A mother mourns as Chinese soldiers carry the body of her child who was killed when a school building collapsed during the earthquake in Dujiangyan, China. Photograph: Teh Eng Koon/AFP/Getty Images
Tenderly, she eased the clean fleece over her little boy's hand and up around his plump shoulder. He didn't look alarmed or frightened, but dirt and blood were caked on his forehead. She touched his hair and then they pulled up the zipper on the body bag and carried him away.
Only her husband marked her howls. The whole street was seething with misery and anger. She had seen her son, at least; most of the children still lay in the rubble of Xinjian elementary school.
Four hundred and fifty pupils, aged between just six and 12, were here when the quake hit yesterday at 2.28pm. A fortunate few were pulled out within hours by anxious parents scrabbling at the wreckage with bare hands. A handful more were saved overnight, after troops arrived to take over the rescue effort. Doctors were unsure how many had been rushed to hospital - perhaps 15, perhaps 50. What was certain was that hundreds more remained trapped and that hope was ebbing by the moment.
"There's a slight chance they could save a few more now; probably not very
many," said a white-coated doctor.
Even the medics were raw-eyed and anxious. The sobs, wails and shouting
were mixed with sirens and the steady patter of rain. Under bright umbrellas,
parents and relatives stood in whatever they grabbed when the shock hit:
dressing gowns, slippers, straw hats. Some bore the bruises and scars of
the previous day.
One man showed his raw, filthy hands. He didn't want to give his name but
said his 12-year-old son Futian still lay in the wreckage. "Before the troops came we found more than 10 people. I saved two students and one teacher but I didn't get my own child out," he said.
"I'm already 39 and he's 44. We had only one child. Why should I live on now?" demanded his wife.
Like many parents here, their mood was turning from raw grief to fury as they waited for further news. Twenty-four hours after the quake hit, they were losing hope and only rage was left. They blamed everyone: soldiers for coming too late, the builders for cutting corners, officials for – they claimed - siphoning off cash.
"The contractors can't have been qualified. It's a 'tofu' [soft and shoddy] building. Please, help us release this news," the husband said.
"About 450 were inside, in nine classes and it collapsed completely from the top to the ground. It didn't fall over; it was almost like an explosion."
The distraught couple's neighbour, still half-hoping for a sight of her daughter, burst out angrily: "Why isn't there money to build a good school for our kids? Chinese officials are too corrupt and bad.
"These buildings outside have been here for 20 years and didn't collapse - the school was only 10 years old. They took the money from investment, so they took the lives of hundreds of kids. They have money for prostitutes and second wives but they don't have money for our children. This is not a natural disaster - this is done by humans."
Intravenous drips, cigarette butts and scraps of children's clothes were trodden underfoot as families surged forward, trying to force their way through the lines of paramilitary police and troops guarding the site.
"They haven't told us anything. They won't even let us see the place now," spat out one mother, trying not to cry. A man with a red umbrella paused to watch the scene. "My neighbours had two kids here," he said quietly.
"One was on the first floor and ran out when the earthquake happened, but was hit by a falling brick and died. The other one is still in there."
Despite criticism from parents whose children were trapped in the rubble, a massive relief effort was under way across Sichuan.
Residents of Dujiangyan know that other places were even worse affected. Most of the buildings in the town are still standing but no one dared to enter them, and many bore long cracks down their sides. Tiles and glass lay smashed in the streets and concrete balconies dangled.
The squares and roadsides were packed with residents huddling under tarpaulin, carpets and anything else they could salvage. Too scared to go back into their homes, they had spent the night in the open.
As the day wore on, a mass exodus began. People clustered by the roadside to hitch lifts, wait hopefully for buses or simply tramp along the long road to Chengdu in the hope of finding shelter. Those without umbrellas had covered their heads with plastic bags, towels and books in a vain attempt to stay dry. Some held bulging cloth bundles or backpacks; others had fled without anything. A woman with a cast on her left arm struggled along in improbable heels, while another had only a huge blue teddy bear for luggage.
Around them, the plate glass windows of hotels had shattered; Adidas shoeboxes spilled out of a collapsing store. Dummies sprawled across shop windows, expensive sunglasses askew.
Dujianyang was a thriving town until yesterday, and the debris hinted at its previously prospering life. Now, all anyone wanted was to find safety and find those they loved.
Not far from Xinjian school, at the Long Tan Wan housing compound, a young couple stared dazed at the remains of their apartment block: a pitiless jumble of tin basins, curtains, books, chairs, slabs of concrete and the twisted metal that used to be window frames.
Their one-and-a-half-year-old daughter Xixi was somewhere inside. Her father drew the back of his hand across his eyes.
"I tried to get to her myself, but it all started falling down and I couldn't carry on," he said.
"I called the police, but they wouldn't come. They said they had bigger disasters."
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