I was two years old when my family immigrated to Australia from Germany in 1968. My father was an industrial chemist and worked for Hoechst, an international German company. My family had lived in France for a number of years, where I was born. My father was promoted to a position in Australia and we arrived in March 1968, initially for a period of five years. However, my father fell in love with the country and we have lived here ever since.
Dad was always extremely hard-working. He was employed full-time at fourteen years old and paid his own way through night school to become an industrial chemist. He also had dreams. To buy a large farm in Kenya and live there. That didn’t happen. But it did happen here in Australia. He first purchased a 4-hectare property out past Gisborne, Victoria. In 1972 he upgraded to a 28-hectare hobby farm, a little further out, in a place called Bullengarook. He achieved his dream in 1981 when he purchased a large farm near Omeo, Victoria. Dad retired from Hoechst at forty-seven
and began sheep farming full-time on his 2000-hectare property. He is now happily retired but, even at eighty-three years old, still heads out in the paddocks and works the farm. I have never met a man with such an incredible work ethic and determination to succeed.
I have fond memories of the small farm in Bullengarook. My dad taught me to drive a car – even though I nearly crashed through a fence and became bogged near one of the dams. I learned how to ride a horse and have memories of numerous days riding through the Black Forest. I was taught how to shoot and often went hunting rabbits either on my own or with my dad or brother, Tom, who is two years older than me. We swam in our massive dam on hot summer days, drove the tractor, carted hay, rode motorbikes and panned for gold at a place called O’Briens Crossing on the nearby Lerderderg River. So many good memories filled my younger years.
One of those memories was that of a log hut that my brother and I built on the property. The farm was mainly open paddocks and the farmhouse, which Dad built, sat at the very front of his land, just off the main road. For years our family camped in the hay shed until Dad finally began construction on the farmhouse around 1976.
At the far end of the farm was 4 hectares of bush, about 500 metres away from the house, and that’s where Tom and I built our log hut. I’m not talking about some child- like playhouse but a proper cabin. I am still amazed that two young children could build something so sturdy and technically correct. We would go into the bush with our tomahawks and cut down trees for the logs. We chopped
out grooves at each end of the logs so that the next log fitted flush on top and, using a criss-cross pattern, built the four walls without the need for a single nail. We constructed a sturdy, pitched roof clad in corrugated iron sheets. We had an old steel flue which we utilised for an actual open fireplace inside. We made fold-down beds from planks of wood, with hinges that allowed the beds to be clipped back up against the wall with chains. There were bales of hay for tables and chairs, with a few pushed together to make a lounge or extra bed, and a solid entrance door with a bolt latch. It was awesome! We found an old cow skull in the bush, the horns still attached: sun-bleached, eerie. We affixed the skull to the top of the front door, though I actually never liked it.
On 28 August 1979, when I was thirteen, our family was staying at the farm. My brother had invited a school friend, Paul O’Shea. The three of us boys spent most of the time together riding our dirt bikes. I had a moto-cross bike, a Yamaha MX360, and my brother had a Yamaha 175. Our favourite past-time was tearing around the paddocks and through the bush where we had built the cabin. Paul had never ridden a motorbike before and Tom gave him a few lessons, which didn’t help. We were riding on our ‘track’ through the bush paddock and as I rounded a corner I saw Paul, and the bike, wedged and tangled up in one of the paddock fences. He had taken the corner too quickly and lost control, ending up in the fence. Luckily, he was uninjured and the bike escaped with only a dent in the petrol tank and a few scratches. I helped him out of the fence, along with the bike, and the day went on. Paul blamed me because he thought I was riding up his arse and ‘pushing’ him – the
simple fact was that he just didn’t have the experience on a bike and lost control.
That night Tom and Paul wanted to sleep in the cabin. I had been excited to stay the night there with them but my hopes were painfully dashed when my brother told me they didn’t want me there.
I knew it was exactly 2.30 a.m. when I was awoken by loud voices in the lounge room of our farmhouse. I had a digital alarm clock next to my bed: red numerals. As I became more conscious, I heard my father, his panicked voice echoing ‘No! No! No!’ over and over again. My immediate thought was that he was having a heart attack. I rushed into the lounge room where my father was pacing and continually muttering ‘no’. At the same time, I noticed my mother at the front door of the house. She looked frightened and I immediately saw why.
