When paramedic Peter James entered the Tasmanian cafe where a gunman had killed scores of people, he was warned he would never be the same again. The warning proved true.
The Call to Duty
When Martin Bryant drove his yellow Volvo to Port Arthur's historic site, its boot stuffed with high-powered and casually acquired weapons, paramedic Peter James was living in Launceston. It was 28 April 1996. Peter was on holiday at the time, but when he heard sketchy reports of a shooting on the radio, he called the critical incident stress debriefing team to ask if he was needed. He was – not as a paramedic, but as a debriefer. With two colleagues, Peter drove to Hobart, just over two hours away, where he was briefed at ambulance headquarters. Even there, he said, he does not remember the scale of the crimes being evident yet. He was not steeling himself as he drove to the police command post that had been established at a Tasmanian devil sanctuary in Taranna, about 45 minutes from Hobart and close to Port Arthur.
Arriving at the Scene
Peter arrived at the command post sometime after 5pm, and police began explaining the scale of the slaughter. The number of deaths was not confirmed yet, they said, but it was unthinkably high, and the police and SES volunteers were now searching for survivors who may have crawled into bushland to hide. They also sketched for Peter the back routes to the historic site, because driving the most direct way would take him past the Seascape guesthouse, where Bryant was holed up and shooting at police. When Peter arrived at Port Arthur, the living had all been removed and taken to hospitals. Rather than treat the physically wounded, Peter was there to support the volunteer ambulance service who were first on the scene. People needed to ventilate, and it was his job to listen, but he would quickly be asked to do much more.
Working Through the Night
Peter would work at the site for almost 24 hours straight. He knew most of the senior police there because they had been members of the critical incident debriefing team. After he had done his debriefings, the police said he was not going anywhere. They had crime scene walk-throughs to do, and he was going to help them. And so he did. As graphic and disturbing as the place was, it was still a very large and complex crime scene, and there are logistics that go with that. Bodies had to be identified, and then forensic teams would go through again to examine the scene and photograph the bodies in position. He helped with that. He remembers Tasmanian devils were starting to come out and sniff around the bodies, and the bodies had to be protected. Afterwards, they had to be loaded carefully and compassionately. These were all things that needed to be done.
Supporting Colleagues
Peter would offer advice – try to reduce police fatigue by asking that they rotate the officers who were protecting bodies. A whole busload of police came after that to help. The cops were good, very responsive to his suggestions. He was also there to support people, as some were falling apart. For some who had seen the children, they had reminded them of their own. There were definitely a few who were not doing so well, and he would become one of them the next day. There is black humour sometimes at jobs, but they operate behind a facade, and the magnitude of this, well, the facade fell away. And also when people become fatigued, like they did that day, coping mechanisms fall away.
The Forensic Processing
The forensic processing of the scene, as well as the psychological triaging, went on through the night, all while Bryant was still holed up at the Seascape. He was largely surrounded, but as night fell, there was no guarantee he could not slip away in the darkness. Those working at Port Arthur were on edge, and soon rumours were circulating that Bryant had indeed left the bed and breakfast and was returning to the site. It was a well-controlled scene, Peter said, but they were all anxious. He remembers going to the toilet, and hearing the crunching of footsteps outside, and thinking he did not want to die falling face first into a urinal. He thinks it was the police commander. It was a dark, cold night, and it sucked the life out of you.
Inside the Broad Arrow Cafe
If there is a hell, Peter said, it would look like the Broad Arrow Cafe that day. It was in there, and the adjacent gift shop, that Bryant, in just 90 seconds, had fired 29 rounds of his AR-15, killing 20 of his 35 victims and injuring another 12. When Peter approached the cafe to assist in the scene's processing, there was a police officer on guard at the front, signing in those who entered. He had a warning: Just know that the man who goes in there will not be the same man who comes out. Never has a truer word been spoken, said Peter.
When Peter stepped inside, he felt a familiar sensation – or a familiar absence of sensation. Everything felt magically still, silent. He could not feel his breath, or the turbulence of the ceiling fans that were still spinning. There were forensic officers, but he could not hear them speak – or at least, in his traumatically embalmed memory of the scene, there were no voices. He was operating on another plane – some senses were hyperfocused and others numbed – and he remembers that room now as if it were a literal vacuum, sucked of air.
Personal Impact
As he was debriefing officers, conducting crime scene walk-throughs, arranging rosters and helping with the carriage of bodies, he was thinking of his own children, who were the same ages – six and three – as Alannah and Madeline Mikac, who were killed with their mother, Nanette. It personalises it big time, Peter said. His brain sort of twisted it, and he remembers saying later to his wife, How could someone shoot Sam and Oliver?
The Aftermath
Around 3pm the next day, almost 24 hours after he had arrived, Peter called time. Some police officers wanted him to stay on, and Peter was not a man to say no, but his exhaustion and horror had peaked overwhelmingly. He wanted to get home. He just could not go on, he said. There is only so much you can tolerate. So, Peter was driven home. It was a three-and-a-half-hour drive. He cried when he arrived. Hugged his wife and boys. But he did not say much. And his house, if it was not before, became a castle. His front door was like a drawbridge, Peter said. He shut that door, and the world stayed outside.
