1953 decision signaled new law for victims of 1947ammonium nitrate blast at Texas City
My brother lived his dash... - brother of a firefighter felled at West, Texas
Waco
– In the ancient elemental scheme of air, fire, water and Earth,
this time water and air conspired against men to make fire.
Fire.
It
was the angry, unreasoning, all-consuming kind that consumes all –
everything – in an instant of mad consumption that sucks the air
out of heaven and goes bang, shaking Earth, herself, to her very
roots.
The
fire at the West Fertilizer Co. at first displayed the startlingly bright shade of orange that so fascinates observers every time ammonium
nitrate burns, and as it burned, the heat gained critical mass, a
moment when it leveled 70 houses and left the people who live in
homeless, killed 12 firefighters who battled the blaze, and left an
additional three elderly persons who lived in a nearby rest home
dead.
Experts
estimate $100 million in damage.
That
is how volatile the chemical compound ammonium nitrate can be when it
gets wet and begins to heat past the point of explosion. When
combined with petroleum distillates, it takes on the dual purpose of
one of the world's most effective blasting agents.
Yesterday,
the nation gathered around televisions and computers as a standing
room only audience left Baylor University's 10,000-seat basketball
arena with only a few vacancies – 4,000 of them occupied by
visiting firefighters from many states.
They
watched as each of 12 families who lost loved ones who first
responded to the blaze told the world about their fireman – a
father, brother, uncle – and what he meant to them.
Their
names are Robert Snokhous, Perry Wayne Calvin, Cody Dragoo, Douglas
James Snokhous, Jerry Chapman, Jimmy Ray Matus, Kevin William
Sanders, William Ray Uptmor, Morris Bridges, Kenneth Luckey Harris,
Jr., Joseph Joe Frank Putjovsky, Jr., and Cyrus Adam Reed.
One
man referred to the dash between a man's birth date and the date of
his death by saying, “My brother lived his dash.” His words bore
mute testimony to the lively sports-minded, outdoorsy and crafty
nature of each of the victims.
The
political tableau resembled an incongruous Mount Rushmore grouping in
a nation so divided by fiscal concerns, wars inside and outside its
borders, social policies, and the means by which one may protect
family and friends from violent aggression.
Dignitaries
from every political persuasion, both left and right, lined up
on-stage and in VIP seating to pay their respects to the men who
battle this emergency on a daily basis and risk their lives with the
insouciance of pragmatism braced by the heroic beau geste of a
cavalier, a man on horseback who will face hell's fire to save the
lives of his neighbors.
That's
the kind of primordial, universal and terrifying enemy that fire and
explosion really represents to men and women of reason and good will.
You
could hear it in their voices, hushed and respectful.
The
ancient Biblical quote was voiced over and over during the
ceremonies, that a man can “give no greater gift” than to lay
down his life to save that of a friend.
Judge
Ken Starr, once a special prosecutor who took on a President and
First Lady for alleged high crimes and misdemeanors that ultimately
led to a nearly successful bid to impeach President William Jefferson
– Slick Willie – Clinton, and now holds down the top job at the
nation's largest private religious university, harkened the words of
“America's great poet laureate,” Robert Frost.
An
appointee of President John F. Kennedy and a fellow Massachusetts
man, Mr. Frost wrote a famous poem about mending fences, verse that
concluded “Good fences make good neighbors.”
“Today,”
said Judge Starr, “there are no fences.”
Gov.
Rick Perry voiced similar sentiments, as did a staunchly conservative
Sen. John Cornyn.
And
when President Barack Hussein Obama took to the microphone, he quoted
a Psalm about the nation of Israel having been tested by fire and by
water.
The
stage craft of one of the world's great institutions of higher
learning told the story under bright lights – in stereo and in high
definition video images – and no one came away from the ceremonies
with anything other than a profound respect for what took place a few
minutes after 7 pm on April 17, 2013, an event that took place 66
years after what is considered the world's worst industrial accident,
the ammonium nitrate blast at Texas City on April 18, 1947.
Aside
from taking the lives of 405 identified and 63 unidentified persons,
the explosion that occurred when 3,300 tons of ammonium nitrate
exploded and set off chain reactions at the Monsanto Chemical Co. and
the Union Carbide plant, set new precedent in federal law.