The door was open and Tom was standing on the threshold. He had his hands in the air almost in a surrendering pose. At a quick glance I could see that his hands were badly burnt, as was his face. The skin on both had peeled away, revealing the pink, blistering flesh underneath. Even as a thirteen-year- old, I knew it was bad. He was breathing rapidly and heavily: hyperventilating. I looked past him out the open front door. I could see a distant fireball. I knew instantly what was happening.
But where’s Paul?
My brother was alone. In my heart I knew it wasn’t good. I also wondered why my father wasn’t doing anything except pacing back and forth. He was the man of the house and wasn’t doing anything!
I looked at my brother and asked where Paul was. ‘He’s still inside,’ he managed to reply.
I didn’t hesitate. My body just went into reflex mode. I still recall everything to this day in the most minute detail. As though it has just happened. I remember the pyjamas I was wearing. Blue and soft with long sleeves, the top had a round collar with white and red stripes; the pyjama bottoms were matching. Without a word I raced past my mum and brother and into the darkness. My gumboots were on the porch at the front door. I pulled them on and ran to the gate that led to the first paddock. I didn’t have time to open it so I just squeezed through the gap between the gate and the gate post. My pyjama top snagged on the barbed wire of the fence that led down the paddock. I panicked for a moment, thinking I could lose valuable time, so I just forced myself through and my top ripped away from the barbed wire.
It was dark – barely enough light to see – but I knew the farm well, every inch of the place. I could have been blindfolded and still found my way. Once through the first gate there was a dirt track approximately 200 metres long to the next paddock gate. I ran down this track as fast as I could. Once again, I felt I didn’t have time to open the gate, so I climbed the wire and into the next paddock. This paddock had a small dam and a clump of trees. The track continued but it followed the fenceline and was a longer route. The quickest way was through the middle of the paddock, which meant steering through the trees and past the dam. I had to navigate through this section more carefully, as the trees cast shadows and darkened the area
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further. I didn’t want to trip over the numerous branches that lay rotting on the ground.
From the moment I had left the house, I kept my eye on the fireball in the distance – hoping that I would stumble across Paul along the way. I was about halfway to the fireball that was once the cabin I had built with my brother when shock really consumed me. The fire was out of control. It terrified me just how intense it was. The entire cabin was engulfed. But my body kept pushing forward, almost involuntarily. It was as though I was on autopilot and had no control.
I managed to stumble my way through the trees and past the dam, back into open space, before another 100-metre sprint to the final fenceline of the bush paddock. Once over the fence there was a further 100 metres to go. I scaled the fence and kept running towards the fire.
I remember clearly at that point the real panic beginning to set in. My heart rate escalated enormously; I could feel it pounding. I was gasping for breath. My legs felt like jelly and my whole body was shaking. I was scared of what I might find. I hadn’t encountered Paul on my way and I knew that was a very bad sign. Yet I still held a small hope that he had made it out and was lying on the ground near the fire.
It was frightening to see this fireball as I got closer. Light was no longer an issue as the fire lit up the entire surrounding area. If Paul was lying anywhere in that last stretch within 100 metres, then I would have seen him. As I got within 50 metres of the cabin, I managed to find my voice.
‘Paul!’ I shouted. ‘Paul!’ There was no answer.
I reached the edge of the bush. The ferocity of the fire was intense and the heat tremendous. I had never, in my short life, experienced a fireball of this magnitude. The roar of the fire was deafening, flames reaching 10 metres into the air. If I was to picture hell, then this was it. The cabin was 20 metres into the bush and to this day I still don’t know how none of the surrounding trees caught fire, but they didn’t. Only the cabin was alight. The entire structure was engulfed – including the roof. Even though the heat was so intense, my body seemed to shut it out. I kept running. But in my heart I knew I was too late.
I had to run around to the far side of the cabin where the door was located and, despite the huge fireball it had become, I somehow managed to get to within 5 metres of the entrance. I stopped and looked through the open door and deep into the flames. My heart sank.
Paul was clearly visible inside the raging inferno. A deep sadness and sorrow filled me, yet in a strange way, a sense of calm washed over me. I know that seems a contradiction, but it is the only way I can describe it. I had done all I could in my efforts, in the hope that Paul had made it out alive, that he was lying injured somewhere and that I could help him. But Paul was dead.
