It has been over two months since the Victorian fires. Long enough for an inquest to begin, long enough for most of the funerals. Not long enough for journalists to get their heads around what happened, though I don't know if they ever can. You can see the film I am talking about here, it was shot for Four Corners, one of the leading Australian news programs, on the ABC, and produced by Liz Jackson, a good journalist.
The footage shown on Four Corners is astonishing. Darryl Hull, a local resident and worker and amateur photographer filmed some of the fire in Marysville after the firefighters who were there had been forced to retreat to the town oval. There were 50 of them, they had stood up on the Kings Road above the town until the fire grew so intense that they could no longer stay and keep themselves alive, even when turning their hoses on each other. They moved ahead of the fire back to the only defensible space.
Hull took refuge with them, and filmed. You can hear his commentary. 'That was the school, that was the information centre, that's all that's left of that beautiful church ...' Every few minutes, his voice mournfully breathes 'Oh my god ...'
Liz spends her time in the report interviewing emergency services personnel, trying to understand what went wrong. 34 people died in Marysville, some in their houses, some on the road leading out, some running to the road ahead of the fire. She cannot understand this. 'But there should have been a warning,' she says a few times. Some of the people agree, despite the fact they were listening to local radio that was broadcasting alerts.
'They had no siren,' one of the women said. 'I was expecting a siren.'
'Why didn't you sound the siren?' Liz asks Glen Fiske, the captain of the local Country Fire Association. And I am paraphrasing, but this is the gist of it.
'We did,' he said, shaking his head at her. 'It's the alert for the firefighters to gather at the station. They gathered, they were there. That's what the siren's for.'
She clearly can't understand, can't get her head around the fact that they've never needed to use the siren for anything other than calling the firies in to work in the past.
'But you warned the owner of the B&B to get his guests out,' she says to him later in the show. 'Don't you wish you'd warned other people, that you'd ...' and her voice peters out as she realises what she is saying.
Glen's wife and youngest son died in the fires. He lost his phone fighting a spot fire earlier that day. They couldn't call him. By the time he could leave the station to go to his house, it was gone, and they were, too.
'Obviously,' he says gently. 'I dearly wish that. But we had no idea, no one did.'
Liz stammers. She knows this, but she feels sure there must be an answer, must be something that could have been done. There must have been ...
She talks to the fire chief at Alexandra, the more senior officer. His eyes are red, and look as though they have been for weeks. He tells her how they stuck to their systems, but the day kept growing worse. He couldn't get through to the person he needed to sound emergency alarms, not by phone or radio, the state-wide emergency overloaded communications. The stay or go policy didn't work this time, because houses that had previously always been the safest place to hold out through a fire were infernos in minutes.
'But ...' she says.
He looks at her, tired, defeated. She gives up. She goes back to Glen Fiske, and ask him why he wants to stay and help rebuild Marysville.
'Because ...' and now he cries.
'Because you told me you wanted your other children to grow up here, to know it as home, as you did,' she prompts.
'That sense of belonging,' he says, holding his voice level by sheer will.
And Liz is quiet. 'No one should have to pay this much,' she says in her voice-over to the footage of the funeral for Glen Fiske's wife and son. 'There should have been more systems, more support ...'
She can't say what they should have been, exactly, nor how they should have known in advance. Nor can she bear to address the root problem beyond stating a simple fact. The fire, like so many of those that burned through Victoria that day, was deliberately lit.
The footage shown on Four Corners is astonishing. Darryl Hull, a local resident and worker and amateur photographer filmed some of the fire in Marysville after the firefighters who were there had been forced to retreat to the town oval. There were 50 of them, they had stood up on the Kings Road above the town until the fire grew so intense that they could no longer stay and keep themselves alive, even when turning their hoses on each other. They moved ahead of the fire back to the only defensible space.
Hull took refuge with them, and filmed. You can hear his commentary. 'That was the school, that was the information centre, that's all that's left of that beautiful church ...' Every few minutes, his voice mournfully breathes 'Oh my god ...'
Liz spends her time in the report interviewing emergency services personnel, trying to understand what went wrong. 34 people died in Marysville, some in their houses, some on the road leading out, some running to the road ahead of the fire. She cannot understand this. 'But there should have been a warning,' she says a few times. Some of the people agree, despite the fact they were listening to local radio that was broadcasting alerts.
'They had no siren,' one of the women said. 'I was expecting a siren.'
'Why didn't you sound the siren?' Liz asks Glen Fiske, the captain of the local Country Fire Association. And I am paraphrasing, but this is the gist of it.
'We did,' he said, shaking his head at her. 'It's the alert for the firefighters to gather at the station. They gathered, they were there. That's what the siren's for.'
She clearly can't understand, can't get her head around the fact that they've never needed to use the siren for anything other than calling the firies in to work in the past.
'But you warned the owner of the B&B to get his guests out,' she says to him later in the show. 'Don't you wish you'd warned other people, that you'd ...' and her voice peters out as she realises what she is saying.
Glen's wife and youngest son died in the fires. He lost his phone fighting a spot fire earlier that day. They couldn't call him. By the time he could leave the station to go to his house, it was gone, and they were, too.
'Obviously,' he says gently. 'I dearly wish that. But we had no idea, no one did.'
Liz stammers. She knows this, but she feels sure there must be an answer, must be something that could have been done. There must have been ...
She talks to the fire chief at Alexandra, the more senior officer. His eyes are red, and look as though they have been for weeks. He tells her how they stuck to their systems, but the day kept growing worse. He couldn't get through to the person he needed to sound emergency alarms, not by phone or radio, the state-wide emergency overloaded communications. The stay or go policy didn't work this time, because houses that had previously always been the safest place to hold out through a fire were infernos in minutes.
'But ...' she says.
He looks at her, tired, defeated. She gives up. She goes back to Glen Fiske, and ask him why he wants to stay and help rebuild Marysville.
'Because ...' and now he cries.
'Because you told me you wanted your other children to grow up here, to know it as home, as you did,' she prompts.
'That sense of belonging,' he says, holding his voice level by sheer will.
And Liz is quiet. 'No one should have to pay this much,' she says in her voice-over to the footage of the funeral for Glen Fiske's wife and son. 'There should have been more systems, more support ...'
She can't say what they should have been, exactly, nor how they should have known in advance. Nor can she bear to address the root problem beyond stating a simple fact. The fire, like so many of those that burned through Victoria that day, was deliberately lit.
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