Hurricane

n 1938 it was a hurricane and tidal wave that put amateur radio to the test--a tropical hurricane, the first in 150 years, that came screaming over New England, bringing death and destruction. Over Long Island and into Connecticut and Rhode Island swept the shrieking, churning vortex of high-speed air. Across Long Island and inland along an unfamiliar route the storm center sped, its cross-country velocity the swiftest ever recorded--forty-five miles per hour. In the storm gusts of ninety--one hundred--even more miles per hour demolished flimsy structures, lifted roofs and steeples, snapped and uprooted hundreds of thousands of trees.

In the little town of Westerly, R.I., the rain and wind swept houses, churches, people into the engulfing tidal wave. Trees crashed. Debris came flying through the air. Power, telephone, and telegraph wires went down.

"And in all that maelstrom of terror," one press report stated, "there was only one voice--one feeble radio spark--to call for help and spread the news of disaster."

That voice was amateur radio station W1BDS. Its owner--William E. Burgess--was acclaimed by the five distinguished judges the Paley Award winner for 1938 because of exceptional performance during that time of crisis.

Will Burgess is like many another ham--a quiet, unassuming lad, successful in his job, happy and contented with his family and his radio. He was twenty-nine years old when the hurricane struck in 1938. For ten years he had been active in amateur radio, had progressed from a neophyte's makeshifts to a powerful, modern station that brought the world to his door.

Upon graduation from Chapman Technical High School in New London, Conn., his home town, he became a clerk in Montgomery Ward & Co.'s New London store. After a time the company made him manager of the appliances department in its Westerly store.

He was in the store when the front of the gale struck Westerly that Wednesday afternoon. The wind blew out the windows of the store. Panicky people went screaming up and down the aisles.

At first Will Burgess did not realize just what was happening. A high wind--yes, but there had been high winds before. The talk began to circulate. It was more than a high wind this time, they said. It was a hurricane. The shore community was rapidly becoming a mass of wreckage. Trees were blowing down by the hundreds outside.

Before an hour had passed Burgess realized that this was a disaster of incalculable proportions. From that it was but a step to the realization that this meant a communication emergency. And at such a time his services would be needed.

He collected a quantity of dry cells and "B" batteries and a large storage battery and started for home. The wind was so strong he could lean against it. His eyes were blinded by salt spray. Trees fell behind and in front of him as he struggled up the street.

When Burgess got as far as the police station he encountered another amateur, George Marshall, W1KRQ. He enlisted George's aid, and together they struggled to carry the equipment up the Granite Street hill against the storm to Burgess' home. It was a long way, and progress was slow. Eventually they succeeded in commandeering a South County truck and proceeded in it. But they had only gone a few yards before the way was blocked by fallen trees. Over lawns and up banks they forced the straining vehicle. They would go a block, and a tree would crash to earth in front of them, only to be followed by another falling in the rear. They made a long detour on a dirt road, trying to avoid the flying debris and trees, but time after time death almost struck them down.

Before they were much more than halfway home the way was completely blocked. The truck could go no farther. They carried the batteries the rest of the way.

When they reached his home Will found that the garage that supported one end of his antennas had been swept away by the hurricane. By then it was pitch dark, and the wind was still blowing at an estimated sixty-five miles per hour. Burgess set out with a coil of wire and a pair of pliers to put up a makeshift antenna. On his way in from the yard the pliers were whipped from his hand by the wind. They disappeared. He did not find them until two days later--embedded deep in the trunk of an elm tree near by.

So strong was the wind and so dangerous the flying debris that in order to keep the antenna up it was finally necessary to wrap the wire around the house.

The next problem was the transmitter. Obviously, there was no power available, and the regular station would not work from batteries. Working against time, they rebuilt the equipment to utilize the batteries so laboriously carried from the store. Marshall made his perilous way home to get needed parts. For two endless hours Burgess labored by the feeble light of a kerosene lamp, bulding up a simple one-tube transmitter for battery operation. The windows of his radio "shack"--a tiny room just off the kitchen of his modest frame house--had been blown out by the storm, and the rain poured in. His three-months-old baby, Jane Gail, screamed in fear as the house shook and rocked on its foundations.

But at last they were ready. Instead of the ordinary six hundred watts of power of W1BDS they had less than five watts from the tiny battery transmitter and its receiving-type tube. Even the receiver was a makeshift battery-operated affair.

His heart in his mouth, Burgess sent out his first call--"QRR QRR de W1BDS." Anxiously he listened for a reply. There was none. He tried again.

"Hear anything, Will?"

Burgess pulled the headphones from his ears and sat back in his chair. "Too much QRM--there's a hundred stations on in there."

