“Please, God! Please let Jack open his eyes!” I prayed as I cradled his head in my arms. “Come on, Jack! Wake up!” But it was to no avail because as the dust cleared, I knew Jack was dead. I looked to the heavens and screamed, “Why did it happen to him? Why? He never deserved this.”

  The grief I felt was just too much for a boy my age. The tears fell like raindrops, mingling with the dust and blood on my clothes.

  “Get out of there, son. The rest of the building is about to collapse!” someone called out.

  I heard him, but my only thought at that time was to stay with my brother. I had never known life without him. With falling masonry all around me, I felt my world coming to an end. Little did I realise that my grief was not to end and I, John Smithers, had lost all of my family in a disaster which would remain with me forever.

  As I awkwardly carried the broken body of my dead brother from the rubble, a man ran up to a woman going in the opposite direction and embraced her. He told her that the explosion was at an end and the survivors could regain their equilibrium. Doctors and nurses were on the scene in minutes as people seemed to forget their safety while rendering help to those in need.

  Just a little further, I thought, we’ll reach Mother, and neither of us will be alone.

  As I rounded the corner on my street while still carrying Jack, I saw that my house was no longer standing. Although Jack was heavy, I was so distraught that I never noticed. As I staggered down the street, I saw many folks digging with their blood-covered bare hands, trying to find relatives buried beneath the rubble while shouting out names and crying.

  I made it halfway through what looked like a war-torn street, only to fall to my knees and sob violently as suddenly I had not only lost my brother but had gone from boy to man in those first few hours of the tragedy.

  “Keep away! Your house is no more!” Mr. Baxter, a close friend of the family, screamed as he rushed towards me.

  However, I was determined to carry on. So once more, I picked up my brother and continued walking until I found what was left of my home. It was a heap of brick and dust, some still cemented together in flat pieces but mostly piles with shingles on top of it all.

  “Mother! No!” I screamed.

  Placing Jack gently on the ground, I dug with my bare hands to try and find my mother. All the time calling out to her as I removed brick after brick.

  “Mother, it’s your John! Please answer me!”

  Suddenly, I found her and her face was covered in bloody dust, and her forehead was crushed and gashed. I tried to wipe it clean with my torn shirt, my tears mingling with the grime.

  How am I going to tell Dad that both Mother and Jack are gone?

  Little did I know I was about to find out I was an orphan without a home.

  Chapter 2

  A Grim Day

  “Mother? Mother?” I called to her, but it was to no avail.

  Mr. Baxter placed his hand on my shoulders in a comforting gesture. But it didn’t do anything to help soothe my agitated state.

  I looked to the heavens and screamed, “Why did I not die with them? Why?!”

  As I wiped my eyes with my dirty sleeve, I spotted something on the ground. My tears fell anew on the word HELP Mother must have written in the soot. I lay in a sea of black dust, my mind racing back to when I was a child. Memories came drifting back to me of happier times.

  Sunday suppers when we would all come home from church, and of birthdays when Mother would make her finest cakes for us. Of running with Jack as little boys in the garden while Dad chased us around the house. Even a memory of Mother and Dad being so excited to bring home and show us a telephone. Memories that I thought would never be simply memories.

  “I’m so sorry, John. If only I had been just a little faster.” a familiar voice spoke beside me.

  I turned to find my friend Andy Collins, his face covered in soot, his eyes filled with tears, and his hands covered with dried blood.

  “I tried to help her. Poor Mrs. Smithers.”

  All I could do was stare at him, silently urging him to continue while not knowing if I could handle what I was about to hear.

  “I had just finished my route when the explosion happened,” he began. “I went around trying to help anyone I could. She seemed so panicked when I saw her in the window. She was on the phone, and when I ran inside to get her out, she told the operator to patch her through to the fire station. Whatever the operator told her must not have been good.

  “‘Dear God, no!’” she screamed. ‘I have to try and find my sons!’

