And Hell Followed With It: Life and Death in a Kansas Tornado

by Bonar Menninger

  Unfortunately, it had not, and another tornado forecast for the region quickly was issued after Blackwell was hit. But because of creaky bureaucratic procedures in the Weather Bureau, the new alert initially was routed to Denver before finally being relayed to Wichita media outlets. And by then, most stations had finished their evening broadcasts.

  As a result, the 750 residents of Udall, Kansas — a Cowley County farming community 22 miles southwest of Wichita and 40 miles north of Blackwell — had no idea that out of the darkness a monstrous EF-5 was bearing down on their town. The police chief in nearby Mulvane spotted the tornado amid the lightning flashes and desperately tried to warn Udall. But the Udall Police Department had no radio. A railroad engineer likewise saw the twister and laid into his whistle in an attempt to save the city.

  He could not. At 10:35 p.m., with most citizens going to bed or already asleep, the tornado plowed into Udall from the southwest and carved a path of destruction nearly three-quarters of a mile wide through the entire town. Virtually every building was destroyed. Eighty-two people died, including 22 children. Among the dead were two people in a car who apparently drowned after the tornado ripped open the town’s water tower and dumped its contents on top of them. A Mrs. Le Force reported that a family of six “literally appeared out of the air” and landed in her kitchen, badly bruised but otherwise unhurt.

  For Garrett and others, the Udall tornado — the deadliest in the state’s history — marked a turning point. “It was a storm that brought people to their knees in terms of forcing us to bear down to do something to provide better warnings, because population density was increasing, and the risks were becoming greater,” said Phil Shideler, a retired meteorologist-in-charge at the Topeka forecast office. Shideler went to work for Garrett in 1956, a year after the Udall tornado.

  In a 1986 interview with the local paper, Garrett himself recalled that before Udall, his efforts to boost tornado preparedness frequently fell on deaf ears. But that changed quickly. “Plans began to jell (after Udall),” Garrett said. “I remember talking with the mayor of another small Kansas community. He told me, ‘We’d heard about you and your work on preparedness. But it wasn’t until I went to Udall after it was struck that I found out that our community leaders have a responsibility.’”

  The bungled attempts to alert Udall underscored the Weather Bureau’s dysfunctional warning protocols and reinforced Garrett’s commitment to strengthen tornado defenses, not just in Topeka but statewide. To avoid a repeat of the miscommunications that had doomed so many, Garrett fanned out across Kansas to meet with the media, law enforcement and local government officials. Procedures were developed to streamline communication between weather offices and the media during severe weather outbreaks. Communities were urged to develop spotter networks like the one established in Topeka, and training courses were created to instruct law enforcement personnel and volunteer spotters about what to watch for when scanning the skies.

  In Topeka, the local school district was pulled into the loop and a system devised to immediately alert the district when tornadoes were spotted. The district, in turn, would rapidly convey the information to the city’s 2 high schools, 11 junior highs and 35 grade schools. Like Cold War air raid drills, tornado drills had become a regular springtime ritual for Topeka schoolchildren by the late 1950s. The procedure for both — sit in interior hallways in the duck-and-cover position — was the same.

  As the years passed, Garrett succeeded in establishing coordination between a host of often competing agencies, groups and bureaucracies at the local, state and federal levels. His commitment was unrelenting.

  “He was driven; he worked very hard, and he expected the same from everyone who worked for him,’’ Shideler recalled. “So he had little patience for those who didn’t want to give it their all. ‘Intense’ was probably the best way to describe him. But it was also true that everyone who worked for Dick had a tremendous amount of respect for him.’’

  Garrett may have been a by-the-book government man, but he wasn’t afraid of defying authority if he thought something or someone was blocking his way. In the late ’50s, this independent streak would result in the addition of arguably the single most important weapon in Topeka’s tornado-preparedness arsenal.

