AMERICAN HAUNTINGS INK

Showing posts with label New Jersey. Show all posts
Showing posts with label New Jersey. Show all posts

Monday, May 6, 2013

"Oh, the Humanity...."


“OH, THE HUMANITY…”
History and Hauntings of the Hindenburg Disaster

On May 6, 1937, one of the most photographed and familiar disasters of the twentieth century occurred as the German zeppelin airship LZ 129 Hindenburg burst into a massive ball of flames as it descended over Lakehurst, New Jersey. Seven million cubic feet of ignited hydrogen incinerated the dirigible in just 34 seconds, long before it could hit the ground. The disaster shocked the world, dealt a blow to Nazi propaganda, effectively ended the era of lighter-than-air travel and claimed the lives of 35 crew members and passengers and one person on the ground.

To this day, the anguished cries of radio reporter Herbert Morrison, as he broadcast from the scene, can still send chills down the spine of the most jaded listener. But Morrison’s famous radio report is not all that lingers of this fiery calamity. Some believe the spirits of the Hindenburg dead still linger, as well.

Dirigibles, or airships, first came to the attention of the public as a method of air travel in the late 1700s. They were really considered more of a novelty than for practical use until the latter part of the 1800s, when a few inventors began to attach propulsion motors to their balloons in order to get from one place to another.



However, the “Golden Age of Airships” really began in July 1900 with the launch of the Luftschiff Zeppelin LZ1. This grand experiment led to the most successful airships of all time: the Zeppelins. They were named after Count Ferdinand von Zeppelin, who began working with rigid airship designs in the 1890s. The airships had a framework composed of triangular lattice girders, covered with fabric and containing separate gas cells. Tail fins were added for control and stability and two engine and crew cars hung beneath the hull driving propellers, which were attached to the sides of the frame by means of long drive shafts. Additionally, there was a passenger compartment located halfway between the two cars.

During World War I, airships were briefly used as bombers, but they proved to be a terrifying, yet inaccurate weapon. Navigation and target selection proved to be difficult under the best of conditions. The darkness, high altitudes and clouds that were frequently encountered by Zeppelin missions reduced accuracy even further. Their flammable hydrogen lifting gas made them vulnerable at lower altitudes. Several were shot down in flames and others crashed en route. They began to fly higher, above the range of other aircraft, but this made their accuracy even worse. In the end, airships were best suited for scouting during the war and the bombing raids turned out to be disastrous in terms of morale, men and material. Many pioneers of the German airship service died in what was the first strategic bombing campaign in history.

After the war, a number of nations operated airships, including Britain, the United States, Italy, France, Russia and Japan. Most discontinued their use by the early 1930s and, within a few years, only Germany was still in pursuit of the superior airship. The Zeppelin company was operating a passenger service between Frankfort and Recife in Brazil, which took 68 hours. In the middle 1930s, the company started building an airship that was specifically designed to offer passenger service across the Atlantic to the United States.

The Nazis saw the immense airships as another way of establishing their dominance in the world. 
After Adolph Hitler’s rise to power, around this same time, the Zeppelin lent itself to exploitation by the Nazis. The German public perceived the development of the airships as a national achievement, rather than as a business one. Nazi propaganda minister Joseph Goebbels employed airships in mass events, as a daunting symbol of Nazi power. With no other country in the world employing the massive airships on a regular basis, Germany flaunted its superiority in this area, starting a regular transatlantic service in March 1936.

On May 3, 1937, the Luftschiff Zeppelin 129 Hindenburg departed from the Rhein-Main Airport in Frankfort, Germany, lifting into the air toward the United States. The airship’s namesake was the recently deceased Paul von Hindenburg, a World War I field marshal, president of the Weimar Republic and a national figure. The Hindenburg was over eight hundred feet long, 135 feet in diameter, and weighed approximately two hundred and fifty tons. To provide the lift that was required to get the monstrous ship off the ground, its sixteen gas cells had to be filled with combustible hydrogen.

The passenger lounge (with grand piano for entertainment) where passengers could rest, eat, sleep and socialize during the flight.  (Below) A two-berth cabin on the Hindenburg.  A wash basin was included in each small cabin, with the toilets and shower on another deck.


