Fools' Harvest. Erle Cox
make out how many. Ted's going to do a bunk. Don't blame him!"
We looked blankly at one another. "Great Scot!" I said. "If they start shooting into the city! It's absolutely packed with people—"
"Yes, and it won't take them much more than half an hour to get in range," Don jerked out. "We might warn them."
"Someone's sure to be doing it! The evening papers will have out extraordinaries," I said. "Try the wireless stations and the Town Hall."
We each took a telephone, but it wart no use. Every number we tried was engaged—Parliament House among them. It was a good sign. Someone must be hard at it. I may say here that although it was barely 12 o'clock, the news was spreading like wild fire. Both the Government and the Town Hall had ordered all broadcasting stations to keep repeating an appeal to empty the city as soon as possible.
My anxiety about Gwen and Bunty increased. I wanted to make sure she had got away. I told Don—and added that if they bombarded the city the odds were against any newspapers coming out. Anyway I would come back and chance it after I had been home.
We made the office the rendezvous, and I left, Don saying he would stick it out, whatever might come.
When I reached the street it looked more like a disturbed ant hill than anything else. There was panic in the air, but the beginning of it only. Though the warnings were being broadcast, they had barely begun to take effect. But when I turned into Martin Place on my way to the Wynyard station, the confusion was apparent. I stopped for nothing, though excited voices were rising round me. I felt if the crowd once began to surge into the streets progress would be impossible. Remember, it was not much more than fifteen minutes since the sound of the first bombing had died down. It was not until I reached George Street, and was within 50 yards of the station that I encountered the first definite warning. A newsboy was running along the opposite foot path with a news placard: WARNING!—EVACUATE CITY!!—HURRY!!! As his message caught my eye he decided to take his own advice, for he dropped his placard and sprang for a west bound tram.
By good luck, as I dodged through the fast-growing crowd in the underground entrance, I found a Spit tram on the point of starting. It was filled almost to capacity with an excited crowd of passengers, few of whom seemed to know or realise what had happened. As we passed out of the tunnel on to the Harbour Bridge, I turned my eyes down toward the Heads. The Harbour was flooded with sunshine. The whole scene was as quiet and untroubled as always—serene, peaceful and beautiful. Close to Garden Island I saw one of the cruisers, probably the Adelaide, but not the Canberra. Three destroyers were behind the island. A motor pinnace with a foaming wake was making towards the cruiser, and the last thing I noticed was a hoist of signal flags on her mast.
Never did a tram seem to move so slowly as that I had boarded. It stopped at every halt, and it was blocked by an increasing number of motor cars making towards the city. But even so the scene did not seem to warrant the sense of desperate anxiety that came over me. I was mentally calculating the possibilities, and the length of time to spare before the attack could come within range. Not for one minute did I doubt that it was coming. All the way I was turning ray eyes back over the city wondering why no planes of ours were on their way, Still I hoped that we had an hour of grace.
When it came the shock was physical. We had just reached Cremorne junction when, from over the Chintart rise, there came a series of sharp detonations, followed almost instantly by smashing explosions apparently close ahead of us. The tram halted with a jerk There were not more than a dozen passengers left. A woman began to scream. We jumped off into the street. The explosions continued, and smoke began to rise over the houses in the distance. As we stood there was a series of terrific bursts among the massed dwellings of Cremorne and Mosman.
Everyone seemed to be yelping at the motor man or the conductor. The street was full of excited people shouting at one another. I pressed to the front of the car and begged the motor man to go on.
He cried out, "What's it all about What's happening?"
"War!" I shouted back. We could hardly make our voices heard. "It's a Cambasian fleet! They'll be shelling the city soon."
He cried back an utterly unprintable comment on the ancestry of all Cambasians. Then. "I'll take this car to the Spit if you men are game to come." We all began to scramble on board again. The tram started with a jolt, and raced towards Spit Junction.
There was a pause in the infernal racket of explosions. But it broke out again just as we turned into Spit. Road, but the tram sped on until just before we reached Awaba Street it stopped dead. The conductor who had gone forward to the front of the car called out, "No good, gents.. the overhead wires have been busted somewhere."
I was down in a second and began running towards Stanton Street. Overhead something screeched and hooted, and I heard another series of crashes towards Cremorne.
Thick clouds of smoke drifting up from Balmoral Heights rowelled me on. Panic stricken women and children were in the street or their gardens. There was a little crowd staring blankly at the remains of a shattered house that had been blown half across the road. I scrambled over broken bricks and splintered fence and ran on. I passed a score of people running towards me, but just as I turned into Statin Street my arm was caught by a man whose face was half masked with blood.
For the moment. I did not recognise him. But when he called my name, I knew it was Bob Hicks, the odd job man who came to tidy up my garden every Saturday.
"Bob! What's happened? Are you hurt'?" I gasped.
"Only a little cut, sir," he replied. "It looks worse than it is."
"My wife, Bob! Did she get away?" I pulled my arm from his grasp and began to run.
He caught it again and held me. "For God's sake, Mr. Burton, don't go to your house. Don't go! You can't do any good," he pleaded earnestly.
"My wife! Tell me!"
He stared at me, and I knew what he was trying to say, "Tell me, man! Tell me!" I shouted at him.
"She was just getting into the car. The third shell fell between your house and Mackenzie's. For God's sake, Mr. Burton, don't go there."
But like a fool, I did not heed him, and, tearing my arm away, ran on.
Chapter IV
In our sorrows and tragedies, we humans are individualists. We can never enter into the feelings of another, neither can another enter ours. Each must sit alone in his own little hell. When I began to write t I his story intended to write every truth, however ghastly. I wanted to burn the story into the minds of all who read it; but when it comes to my own tragedy, I have not the courage, even comes years, to go on. Even as I reached my home three pale and shaking friends tried to stop me. I will only say this about it. What was there could not be covered decently from human sight, and when I saw what was there I became sick. It was only one of the thousands similar tragedies of that day. Some infinitely worse! But in all the days that have passed since then—more than 3,000 days—those few moments of that day have been with me; their memory is indelible, and that is my curse.
However, I have neither the inclination nor the need to dwell on that one incident—a trifling incident of that day. When the first shock of the blow passed, with its stunned bewilderment, there came on me an urge for action. To stay near the spot was impossible. I put aside the offers of a home from friends, whose manifold anxieties were as heavy on them as my own tragedy. I determined to make back to the office. It was at this time about a quarter to one o'clock. I walked to the Spit Road to try to find means by which to get back to the city. In the mood I was in the thought of danger was not even remotely present. When I reached the intersection of Stanton Street, I paused. The confusion was at its height. There must have been thirty blazing homes in sight, and the thick black smoke was billowing up all round. Then I looked back. Out through the Heads, and about three miles off shore, steering north over still blue water, was a long line of great, squat, grey ships.
Here