Two more of the injured would die within 48 hours: Johnny Scheibe, the 19-year-old delivery driver who’d apparently been sleeping when the tornado struck his home, lingered in a coma until just before midnight on Thursday. The coroner listed the cause of death as extensive head trauma. The last to die was Craig Beymer, the five-year-old boy Officer David Hathaway had pulled from the rubble at the base of Burnett’s Mound, the one whose leg had been amputated, the one nurse Nadine Gilbert had sat with through the night. He’d fought bravely. But he was just a little boy. His wounds were too much to overcome.
For the victims and their loved ones and friends, of course, these deaths were cataclysmic. Eternity had swallowed 16 souls whose lives had been full and real and flawed and blessed less than 24 hours before. Those left behind faced the silent void that arrived without warning and now would never leave. (A 17th victim, 65-year-old William Bachuss, died in rural Jefferson County about 20 miles northeast of Topeka on the night of June 8 after another tornado dropped from the same storm complex.)
As tragic as these losses were, the fact that the death toll wasn’t far, far worse was legitimate grounds for wonder and celebration, given the ferocity of the storm and the path it had taken straight through the city. Approximately 820 homes or businesses were destroyed, and 3,000 more were damaged. An estimated 4,500 people had been left homeless. More than 10,000 vehicles were totaled. With the dollar losses pegged at $100 million ($662 million in today’s dollars), overnight the Topeka storm became by far the most destructive tornado in U.S. history, nearly doubling the previous record of $52 million set by the Worcester, Massachusetts, tornado of June 1953. Topeka would remain the most costly tornado ever, until surpassed by the Lubbock, Texas, tornado of May 1970. Today, Topeka ranks fifth in terms of destructive tornadoes.95
The Fujita Scale for rating tornadoes wouldn’t be invented for another five years. But a study of photos from Topeka conducted by severe weather experts in the 1970s confirmed that the storm was an F-5, the most powerful class of tornadoes, with wind speeds potentially exceeding 300 miles per hour. (In 2007, the F-Scale was modified to provide greater consistency in damage assessments, and today it is known as the Enhanced Fujita Scale, or EF-Scale.)
And while 550 people were injured, only 16 died. And two of the fatalities were due not to trauma, but to heart attacks that occurred during the tornado or immediately after it.
Why more hadn’t lost their lives could be attributed to a fortunate convergence of factors that seemed to align perfectly to preserve life. First and foremost was the time of day the tornado struck. At 7:15 p.m. on a weekday, most individuals and families were home for the evening meal, watching TV or listening to the radio, and thus able to hear and heed the warnings. Had the tornado arrived two hours earlier, as thousands made their way home from work, the results no doubt would have been very different. And experts later speculated that if the tornado had come through in the dead of night — given the number of homes hit — the death toll conceivably could have reached 5,000.
There was, no doubt, an element of luck in the low number of fatalities. Commencement ceremonies for 500 seniors at Washburn University originally had been scheduled to take place in the school’s football stadium on the evening of June 8. But the event had been moved back to the preceding Monday to better accommodate students and the travel plans of families and alumni. One shudders to think what the outcome might have been had the graduation gone on as planned, given that the tornado passed directly over stadium. As it was, the low casualty rate at Washburn was something of a miracle in its own right: An estimated 400 people were on campus when the tornado rolled through, but only 15 were seriously hurt.
One crucial factor in the high survival rate that had nothing to do with timing or luck was the early warnings provided by spotters stationed along the southwestern edge of the city. Reports of the tornado’s approach from volunteer spotter John Meinholdt, Officer David Hathaway, WIBW cameraman Ed Rutherford, WREN disc jockey Rick Douglass and others bought precious time for citizens to seek cover. The fact that both Hathaway and Douglass had been injured in the execution of their duties only underscored the heroic nature of the task all spotters performed that day.
