FWDbuff
08-20-2005, 01:33 PM
From the Philadelphia Inquirer, 17 August 2005
Elmer Smith | 30 YRS. LATER, MEMORIES OF A REFINERY INFERNO
BRIGHT ORANGE flames, visible as far away as Wilmington, lit up the sky around the Gulf refinery in South Philadelphia that night.
On Sunday Aug. 17, 1975, an hour before dawn, a tanker was off-loading crude oil at a Gulf dock in the Schuylkill River when vapors ignited. Flames spread quickly into the tank farm, threatening to ignite some of the 600 massive steel drums, each with a capacity of up to 80,000 gallons of crude oil.
But more than 500 firemen fought all night to avert a catastrophe. They spread a blanket of foam to smother the flames. They trained their water cannons on the tanks, cooling them just enough to keep the sparks from touching off a conflagration.
By sunrise Sunday when David Schoolfield's platoon arrived from Engine 57, then at 55th and Pine streets, to relieve their night-shift platoon, flames were still dancing above the tank farm.
"The ground was full of hose lines coming from all directions," Schoolfield recalled. "We were walking in warm oil that came up maybe 24 inches on our boots.
"But they said we were controlling the fire. I believed it.
"Then about 3:30 that afternoon, I was on break at a Red Cross truck and I heard them call 'firemen on fire.'
"I ran in that direction. I saw three firemen in flames. They were like human torches running around in circles.
"They fell into the oil to try to douse themselves. They may have drowned. There was nothing I could do.
"Then I heard people behind me screaming for me to get out. But when I turned to run, I broke through the foam, flames shot up and I went up like a torch."
He doesn't know how he got to the sidelines or who pulled him from the flaming dike.
"I remember they had to keep putting me out because my skin kept reigniting.
"Then, all of a sudden, the flames on the ground just burst out of control.
"I could only hop. But a guy named Reginald Simmons grabbed me and we got out."
He spent the next two months in burn centers watching skin peel off from the burns that covered 26 percent of his body. When his ordeal ended, so too did his "dream job."
"I was hoping I could stay on," he said. "I had wanted to be a fireman since I was a little boy."
But he was one of the lucky ones. Six firefighters died that day. Two others lingered for weeks, then died.
Joseph Wiley, 33, of Ladder 27; Roger Parker, 28, of Ladder 27; John Andrews, 49, of Engine 40; Robert Fisher, 43, of Engine 33; Ralph Campana, 41, of Ladder 19; Hugh McIntyre, 53, of Engine 56, and Lt. James Pouiliot, 35, of Engine 20 lost their lives 30 years ago today.
McIntyre had planned to retire a month earlier.
"He'd grown tired of it," his wife, Catherine, told reporters a day after the tragedy. "He was going to retire in July. We had talked about it."
Sixteen other firefighters and four Gulf employees were seriously injured.
The Gulf losses marked one of the worst chapters in the history of America's first fire department. Comrades still mourn them 30 years later.
A stained-glass and black-granite memorial being rushed to completion on the second floor of the Fire Museum at 2nd and Arch will chronicle the department's triumphs and tragedies.
"We lost 12 men between 1975 and 1976," said Henry Magee, curator of the museum. The memorial exhibit is expected to open at the museum next month.
He pointed out the laser-etched panels bearing the names of 450 fallen firefighters. A semicircle of ornate stained glass depicting a fireman carrying a child through a wall of flames surrounds the panels. Beneath it, another Plexiglas display case will house 1- by 3 ½-inch brass plaques fastened to wood panels, each bearing a single name.
"The tradition," Magee said "is that when a fireman is killed, we cut the hose line and take out a pressed, brass ring from the inside.
"We straighten out and polish it and put his name, rank and company on it. They will go in this case.
"We want all the survivors to be here for the dedication."
Dave Schoolfield is thankful that he can be there in person and not as a name etched on a brass plaque in memory.
"I would have gone back, but you had to be fit. They didn't have anything else for us to do in those days.
"For a long time, I couldn't get around it. I was stuck."
But, 30 years later, he has a master's degree in special education and is teaching at Dobbins Vo-Tech High School.
