On Saturday, November 28, 1942, there was a fire at the Coconut Grove, a popular nightclub in Boston. The loss of lives was estimated at about 450 people. My friend Thomas Gavin tells his story of being sent to the morgue by his uncle - who was Superintendent of Police - to help out. Thanks to this fire, there were many significant strides in the treatment of fire-related injury and trauma. Also, fire codes were changed to make buildings safer.
Eduardo Calapiz
On Saturday, November 28, 1942, my faithful attendance at every home game of the undefeated Boston College Eagles football team was broken as it was also my first day of employment in a part time job. By late afternoon, I was sufficiently acquainted with my mundane responsibilities at Lerner Shop's Washington Street store in downtown Boston to be trusted to venture outside to sweep the sidewalk.
Thus occupied, I indulged in mentally adding up my earned pay for the day at a rate of $.33 cents an hours. My happiness was dashed by newsboys shouting the headlines.
"Boston College routed by Holy Cross 55 to 12." There was no joy in "Beantown" that night, and I gloomily worked through the dismal evening until 9 o'clock closing.
Arriving home shortly after 10 o'clock that evening, I patiently but tiredly answered questions from my parents and older siblings concerning my new job. Suddenly the telephone rang.
My father, a detective sergeant on the Boston Police Department, answered and in seconds announced that he had to leave at once. There was, he explained, a full police and fire mobilization along with all civil defense personnel, air raid wardens, etc. As I was a messenger for the auxiliary police, I asked if I had to report as well. "No," said dad. "Get some sleep. It's probably just another dry run to test emergency service response."
The following morning, I was routed out of bed by my mother to attend the 8:30 Children's Mass, a requirement in our household until you reached age 17. I was astounded while at Mass to hear the priest announce that the worst loss of life in a fire in the history of the city had occurred. Loss of lives was estimated at 450, and recovery operations were still continuing. The priest identified the location as the Coconut Grove nightclub. I couldn't imagine a place holding that many people as my only frame of reference was the neighborhood soda fountain where 15 people constituted a huge crowd. I pondered, if there were that many dead, how many had managed to escape? I was sure the priest's numbers were wrong.
I rushed home to tune in our radio to hear for myself. Alas, it was true, and dad was still there at the scene. He had called for one of us to deliver his electric razor and some money to a prearranged location. I was elected to go. When I arrived in downtown, my father met me in the company of my uncle who was the Superintendent of Police. The scene was hectic even though we stood in an empty store in the "film district.", about 100 yards from the the disaster site.
It developed that they were short of runners or messengers. Remember, there were no walkie talkies or portable phones then. Uncle Ed knew that I was an auxiliary messenger and after consulting with my father, told me to stay with him for assignments. I literally ran my legs off that day. Most messages were briefly scribbled with stern admonishment to me not to read them, but just to deliver them in a hurry. I would be dispatched in any and all directions. It was impossible for cars to pass through the fire apparatus, rescue vehicles, and burnt out cars adjacent to the night club. Hoses and tools were everywhere. Geysers of water still shot into the air from the ruptured or semifrozen hose lines.
About five hours into my task, when the tired senior police personnel were probably not exercising their best judgement, due to exhausted manpower and in desperation I was assigned to take a grieving older couple to the Park Square garage. Only upon arrival did I learn that this was being utilized as a temporary morgue for the recovered dead. It was appalling. Huge concrete bays emptied of vehicles were filled with row upon row of dead bodies. Some bodies had been hardly touched by flames and were still attired in formal wear. Other unrecognizable bodies were covered by blankets.
Long lines of grief stricken people threaded their way through the rows of the dead. The blanket being removed briefly for a possible identification was most times answered with a negative head shake. However, the silence was sometimes broken by loud wails and uncontrolled sobs when a positive identification was made. I tried never to look at anything closely by averting my gaze, but the cries and sobs confirmed for me what my eyes chose to avoid.
My services ended abruptly when my father arrived on the scene - he was totally shocked to find me there. His time of prolonged duty was over and he packed me into a car and took me to St. James Church on Harrison Avenue where the Jesuits were offering Mass for the just relieved policemen, firemen, and other rescue workers. After the Mass, we visited the rectory where he and at least eight of the priests and I partook in a gab session. I felt most grown up and privileged to be included.
It wasn't until long afterward that I realized that this special gabfest had been arranged by my father and the priests to assist me in dealing with my baptism into tragedy. Some 515 lives were lost. Many severely injured patrons lingered for months before finally succumbing.
As the result of this tremendous tragedy, there were significant strides made in the treatment of fire related injury and trauma. The use of new wonder drugs was advanced by years and many of these procedures and techniques were used to treat the injured of World War Two. In addition, many new fire codes were implemented including the elimination of certain flammable decorations and the exclusive use of revolving doors. There were requirements that doors open outward, and there was the elimination of smoking in theaters.
Thomas Gavin
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