Granville train disaster 44 years on: I was crushed on the way to work

What started as an ordinary day changed Bruce’s life forever

I’ll see you tonight, love,’ I said, kissing my wife, Lynn. Our three sons – Craig, then ve, Matthew, two, and Damian, one, were all tucking into brekkie in the kitchen.

‘Be good, boys,’ I told them, on my way out.

It was January 1977, and we lived in Castle Hill, NSW, but I was off to Sydney’s CBD for work. My usual route involved taking the train from Wentworthville to the city, but I’d sometimes switch to a fast train at Parramatta, one stop along.

As we got to Parramatta, I realised there was an express train on its way, so I jumped off and squeezed into the packed service.

In the fourth carriage, I was standing between two bathrooms.

Suddenly, the train started rocking violently before coming to a halt. Then, everything went black…

Waking up, I found myself lying face down.

It was very dark but I could tell I was surrounded by rubble and debris.

What the…? I thought. I had no idea how long I’d been there, or what could have happened, but I knew it was something terrible.

Trying to get up, my legs were stuck under a huge pile of wood. They were numb, so I felt no pain, but I was trapped.

Feeling terri ed, I heard sirens and that gave me hope.

‘If you’re alive, call out,’ I heard a man yell.

So I shouted, hearing other survivors call out, too.

The same bloke came over to where I was buried.

‘We’re going to get you out of there, just keep strong,’ he assured me, before rescuers dug through the rubble with bare hands.

As they burrowed to me, I could nally speak to them.

I told them about Lynn and the boys, as they used handsaws to cut through broken chunks of the train’s timber roof and wall panels.

‘We’re getting there,’ one rescuer told me.

Eventually, they created a hole big enough to pass me several car jacks. With their help, I secured them on the wreckage and used the levers to lift the rubble that was crushing my legs.

As I started to crawl, rescuers pulled me out and slid me onto a stretcher.

After three hours, I was free. But stuck for so long, I couldn’t move my legs.

At hospital, I still didn’t know what had happened, and nurses had been told to stop me reading a paper.

Eventually, though, I persuaded a nurse to get me one.

And my heart dropped when I saw the front page.

‘We’re going to get you out, keep strong’

I found out that, as the train had approached Granville station, it had derailed and crashed into a bridge in Bold Street.

In seconds, the 470-tonne structure had collapsed, crushing part of the third and fourth carriages.

A huge steel girder from the bridge had landed just millimetres from me – a fraction closer, there’s no way I would have survived.

Devastatingly, 84 people had lost their lives.

When Lynn arrived, she burst into tears.

‘Thank God you’re okay,’ she cried.

My legs were so painful, I couldn’t walk. Tests showed the nerves were damaged, but hadn’t been severed.

When Lynn brought the boys in, they ran to my bed and hugged me.

‘We miss you, Daddy,’ Matthew said.

After a few weeks,

I was discharged on crutches. And with calipers and pool therapy, I learned to walk again.

Six months on, I was ready to go back to work, which meant catching the train again.

My heart rate was through the roof, but I managed to calm myself down.

The accident, 44 years ago, changed my outlook, showing me how short life can be and why I should savour precious moments.

This year, at an annual memorial service to the Granville Rail Disaster, I met someone special – Ken Peterson, the paramedic who chatted to me that day and helped carry me out.

‘I can’t thank you enough,’ I choked when I saw him.

I count myself lucky to have survived. Every day is a bonus and I’m grateful for each one. ●

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