over her little boy's hand and up

around his plump shoulder. The

steady rain washing the town's

streets had chilled the usually warm

Sichuan weather.

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 bodybag 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 from six to 12, were there when

the quake hit. 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 taken to hospital perhaps 15,

perhaps 50.

What was certain was that

hundreds more remained trapped

and that hope was ebbing by the

moment. A white-coated doctor said,

''There's a slight chance they could

save a few more now; probably not

very many.''

Even the medics were raw-eyed

and anxious. The sobs, wails and

shouting mixed with sirens and the

steady patter of rain.

Under bright umbrellas, parents

and relatives stood in whatever they

grabbed when the quake hit:

dressing gowns, slippers, straw hats.

Some bore the bruises and scars of

the previous day. Scores of doctors and nurses were waiting to help

survivors from the school. But the

scale of the challenge and the

collapse of the nearby hospital

meant that resources appeared to be

limited. One child was carried to an

ambulance by the arms and legs,

apparently because there were not

enough stretchers.

One man showed his raw, filthy

hands. He didn't want to give his

name but said his 12-year-old son,

Futian, was still 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,'' his

wife said. ''We had only one child.

Why should I live on now?''

Like many parents here, their

mood was turning from raw grief to

fury as they waited for news. Twenty-

four hours after the quake 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,'' her 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.''

His neighbour, still hoping for a

sight of her daughter, said 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 under foot as families

surged forward, trying to force their

way through the lines of paramilitary

police and troops guarding the site.

One mother, trying not to cry,

shouted, ''They haven't told us

anything. They won't even let us see

the place now.''

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 but was hit by a falling brick and

died. The other one is still in there.''

Residents of Dujiangyan know

other places were worse hit. Most of the buildings in the town are still

standing, but no one dared enter

them and many bore long cracks

down their sides. The squares and

roadsides were packed with

residents huddling under tarpaulins,

carpets and anything they could

find. Too scared to go inside, they

stayed out all night.

As the day wore on, an exodus

began. People clustered by the roadside

to hitch lifts, wait hopefully for

buses or simply tramp along the long

road to Chengdu to find shelter.

Those without umbrellas covered

their heads with plastic bags, towels

and books in a vain attempt to stay

dry. Some held bulging cloth

bundles or backpacks; others fled

without anything.

Dujianyang was a thriving town

until Tuesday, and the debris hinted at its previously prospering life.

Now, all anyone wanted was to find

safety and 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 112-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.''