I Survived True Stories: Five Epic Disasters
Page 4
New weapons, like the machine gun, tanks, and
poisonous gas, made the battles more horrific than
any before. At the war’s height, tens of thousands
of soldiers were dying every week. By the time the
war finally ended, nearly nine million soldiers had
lost their lives.
In the war’s final months, another horror hit
the world: the influenza epidemic of 1918. The
flu first appeared in Europe. It spread quickly
through the dirty hospitals packed with wounded
soldiers. Within the year it had circled the globe,
killing fifty million people, including more than
650,000 Americans.
But finally, after years of terror and death, the
war and the flu epidemic were over. Anthony
might have even sensed a mood of hopefulness
on that pleasing January day. The residents of
Boston’s North End had every reason to believe
that better times were just ahead.
The molasses tank loomed up
over Boston’s North End.
They were wrong.
A shocking disaster was about to strike
Anthony’s neighborhood. In fact, a deadly threat
had been looming over the North End for years.
It was not a German bomb or a killer disease.
It was a giant steel tank filled with molasses.
FROM PIES TO BOMBS
Molasses is a thick brown syrup that was once the
most popular sweetener in America. Like white
sugar, molasses comes from the sugarcane plant,
which grows in the Caribbean and other hot and
humid regions. Until the late 1800s, white sugar
was so expensive that only rich people could
afford it. Molasses was cheap. So despite its bitter
taste, it was molasses that sweetened colonial
America’s tasty treats, like pumpkin pie,
gingersnaps, and Indian pudding.
By the 1900s, sugar prices had dropped, and most
Americans no longer needed to sweeten their foods
with cheap molasses. The sticky brown syrup was
being put to a new and
perhaps surprising use: as
an ingredient in bombs.
Heated up in a process
known as distillation,
molasses can be turned into a liquid called
industrial alcohol. In this form molasses became a
key ingredient in the explosives used in the war
against Germany.
All during World War I, ships loaded with
millions of gallons of molasses arrived at Boston’s
ports. Trains would transport the gooey cargo to
distilleries, where the molasses was turned into
industrial alcohol. From there it went to factories,
where the alcohol was used to make bombs,
mines, grenades, and other weapons.
In 1914, the leaders of one molasses company,
United States Industrial Alcohol (USIA), decided
to build an enormous molasses storage tank near
Boston Harbor. The tank was constructed very
quickly, and it was massive — bigger than any
tank ever built in Boston. The company now had
a place to store molasses between its arrival by
ship and its journey by train. When full, the tank
could hold 2.7 million gallons of molasses. As if
the North End wasn’t already grim enough, now
a three-story steel tank towered over the neigh-
borhood, blotting out the sun and blocking the
view of the harbor.
But it wasn’t only the tank’s ugliness that upset
the residents of the North End.
Just hours after it was first filled with molasses,
brown syrup had started leaking from the seams
of the tank, oozing like blood from a wounded
body. When the tank was filled, it rumbled and
groaned, as though the steel walls were crying out
in pain. USIA’s own workers reported the leaks and
shared their fears that the tank was not safe. Their
bosses refused to try to fix the leaks. Instead, they
hired painters to coat the tank with brown paint.
This way it was harder to see the brown molasses
dripping down the sides.
Many people living near the tank worried it was
unsafe. But what could they do about it? USIA
was a big company, and the people in the North
End were poor and powerless. Many did not speak
English. Even a person bold enough to complain
about the dangerous conditions would have had a
hard time finding anyone willing to listen and help.
And so the years passed. The tank leaked so
badly that neighborhood children would gather
there when they wanted a sweet treat. They’d
bring sticks to use as spoons and scoop up molasses
from the puddles that surrounded the tank. The
groaning of the steel grew louder and louder —
until the moment on that January day in 1919,
when Anthony di Stasio was heading home.
VIOLENT SWIRL
The first sign of disaster was a strange sound:
Rat, tat, tat, tat. Rat, tat, tat, tat. Rat, tat, tat, tat.
Many believed it was machine-gun fire and
dove for cover. In fact, it was the sound of the
thousands of steel rivets that held the molasses
tank together popping out of place. After years of
strain, the tank was breaking apart.
