F
Frantic
Guest
“Charlie-Mike-One Two: There’s a smash near Five Ways: Persons injured, two cars, are you free?”
“That’s Mike-One-Four Sarge’ “
“I know that!....he’s busy”
‘Yeh’….[I think]…. ‘getting sarnies’…..but I guess he’d do it for me.
ItÂ’s a quarter to nine, couldnÂ’t have picked a worse time, someone bumperÂ’s got bent IÂ’ll bet.
Injuries?... bloody noseÂ…. use lights and horns I suppose, and itÂ’s raining, and miserable, and wet.
I arrive at the scene, and fall into a dream, of carnage and blood and death. I just can’t believe it, I’m alone in the midst of it, “MOVE IT!!”. No time for a breath.
“Get out of the way! Let me through”. I say “Just move along if you please”.
Then I saw; a man of God; with a child; in his arms; on his knees.
“See to the others” he asks “This one’s gone I’m afraid……Do what you can….it’s a mess”.
Women screaming, noise overbearing, a woman with blood down her dress.
Three children I see, not moving and broken, I can see by their looks that theyÂ’re dead.
But I check for a pulse, a breath, a signÂ…..breathe a sigh, hold it back, hang my head.
“Mike-One Two….Charlie Two, at the scene……. need some help” from a voice sounding sad.
“I need ambulances, the inspector, traffic branch, whoever…..I can’t cope with this…..It’s bad.
What do I do, IÂ’m in charge, in control, expectations of me, dressed in blue.
Feeling useless, inept, a voyeur, what good’s my ‘First Aid’ to you?
I look to the woman with blood on her dress, deep in shock, catatonic, a Mother
Another one screaming in agony and pain, my guess would be, the other.
You see, they had started out the usual way, a bit late, Mom annoyed, acting the fool.
“What’s the big deal…..who cares if we’re late?.....we’re only going to school”.
“Get in!, put your belts on! Stop mucking about!, we’re already late for school”.
Between the sisters a look; the belts they un-hook; wearing them ‘Just isn’t cool’.
So off they went, the scene was now set, for the tragedy soon to unfold.
Two moms with their belts on, four kids with them notÂ…..today, kids just wonÂ’t be told.
They were both running late, for the lights, one wonÂ’t wait, puts her foot down, sure sheÂ’ll get through.
Then an almighty crash, and shattering of glass as the bodies went on, through and through.
Police bikes arrive, along the pavements they came, the traffic too slow to pass.
Now we can get some things sorted out, I think “Thank God….some help at last”.
Ambulance, fire, eventually get through, local doctors and nurses as well.
The priest came to thank me, and I felt ashamed, I should have done more, time will tell.
ItÂ’s been thirty four years since that awful day, and the sadness doesnÂ’t get any less.
But the memoryÂ’s now fuzzy, un-focused, myopic, but will never go completely, I guess.
I think of those mothers and the pain and the guilt, over the years that theyÂ’ve had to endure.
That they killed their own children not intentionally I know, but a heavy cross to bear:
IÂ’m sure.
I think of the girls, theyÂ’d be all grown up now, and the joy of motherhood having felt.
With kids of their own and a husband and home, but for a safety belt.
This story is closed, for me, anyway; but in it the message IÂ’m sending.
Buckle up, every time, even short trips, take the time, ‘cause this story don’t have a happy ending.
“That’s Mike-One-Four Sarge’ “
“I know that!....he’s busy”
‘Yeh’….[I think]…. ‘getting sarnies’…..but I guess he’d do it for me.
ItÂ’s a quarter to nine, couldnÂ’t have picked a worse time, someone bumperÂ’s got bent IÂ’ll bet.
Injuries?... bloody noseÂ…. use lights and horns I suppose, and itÂ’s raining, and miserable, and wet.
I arrive at the scene, and fall into a dream, of carnage and blood and death. I just can’t believe it, I’m alone in the midst of it, “MOVE IT!!”. No time for a breath.
“Get out of the way! Let me through”. I say “Just move along if you please”.
Then I saw; a man of God; with a child; in his arms; on his knees.
“See to the others” he asks “This one’s gone I’m afraid……Do what you can….it’s a mess”.
Women screaming, noise overbearing, a woman with blood down her dress.
Three children I see, not moving and broken, I can see by their looks that theyÂ’re dead.
But I check for a pulse, a breath, a signÂ…..breathe a sigh, hold it back, hang my head.
“Mike-One Two….Charlie Two, at the scene……. need some help” from a voice sounding sad.
“I need ambulances, the inspector, traffic branch, whoever…..I can’t cope with this…..It’s bad.
What do I do, IÂ’m in charge, in control, expectations of me, dressed in blue.
Feeling useless, inept, a voyeur, what good’s my ‘First Aid’ to you?
I look to the woman with blood on her dress, deep in shock, catatonic, a Mother
Another one screaming in agony and pain, my guess would be, the other.
You see, they had started out the usual way, a bit late, Mom annoyed, acting the fool.
“What’s the big deal…..who cares if we’re late?.....we’re only going to school”.
“Get in!, put your belts on! Stop mucking about!, we’re already late for school”.
Between the sisters a look; the belts they un-hook; wearing them ‘Just isn’t cool’.
So off they went, the scene was now set, for the tragedy soon to unfold.
Two moms with their belts on, four kids with them notÂ…..today, kids just wonÂ’t be told.
They were both running late, for the lights, one wonÂ’t wait, puts her foot down, sure sheÂ’ll get through.
Then an almighty crash, and shattering of glass as the bodies went on, through and through.
Police bikes arrive, along the pavements they came, the traffic too slow to pass.
Now we can get some things sorted out, I think “Thank God….some help at last”.
Ambulance, fire, eventually get through, local doctors and nurses as well.
The priest came to thank me, and I felt ashamed, I should have done more, time will tell.
ItÂ’s been thirty four years since that awful day, and the sadness doesnÂ’t get any less.
But the memoryÂ’s now fuzzy, un-focused, myopic, but will never go completely, I guess.
I think of those mothers and the pain and the guilt, over the years that theyÂ’ve had to endure.
That they killed their own children not intentionally I know, but a heavy cross to bear:
IÂ’m sure.
I think of the girls, theyÂ’d be all grown up now, and the joy of motherhood having felt.
With kids of their own and a husband and home, but for a safety belt.
This story is closed, for me, anyway; but in it the message IÂ’m sending.
Buckle up, every time, even short trips, take the time, ‘cause this story don’t have a happy ending.