  “‘Mrs. Smithers, wait!’ I tried to grab her arm but wasn’t fast enough.” Andy swallowed hard. “As she started to leave the house, it shook, and the walls fell in. She tried to run towards the living room, but the wall collapsed on top of her, I could barely hear her screams above the noise of the house coming down. I ran to help her when another wall fell and… and crushed her, leaving her trying to claw her way out.

  “It was only when her body was found that the word “HELP!” was discovered written in the rubble she lay in.” Andy had to pause for a breath as if he couldn’t believe it either. “She must have written this just before … I’m so sorry, John.”’

  “What about Dad and the fire station?” I asked.

  “Not sure.” He looked down at the snow. “The word I heard was that the fire engine, The Patricia, was racing towards the harbour.”

  I remembered Dad aboard The Patricia, racing toward the scene of death and destruction! Surely, he would make it, and we could rebuild even a fraction of our lives. Surely, I wouldn’t be left alone.

  “Son…John.” Mr. Baxter’s voice brought me back to the present. “We’ve got to get your mother and Jack to Chebucto Mortuary. It’s filling up fast with bodies awaiting relatives to identify them.

  Though some bodies had already been recognised by family members, others had not. Smaller bodies were easier to recognise as they were children who had perished when the school collapsed.”

  I wordlessly staggered to my feet, still numb from the loss of my mother and brother, and followed behind Mr. Baxter. We carried them to the mortuary. Jack and Mother had just been placed on a wooden table in the mortuary when suddenly a man came in screaming, unaware I had a father on The Patricia.

  “My God!” he cried. “They say there has been a second explosion down at pier eight. The fire engine, The Patricia, went up in smoke along with the pier, killing all those on board.”

  I looked at him, tears running down my face, hoping I had simply heard wrong. “Did you say The Patricia went up with the pier?”

  “Yes,” replied the man. “All those brave men on the fire engine died in the explosion! All of them before they could even jump out of the way of the flames!”

  I slammed my open palm on a table, too numb to feel the physical pain. “Why did this happen to me? Why did I not die with them?” I stopped, reached for a large rock, and began to hit myself with it.

  How could anyone live after such devastation? Wouldn’t anyone in my shoes have wanted the sheer agony to end?

  A man wearing a priest’s coat took the rock from me and said, “No, my son, that is not God’s way. You must live on despite your grief.”

  But how could anyone live with such grief?

  My brother’s face lay directly in front of me. The same face that had been so full of life and mischief just a few hours ago in our snowball fight. The same face that grew so resolute to help the widow and her baby before the magazine blew. Jack was so much like our father, so much like my hero.

  What makes a person a hero may never be explained. But for some unknown reason, and despite my terrible loss at the tender age of only fifteen, without thinking, I performed one of the most heroic deeds of the tragedy.

  I left the mortuary as someone shouted that a school full of children was in imminent danger of collapsing. Years after the fact, I was unable to explain my actions, and I felt I was no hero, but I knew at that moment in time my only objective was to save those children. Despite my tragic loss, I knew I must have the strength to help those in need.

  The school was a blazing inferno when I arrived. Fire roared through the windows, the flames licking the sides of the building. The rescue party was stopping anyone from getting near the building. Children were screaming to their parents, begging to be saved while parents tried to reach past the rescue party to save their children.

  Why I’ll never know, but I blindly made my way toward the blaze, unaware of those around me shouting for me to stop. It was as though I never had the will to live since I lost all of my family. It was possible I would die, and if I did, maybe I could do this one thing and prevent the same loss for as many as possible.

  One by one, I carried out injured children and laid them down in a clearing. Through what was fast becoming ruins, with no fear for my own life, I removed some twenty children. As the walls cracked, many shouted at me to get away while I still could, but I ignored them. My hands were bleeding, and my clothes hung on me in tatters as I collapsed exhausted in a heap. Only to be revived by the rescue team and shouts from the families I had helped. Someone thrust a cup of water at me, which I drank quickly. I studied the demolished building; the gravity of the situation began to sink in.