"I guess it was meant for me to have a job where I helped people," he said.
Elmer Smith | 30 YRS. LATER, MEMORIES OF A REFINERY INFERNO
BRIGHT ORANGE flames, visible as far away as Wilmington, lit up the sky around the Gulf refinery in South Philadelphia that night.
On Sunday Aug. 17, 1975, an hour before dawn, a tanker was off-loading crude oil at a Gulf dock in the Schuylkill River when vapors ignited. Flames spread quickly into the tank farm, threatening to ignite some of the 600 massive steel drums, each with a capacity of up to 80,000 gallons of crude oil.
But more than 500 firemen fought all night to avert a catastrophe. They spread a blanket of foam to smother the flames. They trained their water cannons on the tanks, cooling them just enough to keep the sparks from touching off a conflagration.
By sunrise Sunday when David Schoolfield's platoon arrived from Engine 57, then at 55th and Pine streets, to relieve their night-shift platoon, flames were still dancing above the tank farm.
"The ground was full of hose lines coming from all directions," Schoolfield recalled. "We were walking in warm oil that came up maybe 24 inches on our boots.
"But they said we were controlling the fire. I believed it.
"Then about 3:30 that afternoon, I was on break at a Red Cross truck and I heard them call 'firemen on fire.'
"I ran in that direction. I saw three firemen in flames. They were like human torches running around in circles.
"They fell into the oil to try to douse themselves. They may have drowned. There was nothing I could do.
"Then I heard people behind me screaming for me to get out. But when I turned to run, I broke through the foam, flames shot up and I went up like a torch."
He doesn't know how he got to the sidelines or who pulled him from the flaming dike.
"I remember they had to keep putting me out because my skin kept reigniting.
"Then, all of a sudden, the flames on the ground just burst out of control.
"I could only hop. But a guy named Reginald Simmons grabbed me and we got out."
He spent the next two months in burn centers watching skin peel off from the burns that covered 26 percent of his body. When his ordeal ended, so too did his "dream job."
"I was hoping I could stay on," he said. "I had wanted to be a fireman since I was a little boy."
But he was one of the lucky ones. Six firefighters died that day. Two others lingered for weeks, then died.
Joseph Wiley, 33, of Ladder 27; Roger Parker, 28, of Ladder 27; John Andrews, 49, of Engine 40; Robert Fisher, 43, of Engine 33; Ralph Campana, 41, of Ladder 19; Hugh McIntyre, 53, of Engine 56, and Lt. James Pouiliot, 35, of Engine 20 lost their lives 30 years ago today.
McIntyre had planned to retire a month earlier.
"He'd grown tired of it," his wife, Catherine, told reporters a day after the tragedy. "He was going to retire in July. We had talked about it."
Sixteen other firefighters and four Gulf employees were seriously injured.
The Gulf losses marked one of the worst chapters in the history of America's first fire department. Comrades still mourn them 30 years later.
A stained-glass and black-granite memorial being rushed to completion on the second floor of the Fire Museum at 2nd and Arch will chronicle the department's triumphs and tragedies.
"We lost 12 men between 1975 and 1976," said Henry Magee, curator of the museum. The memorial exhibit is expected to open at the museum next month.
He pointed out the laser-etched panels bearing the names of 450 fallen firefighters. A semicircle of ornate stained glass depicting a fireman carrying a child through a wall of flames surrounds the panels. Beneath it, another Plexiglas display case will house 1- by 3 ½-inch brass plaques fastened to wood panels, each bearing a single name.
"The tradition," Magee said "is that when a fireman is killed, we cut the hose line and take out a pressed, brass ring from the inside.
"We straighten out and polish it and put his name, rank and company on it. They will go in this case.
"We want all the survivors to be here for the dedication."
Dave Schoolfield is thankful that he can be there in person and not as a name etched on a brass plaque in memory.
"I would have gone back, but you had to be fit. They didn't have anything else for us to do in those days.
"For a long time, I couldn't get around it. I was stuck."
But, 30 years later, he has a master's degree in special education and is teaching at Dobbins Vo-Tech High School.
"I guess it was meant for me to have a job where I helped people," he said.