A Hero on Mount St. Helens: The Life and Legacy of David A. Johnston
216
A Hero on Mount St. Helens: The Life and Legacy of David A. Johnston
216eBook
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Overview
Melanie Holmes tells the story of Johnston's journey from a nature-loving Boy Scout to a committed geologist. Blending science with personal detail, Holmes follows Johnston through his encounters with Aleutian volcanoes, his work helping the Portuguese government assess the geothermal power of the Azores, and his dream job as a volcanologist with the U.S. Geological Survey. Interviews and personal writings reveal what a friend called “the most unjaded person I ever met,” an imperfect but kind and intelligent young scientist passionately in love with his life and work and determined to make a difference.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780252051340 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | University of Illinois Press |
| Publication date: | 05/16/2019 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 216 |
| Sales rank: | 886,144 |
| File size: | 6 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
TORNADO!
DAVID JOHNSTON WAS SEVENTEEN when a killer tornado raked across his hometown of Oak Lawn, Illinois. Ranked an F4, the tornado killed thirty-three people, injured five hundred, and left six hundred homeless. At one point, the tornado cut a path almost one city block wide and passed a mile from the Johnston home where Dave and two other family members were inside. They were unaware of the nearby danger because it was a time before tornado sirens sang out warnings. It was before the weather service developed an efficient communication system to alert the public. And it was before advancement of radar technology increased the lead time for notification.
Before the progress that we take for granted today, on April 21, 1967, Oak Lawn was caught in a tempest of epic proportion. And it left its mark — on Dave, on his family, and on everyone else involved in the destruction and its aftermath.
The year 1967 conjures images of nature's danger for those who lived in the Chicago area at the time. It started with a record-setting blizzard on January 26. Snow began falling at 5:00 a.m. and continued for twenty-eight hours, blanketing northeast Illinois with twenty-three inches of snow. Sixty people died in the blizzard's wake.
Then in April, ten tornadoes raked across the same area of Illinois, of which three were rated F4. Sixty more lives were extinguished. More than one thousand people were injured. Hundreds were rendered homeless.
The Oak Lawn tornado was one of the three F4s that struck on April 21, and it remains the deadliest tornado recorded in northern Illinois. It crossed a swath of the busiest part of Oak Lawn, where the greatest loss of life occurred that day. After it swept through the village, it continued northeast, clipped Hometown, Evergreen Park, and Chicago's Beverly neighborhood (the only F4 to hit Chicago in recorded history).
The other two F4 tornadoes caused fatalities in Belvidere (near the Illinois–Wisconsin border) and in Lake Zurich. Elementary school kids in Belvidere were already on school buses and high schoolers were lined up outside ready to board. When the tornado hit, students were flung into a muddy field like rag dolls. Twelve buses were rolled like toy Lincoln Logs. Thirteen fatalities and three hundred injuries occurred at Belvidere High School alone.
In Oak Lawn, the term Black Friday was about to assume a new meaning. After a long winter and cold wet spring, Chicagoland welcomed a string of 70-degree April days — a real treat for those with cabin fever. However, the weather system ushered in conditions conducive to tornado outbreaks.
Friday, April 21, started out warm and clear in Oak Lawn. Later that day, at the height of evening rush hour, the weekend was unfolding. Motorists swarmed the roadways, shoppers filled the supermarket, and patrons warmed the stools of the local tavern. Kids skated at the roller rink. Many others were outdoors, including Dave, who would have gone for his daily jog. He'd recently joined his high school's cross-country team and made running a religious practice.
Dave's sister Pat Johnston was also outside, traipsing around the neighborhood. Their mom, Alice Johnston, was running for the Board of Trustees of Moraine Valley Community College (a brand-new local school) and fourteen-year-old Pat was asked to deliver election fliers. However, the ferocious weather drove Pat indoors. She returned home, unable to complete the assigned task.
As a high school senior, Dave typically spent weekends with his buddies or taking pictures of local sporting events for the newspaper where his mother worked as an editor. Dave wasn't one to date in high school. In fact, when senior prom came around, he and his friends — all without dates — went on a weekend campout. On this typical Friday evening, after finishing his run, Dave was in his room. Perhaps he was studying for final exams that were around the corner. One thing for sure, he was unaware that the darkening sky and quickening wind spelled peril.
It was tragic timing — 5:26 p.m. People on their way home from work were unaware of the monster about to bear down. At a very busy intersection, Southwest Highway and Ninety-Fifth Street, motorists stuck at the traffic light were caught up in the tornado's fury. Eighteen people were killed at that location. More than twenty-five cars were hurled hundreds of feet. Some sailed hundreds of yards and landed on the north side of Oak Lawn High School; the school sat on the intersection's northwest corner.
Amazingly, no Oak Lawn High School students or school personnel were killed. However, a group of swimmers had a close brush; they vacated the high school pool just thirty minutes prior to the collapse of its roof. The high school sustained $1.5 million in damage (1967 dollars) — but its occupants were lucky — very lucky indeed.