  In 1950, the Civil Defense Administration had been created to help communities and citizens prepare — as best they could — for the prospect of nuclear war. The agency produced reams of public education material on all aspects of surviving an atomic blast, from pamphlets on how to build and stock bomb shelters to information on how to cope with radioactive fallout. Civil Defense also was responsible for mandating the installation of air raid sirens in cities and towns across the country to provide first warning of an inbound missile attack.

  Nineteen of the powerful sirens eventually were installed around Topeka, which was considered a relatively high-risk target due to the presence of Forbes Air Force Base and the nine missile launch sites that dotted the area. Garrett and local Civil Defense officials quickly recognized that in addition to warning citizens of incoming Soviet ICBMs, the sirens could play a crucial role in alerting the community to approaching tornadoes. But national Civil Defense leaders quickly vetoed the idea. They insisted that the “wartime sirens” could only be used in the event of nuclear attack.

  This was not the answer Garrett and Robert Jones, then the director of Shawnee County Civil Defense, were looking for. Both understood that the risk of tornadoes was probably much greater than the likelihood of a nuclear exchange. As a result, they ignored the prohibition from Civil Defense headquarters and began using the siren network as the centerpiece of Topeka’s warning system.

  And a formidable centerpiece it was. Most of the city’s sirens were Thunderbolt models manufactured by Oak Brook, Illinois–based Federal Signal Corporation. Each unit consisted of a tapered, elongated, almost cartoonish-looking horn, four and a half feet long and two and a half feet square at the mouth; a chopper assembly (a circular aluminum casting with a series of holes that interrupted the airflow to produce the sound); and a blower and compressor unit located at the base of the siren to provide compressed air to the chopper and horn above.

  Per federal specifications, the bright yellow sirens were mounted either on poles or on building tops at regular intervals across the city. The 240-volt units were powered by a 10-horsepower blower motor and a smaller motor for the chopper. The Thunderbolt also included a motor and gear assembly that rotated the horn 360 degrees as the siren wailed. This feature enhanced the siren’s reach by projecting the sound in all directions as it turned at adjustable speeds of between two and eight revolutions per minute.

  The Thunderbolt was capable of producing two types of alerts — the classic, rising-and-falling wail most commonly associated with sirens and a flat, steady, unwavering tone. It was determined that the wavering sound would be reserved for actual air raids, while the flat tone would be used for tornado warnings.

  Both alerts were extremely loud. Depending on wind conditions, the siren could be heard for a mile or more, producing about 127 decibels at 100 feet. To the human ear, this is well above the level where sustained exposure can cause hearing loss and just at the point where physical pain begins. Blasting for three to five minutes straight during a tornado warning, the Thunderbolt produced an ominous, mournful roar unlike that of any other siren. The reason had to do with the fact that, for each type of alert, the siren’s chopper generated a dual tone that simultaneously growled at a lower pitch and screamed at a higher pitch, thus creating a multidimensional sound in a minor chord. The result was profoundly menacing and impossible to ignore.

  With a citywide network of warning sirens just a flip of the switch away, a trained spotter network in place, and local agencies, the media and the Weather Bureau finally on the same page, Topeka’s tornado defense system was formidable. Yet even the most sophisticated warning capabilities were worthless if the average citizen couldn’t or wouldn’t respond appropriately. Hen
ce, developing public awareness about tornadoes and the steps to take when they threatened became just as important to Garrett as building the warning infrastructure. To that end, he never turned down an opportunity to address community groups, whether it was the Kiwanis or Optimist club, a school assembly, the Chamber of Commerce or a church organization. He also worked closely with the media to get the word out. In March of 1956, Garrett was featured prominently in an 11-part series on tornadoes that appeared in the Topeka Daily Capital. The articles were written by reporter Jim Reed and were featured on page one for nearly two weeks. Information presented ran the gamut, from the history of tornadoes in the state to the power of the storms (“More Wallop Than the Atom Bomb,” one headline bellowed); some articles stressed the importance of alerting the Weather Bureau when tornadoes were sighted, while others explained what typical tornado-producing weather was like (“hot, sticky days with southerly winds and a threatening, ominous sky.”) Most important, the series included practical tips on how to stay alive when tornadoes struck.