Since its maiden flight in 1936, the Hindenburg had completed twenty flights across the Atlantic Ocean and had broken the speed record of previous Zeppelins. Under normal conditions, its engines accelerated the airship to 84 miles per hour, but favorable winds had allowed for top speeds of up to 188 miles per hour. A westward trip from Germany to the United States took an average of 36 hours and 42 minutes. Although the Hindenburg had been built to accommodate between fifty and seventy passengers, it carried only 36 travelers in addition to 61 crew members when it embarked on its fatal final flight. The passengers could rest in twenty heated cabins at the center of the hull’s lower decks. Amenities on board included a dining room, a reading, writing and smoking room, and centrally located restrooms with showers. Panoramic windows embedded in the concave hull provided spectacular views for those on the promenade deck.

From the start of the trip, Captains Max Pruss and Ernest Lehmann had to confront a number of problems, all of them due to bad weather conditions. Storms first kept the airship from crossing the English Channel and then delayed its journey across the Atlantic. Blown off course to Newfoundland, it passed over Manhattan behind schedule at 3:00 p.m. on May 6. It finally reached the Naval Air station in Lakehurst, New Jersey, at 6:00 p.m. but heavy rain kept the airship from initiating landing procedures. After an hour, the storm passed and the Hindenburg approached the mooring mast. It was to be a high landing, known as a flying moor, after which the airship would be winched down to ground level. This type of landing maneuver reduced the number of necessary ground crew, but required more time. The landing was initiated at 7:00 p.m.

At 7:09 p.m., however, the airship made a sharp full speed left turn to the west around the landing field because the ground crew was not ready. Two minutes later, it turned back toward the landing field and began to slow. Three minutes later, Captain Pruss ordered all engines full astern so that the airship could be stopped.  At 7:17 p.m., the wind shifted direction to the southwest and Pruss was forced to make a second, sweeping sharp turn, this time to the starboard. Two minutes later, the airship made another sharp turn and dropped its water ballast because the Hindenburg was stern-heavy. Six men were also sent to the bow to trim the airship, which allowed it to be on an even keel as it stopped. At 7:21 p.m., the mooring lines were dropped from the bow. The starboard line was dropped first, followed by the port line. The port line was connected to the post of the ground winch. The starboard line was left dangling.
   
At 7:25 p.m., a few witnesses saw the fabric ahead of the upper fin flutter as though gas was leaking. Other witnesses also reported seeing blue discharges, possibly static electricity, moments before fire erupted on top of the ship. Several other eyewitness testimonies suggest that the first flame appeared on the port side just ahead of the port fin, and was followed by flames that burned on top. On board, people heard a muffled explosion and those in the front of the ship felt a shock as the port mooring rope jerked on its winch. The officers in the control car initially thought the shock was caused by a broken rope. 
   
Moments later, the Hindenburg caught fire and became engulfed in flames.

The Hindenburg bursts into flames. The series of photos below shows the airship as it slowly descended – on fire – to the ground. 
The fire quickly spread. Almost instantly, a water tank and a fuel tank burst out of the hull due to the shock of the blast. This shock also caused a crack behind the passenger decks and the rear of the structure imploded. The stern of the ship lost its buoyancy and the bow lurched upwards.  As the Hindenburg's tail crashed into the ground, a burst of flame came out of the nose, killing nine of the twelve crew members in the bow. As the airship continued to fall with its bow pointing upwards, part of the port side directly behind the passenger deck collapsed inward and the gas cell there exploded. The airship’s gondola wheel touched the ground, causing the burning ship to bounce upwards. At this point, most of the fabric had burned away. Finally, the airship went crashing onto the ground, bow first. The Hindenburg had been completely destroyed.





Various theories have been suggested as to the cause of the fire on board the airship. Contemporaries suspected sabotage or a lightning strike, while more recent experts believe that maneuvering in the storm may have caused a build-up of static electricity in the ship’s envelope. An electric discharge could have ignited the hydrogen. To this day, no one knows for sure.

