Carnegie Hall, viewed from the southwest. (Courtesy of the University Archives, Mabee Library, Washburn University)
MacVicar Chapel, site of the music recital. Recital participants originally gathered in the southwest basement room at the left end of this picture. But because of an out-of-tune piano, they moved to the southeast basement room (on the right side of the picture). This room remained intact during the tornado. Afterward, the group escaped through a window behind the pile of tree limbs and roots. The room where they’d first sought safety was buried under tons of debris from the collapsed second floor. (Courtesy of University Archives, Mabee Library, Washburn University)
MacVicar Chapel, looking northeast. The state capitol dome and smoke from debris burn piles in Central Park are visible in the distance. (Courtesy of the University Archives, Mabee Library, Washburn University)
The stairway area in MacVicar Chapel. (Courtesy of University Archives, Mabee Library, Washburn University)
Rice Hall (Courtesy of University Archives, Mabee Library, Washburn University)
Crane Observatory (Courtesy of the University Archives, Mabee Library, Washburn University)
Wrecked automobiles on the south side of Stoffer Science Hall. (Courtesy of the Topeka Capital-Journal)
Thomas Women’s Gymnasium. A section of the gym’s unusual second-floor track can be seen. In the foreground is the sheared-off smokestack of the university’s power plant. (Courtesy of the University Archives, Mabee Library, Washburn University)
The damage from above. Bill Hutton and his sons, Craig and Chris, rode out the tornado huddled against the east, near side of Morgan Hall, the inverted-F-shaped building in the center of the photo. The tornado moved diagonally from left to right. (Courtesy of the University Archives, Mabee Library, Washburn University)
A ravaged block in the central section of the city. (Courtesy of the Topeka Capital-Journal)
In the aftermath, shock and despair. Mrs. James Kaufman. (Courtesy of the Topeka Capital-Journal)
Gutted houses. (Kansas State Historical Society)
Shredded roofs near downtown. (Courtesy of the Topeka Capital-Journal)
Destruction on the edge of downtown. (Courtesy of the Topeka Capital-Journal)
The National Reserve Life building at 10th Street and Kansas Avenue, with its now-ironic advertisement — “… a refuge in time of storm” — on the side of the building. One witness who watched from a nearby window said the funnel appeared to coil around the building like a giant, white snake. The ruins of the Pla-Land bowling alley can be seen in the center-right of the picture. (Courtesy of the Topeka Capital-Journal)
Kansas Avenue, just south of downtown. (Courtesy of Lloyd Zimmer)
Shortman Dodge on Quincy Street. (Courtesy of Lloyd Zimmer)
Salesman Jerry Estes and others survived a direct hit from the tornado in the basement barbershop of this building next to Joe Smith Motor Company. The men were able to escape the wreckage by crawling up the exterior stairs near where the cardboard sign is located on the left. The ’64 Chevy that Estes tried to sell to a Mennonite farmer earlier in the day is the second car from the right. (Courtesy of Lloyd Zimmer)
The destroyed bus barn of the Topeka Transportation Co. (Courtesy of B. T. Bradford)
Battling back. (Courtesy of the Topeka Capital-Journal)
Two cold ones to go. (Courtesy of the Topeka Capital-Journal)
Hanging on to faith. (Courtesy of the Topeka Capital-Journal)
Policemen, firemen and other first responders logged countless, grueling hours in the aftermath of the storm. (Courtesy of the Topeka Capital-Journal)
A jagged reflection. (Courtesy of the Topeka Capital-Journal)
The damaged copper dome of the capitol building. The west-wing roof also suffered damage. (Courtesy of the Topeka Capital-Journal)
An uprooted home. (Courtesy of Rick Schmidt)
The blasted landscape of East Topeka. (Courtesy of the Topeka Capital-Journal)
John Hodges, 614 Branner Ave., stares into an uncertain future. (Courtesy of the Topeka Capital-Journal)
Ripley Park in East Topeka. (Courtesy of Lloyd Zimmer)
Ravaged by the winds. (Courtesy of Rick Schmidt)
Unbowed: Mrs. Philip Spacek of 410 Lake St. (Courtesy of the Topeka Capital-Journal)
Searching for the old neighborhood. (Courtesy of the Topeka Capital-Journal)
New obstacles. (Courtesy of the Topeka Capital-Journal)
A stove and chairs are all that remain at the home of Tom Coleman, 212 Lime St. (Courtesy of the Topeka Capital-Journal)
Destruction at Billard Airport. Wafting smoke from debris burn piles can be seen along the horizon. (Courtesy of B. T. Bradford)
Grounded. (Courtesy of B. T. Bradford)
The work begins. John Zarazua, center, and others search for Zarazua’s wallet and other valuables in the ruins of a home he rented on Lake Street. (Courtesy of the Topeka Capital-Journal)
A new day, looking northeast from I-470. (Courtesy of the Topeka Capital-Journal)
Where to begin? (Courtesy of the Topeka Capital-Journal)
Albert Lollar made a last-minute decision to gather his family and escape their home near Burnett’s Mound as the tornado drew close, only to be caught up in the funnel in the family car, which was then hurled hundreds of feet. The next day, a pensive Lollar surveys the ruins of his home. (Courtesy of the Topeka Capital-Journal)
New heirlooms for Mrs. Bill Reece, Twilight Drive. (Courtesy of the Topeka Capital-Journal)
