Fools' Harvest. Erle Cox

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      Chapter III

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      One of the strange and incomprehensible features of that first day is, that though I have prayed to forget the events of the afternoon, and cannot, I can remember so little of its earlier hours—those last uncounted hours of happiness for such a host of human beings. There seems to be a chasm of one moment between two eras—one second of time, but worlds apart. To show how little we value the gifts of peace, let me number the little handful of little daily things that I remember of the last six hours—then weigh them against the rest of my story.

      Saturday, September 23, 1939, now known as "Bloody Saturday." was one of those perfect spring days that only Sydney can show. It was warm without being hot. There was scarcely a breath of wind and the sky was cloudless. I was down on the duty book to do a meeting in the Domain on Sunday afternoon, so I had my Saturday free. I cannot remember bathing, shaving or breakfast. I must have dawdled a good deal because I know I had to hurry when I left home. I had made an appointment at the office with Max Peters, who was giving me some standard roses, and I was to meet him at. 10.30. Gwen was quite excited about them. She was washing the baby as I rushed out of the house pulling on my coat. As I reached the door she called out to me to bring home some talcum powder. It was then just about 10 o'clock, and I had no time to spare. I cannot even remember what frock she was wearing or what we talked about at breakfast, the last time—but one—I saw her.. The 25 minutes run into the city to Wynyard is a complete blank. The day had brought out an unusual crowd even for Saturday morning, and it took me ten minutes to get across to the office in Castlereagh Street.

      The usual Saturday quiet of a morning daily enveloped the building. Our floor, the third, was dead. In the subs' room I found Don Ringfield, our deputy chief of staff and our police roundsman, Billings, motionless, and intent on something on Don's table on which I threw my hat. Billings roared at me like the Bull of Bashan for a clumsy so and so nark. It appeared that my condemned hat had cost him sixpence. They were shooting flies with rubber bands at one shilling a pair. Honours were even, and I had ruined Billing's chance for a sitting shot. Come to think of it, their pastime reflected the state of the collective mind of the Commonwealth at the moment.

      The next shooting both of them indulged in was not done with rubber bands, nor were flies their target.

      I asked if Max had come in. Said Don with a wide derisive grin, "No roses for you this morning my boy. Your little playmate has gone out to the Hawkesbury on a job. Before he went—I rang him up—he explained that you would be expecting him."

      "Why the Hawkesbury?" I asked.

      "Well," Don drawled, "It appears, from information received, that some warped genius has blown up the railway bridge."

      "Cut out the rotting, Don," I felt a little nettled. "What's it all about?"

      Don was one of those exasperating men who adopt a pose of never being interested or moved by any event however unusual. He picked up a paper and glanced over it. "According to our correspondent at Brooklyn," he drawled, "at five ten this morning two spans at each end went sky high from their piers. That makes four spans out of seven—I should say the bridge is a washout,"

      "Rot!" I exclaimed. "Why should anyone want to blow up the Hawkesbury bridge?"

      "That, my young friend, is just what I have sent Max Peters, plus a photographer, to find out. Any objections?" He replaced the telegram on his table.

      "It's a preposterous yarn," was my comment.

      "Strange to say," replied Don, "I'm inclined to agree with you. So does Max for that matter. The language he used when I sent him out was enough to blow up the Harbour Bridge."

      "Don't blame him," I said. "Did you ring The Dinker." The Dinker was our chief, and one who did not suffer fools gladly.

      Don regarded me with a pained expression. "Wally, the Dinker is away hacking out divots on the Killara Club greens. Can you imagine what he would say if I called him in to tell him someone had blown up the Hawkesbury railway bridge? Be your age, laddie."

      "It would be a bit thick," I laughed. "Anyway the evening rags will get the cream of it if it's true."

      "My idea exactly," Don nodded, "so why worry?"

      Just then Billings, who had left the room while we were talking, exploded back again. "Look here, Don," he barked. "I wish you would get one of the intellectuals to card the hide off the Water Board. The taps in the lay. are dry."

      "'Orrible disaster!" sneered Don. "You don't wash and you never drink water. Body o' me! What you got to howl about? Go and buy yourself a beer!"

      I left them to it. It was, I thought, thank goodness none of my business. It must then have been about 11 o'clock. What I did for the next half hour I cannot remember. I know I bought the talcum powder. The next thing I remember was that I was walking just below Hunter Street in George Street.

      Then it happened.

      The whole city seemed to tremble from one roar of explosion. It was a crash that drowned the roar of traffic for a second. I can still see how the entire pedestrian traffic stopped dead in its tracks. Every. one was staring a question at his neighbour. A young fellow close to me said, "Gosh! That sounds like a powder magazine!"

      An older man, wide eyed, retorted, "Magazine be blowed! That was an air bomb, and a dashed big one, too. I heard scores of them in China last year."

      Even as he spoke there came two more, almost together. A pause, and then crash! crash! a dozen times in succession followed by a prolonged roar.

      Intuition, a pressman's instinct, something clicked in my mind, and connected the Hawkesbury bridge with the riot. There was a taxi passing slowly. I sprang on to the footboard, and shouted at the driver,

      "Express office! Castlereagh Street! Drive like blazes!"

      The whole city seemed rocking as I slipped in beside the driver. He went into Hunter Street on two wheels. The turn into Pitt. Street almost dislocated my neck. We were blocked for a minute at the Market Street turn, but I don't think it took much more than three minutes before I was going up the office stairs three steps at a time.

      Don Ringfield was alone in the subs' room. For once his pose of indifference had dropped. His face was white, and he was speaking in jerks. As I broke into the room he held up his hand to silence my question.

      I heard, "Yes! yes! Are you sure? Five squadrons of seven each! Yes! Both of them?" His eyes registered bewildered consternation. "You saw the marks? Positive it was a red diamond in a black square? Good God, no! They couldn't! Impossible!" There was a pause, and Don broke in again. "But Ted, that's crazy; they must have come from somewhere! Yes! Yes! All right! I'm afraid so! Ring again the moment you see anything!" He slammed down the receiver, and sat staring at me with a dead white face between his hands.

      "For the love o' mike, Don, spill it!" I demanded.

      "Wally," СКАЧАТЬ