Sam put his arm under Tubby’s shoulders, supporting him, then followed his gaze.

  The spot fire they’d just passed through had met the beginning of their backburn. Even as they watched, it too was slowly burning down. They’d done it.

  ‘Reckon we don’t tell headquarters about this,’ said Tubby.

  ‘Reckon not,’ said Sam. In the back seat, Bill was awake again — must just have been smoke and heat. Just, thought Sam, a word that could have him laughing hysterically if there’d been any energy to laugh.

  He helped Tubby into the front seat. ‘Next stop Rocky Valley veterinary surgery,’ he said. ‘One more stubborn old ram for Felicity to look after.’

  ‘And then they can put me out to stud,’ said Tubby, not looking at his hands.

  The world could do with a thousand Tubbys, thought Sam, inching the tanker down the ridge again. He was working on it too — the bloke had four kids already . . .

  Someone had switched on the radio again. He let Tubby talk to them. Keep his mind off the pain. Bloody incredible what he’d done back there . . .

  But they’d done it. The Rocky Valley side of the blaze, at least, was under control. As long as the next crews kept an eye out for spot fires, Rocky Valley should be safe. If only this bloody wind would drop . . .

  He leaned towards the radio. ‘Jed hasn’t called in, has she?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you!’ The interference on the other end of the radio hissed and spat. ‘She’s had quintuplets. Nah, mate. No word from her. All’s fine around Gibber’s Creek. The air’s as dark as a black cat in a thunderstorm, but no sign of fire. Don’t think anyone would even dare light a match today.’

  ‘Good,’ said Sam. He wanted breakfast . . . or rather lunch. He glanced at his watch . . . or afternoon tea. How long had he been awake for?


  Sam focused on the road ahead and thought of Jed.

  Chapter 27

  SATURDAY, 11 FEBRUARY 1978

  MERV

  He’d had three days to plan revenge.

  Merv focused on the road ahead, shadowed in the smoky gloom, and thought of Jed. Janet Skellowski thought she’d got away from him, but now he had a way to get revenge at last. Get back at all of them. And it was a good plan too. Took some thinking out. But, finally, he had it.

  He peered through the growing gloom and veered away from a branch blown from a roadside gum tree. This place really was the back end of nowhere.

  He’d always hated Phantom comics as a kid. All the hero comics. Because the hero always won, no matter what the odds, and that meant the villain lost.

  Merv admired villains. Most blokes didn’t have the guts to admit they were the bad guys. ‘Oh, she had it coming,’ they’d whine, when they’d punched their missus, too cowardly to smile and say, ‘That’s the way I like it. When they’re hurting, you know that you’re on top.’

  Merv liked hurting people. Scaring people meant they knew you had the power to hurt them. Powerful was good. He might never be a millionaire, become a TV star, play Test cricket for Australia. Didn’t want to neither, though the money wouldn’t be bad. But when other people hurt and you knew you’d caused it and so did they, you knew you were real. Not some dull slob whose life was going to work and coming home again and watching the kids play sandcastles at the beach.

  Men like Merv mattered, even if no newspaper wrote about them, and better that they didn’t. Because when you came across a bloke like Merv — and there were few enough of them, very few who had the guts, the imagination, the ability to stick it out until he got exactly what he wanted — your life changed forever. Merv was a bloke you weren’t supposed to forget.

  And no one in Gibber’s Creek — or what would be left of it — was ever going to forget what he had done today.

  Chapter 28

  SAM

  The radio crackled before they’d gone half a kilometre. Tubby answered, wincing, as Sam drove.

  ‘Gibber’s Creek Two, this is Fire Control. Where have you been? Over.’ Sam didn’t know the voice.

  ‘This is Gibber’s Creek Two. We were out of range. Heading to Rocky Valley now. Estimate time of arrival twenty minutes. Over.’

  ‘You need to head to the Backcreek Road to get to Rocky Valley now. The fire’s heading west — all roads that way blocked off. Over.’

  Sam relaxed slightly. ‘West’ meant away from Gibber’s Creek. Looked like they were safe, this time, then . . .

  ‘Roger, understood,’ said Tubby. ‘Over.’

  ‘And, mate . . . be prepared for a shock when you get to Jeratgully. It’s gone. Burned out, except for the hall and everyone who got there in time. Over.’

  ‘But they have two tankers there . . .’ and good blokes manning them, thought Sam.

  ‘Sent to Gosford on Wednesday,’ said the unknown voice wearily. ‘And just about every able-bodied bloke with them. Check in when you get to Rocky Valley. This is Fire Control, over and out.’

  A crew had already cut up the burned trees fallen onto Backcreek Road. The logs’ still-brown interiors contrasted strangely with their black outsides. A skeleton forest still stood, thin and narrow topped, as if ready to crumble in the next gust of wind. And yet the wind still screamed and battered at the truck, flinging ash and half-burned leaves.

  At least the wind had blown most of the smoke from here. But Gibber’s Creek would be thick with it, thought Sam vaguely as they passed the crumpled roofing iron and half a wall that had once been a house. A car stood next to it, black, windowless, looking a hundred years old. Yet only this morning it might have looked new, its paint shining.

  And its owners? Did they have another car? Had they driven off in it and were now safe? Or did their bodies lie among the wreckage . . .?