Found the shoes. (Courtesy of the Topeka Capital-Journal)
A Corvair on the second floor of the Embassy Apartments. (Courtesy of the Topeka Capital-Journal)
The wedding picture! (Courtesy of the Topeka Capital-Journal)
Fighting heartache and disbelief. (Courtesy of the Topeka Capital-Journal)
Not much left. (Courtesy of the Topeka Capital-Journal)
Making the best of it. (Courtesy of the Topeka Capital-Journal)
Looking for better days. (Courtesy of the Topeka Capital-Journal)
CHAPTER TEN
“It Looks Like Berlin”
The thunderous roar that left such an indelible mark on so many Topekans on June 8, 1966, was shaped by many forces. Tornadic sound emanates from the swirling, high-speed updraft, from the violent expansion and contraction, or bursting, of the funnel’s core and from the wind’s interaction with fixed objects it encounters. High-speed eddies and mini-vortices curl around wires and spin off the edges of buildings to create howling, musical sounds known as aeolian tones. The friction of the wind against the Earth at the base of the funnel contributes a deep, vacuumlike growl. Throw in the sound of breaking glass, power lines shorting out, transformers exploding, buildings being ripped from their foundations, and automobiles, air conditioners and other large objects being hurled to the ground at terminal velocity, and you have a cacophony that defies description. What’s more, because a tornado is hollow, it essentially functions like a giant amplifying device, akin to a massive speaker or pipe organ. Like an organ, the bigger the pipe, the deeper and louder the sound.
Given the array of forces at work, it is not surprising that the sounds generated by a tornado moving through a residential area are considerably worse than those made by a twister spinning across open country.
“A tornado is louder, more terrifying and more thunderous when it’s going through a neighborhood, unfortunately,” said Tim Samaras, a veteran storm chaser, engineer and pioneering builder of probes designed to measure atmospheric conditions within a tornado. “You’ve got a whole lot more things happening in an urban environment. They’re happening simultaneously and they’re all producing sound. The result is that every second it’s going to sound like an incredible, thunderous, rolling roar.”
Just how loud tornadoes can get isn’t entirely clear. One of the few attempts to analyze tornadic sound was done by a team of acoustical experts in the Department of Physics at the University of Mississippi in the mid
-1970s. Scientists Roy Arnold, Henry Bass and Lee Bolen obtained a recording of an EF-5 that struck Guin, Alabama, during the tornadic super-outbreak of April 3–4, 1974. A quick-thinking Guin resident, Richard Allen Lindley, had placed a Panasonic cassette recorder on a table and a microphone in the metal frame of an open, second-floor window as the EF-5 approached. Lindley’s tape lasts 10 minutes. The tornado comes to within 300 yards of the microphone before gradually moving away.
From the tape, the scientists speculated that the rising and falling amplitude of the sound (i.e., the laboring, mechanical lope that John Fernstrom and others heard so clearly on June 8) may be caused by the movement of smaller tornadoes, or suction vortices, as they circle within and around the base of the main funnel.
The physicists estimated the peak volume of the Guin tornado at 103 decibels. That’s roughly equivalent to a chain saw running at full throttle. But Dr. Henry Bass, one of the Mississippi scientists, acknowledged that the measurement was merely an educated guess. Because the cassette recorder was equipped with automatic volume control, it was impossible to accurately calibrate and quantify the sound from the recording. The 103-decibel peak consequently was extrapolated primarily from the recollections of Lindley and his family about the difficulty they had communicating verbally, even by screaming, as the tornado reached its closest point.
A tornado’s maximum volume, according to Bass, could be as high as 140 decibels, or the equivalent of a jet engine at full power. At this level, physical damage to the eardrums begins. The excruciating pain and hearing problems experienced by many Topekans during and after the tornado likely were due to a combination of the sound’s intensity and the enormous atmospheric pressure drop associated with the vortex.
Regardless of a tornado’s precise volume level, there’s little doubt that tornadic storms are among the loudest naturally occurring phenomena on the planet. An especially close and violent clap of thunder or a meteor cracking the atmosphere may be louder for a brief instant. But only a volcanic eruption and perhaps an avalanche can rival a tornado as a sustained noise event.
For all a tornado’s sonic fury, perhaps the most intriguing aspect of tornadic sound is the noises funnels make that cannot be heard. Tornadoes are enormous generators of infrasound, or vibrations that occur beneath the threshold of human hearing. Human ears can detect sound waves, or oscillating changes in pressure, at frequencies ranging from 20 hertz to 20,000 hertz. Everything below 20 hertz (a hertz being one cycle per second) is considered infrasound and escapes us entirely, although infrasound can be felt at certain frequencies: The thumping chest pressure produced by a powerful subwoofer is an example.