Similarly, the urgency of broadcaster Bill Kurtis’s warning as the tornado slammed into the city — “For God’s sake, take cover!” — undoubtedly saved many lives. In the years to come, the phrase and the man himself would for many become synonymous with the Topeka tornado. Kurtis would receive numerous accolades for the grace and command he displayed under pressure. But often overlooked was the cool play-by-play he subsequently provided as the funnel clawed deeper into Topeka. Field reports of the tornado’s location and progress were coming into the television station, and Kurtis calmly relayed the information to the public in near real time via both TV and radio. Given the number of people who said they acted based on these reports, it could be argued that this service ultimately was Kurtis’s most important contribution on June 8. Obviously, none of his warnings would have been possible without the individuals in law enforcement and among the general public who, at great personal risk, monitored the tornado’s progress and quickly conveyed the information to the city’s only television station. It’s a fact Kurtis readily acknowledges.
The role played by meteorologist P. N. Eland and the staff of the Weather Bureau office likewise was crucial. They’d closely watched the building storms, activated the spotter networks, keyed the warning sirens nearly 15 minutes before the tornado hit the city, tracked it block by block and remained at their posts even as the funnel bore down directly on them.
That the Weather Bureau personnel performed so well underscored the importance of Richard Garrett’s efforts. Indeed, if there was a single individual who deserved the bulk of credit for the amazingly low loss of life that day, it was the chief meteorologist of the Topeka Weather Bureau office. For almost 15 years, Garrett had labored to turn Topeka into a citadel of tornado preparedness. It was he who’d established the spotter network in the first place, who’d coordinated law enforcement and media communications, and who had pushed through bureaucratic roadblocks to harness the city’s powerful air-raid warning sirens. And it was Garrett who had worked tirelessly to raise awareness about tornado safety through the news media and public educational events. His efforts instilled in the community an acute sensibility to severe weather risks and a willingness to take action if danger was imminent.
Considering the range of techniques that Garrett employed in making Topeka safer and the years he’d invested in the effort, the fact that an EF-5 had barreled through the city without inflicting massive casualties represented a major personal and professional achievement. Here was a man whose life’s work literally saved hundreds — if not thousands — of lives. How many people can say that? The lessons learned on June 8 were readily apparent to others in tornado-prone regions of the country, and in the years ahead, Topeka would become a model of tornado preparedness for communities nationwide.
Yet there would be no larger lessons learned, no great victories won for those who did not survive. The dead ranged in age from five to 91, although most were elderly. Perhaps many had struggled to reach shelter in time. The victims included 12 males and four females. They perished in all sections of the city. The aseptic, clinical language of the autopsy reports produced by Shawnee County coroner J. L. Lattimore, M.D., attested to the unimaginable fury that had accompanied many of the victims’ final moments on earth:
This lady shows a great many skin abrasions, a very severe cut on the right forehead with fracture of skull . . .
This (man’s) head is mutilated; the entire scalp is missing as well as the entire brain. There are very severe facial abrasions. Severe trauma to the left shoulder skin and upper left arm . . .
This man shows a fracture of the occipital bone of the skull and extensive brain damage. There are very extensive lacerations to the forehead. Both elbows show very wide, open lacerations . . .
This
elderly, very frail female shows little trauma to the skin, shows a massive crushed skull with fractured ribs and sternum . . .
This man was not identified for almost 24 hours after death. He was positively identified from his dental inlay work. (He) shows a tremendous number of lacerations about face and head, chest, abdomen, both arms and legs. The left leg shows a compound comminuted fracture, some 9 inches below the knee. There is a very large open wound, some 4 x 5 inches, on the right side, just below the umbilicus line. There are also two rather larger open wounds of the left chest, near the left nipple . . .
This man has a completely crushed chest, massive hemothorax, a fracture of the right forearm, a very large number of abrasions to the face and right arm . . .
This well-developed colored male shows a fractured skull on the left side, in the parietal region with brain damage. There is also a crushing type wound to the occipital portion of the skull. There is larger laceration to the forearm. There is a severe open laceration over each knee . . .
