  Flash lay stunned for several minutes, unable to comprehend that the train actually had been derailed. Screams of terror and moans of pain mingled with the shouted orders of the trainmen. The sounds came to him as if from a long distance away. Dazedly he sat up, dragging himself from beneath a pile of twisted steel and splintered wood. Blood streamed from a gash in his head, but miraculously, he seemed to have suffered no serious injury. In the gathering twilight he could see that every car had left the track. The engine, taking the baggage car with it, had rolled down a steep embankment. It lay on its side, belching steam like a wounded dragon. Flash pulled himself to his feet and called hoarsely: “Joe! Joe!” A moan of pain came from beneath a pile of debris almost at his feet. He saw an arm protruding from the wreckage. Frantically, he worked at a car seat which had wedged fast, and finally succeeded in lifting it off. Joe lay there, his face twisted in agony. “Go easy,” he muttered. “My leg’s broken. And my insides are scrambled.” Flash managed to get a supporting arm under Joe’s shoulders, but when he raised the man to a half-standing position, he crumpled back again. “No use,” the cameraman moaned. “It’s broken. What a fix! Pictures to the right and left, and me with a busted leg and no camera! Leave me to die!” Joe’s spirited complaint slightly reassured Flash. If his friend could think of pictures, it was unlikely that he had suffered serious internal injuries. But there was no question about the leg. It was broken. Stretching Joe out as comfortably as possible, he looked about for a board which could be used as a splint. “Listen,” said Joe, “you can’t do me any good. Run to the nearest farmhouse and send out a call for ambulances and doctors!” “I don’t like to leave you, Joe.” “Go on, I say!” Aroused to action, Flash started for the nearest house, a quarter of a mile away. Crawling beneath a barbed wire fence, he ran through a plowed field. The ground was soft from recent rains. He stumbled and fell flat. Scrambling up, his clothes covered with mud, he raced on, finally reaching the house. The kitchen door was opened by a housewife who screamed when she saw him. In dramatic words, Flash told what had happened and begged the use of a telephone. He called the nearest town of Columbia and was promised that all available aid would be rushed to the scene. Then, as an afterthought, he dispatched a telegram to the Brandale Ledger, providing the first news of the train disaster. Followed by the excited housewife, her husband, and a hired man, Flash ran back to the wreck. Confusion had increased. Frantic persons moved in a bewildered way from one place to another, searching for loved ones. Already a number of inert bodies had been removed from the wreckage. Only the trainmen seemed cool and effective in their actions. A coach had caught fire. Flash hurried there, helping a brakeman pull two shrieking women from the debris. By working furiously they were able to make certain that no one had been left under the wreckage. Soon the car was a blazing inferno, adding to the terror of the frightened survivors. “What caused the wreck?” Flash demanded of the brakeman. “Rail out of place,” the man answered grimly. “Done deliberately to derail the train?” “Can’t say,” the other replied. “Not allowed to talk.” The rapidly darkening sky increased the difficulty of rescue work. Flash toiled on, unaware of fatigue. As the first truckload of doctors, nurses, and stretcher bearers arrived from Columbia, he made his way back to the car which he and Joe had occupied throughout the journey. The Pullman was overturned but had not been crushed. Nearly all passengers riding in it had escaped with only minor injuries. The car was now deserted. Flash crawled inside. Locating his former seat he groped about in the dark. Almost at once his hand encountered Joe Wells’ luggage, and a moment later he found his own camera. Eagerly, he examined the lens and tested the mechanism. “This is luck with a capital L,” he exulted. “It doesn’t seem to be damaged.” Continuing the search, he located his equipment case which provided him with a stock of flash bulbs and film holders. Without losing another moment, he began making a photographic record of the disaster. First he shot an over-all scene, showing the general wreckage. The derailed engine where two men had lost their lives, was worth another picture. He took one of the burned coach, one of the rail which had caused the wreck, and then turned his attention to human interest shots of the passengers. A number of prominent persons had been aboard the train. Whenever he recognized a passenger he snapped a picture, but he wasted no film. Every shot told a story. Gradually, Flash worked his way forward to where he had left Joe Wells. Failing to see the newsreel man he assumed that stretcher bearers had carried him to a waiting ambulance. More for his own record than because it had news possibilities, he shot a picture of the crushed car in which he had been riding at the time of the wreck. As the flash went off, he saw a dark figure move back, away from him. Reassuringly, he called to the fleeing person. There was no answer. Instead, from the railroad right of way, a familiar voice shouted hoarsely: “That you, Evans?” “Joe!” he answered. He found the newsreel man sitting with his back to a telephone pole where he had dragged himself, there to await attention from the first available doctor. “How are you feeling, Joe?” Flash asked him anxiously. “Okay.” “I’ll see if I can’t get you some blankets. And I’ll try to bring a doctor.” “Skip