It was an eerie scene – one which I still am unable to fully explain – and not peaceful. Paul was lying on the hay bales in a semi-horizontal position. I assume he had been asleep on the bales when the fire took hold. I could see that he had tried to escape and again assume that he was unable to get out of his sleeping bag: nylon, melted, trapped, inescapable. The top half of his torso was raised at a 45-degree angle and
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his arms were outstretched in a rigid pose above his head. I was reminded of the victims in Pompeii. I can’t explain why Paul remained in this pose. All I can fathom is that his body had been in so much pain that it simply froze at the point he finally died. His entire body was black. There were no recognisable features. All I could make out was that it was human.
I stood there for a moment before I spoke in a soft voice, ‘I’m sorry, Paul.’ I bowed my head, walked a short distance away and leaned up against a tree. It was a surreal moment. I wasn’t scared anymore. Even though I was out in the middle of the bush, in the dark of the night, with no one else around me and standing next to a huge ball of flames with Paul’s body inside, I still felt a sense of calm. My breathing and heart rate returned to somewhat normal levels. I was drained and unsure what to do next so I continued to lean against the silent gum tree.
About five minutes passed and I looked up and, in the light provided by the fire, I could see my father running towards me. He was wearing a large, thick jacket so it must have been cold. I can’t remember if it was cold or not. It must have been as it was still winter. I hadn’t noticed the temperature at any stage since I ran out of the house. My father saw me leaning up against the tree as he ran towards the fire.
‘Where’s Paul?’ he asked as he came to within earshot. ‘He’s still inside,’ I answered in a deadpan voice.
Dad ran past me and I turned to watch as he went to the door of the cabin. I saw him stop and look inside, shielding his face and eyes from the heat with his hands. He stood
there for a moment – not very long. Then he turned away and came back to me, put his right arm tightly around me and began walking away, almost dragging me with him.
My father is a big man, over six feet tall and 95 kilos of muscle. I was only a child at this time – still a skinny kid. His hold on me was so tight, literally squeezing me into his side, that it almost hurt. I didn’t say anything, even though it made me feel uncomfortable. Even at my young age I thought I knew how he must have been feeling and I could imagine what was going through his head. I didn’t really know, though. I do now. How was he going to face Paul’s parents? That would have been his main concern. Or would it?
We didn’t speak a word to each other all the way back to the farmhouse. All my father muttered along the way was, ‘No, no, no.’ That’s all he said. My dad and I have had a love-hate relationship for as long as I can remember. Don’t misunderstand me. I have a huge respect for him but he was always totally focused on his work and on the farm and, being a German growing up during the war, he was very set in his ways. Old school. It was always his way of doing things, or nothing at all. He wasn’t flexible in his views or thinking. What has hurt me the most during my life is that he never gave me any praise or told me that he loved me. However, on that night he did say something to me and it has stuck with me to this very day. It still brings tears to my eyes whenever I think about it.
‘I’m proud of you,’ he said. ‘You acted like a man tonight.’
Even at the time of writing this, the tears are welling up in my eyes. I will always appreciate those words from him that night and I think about them often. There are other
words from Dad that I also clearly remember, a day or two after this accident. My mum asked my father what had happened after the police and fire brigade arrived, and what state Paul’s body had been in.
‘There wasn’t much left of him,’ my father had answered. Those words also remain clear to me to this day. They replay in my head every time I think of that night. It brings a pain to my chest every time I recall those words. How sad I feel for his parents that their son’s remains were minimal. How pained I feel that Paul died that way. How I still am unable to understand or reason why life can be so cruel. It’s true what they say. Death is just a statistic until it happens
to you.
The farmhouse was empty when we arrived back. Mum had run to the neighbour’s house to alert them and contact the emergency services as we had no phone connected. Then the ambulance had arrived and my mum accompanied my brother to the hospital. This all happened before my father and I returned to the house.
Once back at the house my father told me to remain inside as the police and fire brigade would be arriving soon. I could hear the sirens approaching in the distance. He told me he didn’t want me to go back with him to the fire. I didn’t want to be on my own but I just nodded. The police and fire brigade arrived shortly after and my father went to meet with them. I was alone. Then a strange thing happened.
I sat down on the couch and stretched my legs out along its length. I grabbed a book from the coffee table and opened it. Over the next few hours, I read that book from cover to cover. I have no recollection of the title of the book,
plot or details. I recall going outside to urinate on several occasions. All I remember is that, while I was alone in the house, I read that book from start to finish. I can’t explain why I read the book and why I was able to read the entire thing. All I can think of was that I was in shock and that was my coping mechanism.