The first to die were Calvin and Clarice Wolf, the couple who lived one house north of carpenter Glenn Nicely and his wife, Inge, on Auburn Road in rural southwest Shawnee County. As the tornado approached, Hazel Nicely, Glenn’s mother, had picked up the phone and heard Mrs. Wolf talking on the party line. Hazel warned her neighbor of the approaching danger but the Wolfs did not act. Inge later spoke with Mrs. Wolf’s sister (the person on the other end of the call that evening) and learned that Mrs. Wolf had dismissed the warning, telling her sister something to the effect that “Calvin says it’s just a little wind, that’s all.” A few minutes later, the house blew apart. The couple was found more than 100 yards away, near their car. Authorities consequently assumed, erroneously, that the Wolfs had been trying to outrun the tornado when they were killed.
Calvin Wolf was 64 years old. He was a big man who operated the road grader along the gravel roads west of Auburn for the Mission Township road maintenance department. Clarice was 60. She was from St. Mary’s, Kansas.
In addition to the Wolfs; Sterling “Chick” Taylor, the man killed in his home by the flying culvert; Lisle Grauer, the proprietor of the bowling alley; Johnny Scheibe; and the little boy, Craig Beymer, the other fatalities were, as follows:
George Sklenicka, 61, died in the open near the gas station at the base of Burnett’s Mound. He was a certified public accountant and worked part-time for the firm of Brelsford, Hardesty and Battz.
William R. Crouch, 44, was a World War II vet. He was a foreman for the maintenance department of the State Highway Commission. He died of a heart attack as the tornado pressed within a half mile of his home in southwest Topeka. He’d previously been under a doctor’s care for a heart condition.
Bertha M. Whitney, 83, lived with her husband, Von, near Washburn University. Neighbor Neil Bartley had dashed over as the tornado approached in an effort to warn the couple and bring them to safety. According to Mrs. Whitney’s grandson, Bertha went to the basement but was coming back up the stairs to get her husband when the tornado hit. The roof came off and the house folded up. She was buried in debris and died that night in the hospital.
Mary I. Beasley, 90, died on Byron Street, not far from the Whitneys and a few houses up from the home of 11-year-old Tony Stein. Mrs. Beasley was born in Leavenworth and was a member of the Central Congregational Church. Tony said the story in the neighborhood was that she was a semi-invalid and had been killed after an aide had been unable to get her to the basement.
Edward J. Lyons, 71, died in his apartment near 11th Street and Kansas Avenue. He may have been the older man Denny Benge had urged to come to the basement barbershop just before the tornado swept through the car lots along Kansas Avenue. Lyons was born August 25, 1894, in Burlingame and lived in Eskridge before moving to Topeka in 1928. He was a retired housepainter.
John T. Wells, 59, was born May 20, 1907, in Tyler, Texas. Wells was a big man of Indian and French-Canadian descent. He had jet-black hair and bronze skin. Folks called him “Chief.” He had been a brakeman for many years on the Missouri Pacific but was working construction in 1966, running a jackhammer. He lived in a big rooming house downtown near 10th and Monroe. He’d lost his wife to sudden illness in ’39. According to his daughter, Wells was sick in bed on June 8. He had been ill for a couple of days. So when the woman who ran the boardinghouse told him he needed to get to the basement with the rest of the tenants, Wells had said no. He wasn’t up to it. They eventually found him, still in his bed, crushed.
Oliver Jacob Milton, 68, died in the same boardinghouse as Wells on Monroe Street. He was born in 1897 in Pulaski, Iowa.
Gareford Lee, 63, died in his house on East 8th Street. He was born in Tulsa, Oklahoma, and had lived in Topeka for 31 years.
John D. Culver, 59, was a native of Iowa and a graduate of the University of Nebraska. He was manager and secretary-treasurer of Midwest Wholesale Lumber Company. He died of a heart attack as he drove down East 4th Street to the rail yards to check on damage to the lumberyard immediately after the storm passed. He left a wife, Vivian, and a grown daughter, Joan.