  Not our job, thought Sam dully. Other crews had already been through here, had checked for survivors, the injured or dead. The injured would already be on their way to hospital. The dead must be left for the police, the coroner’s report.

  But Jed will be safe, thought Sam wearily. Dribble had its firebreaks, its automatic water system. Jed would make sure she left in time to get to hospital as well — and Scarlett would make sure she got there. The hospital itself would be safe too. But parts of Gibber’s Creek were frighteningly unprotected.

  But there was no fire there, he reminded himself. They’d stopped the fire front that could reach it. Even if the wind changed again, Gibber’s Creek should be safe . . .

  He could smell roast meat. He carefully did not look to see what animals were blackened heaps, or worse, and still moving . . .

  They passed the tennis court now. What had been a tennis court. Sagged wire tangled on burned posts. The gravel court was ash. A ragged line of what had once been houses, with, grotesquely, a child’s tricycle miraculously unburned and garish blue among the black. A larger conglomeration of black tumbled bricks and corrugated iron that had been the pub.

  Only hours before there had been gardens here, thought Sam. Fruit trees. A cricket pitch where cows grazed between the matches. All gone.

  Only one building stood upright in the devastation: the hall. Black, the once-cream paint turned to smoke, the wood below charred. But hardwood needed longer than the ten minutes of a hot, fast bushfire to burn. The corrugated-iron roof was smudged with ash, burned leaves and branches.

  And silence. Not even a bird flew in the smoke-pale sky.

  For an anguished second Sam thought that those inside had suffocated, or died in the heat. Then he saw the door was open. He slowed, feeling the silent gazes of the rest of the crew in the tanker. But even from here, he could see that the inside was unburned, almost orderly, chairs, tables, a tea urn, even teacups . . .

  People had sheltered there; survived there. And now had gone.

  Where to? He could call Control on the radio, but that would just distract those working there. His priority now was to get the crew to Rocky Valley; to get them fed and rested, and Tubby’s burns seen to. To ring Jed and hear her voice . . .

  And to pray that he never saw a sight like this again. Especially at Gibber’s Creek.

  Chapter 29

  FLINTY

  Flinty sat down gratefully next to the fan on one of the chairs in the operating theatre of Felicity’s clinic — the one room in the surgery and the whole of Rocky Valley village where there were no cages, kids and mattresses, human and animal evacuees from houses and paddocks in the fire path — and sipped her tea.

  Her feet hurt, though she’d never admit it. And her back, and various other bits of her after an afternoon cutting sandwiches for the fire crews, and feeding orphaned wombats and roos, none of whom had been particularly eager to take their bottles, as well as cleaning out the veterinary cages.

  Outside was wind, smoke-heavy air and controlled chaos. The surgery’s reception rooms were filled with animal cages brought down from Rock Farm. The Rocky Valley hall was the official evacuation centre, though she hadn’t heard of any houses nearby lost so far, and the Macks’ lower paddocks were designated as the refuge for stock, with dogs tied up in the shade of every available tree, designated carers making sure their water bowls were full and that when the shade moved the dogs could too.

  At least here in the operating theatre, the main scents were of antiseptic and a faint smell of dog and wombat. She could rest the bones that, at times like these, she had to admit felt like they had seen more than seventy-five years.

  So. Fire had come. But so had modern tankers and firefighters who could speed to a fire in ways impossible in her youth. Her valley and mountains were not burning.

  Yet.

  The door opened. Felicity.

  ‘What news?’ asked Flinty sharply.

  The girl grinned. ‘I just heard. They’ve got the fire front out Bald Hill way controlled. It’s still bad on the other side of the mountain, but not he
ading this way now.’

  ‘That’s wonderful.’ Flinty knew she should be rejoicing: her valley was safe. Why was there a strange itch between her shoulder blades?

  Felicity flopped onto the chair next to hers and placed a packet of sandwiches on the table. ‘Oh, that fan feels good. Curried egg and lettuce, or cheese and salad?’

  Flinty took a curried egg one, a Rocky Valley CWA special. ‘No apple cake left?’ The Green women always made apple cakes for disasters or celebrations.

  ‘About three tonnes. Want me to get you some?’

  ‘Maybe later. You look tired.’

  ‘You look like a walking mummy. The Egyptian bandages kind but unwrapped.’

  They grinned at each other, aware of how alike they were, as well as dissimilar.

  ‘It is so very good to sit down,’ said Felicity, stretching out her booted feet.

  ‘Any more news?’

  ‘The Gibber’s Creek crew’s arrived. Sam must be around somewhere. A bloke came in to have his hands dressed. I told him I wasn’t a doctor. He said he’d rather have a good-looking vet looking after him than a doctor with sideburns and a gold chain round his neck like that new bloke at Gibber’s Creek. He was the one who told me that the Bald Hill front’s okay now.’ Her face clouded as she added, ‘He doesn’t think there’s much chance of getting the other fire front under control in this wind. Didn’t give me any details though — poor bloke was bushed, and in more pain than he’d admit.’

  Flinty shut her eyes, trying not to see the horror racing towards people, animals, bush she had ridden through and loved, even if it wasn’t Rocky Valley. ‘Thank goodness the valley is safe, at least.’ She forced herself to change the subject. ‘Are the animals in the pens okay?’

  It was said for form’s sake. Her granddaughter wouldn’t be here if they weren’t.

  ‘The kangaroos are hopping mad, the wombats digging in and the possums just hanging about.’