Depending on your early childhood fixations and whether your life was irrevocably changed by the introduction of an American girl doll, some us can describe, in-detail, the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire and others can do something else. There are some absolutely crack moments in history that are never covered in the classroom, not because of the typical calculated censorship or fantastical rewriting of history, but because they serve little to no relevance to the broader historical picture. As a little pre-break treat for history’s fangirls, I’ll be sharing some long forgotten, yet fascinating, moments in history.
USS William D. Porter
Have you ever had a bad day before? Yeah? Of course you have! We are all just fickle creatures stumbling around blindly, attempting to make the most of a bad deal. However, you have most likely sustained yourself by limiting the number of disasters you experience to a sustainable number or, at the very least, have a hold on the severity of such disasters. The same cannot be said for the 1942 Fletcher-class destroyer, the USS William D. Porter, whose entire existence was plagued by calamity after calamity, at a rate that would suggest fate had it out for this boat. Nicknamed “Willie Dee,” which seems like a case of name determining personality, could not commit to any action without failing miserably. During its first outing, accompanying the USS Iowa to escort President Franklin Roosevelt to Tehran, Ol’ Willie broke radio silence twice: once to inform the other ships they’d be lagging behind due to a freak wave and subsequent flooding incident, and because they accidentally shot a torpedo in the direction of the USS Iowa, the ship carrying President Roosevelt. Now, prior to this one of Willie’s depth charges had been accidentally armed and rolled off the ship, resulting in the other ships believing they were being attacked by a submarine. So this is the second time, within their first outing, they’ve convinced the other ships they are being subject to an attack. Obviously, chaos ensues on Ol’ Willie once they realize the torpedo fired, and the Captain, I’m assuming, is enduring rapid onset hair loss from stress. Now, you might be thinking, “OK, rough, but how much worse could it get?” So much worse. The crew is against radioing given they’ve already broken radio silence once, proving that even when the crew remembers the rules it proves to be incredibly inconvenient. An attempt to alert the USS Iowa of the torpedo is made through light signals; however, instead of flashing the correct light signal, Willie signals to the others that it will be reversing at top speed, which could not be more far removed from an alert about an incoming torpedo. It has to be clear why I claimed the stars were aligned against this ship. Eventually, they just break radio silence (finally) and USS Iowa safely gets out of the way. In not so great news, the entire crew was arrested and the Chief Torpedoman (never knew such a position existed) was sentenced to fourteen years hard labor. Better news, Roosevelt pardoned all of them.
Ol’ Willie existed in relative success after being stationed outside of Alaska, being able to withhold itself from unintentionally launching anymore torpedoes. Eventually, it was sent to the Battle of Okinawa where it was doing uncharacteristically well before fate, with its lifelong grudge, stepped back into the picture, as Ol’ Willie swept the side of the USS Luce with gunfire. Then a dive bomber, which Willie had actually managed to evade, crashed and was pulled under the Willie’s hull by the current. It exploded, causing irreparable damage to the ship. And I’ll give it to the crew, they tried for three hours to repair the ship and fight the onslaught of fires, until they eventually abandoned Willie and left it to put itself out of its misery.
The Great Molasses Flood
Molasses, an incredibly non-divisive substance. But imagine, instead of addressing the substance with a sort of benign neglect, you had to address an immediate concern and worry because it flooded your entire city.
Essentially, on January 15, 1919, Boston’s giant molasses tank (it could hold up to 2.5 million gallons of molasses), which was used to make industrial alcohol and then grain alcohol as the uber-successful movement of prohibition moved near, erupted. Boston was experiencing unusually high temperatures the day of the eruption and combined with the day-old transfer of warm, less viscous molasses, it is believed the thermal expansion of older molasses caused the tank to erupt. Akin to an earthquake, witnesses report experiencing the ground shake and a crashing sound similar to a thunderstorm. The eruption created a wave roughly 15 to 40 feet high, 160 feet wide, and traveled at a speed of 35 miles an hour, the speed limit through a residential zone. A truck was hurled into the Boston Harbor and the Boston Globe reported individuals “were picked up by a rush of air and hurled many feet.” Help, successfully beating the irony of moving slowly, arrived quite quickly. However, the molasses following The Wave™ became increasingly viscous due to the cold temperatures, effectively forcing individuals into a sort of butterfly-in-glass-esque entrapment. Around 150 people were injured, 21 people died, entire city blocks were leveled, and Boston supposedly reeked of molasses for the next several years.
The tank was actually built quite quickly and was prone to rumblings and leakage, so following the disaster numerous lawsuits were filed. However, USIA immediately counteracted with an airtight claim, saying the tank was in fact sound, but it had been sabotaged by an “evilly disposed persons.” Resulting in what I can only imagine were copious amounts of eye rolls and a perfectly timed head slam. The tank was found, with all its innocuous rumblings, to be not sound, and USIA had to pay damages.