Unbelievably, despite the violent fire, most of the crew and passengers survived. Of the 36 passengers and 61 crew members, thirteen of the passengers and 22 members of the crew perished. As the burning airship had crashed down on the landing field, the American landing crew had fled in a panic, but one linesman, Allen Hagaman, had been killed by falling debris.

The majority of the airship crew who died were up inside the ship’s hull, where they either had no easy escape route or were too close to the bow of the ship, which hung burning in the air, for them to find a way out. Most of the passengers who were killed were trapped in the starboard side of the passenger deck. Not only had the wind blown the fire toward the starboard side, but the ship had also rolled slightly to that side when it hit the ground, sealing off the observation windows and cutting off the escape of any passengers on that side of the ship. To make matters worse, the sliding door leading from the starboard passenger area to the central foyer and gangway stairs (through which rescuers led many passengers to safety) jammed shut in the crash, which also trapped the starboard side passengers. A few of them did escape, but most did not. By contrast, all but a few of the passengers on the port side of the dirigible survived the fire, most escaping virtually unscathed. 

When the control car crashed to the ground, most of the officers jumped out of the windows and became separated. First Officer Albert Sammt found Captain Max Pruss going back into the wreckage to look for survivors. Pruss was badly burned on his face and he required months of hospitalization and surgery, but he survived.  Captain Ernst Lehmann escaped the crash with burns to his head and arms and severe burns across most of his back. Although his injuries did not seem as severe as those of Captain Pruss, he died at a nearby hospital the next day.
  
Out of the twelve crewmen in the bow of the ship, only three of them survived. Four of these men were standing on the mooring shelf, a platform at the very tip of the bow from which the front landing ropes and mooring cables were released to the ground crew, and which was directly in front of gas cell #16. The rest were standing either along the lower keel walkway ahead of the control car, or were on platforms beside the stairway that led up the curve of the bow to the mooring shelf. During the fire, as the bow hung in the air at a steep angle, flames shot forward and burst through the bow, roasting the unfortunate men alive. The three men from the forward section that survived, elevator operator Kurt Bauer, cook Alfred Grözinger and electrician Josef Leibrecht, were those furthest aft of the bow, and Bauer and Grözinger happened to be standing near two large triangular air vents, through which cool air was being drawn by the fire. They managed to escape with only superficial burns.

The other men either fell into the fire or tried to leap from the Hindenburg when it was still too high in the air. Three of the four men standing on the mooring shelf inside the very tip of the bow were actually taken from the wreck alive, though one of them, a rigger named Erich Spehl, died shortly afterward in the Air Station’s infirmary. The other two, helmsman Alfred Bernhard and apprentice elevator operator Ludwig Felber, initially survived the fire but died at area hospitals later that night.

The four crew members who had been in the tail fin survived the disaster. Although they were closest to the origin of the fire, they were sheltered by the structure of the lower fin. They escaped by climbing out of the fin’s access hatch when the tail hit the ground.

The Hindenburg disaster remains one of the most widely known calamities in American history, thanks largely to the wide press coverage that the airship fire attracted. There was a large amount of newsreel coverage and photographs taken of the crash, as well as Herbert Morrison's recorded, on-the-scene, eyewitness radio report for station WLS in Chicago, which was broadcast the next day. This was the first transatlantic flight by a Zeppelin to the United States that year and it was heavily publicized, bringing many journalists to the scene.

The photographs and film footage of the scene were tragic but Morrison’s radio broadcast remains one of the most famous in history:

It's practically standing still now. They've dropped ropes out of the nose of the ship; and (uh) they've been taken ahold of down on the field by a number of men. It's starting to rain again; it's... the rain had (uh) slacked up a little bit. The back motors of the ship are just holding it (uh) just enough to keep it from...It's burst into flames! It burst into flames, and it's falling, it's crashing! Watch it! Watch it! Get out of the way! Get out of the way! Get this, Charlie; get this, Charlie! It's fire... and it's crashing! It's crashing terrible! Oh, my! Get out of the way, please! It's burning and bursting into flames and the... and it's falling on the mooring mast. And all the folks agree that this is terrible; this is the one of the worst catastrophes in the world. [indecipherable] its flames... Crashing, oh! Four- or five-hundred feet into the sky and it... it's a terrific crash, ladies and gentlemen. It's smoke, and it's in flames now; and the frame is crashing to the ground, not quite to the mooring mast. Oh, the humanity! and all the passengers screaming around here. I told you; it—I can't even talk to people Their friends are out there! Ah! It's... it... it's a... ah! I... I can't talk, ladies and gentlemen. Honest: it's just laying there, mass of smoking wreckage. Ah! And everybody can hardly breathe and talk and the screaming. Lady, I... I... I'm sorry. Honest: I... I can hardly breathe. I... I'm going to step inside, where I cannot see it. Charlie, that's terrible. Ah, ah... I can't. Listen, folks; I... I'm gonna have to stop for a minute because [indecipherable] I've lost my voice. This is the worst thing I've ever witnessed.

The film footage at the scene, as well as Morrison’s passionate recording, shattered public faith in airships and marked the end of the giant passenger-carrying airships. The Hindenburg crash certainly marked the end of an era – closing the story with a scene of horror that still resonates today as an eerie haunting at the Naval Air Station hospital.

The hospital, known officially at that time as Naval Dispensary Lakehurst, was in the middle of the disaster on the night the Hindenburg fell burning from the sky. The doctors, nurses and corpsman that were stationed there in 1937 offered their assistance during the tragic event, although little detail is known about how the medical personnel on the site triaged the wounded or cared for the dead. It is known that the dispensary was utilized after the crash, though, and that many of the injured were brought there. The role the hospital played has been commemorated by the state of New Jersey and has been listed on the registry of historical sites.

And many New Jersey ghost buffs have listed the hospital as one of the state’s haunted sites, as well. 

The Naval Air Station in Lakehurst played an important role in transatlantic airship flights. The base commanding officer at the time was Lieutenant Commander C.E. Rosendahl, who eventually rose to the grade of vice admiral, and was a longtime proponent of airship aviation. The base hospital, which is now known as the Branch Medical Clinic of the National Naval Medical Center, became a key player in the events that followed the Hindenburg crash.

Lieutenant Carl Victor Green, Jr., the Naval Air Station base physician, along with his son, Robert, was among those watching the airship as it approached the mooring tower. The Hindenburg was running late and Robert had anxiously looked forward to seeing it arrive at the base. “It was evening, but quite light,” Lt. Green recalled in an interview many years later. “The nose of the silver ship was pointed toward the town of Lakehurst. She was poised for her pulling down and landing tower docking.”

Suddenly, there were three rapid explosions. Green remembered, “The rear half of the vessel was totally enveloped in bright orange flame. A blast of heat blew over us, standing a half-mile away.” He and his son watched in shock and terror as the mighty Zeppelin fell to the ground in a blazing ball of fire.

"I hurried to the base hospital. I watched people walking in, carried into the hospital or ambulance garage, which had become a temporary morgue,” Green said. Fortunately, only one man from the ground crew died at the hospital. The hull of the ship fell on him after he tripped and fell on the railroad tracks used to stabilize the airship after mooring. Many of the injured were treated at the hospital and several of them died.

On the morning after the disaster, smoke was still rising from the black and twisted skeleton that had once been the world’s largest flying vessel. Eyewitnesses on the scene claimed they would never forget the horrible smell of burning flesh that was in the air. A number of bodies were unidentified and they were moved into the crew’s quarters in the hangar. It had been hastily transformed into a temporary morgue. A small group of men and women filed past the charred remains of 26 of the victims in an attempt to identify them. Detachments of sailors were posted as guards around the ruins of the airship and no information was given out to the curiosity-seekers who flocked to the area. Men who served on the base at that time stated that they would never forget those darks days in 1937.

The Branch Medical Clinic of today, once a full-service naval hospital, was built in 1921 when the base first opened as an airship station. Officers and corpsmen stationed at the clinic will say without reservation that it is a great duty station for enjoying the Jersey Shore and nearby cities like Philadelphia, Atlantic City and New York but they will often add that strange things happen at the old hospital that cannot easily be explained.