Hattie L. Anderson, 91, was found by search crews on Thursday morning. She was born October 12, 1874, in Council Grove, Kansas, at a time when a few wagons still rumbled past on the Santa Fe Trail. She and her husband ran a store in Halstead, Kansas, for many years. She raised five boys with a gentle hand and an iron will, according to her grandson, R. R. Her husband passed in 1958. Mrs. Anderson was only five feet tall and weighed barely 100 pounds. One of her sons, Herb, looked after her in her later years and lived in the home on a corner lot along the west side of Ripley Park in East Topeka. But Herb was fishing on the evening of June 8. Grandson R. R., a 29-year-old Korean War vet, was there Thursday morning when a dozer lifted a large section of more-or-less intact debris from the backyard and Mrs. Anderson’s body was discovered beneath it. She was still lying in her feather bed but crushed nearly flat. The bed was pressed deep into the ground. Mrs. Anderson had come to rest under her favorite tree, or what was left of it. She’d spent many hours sitting beneath that tree in the cool of summer evenings. When he spotted the body, the dozer operator told R. R. to get Mrs. Anderson’s sons out of the area. He was worried they might have heart attacks if they saw their mother. Mrs. Anderson might have lived had she made it to the basement. But R. R. didn’t think so. The cellar had immediately filled with water from broken pipes and hot wires were in contact with the water. R. R. believed his grandmother would have been electrocuted. He told Herb that it was a lucky thing he’d gone fishing, for he probably would have died, too, even if they had reached the basement. But Herb didn’t buy it. He blamed himself for his mother’s death until the end of his days.
Among the more than 60 people who remained hospitalized citywide the day after the storm was Lois “Dorothy” Decker, the 46-year-old woman who’d been so badly mauled as she was pulled up Kansas Avenue by the tornado. Fortunately, Dorothy was rapidly improving, and her condition was upgraded from poor to satisfactory by Friday morning. She would make it, although she remained in intensive care and had stitches in nearly every portion of her body. Her daughter, Barbara Rainey, flew in from Indiana to be with her. When Barbara arrived at the hospital, she didn’t recognize Dorothy at first, so severe and numerous were the wounds. And then, when the two started talking, the trauma of seeing her mother so badly cut up became too much and Barbara fainted. Dorothy desperately wanted to see her grandchildren during that first week. But children weren’t allowed up onto the hospital floor. So when she was strong enough, Dorothy got in a wheelchair and went down to the lobby to meet them. It didn’t go well. The kids were badly shaken by the encounter. They started crying when they saw her. And the youngest, Joyce, who was five, was terrified of weather after that. If it would just start sprinkling, she’d begin to scream. Her mother would ask, “What in the world is wrong with you?” and Joyce would say a tornado was coming.
It took a long time for those fears to go away.
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p; In the community as a whole, serious concerns existed about a potential tuberculosis outbreak, of all things, in the tornado’s aftermath. The Kansas State Health Laboratories were housed in the National Reserve Life building. That was the 10-story structure that Gary Fleenor had seen the funnel coiled around like a snake. A large incubator on the seventh floor containing deadly cultures had been knocked over, and no one knew whether the bacteria had escaped or not. Fortunately, authorities eventually determined that the cultures were contained, and a 20-ton crane was brought in to gently lift the heavy incubator out of the building. This was accomplished with great care and the hazard was taken to a landfill and burned.
Evidence of the tornado’s fiendish powers was everywhere as people continued to dig out.
Glenn Nicely found all of his father’s guns — rifles, shotguns and a pistol — neatly placed by the tornado inside a driveway culvert 100 feet from his parents’ destroyed house. The guns were undamaged. Electrician Tom Noack noticed that in one house with the walls and roof ripped away, a large aquarium stood untouched along a center wall. Fish were still swimming in it. Schoolteacher Ron Olson found pieces of asphalt shingle driven like darts through a wooden privacy fence in his backyard. Teri Huffman, the 10-year-old who was nearly carried away when the tornado wrecked her house near Burnett’s Mound, discovered two dozen unbroken eggs inside the family’s refrigerator lying in the backyard. Dan Hudkins returned to the destroyed service station where he worked and marveled at cases of soda pop with the caps still on and the bottles intact, but the liquid sucked out — somehow pulled through the microscopic gap between bottle and cap. A towel was driven into a door at the Embassy Apartments with such force that a man was unable to pull it out.
And Hell Followed With It: Life and Death in a Kansas Tornado Page 28