The first passengers we reached were still inside the overturned bus.
Nearly forty people had been traveling together.
Now they were trapped in a vehicle lying on its side in the middle of a winter emergency.
We had to get them out carefully.
The emergency hatch gave us a way to reach them.
One at a time.
That was how we worked.
We climbed onto the exposed side and began helping the passengers through the opening.
The snow was still coming down.
The wind kept making the situation harder.
Every person who came out needed assistance.
Some were frightened.
Some were confused.
Others seemed too shocked to understand what had happened.
We kept moving.
There was no time to make the rescue about anything other than getting people to safety.
I focused on the passengers.
One person at a time.
One set of hands reaching for another.
One person brought out of the overturned bus and guided away from the danger.
Then I noticed a little boy.
He was terrified.
I could see it in the way he looked at us.
He didn't seem to know what was happening or whether the people helping him could keep him safe.
When I reached him, he grabbed my jacket.
Hard.
His small hands tightened around the fabric.
I could feel how frightened he was.
I didn't pull away.
I leaned toward him and spoke as calmly as I could.
"You're all right. We're getting you out of here."
He continued holding on.
I looked at him.
"You've done everything right. Just stay with me."
I wanted him to hear a steady voice.
The weather was frightening enough.
The overturned bus was frightening enough.
He didn't need someone rushing him or making him feel that he was doing something wrong.
I guided him through the opening and helped him away from the vehicle.
For a moment, I watched him being moved toward safety.
Then I turned back.
There were still people inside.
We continued helping the passengers out.
The operation was difficult, but we kept working through it.
Then a shout came from farther uphill.
Someone was calling attention to the tanker.
The driver was alive.
That changed the direction of my attention immediately.
I turned toward the vehicle.
The fuel tanker was still leaning dangerously toward the frozen shoulder.
The weather continued to push against it.
Every powerful gust seemed to make its position more uncertain.
I learned that the driver's name was Walt.
He was in his sixties.
One of his legs was trapped beneath the dashboard.
He was alive, but he was in a dangerous position.
We had to consider the condition of the tanker as well as his injuries.
The safest option would have been to wait for specialized equipment.
That was the sensible approach.
There was a reason people with the right equipment were needed for situations like that.
But Walt was becoming less responsive.
Waiting carried its own risk.
I looked at the vehicle.
Then at the people working around it.
The tanker shifted again when another strong gust came through.
I knew we were running out of time to make a decision.
I approached the cab.
A state trooper was holding the door steady.
I could see Walt inside.
He was still conscious, but his condition worried me.
I understood the danger.
I also understood that leaving him there while his condition deteriorated was not something I could accept without trying to help.
I climbed into the cab.
The space was cramped.
The damaged position of the vehicle made everything more difficult.
I had to pay attention to where I placed my hands and how I moved.
Walt looked at me.
His face showed how much pain he was in.
I kept my voice steady.
"Stay with me, Walt."
He tried to move.
Then he stopped.
"My leg…"
I looked toward the dashboard.
"I know. We're working on it."
He seemed to be struggling to stay focused.
I needed him to keep talking.
I needed him awake.
So I asked him something that had nothing to do with the accident.
"Tell me about your family."
He looked at me.
For a moment, he didn't seem to understand the question.
Then he answered.
"Four grandchildren."
I nodded.
"That's a good number."
He gave a faint reaction.
I continued.
"Which one gives you the most trouble?"
That brought a small smile to his face.
"The youngest."
I waited.
He continued.
"She just learned to walk."
I smiled back.
"Then I imagine she keeps everybody busy."
His expression changed slightly.
He was still in pain, but he had something to talk about now.
His grandchildren.
His family.
A little girl who had recently learned to walk.
I kept asking questions and listening to his answers while the team worked.
I didn't want him focusing only on the pain.
I didn't want him giving up on staying conscious.
The tanker shifted again.
The state trooper remained at the door.
The team continued working to free Walt's leg.
Time seemed to move differently inside that cab.
Every second mattered.
I watched Walt's face.
I listened to his voice.
I kept him talking.
Finally, the trapped leg was freed.
We were able to get him out of the cab.
The team carried him through the snow.
He was no longer pinned beneath the dashboard.
I followed the movement and watched as he was taken away from the tanker.
For a brief moment, I allowed myself to recognize what had happened.
We had gotten him out.
Then the tanker moved again.
It slid farther toward the shoulder.
The movement was unmistakable.
Only moments had passed since we freed Walt.
Now the vehicle was in an even more dangerous position.
I stared at it.
And that was when I noticed my hands.
They were trembling.
I hadn't really noticed it before.
During the rescue, there had been too many things demanding my attention.
The passengers.
The little boy.
The injured driver.
The team.
The shifting tanker.
There hadn't been room to think about my own fear.
But now my hands were shaking.
I looked down at them.
For the first time that night, I felt how close we had been to something much worse.
I took a breath.
Then I looked back toward the scene.
There was still work happening around me.
The passengers had been brought out.
Walt had been freed.
The emergency teams were continuing their response.
I didn't know that a local news crew had recorded much of what had happened.
I didn't know that cameras had captured the overturned bus, the children being carried through the storm, or the moment Walt was brought out of the tanker.
I didn't know that those images would eventually reach people who had no idea where I had spent Christmas Eve.
All I knew was that the rescue was continuing.
And somewhere away from that freezing road, my father was preparing to spend Christmas with the guests he had wanted me to avoid.
I had no idea what he was watching.
I had no idea what would be shown on television.
I only knew that the people who had been trapped were now out of the bus alive.
By the time a medical helicopter managed to find a safe opening through the storm, every passenger had been brought out.
Every one of them.
That was the part I held on to.
The bus passengers had survived.
Walt had been removed from the tanker.
And the team had completed the work we had been sent to do.
We finally returned to base shortly after eleven that night.
I was exhausted.
My hands were still cold, and the events of the evening were beginning to settle into my mind.
I had missed Christmas dinner.
I had missed the chance to sit with my father.
But I had helped bring people out of a wreck in the middle of a blizzard.
I didn't know that anyone outside the emergency response teams would remember my part in it.
I certainly didn't know that my name had been recorded.
For the moment, I was simply back at base.
Christmas Eve was almost over.
Click here to continue reading: PART 5: I Thought the Hardest Part of Christmas Eve Was Behind Us, but the Quiet After the Rescue Felt Different
Three Nights Before Christmas, My Father Made One Phone Call That Changed Where I Would Spend the Holiday
Part 4 of 20