It is not uncommon, they have said, to hear mysterious footsteps, rattling doors, loud crashes, voices, and to see lights flashing off and on. Many who have been stationed here have come to believe that some of those who have died in the building do not rest in peace. The majority of them believe that the spirits of those who died in the Hindenburg disaster have remained behind to haunt the clinic and the surrounding buildings.
 
Is the naval station haunted? Many who have worked here believe that it is. But whether you believe in ghosts or not, the crash of the Hindenburg remains a tangible part of the history of the Lakehurst Naval Station that will never be forgotten.

For more details about the disaster – and much more about the ghost stories surrounding the crash – see the book AND HELL FOLLOWED WITH IT, available in print from the website and in Kindle and Nook editions.




Wednesday, February 6, 2013

The Wreck of "The Broker"


THE CRASH OF “THE BROKER”
The Woodbridge, New Jersey Train Disaster

On this date, February 6, 1951, one of the worst train wrecks in America occurred at Woodbridge, New Jersey. It had been an ordinary Tuesday, nothing special.  The day was cold and damp, with light rain falling off and on most of the day. People remarked that it could have been worse; it could have been snow. It was February 6, 1951. The workday was ending and people were heading home. Thousands of people were making their way to the closest commuter train station.

Many of them would never make it home alive.

PRR Engineer Joseph Fitzsimmons before the Woodbridge wreck.

On a Pennsylvania Railroad (PRR) track in Jersey City, New Jersey, a nine-car commuter train known as “The Broker” waited to begin its express run to Bay Head. The Broker would soon be carrying homebound commuters, mostly from New York City offices, to their homes in Red Bank, Long Branch, Asbury Park, and other communities along the New Jersey’s wealthy shoreline. The Broker was so named because most of the regular riders were bankers, lawyers, stockbrokers and other businessmen, as well as office workers. 

Engineer Joseph Fitzsimmons was already on the train, going through the necessary preparations and building up steam prior to getting underway.  Fitzsimmons was 52 years old and had been working on trains his entire adult life. He had spent 33 years on the rails without a single accident. 

The Broker’s nine passenger coaches carried an average of 900 people on a typical weekday evening. This Tuesday however, was not going to be a typical evening. There was another railroad line that ran the same basic route, the Jersey Central. However, switchmen working for the Jersey Central Railroad had called a “sick call strike” and most of their commuter trains were not running. The Broker’s usual passengers load had swollen by several hundred. The train was seriously overcrowded and the aisles were packed. The Broker pulled out of the Exchange Place station in Jersey City at 5:10 in the evening. 

Earlier in the day, the rail line the train would normally follow had been slightly altered. In Woodbridge, a small New Jersey city 30 miles south of New York, the train would be taking a short detour. Work had begun on the construction of the New Jersey Turnpike, and where the train passed through Woodbridge, paralleling Fulton Street, a new temporary wooden trestle had been built to accommodate workers building the turnpike below. The new trestle shifted the track roughly fifty feet from the original line to pass over Fulton Street, on an embankment 20 feet above the street. The trestle had been put into service that afternoon, about five hours before The Broker was scheduled to cross it. It appeared to be solid and safe, as six PRR trains had already passed over it without incident. Because of the shift in the line, a “go slow” order had been posted in the PRR alert board, requiring a reduction in speed for the approach and crossing of the trestle. Under normal conditions, trains would speed through that section between 50 and 60 miles per hour. The “go slow” order reduced the speed limit to 25 miles per hour until the trestle was cleared. 

The trip had gone smoothly as Engineer Fitzsimmons pulled his train away from the Newark platform and began picking up speed as he drove through the darkening winter evening. Fitzsimmons later said that as the train neared the new trestle, he had tried to slow down but was having great difficulty. The rails were wet and slick, and the train was terribly overloaded, making it much heavier than usual. The additional weight and slick rails created a situation where the train took much longer to slow down sufficiently. The train was heading into the curve approaching the new trestle at over 50 miles per hour. At 5:43 in the evening, just 33 minutes after the train had left the station, Woodbridge experienced the worst train wreck to take place in the United States in decades. The speed and weight of the overloaded train as it rounded the curve onto the trestle had shifted the tracks, causing the train to derail. By the time the sun rose to chase away the darkness, 82 people would lie dead on a garage floor, and over 500 people would be injured, many of them seriously. 