There
were 5,000 injuries, and half that number of hospitalizations.
In
300 wrongful death and property damage cases combined and heard by
the U.S. Supreme Court as Dalehite v. U.S. (346 U.S. 15), the very
basic nature of the interpretation of the Federal Torts Act was
forever altered to include government culpability due to regulation
as to the production quotas of ammonium nitrate set by the War
Production Office during World War Two, and carried forward post-war.
The
government continued to require the production at war time quota
levels due to a need for fertilizer in Europe and Japan.
Excessive
moisture figured in both disasters, moisture that led to heat and the
resulting rapid ignition of a fuel and air resulting first in fire,
and then in a violent explosion.
At
quitting time on Thursday, April 17, 2013, the most trusted man in
Central Texas broadcast meteorology, Rusty Garrett of KWTX Channel
10, told viewers to get ready for a very strong northwest wind
followed by violent thundershowers and a marked drop in temperature
accompanying a cold front within the next couple of hours.
Mr.
Garrett was talking about a swath of Edwards Plateau prairie on the
shirt tail end of Tornado Alley, an area of the world that is known
to generate winds strong enough to buckle metal silos, rip barns and
industrial plants to pieces, and level thick walls made of stone and
brick.
The
1947 disaster developed when fire broke out in a cargo hold of the SS
Grandcamp, laden with 2,300 tons of ammonium nitrate in paper sacks.
Longshoremen tried to put the fire out with extinguishers and fire
hoses, to no avail.
The
longshoremen reported that the sacks already laden were hot to the
touch as the cranes lowered more pallet loads of ammonium nitrate
into the hold. Orange smoke was pouring from between a bulkhead that
divided the interior of the cargo hold from the outer skin of the
vessel.
Finally,
the captain of Grandcamp, a former U.S. Liberty ship then registered
to a French navigation company, ordered the holds sealed and steam
pumped into the watertight compartments in an effort to control and
extinguish the blaze, which burned with a bright orange smoke much
admired by people in the area, who stood in their yards and along the
roadside as they watched in fascination, much the way the victims did
at West.
When
the explosion came, the violent chemical reaction soon spread to the
SS High Flyer, similarly laden with 1,000 tons of ammonium nitrate,
and the resulting chain reaction spread to a fuel barge moored in the
slip, to oil storage tanks at a nearby refinery, to the Union Carbide
installation, and the Monsanto Chemical Co.
Windows
shattered in Galveston, 20 miles across the bay. The ground shook and
buildings rattled in Houston, 40 miles away. The blast was so violent
it hurled a 2-ton anchor from Grandcamp 1.62 miles, where it landed
in a 10-foot crater. A massive bronze propeller from High Flyer flew
through the air to its resting place one mile distant.
Like
the ships laden with ammonium nitrate, the storage area at the
fertilizer company was without automatic fire prevention equipment in
the form of a sprinkler system, according to meticulous records kept
by the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency and the Texas Commission
on Environmental Quality. As in the post-war era, ammonium nitrate is
heavily regulated as both a hazardous material and an agricultural
fertilizer used on subsidized crops such as cotton, maize and corn.
But
none of what is surely to follow came under discussion at ceremonies
held at 2 pm yesterday, Thursday, April 25, at Baylor University.
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County Judge Scott Felton and Sheriff Parnell McNamara |
Mercifully,
members of the Westboro Baptist Church of Topeka, Kansas, made no
appearance to admonish and remonstrate with the world about how God
hates homosexuals and the policies of the U.S. Armed Forces toward
the proclivities of certain people who do not necessarily agree with
the mainstream interpretation of God's will when it comes to sex. The
actual bearing of their complaints on the funeral services of fallen
soldiers has never been explained.
It
is a great mystery, punctuated by the obnoxious behavior of the
church's members, who travel great distances to demonstrate their
displeasure.
Sheriff
Parnell McNamara took personal responsibility in a televised press
conference. He confronted the activists with the dire warning that
they would be prosecuted “to the fullest extent of the law,”
should they do anything to mar the tranquility of the funerals of
“our heros.”
He
was in attendance at the Baylor memorial service, surrounded by
constitutional officers from McLennan County government. He was not
wearing his signature silver belly Stetson.
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Secret Service Agents stand in 'vectored' posture, scanning 10,000 people for danger signs of violence |