  “You must think quickly and intelligently, and move swiftly, if you are to pass through a tornado alive and unharmed,’’ Reed wrote with grim lucidity and not a little panache. The list of tornado do’s and don’ts — many drawn from S. D. Flora’s book Tornadoes of the United States — were time-tested and straightforward. If a tornado has been sighted, go to a basement, tornado cellar, cave or underground excavation immediately; if the home has no basement, find a nearby building or home that does have a basement and make arrangements ahead of time to go there when storms approach. If caught in open country, move at right angles to the tornado’s path, and if there is no time to escape, lie flat in the nearest depression, ditch or ravine. And in every instance, stay away from windows. Citizens also were urged to obtain one of the new, battery-powered transistor radios to monitor weather developments from the safety of an unfinished basement or in the event of a power failure.

  Shideler, a native Topekan who worked under Garrett for more than 15 years, said the psychology of severe weather became a factor in how the Weather Bureau honed its messages to the public.

  “As time went on, we realized that people reacted to storms in very different ways and that we were dealing with a wide range of emotions,’’ he said.

  Some people, for example, would become almost paralyzed by the mere possibility of tornadoes. To allay their fears, the Weather Bureau would stress that the odds of actually being struck by a tornado were very low and that people shouldn’t overreact. But by the same token, they would point out that the penalty for failing to understand or address the threat could be high.

  “We emphasized that people could survive even a direct hit if they did just a few simple things,” Shideler said. “We would point out that if a tornado was approaching from just one mile away at the typical speed of 30 miles an hour, then they’d have two minutes to take cover, and that was plenty of time if plans were made beforehand.”

  Topeka schoolgirl Wanda Idlet was among those who’d developed a near-pathological fear of tornadoes. Her anxiety likely originated with stories she’d heard as a small child. Wanda’s mother grew up on a farm in Circleville in northeast Kansas, and her aunt came from the Ozarks; both women told frightful tales of towns destroyed, people killed, even cattle skinned alive by tornadoes. By 1966, the fear had taken permanent root in the shy, sensitive 14-year-old. To her, tornadoes were monsters, inexplicable, savage, death-dealing beasts, and the panic would begin to rise if the air turned heavy and still in the spring. Her fears probably were magnified by the fact that she lived in a small frame home with no basement, on the northeast side of town.

  Those who shrugged off warnings and remained apathetic in the face of danger represented the other end of the spectrum. People with this mindset believed the risk of tornadoes was so low that it wasn’t worth worrying about. They belittled what they saw as the Weather Bureau’s constant fearmongering and frequent false alarms. For them, it took events like Udall to shatter the indifference.

  Most Topekans landed somewhere in the middle. They respected the storms and understood their destructive power. But they didn’t allow wariness to fester into chronic fear. For many, springtime in Kansas was a little like hunting season, except that Mother Nature was the hunter and humans were the prey. People understood that a period of heightened risk existed for several months each year. But they also knew that if they paid attention to watches and warnings, used common sense and were ready to act quickly if danger drew near, they’d probably be okay.

  That mentality dovetailed with the Weather Bureau’s overriding message to all segments of the public: Take personal responsibility. Watches and warnings put out across the television and radio airwaves were vital tools for alerting the community to increased risk. But ultimately, it was up to the individual to monitor the situation and take action if the threat became imminent. This was particularly true for people who were planning to attend large public gatherings, such as ballgames, graduations or other entertainment events. These were a forecaster’s worst nightmare. That’s why Garrett and his team would stress that even though the sky may be clear and the sun shining, a tornado or severe thunderstorm watch meant the situation could deteriorate quickly. Therefore, individuals had a responsibility to monitor weather conditions and identify ahead of time an escape route or an appropriate shelter if a tornado were to approach.