I am unable to recall anything after that. I don’t remember my father coming back after being at the scene for hours. I don’t recall the drive home to Greensborough. I don’t recall getting home. My memory of those moments is completely blank.
It wasn’t until I visited my brother in hospital that I finally understood what happened that night. It was difficult seeing my brother in the burns unit at the Alfred Hospital. His hands and arms were encased in plastic bags and through the plastic you could see his limbs covered with white burn cream. His face was raw and pink: skin blistered and peeling. He was quiet and withdrawn.
Tom waited until we were alone in the room then he told me what had happened. He and Paul had ridden together on his motorbike into the local town of Gisborne where they had purchased alcohol. They had been drunk that night and fallen into an intoxicated sleep. A burning log had rolled out of the fireplace and set the cabin alight. When he finally awoke, the cabin was engulfed in flames. He managed to get out of his sleeping bag but said he couldn’t get the door open, burning his hands and arms in the attempt. He was unable to get Paul out.
Tom asked me to go back to the scene. Alcohol remained, still stashed in a large hollow log just outside where the
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cabin had been. He didn’t want our father to find it. I told him I would.
I did go back there while Tom was still in hospital. I knew of the hollow log he had spoken about but it was empty. The alcohol was gone. I assume either my father or the investigators discovered it during the processing of the crime scene. There was nothing left of the cabin, just a large burnt area, singed trees and a somewhat small pile of ash and coals considering the size of the cabin and the amount of timber that had burnt. The corrugated iron sheeting that had once been the roof had been stacked neatly in a pile 10 metres away.
I stayed there for a while still trying to make sense of it all. I squatted down on my haunches, grabbed a stick and began prodding through the pile of ash and coals. To my shock I uncovered fragments of bone still buried beneath. They were only small fragments, maybe an inch or two long. I had enough farm experience to know they were definitely bone fragments. For a moment I panicked. How could they leave behind bone fragments? Are these Paul’s bones? Maybe they’re from the cow skull above the door. Surely these fragments are from the cow skull? I convinced myself that was the case. I never mentioned it to my parents. Paul’s funeral was tough. I remember crying through the entire service. My brother was unable to come as he was still in hospital. Paul was buried at Templestowe Cemetery and I visited his grave regularly for many years. It shocked me that his grave remained unmarked: no plaque or headstone. His parents had been unable to afford one. Had my father offered to pay? Many years later I asked the cemetery staff
if I could buy a plaque to mark his grave. I was told I would need permission from his next of kin: I didn’t want to approach them, I didn’t have the strength or courage.
I returned to that farm twenty years later to revisit the scene. The bush had grown and spread and I was unable to find the exact spot where the cabin had been. I knew I was in the general area but the bush had changed so much in that time, it was impossible to pinpoint the place. I remember crying and saying a prayer for Paul.
To this day I still wonder what would have happened had I stayed with them in the cabin that night. I would not have been drinking, I know that. Would I have woken in time? Would I have been able to save Paul? It is impossible to answer. Maybe I would have died also. To this day I have never sat down with my brother and discussed what happened that night, except for the brief discussion we had at the hospital. I did send him a text message one year on the anniversary of the tragedy, just to say he was in my thoughts and I was there for him if he needed to talk. He replied that he did not even realise that date was the anniversary. He further replied, ‘We all deal with our demons in different ways.’ So true. To this day I have never received counselling. What happened on the anniversary of Paul’s death for the following three years was both strange and terrifying. I went to bed on 28 August 1980 and I woke up during the night and, without thinking, looked over at my alarm clock. It was 2.30 a.m. The exact time I was woken the night Paul died. The following year in 1981 I woke again in the early hours of 29 August and a thought briefly crossed my mind: I wonder if …? I looked at my alarm clock. It was 2.30 a.m.
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Exactly. It occurred again for a third time in 1982. I cannot explain it in any way. It hasn’t happened since, for which I am grateful.
The tragedy must have affected me in a far greater way than I ever imagined. For my brain to wake me up at that exact time three years in succession is no coincidence. What transpired on that night changed my life forever. It was a moment in my life that shaped who I would become.
I recently visited Paul’s grave again, the first time in a long time. I paid my respects and said a prayer. Paul now has a plaque on his grave. That makes me happy. I will never forget him.
Rest in peace – Paul John O’Shea.
