SS Richard Montgomery Matter
(Silvertown explosion 1917)
As you leave the West End of London, travelling eastwards, past St. Paul's, the
city, and the Tower, you come at length to Dockland, where the muddy waters of
the Thames are churned continually by boats of every size and nationality, and
where tall masts break the skyline, towering high above the roof-tops. The West
End of this greatest city in the world has changed in recent years; even the
city itself has altered so much that men returning from abroad are amazed; but
Dockland is still as it always was.
Fences that once were of wood are now of iron, concrete by-pass roads have
stolen traffic from the smaller streets and alleys, but that is all the
difference. Dockland's houses - hundreds of thousands of them - sprawl aimlessly
across the hundreds of flat acres. Two storeys high, of uniform yellow-brown
bricks and blackened tiles, they stretch in seemingly unending rows, between
waterfront, railway lines and factories. As they are now, so were they twenty
years ago.
Twenty years ago, therefore, the time at which the events of this story
occurred, life at Silvertown was much the same as it is to-day - except for the
fact that the world was at war, and the stamp of officialdom was on everything.
This was particularly noticeable at Silvertown and the rest of Dockland,
because, being virtually the gateway to the city and England beyond, more
stringent watch was kept on all activities there than anywhere else. Dockland is
also factory-land, and was then, as now, the storehouse for supplies of every
conceivable type. One factory in particular was quietly, but none the less
constantly, under extra supervision, and that was the Brunner Mond Chemical
Works.
Few people knew, however, or would have bothered much if they had known, the
varied activities which went on behind those brick walls. Like so many other
buildings, it was just a factory, and like so many other factories it was making
something or other for the Government. It spelt employment, even as the plywood
factory on its one side, and the oil stores on the other side. It meant no more
to the passersby than the flour mills and silos opposite. Only the workers
themselves knew the full nature of the materials they were handling, but after
many long months of the same work they were too accustomed to it to find it an
interesting topic of conversation. Perhaps if they had been munition workers in
the extreme sense of the word, handling shells, bullets and bombs, they might
have thought more of it; but T.N.T. and nitro-glycerine, as such, is quite
innocuous to look at. Besides, on that same patch of ground, between the North
Woolwich Road and the river, under the same office management, and only a few
paces distant, was another building where other workers from the same families
were handling common or garden soda.
Nevertheless, apart from the watchmen, special police were on duty more often
than not, in that tall brick building at Crescent Wharf; and although the
workers came and went freely and easily through the gates in the dock fence, any
stranger seeking to do the same would have met with a very firm if polite
refusal. Had he managed to pass through the gates and to peer, no matter how
innocently, into the railway trucks on the siding, he would probably have spent
the next week endeavouring to satisfy the suspicions of three or four Government
departments; for in those trucks, nearly always loaded and awaiting their
engine, might have been found sufficient high explosive to destroy half London.
The armies at the front were continually calling for their deadly supplies.
Factory after factory was converted to supply those needs, and Brunner Mond's
Chemical Works was one of those factories.
Such is habit, however, that the operatives, women for the most part, thought
little of the hazardous nature of their work. By night and day, according to the
shifts they were working, they flocked through the gates at the end of their
toil, dispersing gradually as they vanished down the narrow roads opposite, to
eat, sleep, and laugh beneath the maze of roofs which cover Silvertown. One had
to sleep, even though the maroon might sound at any moment, uttering its harsh
warning of danger from above. Silvertown, like the rest of London, was used to
air raids.
The day shifts had left the factories on Friday, January 19, 1917. The clocks in
the neighbourhood pointed to various times between 6.30 and 6.45 p.m., and
groups of workers from the many different buildings stood about in the darkened
roads, chatting idly of the war, the children, and other topics of the day. But
it was a cold, dull night, and they did not linger as long as usual. Other
workers, hurrying past them to their night work, reminded them of the
cheerlessness of the evening, and of the comforts at home. At the chemical works
very few of the staff remained, with the exception of the watchman, the chemists
in the laboratory and the chief chemist, Dr. Angel, who was busy in his office.