People froze in their tracks. Horses reared up
in panic. And then came a thundering explosion.
Kaboom!
“Run!” a man screamed. “It’s the tank!”
Anthony looked up just as the molasses tank
seemed to crack apart like a massive egg, unleashing
Some of the wreckage
after the molasses
flood, with part of
the collapsed tank
in the background
its 2.7 million gallons of thick, sticky molasses.
The molasses formed a gigantic brown wave —
25 feet high and 160 feet wide. It moved at a
staggering 35 miles per hour, faster even than
the modern cars that sped along the streets. The
sticky syrup was far heavier and more destructive
than a wave of ocean water. And unlike a wave
unleashed from the sea, the molasses crashed out
in all directions.
Within seconds, the wave crushed wooden
houses and flattened a three-story fire station. It
destroyed train tracks, swept away motorcars,
crushed cars and wagons, and snapped electrical
poles in half. Giant pieces of the tank’s metal
turned into missiles. The thousands of steel rivets
shot through the sky like bullets. Anthony and
dozens of others were caught in the raging swirl.
The wave pulled Anthony under. Molasses
gushed into his mouth. He was carried for several
blocks until he crashed into a metal lamppost.
The blow knocked him out. A firefighter saw
Anthony pinned against the lamppost. Rushing
through waist-deep molasses, the man grabbed
Anthony just before he was swept away.
The firefighter held Anthony’s limp body and
looked at his molasses-coated face. The poor boy,
the firefighter believed, had not survived.
; By the time the wave lost its power, a half mile
of the North End was flooded with molasses.
Firemen waded
through knee-deep
molasses.
Hundreds of firefighters, police officers, nurses,
and sailors from docked ships rushed to the scene.
They waded through the river of molasses to get
to the trapped and injured. Many victims were
caught under collapsed buildings and tangled in
molasses-soaked debris. Rescuers worked through
the night, bringing hundreds of people to a
makeshift hospital set up in a nearby warehouse.
In the end, 21 people were killed, and 150 were
injured. Tens of millions of dollars in property
was destroyed.
The clean-up lasted for months. Plain water
did little to wash the thick, syrupy molasses
away. Instead, firefighters used salt water to scour
the hardening goo from the streets. Volunteers
got on their hands and knees to try to scrub
molasses from the streets and sidewalks. People in
ground-floor apartments had to throw away their
furniture and rugs. So much molasses had flowed
into Boston Harbor that the water was stained
caramel-brown for weeks.
THE TANK WAS BOMBED?
Within hours of the spill, leaders of USIA had
announced that the disaster was not their fault.
They concocted a story: A bomb had destroyed
the tank. It was a lie, of course. But the story
wasn’t completely far-fetched. At the time, crimi-
nals known as anarchists were terrorizing people
An ambulance drives
along the ruined
streets.
in Boston and other cities. These people hated the
government and big companies. Just weeks before
the molasses flood, an anarchist’s bomb had
destroyed a North End police station.
At first, USIA had no trouble blaming
anarchists for the tank disaster. But as the police
began their investigation, another story emerged.
Experts sifting through the wreckage found no
signs of bomb damage. As police spoke to
residents, they heard about the years of leaks and
strange noises that echoed from the tank. Slowly
the truth came out: The tank had been hastily
built, and USIA’s own workers had repeatedly
warned their bosses that the tank was a disaster
waiting to happen.
It didn’t take long for investigators to pin the
blame on USIA. But still the company refused to
take responsibility. At that point, there were no
laws that made it illegal to build a shoddy tank in
the middle of a crowded neighborhood. USIA, it
seemed, would get away with murder.
But people in Boston were outraged. And it
would turn out that the poor immigrants of the
North End weren’t so powerless after all. Families
who had lost relatives and homes hired lawyers
and demanded justice. There was a trial that
dragged on for years. In the end USIA was forced
to pay one million dollars (equal to about seven
million dollars today). For the residents of the
North End, it was a big victory. And their case
helped bring about new laws. Massachusetts was
A section of the collapsed molasses
tank after the explosion
the first state to require people to get permits
before constructing a tank or any structure.