At the moment the train passed over the trestle, it lurched sharply and started to sway. The engineer applied the brakes, but it was too late. Momentum carried the engine and the first three coaches over the chasm before falling down the end of the embankment and onto the street below.

The engine flew from the tracks in an arc and fell more than 20 feet to the pavement below. The first five coaches after the engine whipped back and forth, ending in a horrible tangle of ripped steel. Eight of the coaches had been derailed. The first two lay on their sides in the mud of the wet embankment. The third and fourth cars had telescoped into each other and were the most badly twisted and smashed. The largest number of deaths and serious injuries occurred in these cars. Still others remained upright but were horribly twisted and smashed, with one car was bent into a U-shape. Inside the coaches, passengers were tossed around like rag dolls as the cars jerked and rolled. Metal stressed and tore, mutilating and crushing the passengers inside. Newspaper accounts reported that some were “...mangled to bits under the grinding weight of the sharp, broken metal. Others survived or died in tomb-like crevasses of steel, as some of the coaches were bent by the terrible force of the crash.”

Aerial view of a section “The Broker”
At first, the air was rent with the sounds of the train as it smashed and crashed and the scream of the metal as it was torn and twisted in a thousand places. Then came a terrible quiet -- everything was still. The quiet lasted only a moment, for very soon moans and screams shattered the silence. There were chilling cries of: “Help me, help me please...”  Moans and sobs of men and women writhing in pain, if they could move at all, were heard from every part of the twisted hulk. 

The coaches in the center, specifically the fifth, sixth and seventh cars, were left fully or partially suspended over the street below. In these cars, many of the passengers who were able to move on their own, crawled toward the windows looking for a means to escape. The train’s route crossed over rivers at several points and many of these people believed they had crashed over a river. The view out the windows at the street below, with streetlights reflecting on the dark, wet asphalt, made many of the disoriented passengers believe they were in water. Many jumped headfirst from the wrecked coaches, expecting river water to soften their landing; instead they hit hard, unforgiving pavement. These people had survived the train crash, but died in an attempt to save themselves.

The force of the speeding, overloaded train ripped the rails from the temporary trestle, but the trestle remained standing.
The wreck occurred in a heavily populated area so help was very quick to arrive. The Woodbridge fire and police departments were the first official rescue agencies to appear. They found it extremely difficult to climb up the slick, muddy embankment to get to the wrecked coaches, and nearly impossible to pull the injured from the train and back down through the mud. Ladders were laid down on the embankment and the rescuers used the rungs as a sort of stairs. The Woodbridge Fire Department used their ladder truck for nearly the same purpose, except they were able to extend the ladder over the embankment and directly onto the coaches. 

Ambulances, first aid squads, and medical personnel came from at least twenty neighboring communities and cities. The Perth Amboy General Hospital, the nearest urban hospital, was alerted that there would be a large influx of injured passengers. Perth Amboy went into full disaster mode and received nearly all the people whose injuries were serious enough to need immediate and intensive medical care. First aid squads assisted those injured who were able to walk with treatment at the site. The number of injured and dead passengers was so great that a local grocery supplier had its trucks pressed into service as additional ambulances, and later as hearses. 

Within thirty minutes, an enormous crowd had arrived and surrounded the crash site. Some volunteered to help, but the majority had come out of morbid curiosity to watch the bloody drama unfold. The vast numbers of onlookers, pushing in on each other, rapidly became a calamity within itself. Ambulances experienced great difficulty getting in or out. Rescue workers had to struggle to get through the crowds. Vital rescue equipment was smashed under the mass of feet. Seeing how the behavior of the crowd was delaying the rescue operation, and possibly costing the lives of victims in dire need of immediate attention, Governor Alfred Driscoll called in the New Jersey National Guard for crowd control. The Guardsmen stood side by side, arms linked, forming a human chain, after which the rescue and recovery efforts moved forward at a rapid pace. 