Suddenly a small explosion was heard, apparently in the top storey of the
chemical works. It was not a big bang, and not many people heard it. Amongst
those who did, however, was the watchman, and he ran to the top of the building
to see what had happened. It is believed that he then conveyed the terrible news
to Dr. Angel. It is certain that in a few seconds Dr. Angel telephoned for the
fire brigade. It might have been the fusing of an electric wire that caused that
first explosion, or it might have been the chemical deterioration of the
material itself. No one knew, and there was certainly not time to think of such
trivialities. Dotted about in the different rooms, in various stages of chemical
make-up, were more batches of the explosive material, and fire was spreading
fast.
The local fire station happened to be in the same road as the chemical works,
and almost before Dr. Angel had replaced the receiver the engine was being got
out, and some of the men were running on their way. Those who were in the
building needed no second warning of their peril. They dropped whatever they
were doing and ran for their lives. Dr. Angel, however, with the watchman and
several others who felt it their duty to remain, rushed for the emergency coils
of hose, connecting them to the hydrants. Even as they were doing this, while
the fire spread around and above them with increasing rapidity, the firemen had
arrived outside and were also running out hose-lines to the water mains in the
street.
Explosion followed explosion as they struggled with their task - minor
explosions, more in the nature of flare-ups, as batch after batch of unrefined
explosive mixture met the heat of the flames; and with each explosion the
position became more perilous. Within three minutes of the first alarm the
flames had spread to the roof. Two minutes later they were licking the walls of
the ground floor and basement. The glare was already lighting up the road, along
which some fifty odd people were racing to safety. Leaving his desperate work
for a brief instant, Dr. Angel ran to the doorway to see the last of the workers
clear of the building. One of his assistant chemists implored him to leave.
"No," replied Dr. Angel. "The firemen are here, and I must go back to help them
fight the flames." He remained for an instant, a solitary figure outlined in the
terrible red glow, watching while the firemen reached for the water cocks, and
then he turned and ran back towards the storerooms, where, as he knew full well,
only a terrific and desperate fight could save what was inside. He knew also, as
did the firemen who had answered the call so promptly, what to expect if the
flames won that last battle. Stored away in the lower rooms were vast quantities
of high explosive; and with every second that passed, increasing the
temperature, that explosive came nearer and nearer to detonation point. But all
efforts were futile. The building was doomed. Only seven and a half minutes
after the first alarm the end came. Before the firemen were able to turn on the
water, before the last of the workers had run helter-skelter down the road,
before even Dr. Angel and his brave assistants had a chance to do a thing, it
happened. At 6.51 the chemical works was streaked with red and orange flames. At
6.52 there were no chemical works. With a blinding, crashing roar, and a blaze
of vivid, searing fire the entire building vanished.
Five or six miles distant, in the West End of London, the last of the office
workers were leaving for their homes when their attention was suddenly drawn to
a dull red glow in the eastern sky. "Fire," said a few, and after a moment or
two resumed their journeys. But those who watched, a trifle more curious,
suddenly saw the glare grow brighter. From dull red it changed to scarlet; and
from scarlet it became salmon coloured. Those who had gone on halted again to
stare in amazement. It must indeed be a tremendous fire to spread so rapidly.
Where could it be? And then, even as they watched, the glow became a yellow
glare. Buildings became detached from the darkness and stood out against the
skyline. A gasp went up from a thousand lips. But the alarmed watchers had seen
only the preliminary. In another second the whole of their London became as
bright as day, as the sky was lit with a mighty incandescence. For a few brief
and terrifying instants it was as though the sun had appeared from nowhere; and
then, just as suddenly, it was dark again. Impossible, of course... but the
people waited in silence. What they were waiting for, none could have answered;
but something had to happen. The air was as full of tension as the sky had been
full of light. Something had to follow such tension. It came, not as the noise
of an explosion, but as a dreadful thud which struck terror into the hearts of
all who heard it. From the windows high above glass tinkled and crashed to the
pavements and roads.