it,” said Joe quietly. “Some of these other folks need attention a lot worse than I do. I see you found your camera.” “Your luggage, too,” Flash told him encouragingly. “Stow it in a safe place if you can find one,” Joe advised. “I saw a suspicious-looking fellow going through one of the cars. Helping himself to what he could get!” “I think I must have seen that same man. He slipped away when I took a picture a moment ago. The wrecking crew ought to be here soon. They’ll put a stop to such business.” “Don’t let me keep you from shooting your pictures,” said Wells abruptly. “I’m almost through now.” As Flash spoke, both men were startled to hear a moan of pain. The sound came from the wrecked Pullman close by. “Some poor fellow pinned under there!” exclaimed Joe. Turning his camera and holders over to his friend for safe keeping, Flash darted to the wreckage. In the indistinct light he saw a man sitting with head buried in his hands. The lower portion of his body seemed to be imprisoned. “Major Hartgrove!” Flash exclaimed, reaching his side. The army man stared at the young photographer in a dazed manner. He kept fumbling in his vest pocket, mumbling to himself. “I was struck on the head.... My papers ... my wallet!” “I don’t believe anyone struck you, Major,” Flash corrected. “You were in a wreck.” “Don’t you think I know that much!” the army man snapped. “I was struck—struck over the head.” It occurred to Flash that the Major might have been struck and robbed by the person he had observed slipping away into the darkness. But as the man began to mumble again, he reverted to his original opinion. The Major had been dazed by the terrific impact of the wreck and did not know what he was saying. Flash tried ineffectively to pull away the heavy timbers which held the man fast. “It’s no use,” he gasped at last. “I’ll bring help.” Leaving the Major, he met two burly trainmen carrying lighted lanterns. With their aid he finally succeeded in freeing the army man. As he had feared, the Major was severely injured. One foot was crushed and his head had been wounded. A doctor came hurrying up with an emergency kit. He gave the Major first aid treatment and ordered stretcher bearers to carry him to a waiting ambulance. Joe Wells also was given a hasty examination and transported to the hospital conveyance. “May I ride along to town?” Flash requested the driver. “I have some pictures I ought to rush through to my paper.” “Jump in,” the man invited. With a quick glance at the young man, he added: “You don’t look any too good yourself. Feeling shock?” Flash sagged into the seat beside the driver. “I’m feeling something,” he admitted. “I guess I’m all in.” Until now excitement had buoyed him, and made him unaware of either pain or fatigue. He shivered. His teeth chattered from a sudden chill. The driver stripped off his own topcoat and made Flash put it on. “Better get yourself a bed at the hotel if you can,” he advised. “You’ll feel plenty in another hour.” Flash shook his head. With pictures to be sent to the Brandale Ledger, he couldn’t afford to pamper himself. He had to keep going until his work was finished. “Where is the nearest airport?” he questioned. “We pass it on our way to Columbia.” “Then drop me off there,” Flash requested. A few minutes later he said good-bye to Joe Wells, promising to come to the hospital as soon as he could. “Don’t fail,” the newsreel man urged, “there’s something I want you to do for me.” At the airport Flash arranged to have his undeveloped film rushed to the Brandale Ledger. From the shipment he kept back only shots which he was certain would be of no use to the editor. This important duty out of the way, he walked into town. There he dispatched a lengthy message, reporting to Riley such facts as he had been able to gather. Not until then did he allow himself to relax. Already the town was crowded to overflowing with survivors of the wreck. Hotels, restaurants and the railroad station were jammed. Every available bed had been taken. Flash waited in line twenty minutes for a hot cup of coffee. Battered and still chilled, he tramped to the hospital. Inquiring about Joe Wells and Major Hartgrove, he was relieved to learn that they both were doing as well as could be expected. After a long delay he was allowed to talk with the newsreel cameraman. At sight of Flash, Joe’s face brightened. “I thought you’d come,” he said. “Do you know what the doctor just told me? I’ll be laid up for weeks!” “That’s a tough break, Joe.” “Yeah. Flash, will you do me a favor?” “You know I will.” “Doyle’s expecting me to meet him at Indianapolis tomorrow morning,” Joe went on jerkily. “He has the sound wagon and all our equipment.” “I’ll send him a telegram right away.” The cameraman shook his head impatiently. “Listen, Flash,” he said persuasively, “I want you to take my place. Meet Doyle and protect the News-Vue people on the race pictures.” “But I don’t know anything about newsreel work!” Flash protested. “Sure you do,” Joe denied. “Doyle can help you a lot.” “Riley is expecting me to get pictures for him.” “You can do that, too. You won’t lose a thing by helping me out of this hole. It’s a big favor, I know, but you’re the only person who can swing it for me. What do you say?” Flash hesitated briefly. Joe made it all sound very easy, but he knew it wouldn’t be. Any newsreel pictures he might take likely would be worthless. The journey on through the night to Indianapolis meant sheer torture. But he owed it to his friend to at least make the attempt. “I’ll do it, Joe,” he promised. “I’ll do it for you.” |
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