  “Why did you do it?” an old man asked.

  I replied, “I don’t know why I did it. Maybe I felt cheated when I lost my family. Who knows? I just knew I had to save those children despite the danger to my own life!”

  The old man shook his grey head. “You must have had God on your side.”

  Was the priest right? I wondered. Or was I just stupid?

  Many such heroes on that fateful day laid their lives on the line, despite the many dangers. But none, it seems, were as brave as me. Left alone in the world, I gave no thought to my safety, returning time after time to rescue children who, like me, had become orphans. Children who had left home that morning with a smile, only to be replaced by a sight that would remain with them forever.

  I didn’t know how many children I had carried out of the school. Night had fallen. The last child, a little boy no older than seven, ran into his father’s arms. Tears and smiles on both of their faces.

  “John!” Mr. Baxter called out as he approached me. “The bodies of the firemen have been found, and they would like you to identify your father.”

  That step towards the finality of the matter was here. For the first time since the walk to the steelworks this morning, I felt cold.

  Dad’s body had been placed in a body bag until formal recognition could be made at the mortuary. A body bag that joined rows and rows of others. I faced another traumatic moment as they unzipped the bag to reveal Dad. His poor face was scorched, flesh missing in some places. It was certain now. I was an orphan; I was alone. Somehow, it still didn’t feel quite real. At my request, they laid my father alongside Mother and Jack.

  Tears ran down my dirt-ridden face as I spoke to the three dead bodies, telling them how much I loved them, and quietly begged them to wake up. I could hear the cries of those who, like me, had, lost someone in the disaster. Every now and then, someone would scream out in anguish. I stayed with my family that night, not willing to part with them yet. The cold air was nothing compared to the cold of being so completely alone. I had no dreams that night, which might have been for the best, though I still woke up tired.

  The morning brought with it more blizzards, and it was not long before the ground became a cold, white blanket of snow. The mortuary, having no roof, became a target for the falling snow, and soon the dead vanished under a carpet of white snow. The rescuers attempted to dig for more bodies but were hampered by the drifting snow. As night enveloped the town again, rescue efforts had to be called off. I heard many people wondering if their loved ones would never be found. It became clear that many bodies would be lost forever.

  The snow ceased falling by dawn. Daylight brought with it countless orphans as the death count increased by the minute, and the toll reached almost 1,600 dead, with almost 3,000 injured. The rescue parties, composed of strangers and relatives alike, swarmed over the debris like ants. While working alongside them, I heard many of them praying they would hear a voice crying out for help. Each time someone was found, a yell went up.

  Medical tents started popping up in clusters like harbour seals at feeding time during low tide. Many doctors and nurses had come to our aide from Boston, USA. A town we would be indebted to for ever.

  For the next several days, I dug tirelessly alongside strangers, knowing that life would never be the same again, and the peace and tranquility that once was would never return to my hometown.

  When the Acadia sugar refinery was razed to the ground, I was confronted with more sights a boy my age should never have to face. A woman had her throat cut by flying glass, causing her to bleed to death. Many others were mutilated by great twisted pieces of iron, flying glass, or enormous chunks of brick and plaster from the collapsing building. I grew up quickly as the horrors before me took place. I was among those who discovered the body of Jack Maguire, who, it appeared, had been hit by falling masonry as the building collapsed.

  One of the rescuers was an employee of the refinery and had left the building minutes before the explosion. His eyes misted with tears as he said, “Jack was supposed to leave at the same time as me, but he wanted to keep the machines running. If only he had not stayed on that morning…” A quiet sob choked his voice.

  Brick by brick, we dug with our bare hands until the blood mingled with the dust. I only stopped to wipe my forehead and cry out for water, which had become in short supply. I was taking a forced rest when I began to hear stories from other people about more damage created by the explosion. I call it forced because a nurse pestered me to rest until I finally gave in. She handed me a lukewarm cup of coffee, which I accepted. My eyes were heavy with exhaustion, and I could barely keep them open.