Zeppelins? What on this earth was it? Was it the end of London - the end of all
things? And even as the thud welled up and sank back into the silence of the
hushed night, the ground rocked and trembled. A wind - more: a long, ghostly
sigh - wafted through the streets, and it was all over. Still staring eastwards,
the people saw the unmistakable glow of fire spreading once more. But there was
no more sound. The worst had happened. Only the aftermath remained.
Not only London was shocked by this catastrophe. As far as thirty miles away
people saw the great flame. Rushing along freakish paths of its own choosing,
the mighty explosion wave tore on across the country, rattling doors and
windows, waking up birds and beasts alike as it passed. At Grantham, 107 miles
distant, pheasants screamed raucously in the branches of trees; cocks crowed as
at daybreak. At King's Lynn, in Norfolk, 87 miles from Silvertown as the crow
flies, windows were broken.
It is utterly impossible to portray anything approaching a true picture of those
few ghastly seconds at Silvertown, at the spot where the mighty forces tore
loose. Few explosions, carefully planned and controlled by engineers, can have
had one-tenth such force behind them. Here, in one building, were literally tons
of the deadliest explosives known. In one split second all that unmeasured power
was blasted loose. Hurtling outwards in all directions, it tore down everything
in its path. Striking downwards, it shattered and scattered the very foundations
of the building. Deeper than the foundations, it tore at the iron-hard soil,
digging its vicious way a full twenty feet and more into the ground, flinging
broadcast everything it encountered - from the minutest particles of dust to
lumps of metal many tons in weight. The factory, a large building of several
storeys and heavy machinery, was blasted out of existence in an instant. The
houses surrounding it went down like a pack of cards - not one, but scores of
them. One instant they were rows of comfortable homes, housing laughing, living
people - men, women and sleeping children. Another instant, and everything
within an area of 300 by 400 yards was reduced to mounds of shapeless rubble,
silent only because those who survived, buried, were too numbed with the shock
to cry in their agony. Outside this area were more houses, upper storeys swept
clean away. As though directed by some evil hand, the forces of the terrible
explosion spread through the district, striking here, missing there, shattering
somewhere else. Dead lay in the roadways, injured crawled along the pavements.
Minutes passed before the inhabitants of the surrounding districts realised what
had happened. Those whose main windows faced the scene of the disaster saw the
glare and the flash round the edges of drawn blinds. Others saw nothing, had no
warning. The ground trembled beneath them, walls rocked and cracked, china and
pictures fell from shelves and nails. Windows blew inwards with the blast which
followed, and people were hurled across rooms and passages. Rushing out into the
open night, they were horrified to see the sky filled with fire and black with
debris. Then, like some gargantuan hail-storm, this debris began to fall,
tearing away roofs, striking down the terrified folk as they stood, killing,
maiming, blinding.
"I was sitting in my little box when the explosion happened," said the watchman
of one of the neighbouring factories, who escaped by sheer miraculous luck. "I
saw a blinding light, and a moment later about half a ton of iron crashed down
from above, within a yard of me. Then the entire sky seemed full of falling wood
and iron in masses. Something hit me." He continued: "Presently I came to - it
can only have been a few minutes - and I found myself under a sort of shelter of
wooden planks. I crawled out, unhurt except for a scratch on my forehead."
But this piece of iron was as nothing compared with some of the immense bits of
machinery tossed like feathers by freaks of explosive strength. A boiler from
the bowels of the factory was hurled into a field a quarter of a mile away. It
weighed between three and four tons! Another piece of metal, mangled machinery
weighing more than half a ton, was sent crashing through a shop front two
hundred yards away, killing the proprietor, who was working inside.... Yet
another boiler was lifted by the blast, over several rows of what had been
houses, and dashed almost undamaged into the bedroom of a house. It was as
though it had been left there during building operations. Barring the hole
through which it tore its way, the house was untouched.