"They don't know there's an emergency on, I guess."

"Yeah. Look--why don't we try moving up into the 'phone band? Sure, there'll be QRM there, too, but our code will be such a novelty someone will be sure to notice us an listen."

"Great idea, Will. Go to it!"

Enthusiasm restored, they hastily made the needed changes. Another distress call--another QRR.

And this time there was an answer. W2CQD in Roselle, N.J., answered the call. But the faltering signal was too weak in New Jersey to be intelligible, and W2CQD had conflicting schedules, so he turned over the contact to Clark Rodimon at W1SZ in West Hartford. This station provided W1BDS with an open channel continuously for the next five days.

There is no record in the message file at W1BDS of the first message that was sent. There was no time to write a message--the need as already confirmed by local Red Cross officials was too urgent. So Burgess pounded out a curt, general account of the disaster in his own words. Something to the effect that a hurricane had struck--hundreds of homes had been destroyed--help was needed immediately. . . .

Meanwhile, neighbors had got word to Red Cross officials downtown that radio contact was being established. The second message was addressed to the national headquarters of the Red Cross in Washington--a brief plea for aid, signed only "Westerly Red Cross." It was promptly relayed to Washington by radiotelephone through the West Hartford station.

But then a hitch developed. The Red Cross in Washington had no knowledge of the hurricane disaster up to this time; this was the first message to reach the outside world telling the extent of the catastrophe. The officials at Washington doubted the authenticity of the message because it lacked the required personal signature and refused to accept it. At W1BDS Burgess could hear Roy Corderman, the Washington amateur, talking with Red Cross headquarters on the telephone, heard them refuse to accept the message. Back from Washington it came--back to Westerly. There the name of the local chairman was added to the signature, and this time the message was accepted.

The Red Cross swung into action. A representitive left Washington immediately to take charge of relief work in the area. The vast, well-oiled machinery of organized disaster relief began revolving.

During the next fifty-six hours a continuous watch was maintained at W1BDS with the aid of Gerald W. Mason, W1KRF, and Edward A. Dolan, W1KCG. Burgess himself left his transmitter only once in that time--and then only for a brief snatch of two hours' sleep.

His home became a center for the relief activity. It was invaded by Red Cross officials, boy scouts, the police, reporters and tearful survivors seeking to send messages to their loved ones. Scores of people crowded in, occupying all the rooms--some dazed, unable to recall the names and addresses of their people, some half dressed, minus shoes or other articles of clothing. Message after message poured from the station--names of Westerly's dead, calls for boats to save those marooned in their homes, orders for bread, workers, power, serum, planes and caskets. For three days that simple frame house was Westerly's only contact with the outside world. Some eight hundred messages of life and death were handled during this period, all of an official or urgent nature, representing every word that went into or out of the city.

At the end of fifty-six hours power became available in downtown Westerly. The South County Power Company suggested that the station be transferred to the company's office. When this was done it was night again, and another antenna was erected in pitch blackness. For a time the station continued to operate at the South County office.

But friction over message priority developed, and so they moved again--this time to George Marshall's home near the center of the city where power was also available. In the meantime other local amateur stations resumed operation, a well-equipped portable outfit brought in from Providence with a full crew of operators was doing a splendid job, and the initial load was beginning to lighten. It was not until Sunday night, however, that the crew at W1BDS/W1KRQ were able to close the station and go to bed.

In the days following the storm there was a deluge of incoming inquiries concerning the safety of friends and relatives in the Westerly region. It was impossible at first to obtain the desired information because of the absence of local telephone service, but Burgess was determined that anxiety should be relieved wherever possible. He persuaded the authorities to provide him with a list of all the known dead or injured. As inquiries accumulated at the West Hartford station W1SZ, the outlet for W1BDS, the names were read off and then checked against this list. Over a thousand names were checked in this way. In Hartford station W1SZ, the outlet for W1BDS, the names were read off and then checked against this list. Over a thousand names were checked in this way. In one hundred thirty-six cases it was necessary to reply, "Dead."

Following the emergency praise was showered on W1BDS by a long list of local relief and municipal officials, by relatives and friends of Westerly residents, by such persons as former Attorney General Homer Cummings, Secretary of Commerce Hopkins, the director of Disaster Relief of the American Red Cross and others.

It was Sunday night when Burgess and his fellow workers got to bed for their first night's sleep in four days. But when Monday morning dawned Will Burgess was back at the store--on the dot. Other employees were enthusiastic in their praise; the whole of Westerly knew of the heroic performance, it seemed.

But Will was not impressed. "Aw, it wasn't anything," he said. "Any amateur would have done the same thing. Otherwise, he wouldn't be a ham."