Down the road, the tornado blew out a supermarket's front windows. Its roof caved in and crushed people inside — the youngest victim just eighteen months old. Then the tornado slammed into the Oak Lawn Roller Rink where three more were killed — two kids and one adult. Many others were severely injured, including Dirk Mooth, then eighteen.
Mooth recalled the scene decades later: "We were first aware that something was happening when it became very dark outside and the pressure changes caused my ears to pop. We all stopped what we were doing and looked around when the wind outside began picking up gravel (or debris) from the parking lot and sent it crashing through the windows. We dove for cover ... As the storm hit, the noise was unbelievable. I was knocked unconscious ... I came to as rain beat down on me. I looked up and saw the sky." Two of Mooth's skating partners died that day — one was thirteen years old, the other fourteen.
Fifteen-year-old Catherine Zenner was caught outdoors and killed when the tornado hit the deadly intersection of Southwest Highway and Ninety-Fifth Street. A petite brunette with a pageboy haircut, Catherine sat near Pat during school lunch period. And Catherine's older sister, Cheryl, was in Dave's class. All attended Harold L. Richards High School in Oak Lawn — a consolidated high school with kids from neighboring towns. Cheryl and Dave were looking forward to graduation. They could not have imagined the carnage that would punctuate the end of their senior year.
Survivors agree that there was no warning. Just a darkening sky that suddenly turned green and the horrific wind that became eerily still.
At the Johnston home were Dave, Pat, and their father, Tom Johnston. None of them were watching television as Chicago weatherman Harry Volkman reported that two tornadoes had hit suburbs north of Chicago just before 4:00 p.m. and at 5:00 p.m. The next report included a sighting near Oak Lawn. Then televisions went dark. Seconds later, the storm hit.
One person remembered an Oak Lawn police squad car drove down Southwest Highway; its loud speaker boomed, "A tornado is in the area; take cover immediately." This mode of warning was well-intended but clearly not effective. Not with a mile-wide F4 tornado on the attack. For many, all they heard was what sounded like a train engine roaring overhead.
After Pat was forced to discontinue her trek around the neighborhood, she called a friend to chat about a school dance that evening. Midconversation, Pat's friend said that she could see a tornado in the distance. Pat's response was, "You're kidding." But the friend wasn't. The Johnstons never sought shelter even though they were a mere mile from the damage path. If the tornado had swerved a bit farther south, they would have been caught up in it.
Dave's mother was still at the office; she worked as an editor of the regional south suburban newspaper. By the time Alice learned of the disaster and phoned home, parts of Oak Lawn were a war zone. Perhaps she asked Tom to go out and see just how bad it was, because Tom quickly ushered Dave and Pat into the car. He drove to a spot about a block from the tornado's path and parked. He ordered his kids to stay put, then he went into the streets alone. Tom wasn't gone long when he returned, visibly shaking, and said, "I can't let you see this," and drove them all home. At that time, Dave earned money as an amateur photographer; he was also about to pursue a photojournalism degree at college. But Tom knew it wasn't a time for photography; it was a time for rescue — and retrieval of bodies.
Dave and Pat didn't realize the gravity of the situation. They thought perhaps their father was acting a bit "melodramatic," as Pat put it. Tom and Alice Johnston practiced the art of shielding their children from displays of anxiety when possible. They downplayed drama in a world that felt riddled with angst — it was their armor against news of the Cold War, Vietnam, assassinations, and bloody clashes in the streets. However, a tornado in their backyard was impossible to minimize. Dave and Pat soon learned of the helplessness that accompanies such a disaster.
From the point of touchdown, the Oak Lawn tornado traveled sixteen miles and took roughly sixteen minutes before it reached Lake Michigan and whirled out over the large body of water. In the time it takes most people to sip their morning coffee, hundreds of buildings and homes were destroyed and another thousand were damaged.
A tornado can blow up buildings as though bombs swirl within its vortex. Sherwood Forest Restaurant on Ninety-Fifth Street in Oak Lawn was filled with a typical Friday night dinner crowd. With tornado reports (in the north suburbs) on the television and vicious winds outside, employees urged patrons to go down to the restaurant's cellar. One customer decided to stay put — John Haggan. Fifty-one-year-old Haggan died when the building exploded around him. The next day would have been his birthday.
With winds more than 200 miles per hour and pressurized updrafts inside the tornado, vehicles were sucked up and spit out. An eyewitness described the "raining" of cars.
"This is crazy. All the sudden, out of the sky a car falls down in the middle of Ninety-Fifth Street!" Robert Kehe, manager of the Coral Theater, aspired to radio broadcasting and took a tape recorder outside. In his voice recording, which lasted five minutes, he went from a standing spectator to a windblown victim, knocked to the ground by the gale's force. He had to crawl on hands and knees back to the safety of the theater.
At one point, Kehe said, "The sky is so dark. Now it's green. It's green! ... The ground is vibrating ... hail the size of grapes ... Oh my God, I'm right in the middle of it."
Kehe had ushered pedestrians inside and directed a few cars off Ninety-Fifth Street into the theater's parking lot — his actions may have saved lives or prevented injuries. He was one of many heroes that day and in the period that followed — in the aftermath of horror.
