Fools' Harvest. Erle Cox

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      Chapter IV

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      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 I must pause to explain what we only knew later. The first attack had been made by a squadron of ten cruisers, which directed part of their 6 inch gun fire on the thickly housed portions of the North Shore. Here Mosman and Cremorne had suffered more than Balmoral, where not more than 50 shells had fallen. In addition, the whole of Manly isthmus had been devastated. Bad as this was, it was slight compared with the appalling havoc that swept over Woollahra and Paddington on the South side, where the thickly-packed houses were plastered with flying death. There is no doubt that incendiary shells were being used, for scores of fires were blazing over the whole district, and there was no hope of checking them, for the reservoirs of the high level water system were emptied within an hour.

      What I saw passing towards the north was the main battle fleet—moving unhindered from shore or air. Of the ten, six were 45,000 ton monsters—the first proof we had of the truth of the rumors that they were being built in defiance of the Washington Treaty. I stood watching the grim turreted monsters, fascinated. They were stripped bare for battle, and even at the distance I could see their hooded batteries were all swung outward. At the bow of each was a low white line of foam. How long I stared I do not know. Probably it was only a few minutes before suddenly, the whole line was momentarily hidden by a billowing, black, thunder cloud of smoke that burst from each broadside. Then came the deafening detonation of that fleet salvo. There was an appreciable pause before I heard the echoes of the explosion of the shells come in, booming, from the city.

      I did not realise it then; but at the moment nearly 100 16-inch shells had swept from the sky and burst in the heart of the crowded city. The smoke of the salvo had cleared almost immediately, though a dim mist veiled the gray hulls. Then the ships began independent firing by turrets. Why? Later that day I knew. In the midst of the horror that had been the city I came on a blue jacket from the Canberra. He had been on shore leave. Said he, "Believe me, mister, the cows had someone ashore spotting for them. I was down at. Fort Macquarie waiting to go off, and, you could see them feeling for the Canberra, till they got her. They couldn't ha' done it any other way. And when they found her they smothered her with heavy stuff. She'd dropped her mooring, and was under way, but they got her all the same. She didn't have a dog's show. Something must ha' got one of the magazines. The explosion sat me back hard on the pavement."

      [Burton's blue jacket was right in his guess. Marsden, in his "Australian Tragedy," has it on the authority of the naval officers of the Paramount Power that they had more than 50 fixed and portable wireless stations on shore in communication with their fleet. The portable stations were on covered motor lorries which kept to the high ground overlooking the harbour and city. These spotted for the gunners, and directed the fire. In the chaos that reigned on September 23, there was no risk attaching to these agents. These wireless stations were never really eradicated, though most of them were detected and destroyed eventually. But until the end, the naval arm was kept fully informed of troop movements. These stations account for the frightful accuracy of the fire on "Bloody Saturday," and for the irreparable damage that was done.—Eds.]

      As I stood watching, a car pulled up beside me. In it was a man I knew well, Jeff Gage. He sprang out. He was almost incoherent from anxiety. He had been out fishing, and had hurried back at the sound of the first bombing. He had just reached home to learn that his wife and two daughters had gone into the city. I warned him that the chance of getting through was slight, but that I would gladly go with him. Gage СКАЧАТЬ