The whole area was lit with acetylene torches and countless flashlights could be seen bouncing about as the rescuers searched for anyone still clinging to life. When a survivor was found, a call went out for assistance. The rescuers would work in a group to chop, cut, or pry away any obstructions that might be pinning the victim, then they would be loaded onto a stretcher and carried down the ladders to the street. 

Some victims were able to leave the wreck by themselves, whether they had received medical treatment and been released or had been uninjured. Many people living near the crash site opened their homes to these stunned and shocked individuals. They were offered food, warm blankets, and most importantly for some - the use of telephones. They needed to call home to assure their families that they were alive and to find transportation home. 

As it became apparent that the number of dead would be high, a place had to be found to store the bodies until identifications could be made. There was no place large enough that could accommodate the huge number of bodies being pulled from the wreckage. It was decided that the garage at the Woodbridge Fire Department would serve as a temporary morgue, but the idea of laying bodies on the dirty floor of a garage was repugnant. The problem was solved when a local butcher donated large rolls of waxed brown paper. As each body was brought into the garage, a sheet of the brown paper was unrolled and the blood-spattered workers gently placed the body on the paper. Then another sheet of paper was cut and laid over the body.  Witnesses described how “the feet of the dead sprawled limp, uncovered by the paper shrouds.” 

Some of the bodies brought into the morgue were so severely mutilated that it took hours to identify them, and then only by an article of clothing or a personal belonging. As word of the morgue’s location spread, terrified family and friends of anyone who was supposed to be on the train that evening lined up outside, hoping against hope that their loved one would not be lying on the floor. 

One of the last living victims to be freed, his body partially crushed, found trapped under one of the heavy steel wheels that had been ripped from one of the coaches. The rescue and recovery continued nonstop until the last body had been removed from the wreckage. It took over seven hours. The National Guardsmen stayed to watch over the site throughout the night to prevent looting and keep souvenir hunters from climbing on the wreck and getting hurt. 

The day after the crash, the FBI opened an investigation looking for evidence of sabotage. Finding none, the case was closed. 

The Pennsylvania Railroad (PPR) conducted its own investigation and laid the entire blame at the feet of Engineer Joseph Fitzsimmons. The PRR was accepting no culpability, even though they had failed to install any yellow warning lights to signal a change in speed ahead, or to signal an unexpected change in the track conditions, such as a shift of 50 feet and a new temporary trestle. 

The Interstate Commerce Commission was ordered to make an investigation into the cause of the wreck.  A public hearing was convened the day after the crash. A string of witnesses including PRR employees, passengers, expert engineers and community members who witnessed the crash. Fault was found with the operational practices of the PRR. New rules and guidelines were put in place in order to reduce the possibility of a repeat accident of this kind.

The Middlesex County prosecutor’s office found the fault lay with the PRR for the accident. It was discovered that the PRR had a company safety rule that yellow signals were to be installed at all go-slow areas, regardless of paper notices posted in the offices. It was further discovered that the PRR branch that operated along the north Jersey Shore had a practice of ignoring the rule.  The assistant prosecutor voiced outrage that the PRR was using Fitzsimmons as a scapegoat. He brought 85 counts of manslaughter against the PRR. However, the charges were later dropped when it was determined that the cost of the court proceedings would bankrupt the county. In the end, they agreed to an out-of-court settlement.

A year after the accident, the bridge had been rebuilt and all debris, wreckage, and evidence of the crash had been removed and the trains were “back on track.”  In preparation for the anniversary of the crash, a group of survivors requested that the rush hour train would stop at the site of the crash just before 6:00 p.m. for a brief ceremony to commemorate the loss of life. Administrators at the PRR denied the request. Instead, the group stood at the rear of the train and threw out a spray of 85 flowers onto the track as they neared the crash site -- one flower for each life that was lost. 

But this is not the end of the story. According to legend, there is a haunting that has occurred at the site where the train plunged off the trestle…

The story of “The Broker” was adapted from a story by Rene Kruse in the book A PALE HORSE WAS DEATH by Troy Taylor and Rene Kruse. The ending of the account is a ghost story about the site of the crash… and you can see the story in the book. Print editions of A PALE HORSE WAS DEATH is available from the website or you can get digital editions on Kindle and Nook from Amazon.com and Barnes and Noble.