A news reporter described Oak Lawn: "It's like something out of a film of Berlin during World War II ... acres of homes and buildings leveled ... people walking up and down the street weeping." A trailer park was hit; fifty of its homes were destroyed.
A father worried about his son who was at Oak Lawn High School drove over front lawns to reach him. Once at the school, he was terrified to find stuck on a pole a decapitated body wearing a jacket that looked like his son's. But the body had been thrown from the nearby deadly intersection; it was one of the eighteen people killed there. His son turned up unharmed.
Area police and fire departments were overwhelmed with distress calls. Almost five hundred people were transported to twelve hospitals. Emergency rooms filled up quickly; doctors treated debilitating injuries including broken limbs, hips, and glass ground into bodies. Volunteers came from nearby villages and from as far away as Michigan and Ohio. And one thousand soldiers from the National Guard were activated. But before the cavalry showed up, a radio announcer put out a call for immediate help; those with station wagons were needed to transport survivors or move corpses. The VFW Hall in Oak Lawn had been scheduled to host a dance; instead it became a temporary morgue. An Oak Lawn police officer got his wife and kids to safety, then reported to work and didn't return home for three days.
Alice also worked around the clock. Pat said she didn't see her mom for days after the tornado. Tom described his wife as working "by the story"— the tornado seemed a story without end. The Suburbanite Economist printed an article about how their staff worked tirelessly through the night of the tornado to produce a special edition by 10:00 a.m. Alice was listed in the article as one of two staff on hand when the tornado hit. With so many people missing and bodies unidentified, disseminating information was crucial.
Tom kept his kids from the havoc beyond their doors on that Friday evening. He knew downed power lines could cause further harm for those who might go roaming. So he stayed home and made sure his kids did the same. But the next day was another story.
After rumors of looting, Sheriff Joseph Woods gave orders to "Shoot looters on sight," and Oak Lawn was sealed off to nonresidents. This meant Dave and his dad were able to reach areas inaccessible to outsiders. The day after the tornado, father and son roamed the streets to capture an unrecognizable landscape.
Dave's comprehension of the situation deepened as he bore witness to the aftermath. As with etchings in fresh concrete, images were carved permanently into his mind. Later in life, Dave would refer to the tornado when he spoke of nature's destructive force.
The storm's brute impact was best captured by film — words were not enough. Thirty-one of Dave and Tom's photographs are included in the 2014 book Oak Lawn Tornado of 1967. Although all photos are credited to Dave in the book, some were taken by Tom. The image of a wedding album ripped from the safety of someone's home and deeply embedded in a tree speaks of lives torn apart.
Other pictures show mangled buses from the Suburban Transit Company. Each weighed ten tons, but they were thrown through the air — one landed a Half-block away in a resident's front yard. Other snapshots show cars wrapped around the concrete columns of a bridge. Some landed upside down, and one car was completely split apart — the front half ripped from the back. A photo of a store parking lot shows a body completely covered with a blanket; the store's casualties included a young mother and her toddler.
Nature's lessons are frequently learned in retrospect. We often don't know about a hazard until it is too late.
Tornado warnings were banned in America until 1938 because officials thought it would induce panic and cause more harm than good. In the 1950s and '60s, the Weather Bureau issued warnings; however, the use of teletype or telephones to disseminate information was slow and ineffective.
The Emergency Broadcast System was launched in 1963, but tornado alerts via television or radio were still somewhat novel in 1967. This was partly because of prediction capability, which was minimal at the time. Also, telephone lines jammed in an emergency, which kept warnings from reaching the airwaves until too late.
Large outdoor sirens existed in 1967, but they were not used to warn of tornadoes. Authorized by the Civil Defense Act of 1950, their use was to warn of nuclear attack. Citizens were told, "In case of a raid, the alert will be a warbling siren blast lasting three minutes."
The United States began using sirens to warn of tornadoes in 1970 — three years after the Oak Lawn disaster. Today, sirens alert those outdoors, and those indoors rely on public radio or television. Also, an NOAA Weather Radio can awake slumbering occupants in case of nocturnal tornadoes. (NOAA offers a free app for smart phones.)
People from rural areas of south-central and midwestern America know that a tornado can darken a clear blue sky like a total solar eclipse. People who survive are those who don't waste time; they seek cover immediately.
Extensive scientific research on tornados has improved forecasting. Now the public has more warning when danger approaches: in 1990, people were typically given five minutes to find shelter; by 2016, that amount increased to fourteen minutes. These improvements are due to superior radar capabilities and better computer models, which allow for enhanced areal identification and more accurate targeting of locations.
Before April 21, 1967, Oak Lawn had no frame of reference for the devastation a tornado could wreak. One witness, who was ten years old at the time, said five decades later that he has thought of the tornado every day since. Those who survived the 1980 eruption of Mount St. Helens have also expressed this sentiment — the experience is forever at the edge of their minds.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "A Hero on Mount St. Helens"
by .
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