Building plans had to be approved before
construction could begin. Similar laws were soon
passed throughout the United States.
The molasses flood
was front-page
news in Boston—
and around the
country.
THE STRANGEST DISASTER
It took years for the North End to rebuild after
the flood. The millions of gallons of molasses had
filled basements and seeped into cracks in the
street. Even now, on hot days, some claim that
A historical marker in Boston’s North End
is the only reminder of the flood.
the sweet scent of molasses rises up from the
sidewalks of the North End, like a ghost.
But somehow this disaster has been largely
forgotten. There are no museums and no
monuments to those who died. The only remnant
of the flood is a small metal plaque in Boston’s
North End. Indeed, few have ever heard of the
Molasses Flood of 1919 and the incredible stories
from that day — like the story of Anthony di
Stasio. Anthony’s limp, molasses-soaked body was
taken to a large building that was being used to
store the bodies of those who had died. He was
covered with a sheet.
But Anthony wasn’t dead, only unconscious.
Hours later, he woke up to the sound of his
mother’s voice calling him. Anthony tried to
answer. But his mouth was filled with molasses.
Suddenly he sat up. And soon he was surrounded
by his family, a lucky survivor of one of the strangest
disasters in American history.
THE
BOSTON
MOLASSES
FLOOD FILES
I first heard about the Boston molasses
flood from an I Survived reader, who
e-mailed, “Mrs. Tarshis, you have to write
about this!” I was intrigued and started
researching. Like pretty much everyone who
first reads about this disaster, I was shocked
and amazed. How did something like this
happen? Why don’t we all know about it?
Read on for more about what life was like
in 1919.
New
technology!
This brilliant
invention
changed the
world.
Kids in 1919 played
baseball just like you!
IF YOU LIVED DURING
THE BOSTON MOLASSES
FLOOD . . .
The year 1919 in America was a time of excitement and
change. Over the next decade, a mood of hope brightened the
country. Here’s what your life might have been like if you had
been living back then.
For the first time in history, the majority of
American kids were going to school. But
teachers were strict! Misbehaving
kids could get spanked!
By day . . .
Left: Students hard at
work
Below: Children playing
baseball in Tenement
Alley, Boston
Turn it up! Radios like this
played news, music, comedies,
and serious “radio plays.”
At night, you
and your family
would gather around your radio
to listen to music, news, and
radio plays.
Hop into your family’s
car — a Ford Model T. This was
the world’s first truly affordable
car, and soon America’s streets
were crowded with them. But
be careful. Roads were terrible,
and cars, horses, and buggies
shared them. Accidents were
common, and seat belts were still
&
nbsp; decades away.
By night . . .
$350:
The cost of a
Ford Model T
in 1919.
A Ford
Model T
A jazz band
gets ready
to play.
Exotic sounds filled the air — a new
kind of music called jazz.
Few inventions in history
have changed the world
as quickly as Thomas Edison’s lightbulb — no
more candles and smelly oil lamps.
New music . . .
New inventions . . .
T
he Washburn A Mill in Minneapolis, Minnesota, was the
largest flour mill in the world when a spark ignited flour
dust that filled the air. Eighteen people were killed in the fire
and collapse of the building. The disaster made news around
the world, and led to changes in the way large mills were run.
The mill was quickly rebuilt and was soon back to grinding
two million pounds of flour per day.
ANOTHER STRANGE AND
DEADLY DISASTER:
THE GREAT MILL DISASTER, 1878
The
Washburn
A
Mill,
in Minneapolis,
Minnesota, after
the great explosion
of 1878
WORLD WAR I :
FOUR BLOODY YEARS
T
he molasses flood happened just months after the end of
one of the great tragedies of the twentieth century —
World War I. The war was fought mostly in Europe, with
Germany leading one side and the Allied Forces of England,
France, and Russia leading the other. By the time the war was
finally over, in November of 1918, roughly one hundred
countries felt the impact of this terrible “world war,” the
bloodiest the world had ever known.
At first, Americans managed to stay out of the fighting. But
by April 1917 the United States could no longer stay on the
sidelines. In the end, more than two million American troops
headed to Europe and helped the Allied troops defeat Germany.
After the war ended, it became known as “the war to end