While the study of infrasound is relatively new and much remains to be learned about its origins and characteristics, one fact is well established: Infrasound is capable of traveling enormous distances. Unlike higher-frequency sounds, which decay rapidly in the molasses-like viscosity of the atmosphere, infrasound vibrations remain intact far longer due to the larger size of the wave. As a result, it is not unusual for infrasound to travel hundreds and even thousands of miles from its source with very little attenuation, hurtling outward like a silent tsunami at the speed of sound, 758 miles per hour.
Dr. Alfred J. Bedard Jr., Infrasonics Group Leader at the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration’s Earth System Research Laboratory in Boulder, Colorado, has studied tornadic infrasound since the mid-1980s. According to Bedard, tornadoes have a distinct infrasonic signature located between zero and five hertz on the sonic spectrum. To put that into perspective, one hertz is eight octaves below middle C, while A, the lowest audible frequency on a piano, is at about 27.5 hertz. Bedard has detected tornadic infrasound from up to 600 miles away and believes the vibrations have their origins in the tornado’s macro-dynamics: The wobbling, toplike oscillation and continual compression and expansion of the funnel likely are responsible for producing the most significant bursts of infrasonic radiation.
Advances in the understanding of tornadic sound, both audible and inaudible, have had a practical impact on tornado safety. Bass and his colleagues at the University of Mississippi built on their pioneering work from the 1970s to eventually develop and commercialize a home warning system that alerts residents if the audible signature of a tornado is detected. Called the HomeSafe Tornado Detector, it was finally mass produced in the late 1990s, with the availability of powerful and inexpensive microprocessors. The HomeSafe detector uses an external sound sensor and an interior control unit to pick up the distinct signal (typically under 350 hertz) and rising volume of an approaching tornado. According to Bass, the device can reliably provide a 30-to-90-second warning of an imminent tornado impact.
On a broader scale, the unique characteristics of infrasound, particularly the ability to detect it from great distances, have opened up new possibilities for improving the accuracy of tornado warnings. According to Bedard, infrasound can help detect smaller tornadoes that may not appear on radar. It also can be used in tandem with radar to deliver greater precision in projecting tornado paths. And because infrasound generation sometimes precedes the formation of a funnel by up to 30 minutes, sensors can help improve warning lead times. In 2001, Bedard and his associates launched an infrasound pilot project that incorporated three tornado-detecting sensors deployed on the plains of eastern Colorado and western Kansas. Bedard said the results have been encouraging, and it is possible that infrasound eventually will play a key role in improving tornado warning systems nationwide.
Chris Hutton couldn’t hear a thing. He was deaf from the roar. He was still hunkered down with his father and brother alongside the concrete landing in front of Washburn University’s Morgan Hall. But the fury of the wind was dying and the barrage of debris had stopped. The 17-year-old cautiously lifted his head and looked back over his shoulder to the northeast. The tornado was moving away now, departing the campus and crossing the intersection of 17th Street and Washburn Avenue, 300 yards away. From behind, the twister looked much as it had from the front: not a funnel as such, but more like a massive, dirty, rolling waterfall, choked with debris. It moved sluggishly, almost as if in slow motion. And it was — at least to Chris — entirely silent.
Fortunately, his hearing quickly returned, and Chris was next aware of an enormous silence that had settled across campus. Then, suddenly, a large section of Carnegie Hall collapsed and the stones rumbled to Earth with a thundering crash. A cloud of fine, white dust boiled up from inside the wrecked shell of the building.
Bill Hutton stood up.
“My God . . . I can’t believe we’re not dead!” he said as he reached out and hugged his sons tightly. The three stood for a long moment. Bill knew about death, how unexpectedly and randomly it could arrive. He’d seen men killed in the war. He was sobbing.
Dad is crying . . . Chris was stunned by all that had taken place. Now there was this. He had never seen his father cry before.
The men looked around. Washburn was destroyed. The devastation could not have been more complete had the campus been shelled by artillery or bombed by waves of B-17s. In fact, it looked very much like something from the war, like some battered crossroads town where the Germans had tried to make a stand. Every one of the old stone buildings — Carnegie Hall, MacVicar Chapel, Rice Hall, Thomas Women’s Gymnasium, Crane Observatory, Boswell Hall — all were gutted and shattered. Roofs were gone, walls collapsed, window and door frames wrecked. The old giants had put up a fight, though, and had given way only grudgingly before the wind. MacVicar Chapel’s tower still stood, but the roof was gone and much of the second floor was caved into the basement. Likewise, most of the second floors of Carnegie Hall and Thomas Gymnasium were gone. Rice Hall, Washburn’s oldest building, looked like a pile of pulverized quarry rock. Everywhere power lines, phone lines and trees were down. The trees that still stood were entirely denuded of leaves and all but the largest branches. Their skeletal silhouettes clawed toward the sky with bony fingers as if imploring the heavens for mercy.
And Hell Followed With It: Life and Death in a Kansas Tornado Page 18