  By 1966, Garrett’s messages had been drummed into the local population so many times and in so many ways that for most, tornado safety had become second nature, Chief Burnett’s legend notwithstanding. Of course, the work in Topeka did not occur in a vacuum. Other communities across the plains made similar efforts to protect themselves from tornadoes through the ’50s and ’60s. But few leaders were as determined as Garrett. And few cities were as effective as Topeka in implementing a comprehensive tornado-preparedness strategy.

  Garrett had done his job well. And that was a good thing.

  For the hour of reckoning had come.

  CHAPTER SIX

  To the Mound

  Volunteer spotter John Meinholdt parked in an open, gravel area at the crest of the ridge on Burnett’s Mound and watched the supercell roll in. It came on like a black mountain sliding across an angry sea. Lightning ripped the face of it and illuminated the clouds from within to reveal the exquisite lavender cast of the storm. The sky in front of the cell was still a murderous yellow-green, and thunder boomed in the distance like the guns at Gettysburg. The temperature was falling and the wind was up. A few scraggly trees clinging to the ridgeline convulsed in the wind.

  Another car was parked nearby. Meinholdt ran over to it, staying low. A young man and woman were inside. The mound was a popular place for kids to park, kiss and hang out. Meinholdt tapped on the window and told the couple they’d better go. Heavy weather coming. They thanked him and took off.

  Inside WREN radio’s single-story, brick studio on 10th Street, Rick Douglass, fellow disc jockey Steve Southerland and Max Falkenstein, the station manager, listened as a voice crackled through heavy static on the two-way radio. It was news director Roy Vernon, checking in from west of Topeka on weather watch. “This is 22. It’s really starting to boil out here,” Vernon said. “I think we need to get somebody on the mound.”

  “I’ll go,” Douglass said. “I’ll take the WREN-mobile. Do I have time to grab a sandwich?”

  “Yeah, probably,” Vernon replied. “It’s still a ways away.”

  Douglass called his mother and asked if she could throw a sandwich together for him. He’d swing by in a few minutes. “You be careful out there,” she admonished him. “It’s starting to blow here, and the sky looks just awful.”

  At police headquarters, dispatcher Marc Hood and senior patrol officer Lt. Robert Martin read the Weather Bureau bulletin about the approaching storm as it clattered off the wire. They agreed it was time to deploy police spotters. Hood keyed the mike and read the statement to all cars. Then he began assigning patrolmen t
o various vantage points along the city’s southern and western flanks.

  “Forty-five to the mound for weather watch.”

  “Roger, 45 to the mound,’’ Officer David Hathaway responded. It was 6:55 p.m.

  Meinholdt squinted against the wind as he peered across the rolling farm ground and woodlots that fell away for miles to the southwest of the ridge. The sky above him was churning and the thunderstorm was coming on in the middle distance. But well to the west, beyond the storm — under a flat, gray deck of clouds — a bright band of lighter, nearly blue sky was visible along the horizon. It was near this motionless, flat area that he first saw it: a funnel that appeared to be white, seemingly not touching the ground but hovering, perhaps 15 or 20 miles away. Meinholdt flipped open his compass and took a bearing: 260–265 degrees. He radioed the Weather Bureau.

  Sue Goodin was cooking dinner in apartment 218 of the Huntington Apartments. The building was part of the Embassy complex located kitty-cornered from Burnett’s Mound across the interstate. A couple of friends and neighbors had joined her. The 25-year-old Goodin grew up in town; her father ran Goodin’s Florist and Nursery on Kansas Avenue. Three years earlier, Goodin had earned an education degree from Kansas State Teacher’s College (now Emporia State University) in Emporia. She was teaching second grade in 1966 at Highland Park South Elementary School. With summer here, she’d started work on a master’s degree at her alma mater. She commuted with a couple of teacher-friends each weekday, leaving at 6:00 a.m. to make the 90-minute drive to Emporia.