  “Did you hear?” she asked. “Such was the force of the explosion that the gun on the Mont Blanc, which weighs several tons, was carried some three miles and landed in Albro Lake! I wonder if they plan on recovering it.”

  A soldier wearing a dirt-stained uniform gave her a hard look. “There are more important things right now than retrieving a gun. I was part of a rescue party in a village north of Dartmouth and found an Indian woman, minus her legs. At least twenty-five Indians had perished. Giant trees were uprooted, and telegraph poles were snapped like twigs. I have never seen such devastation happen in such a short time! The blasted gun can stay where it is for all I care!”

  She blushed and stammered, “I-I beg your pardon. I thought…excuse me. Enjoy your coffee. If you need anything, just ask for Sally Mitchell.” She left without another word.

  I had a feeling I hadn’t seen the last of her.

  Chapter 3

  The Destruction Continues

  Sean Maguire’s story was not unlike many other stories. Even though he never knew John or his brother Jack, he was to suffer one of the worst tragedies during the explosion.

  Sean had just finished night work at the sugar refinery just before 9 a.m. that fateful morning. Having gone upstairs to get some sleep, not knowing the factory he had just left was about to be razed to the ground. With sleep in his eyes, he glanced out of his window just as The Mont Blanc and The Imo were zigzagging across the narrows.

  What the hell is going on? he wondered, fearing not only for his family but his house, which was on the Dartmouth waterfront. If those ships collide, this house will be destroyed.

  However, when he glanced out the window a second time, the ships seemed to be on a straight course. He dismissed the actions of the ships as he was feeling fatigued and his bed looked inviting. He was only working at the refinery because he had been refused entry into the army due to his poor eyesight. Although he was still only twenty, he enjoyed his job because he could work alongside his father.

  Sean sat on his bed and looked out at the harbour again, wondering what the hell was going on outside as it once more looked like the ships were zigzagging again.

  He was of Irish parents who had come from Ireland many years ago to settle in Canada before he was born to escape the conflict between the Irish and the British. It had made Ireland an unfit place to start a family. Growing up, he had been told countless times about his parents’ perilous journey to Canada. He was grateful to be living in a safe country and time. Or so he thought.

  His mother, Margot, was downstairs doing the daily washing in the large enamel tub. She, too, had seen the zigzagging ships and tried in vain to focus on the wash.

  Margot had not realised as she went about her chores that it was to be her last day on earth. She had given Sean his breakfast and sent him off to bed while her husband Jack had stayed on at work since he needed the money. Besides, he knew someone had to keep the machines running smoothly at the factory.

  Meanwhile, upstairs, Sean was exhausted as he watched the munitions ship turn into the wharf on the Halifax side of the harbour. He watched for some time until he finally lay down. No sooner had his head touched the pillow when the great explosion occurred. The roof of the house seemed to come down on him in one great lump, stunning him for just a moment, and the building shook violently.

  Margot screamed in terror and looked at the cross of Jesus on the fireplace. As the walls collapsed, Sean screamed out to his mother downstairs to run out into the road. But it was too late; she was crushed in the falling masonry as she ran towards the stairs.

  The house was reduced to a heap of brick rubble; at first glance, it seemed all inside had perished. But Sean had been lying on his bed when it turned over on top of him, saving his life. The rescue team arrived and removed the bricks until they found his mother crushed to death.

  As they removed Mrs. Maguire’s body, I heard a voice crying for help. So, I quickly returned and dug until a young man appeared with blood running down his face. Sean had survived!

  Of course, there were many harrowing stories not unlike those of my own and Sean’s. Such as that of Vincent Garrity, or “Vinny” as he was known. I rushed to the scene of devastation and was told the complete story by a woman walking about in a daze.

 

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