All telephonic communication in surrounding districts was cut off by the shock
of the explosion, and consequently it was some considerable time before the
exact scene of the tragedy could be fixed from outside the stricken area. Those
in the immediate vicinity who were uninjured, and sufficiently recovered from
the shock, hastened to the spot to lend the assistance which they knew must be
urgently needed. If they had been frightened themselves, however, they saw real
panic on their way. Crazed with fear, many people did not stop to reason what
had happened. They were incapable of coherent thought. They did not even know
what manner of disaster had fallen upon them. They came in their hundreds,
running, stumbling, along the dimly lighted roads. Grabbing up whatever had been
nearest to them - food, money, clothing - they had rushed out into the night.
Their one idea was to get away from Silvertown, away from London, away from
danger. They could not have helped had they stayed. They were too shaken. And so
the others passed them as they ran, some stopping to ask, without result,
exactly what had happened, others not needing to ask, because they knew only too
well.
At first many had thought it was a Zeppelin raid, but one look at the strangely
crowded sky had told them the truth. "Good God! There goes Brunner Mond's!" was
the muttered sentence which fell from a hundred dazed lips; for many knew what
that factory contained, and many had actually discussed what would happen if by
a stroke of ill-luck a bomb should hit it. The watchman, who perished, had
voiced his opinions on that score a bare few days beforehand. The policeman on
duty by the gates, Police Constable Greenoff realised the terrible danger when
first he saw the fire. He might easily have run to safety. Instead, he ran
towards the factory to shout his warning to all inside it. The full blast of the
terrible wave caught him as he ran.
He was found amongst the other injured and dead almost as soon as they arrived
at the spot where the factory had stood. He was crawling along the ground, hurt
and completely dazed with what he had been through. Friends took him to one of
the comparatively undamaged houses, and after a while he was able to sit up in a
chair. The doctor who was called to him attended to others in the room who were,
apparently, more grievously injured; but even as he spoke to his friends,
complaining of a strange nausea, they saw with horror that the side of his head
was dreadfully wounded. Though the doctor ordered him to hospital at once, there
was no hope for him. There never had been. He died two days later; but King
George V. conferred the King's Police Medal upon him for his bravery.
Such a scene of chaos and wreckage as has never been in this country, before or
since, met the gaze of those who arrived to help. Where the factory itself had
stood, there was nothing but a yawning crater, fully a hundred yards across and
from twenty to thirty feet deep. Roads, houses, and in fact every foot of space
within six acres, was one tangled mass of debris - wood, iron, bricks and
mortar. The explosion had hurled vast masses of burning material in all
directions, starting new fire wherever it landed. The flour mills and other
factories were ignited, and by the time the first rescuers arrived the dancing
flames from these buildings were illuminating the whole of the devastated area.
From a damaged gasometer a pillar of flame played like a fountain, reaching up
to the clouds above; and as the greedy tongues of fire gained a hold upon their
new fuel, billowing clouds of steam and smoke rolled out and across the stricken
district, completing the picture of hell and misery.
It was impossible to tell how many had perished. It was even beyond speculation.
It might be a thousand, or it might be a hundred. Hundreds were buried beneath
the wreckage of their homes; no one knew how many had been blasted into
fragments by the explosion. The fire engine was a twisted and useless thing. The
men who had tried so bravely to put out the initial blaze never succeeded in
turning on the water. Two of them died where they stood, and none escaped
serious injury. Working feverishly, men and women scraped and clawed at the
rubble, struggling with beams and broken furniture, to free the trapped and
injured. Doors, shutters, beds, barrows, almost everything was used for
temporary stretchers. Doctors and nurses began to arrive, running hither and
thither through the wreckage, kneeling to attend the injured where they lay.
There was no time to attend to the dead: others were dying. Presently the clang
of ambulance bells was heard, and in their dozens the more seriously injured
were removed from the nightmare surroundings.
For hours into the night the tall buildings of the flour mills spouted flames
and sparks; but long after the blaze died down, and long after the first streaks
of daylight reached out over the incredible shambles, rescuers were still at
work, digging for those whom they hoped were alive.
Saturday dawned, cold and drear, and if the scene had been terrible during the
darkness, it assumed a new and more poignant ghastliness in the daylight. It
seemed impossible, looking over that dreadful debris, those mounds of rubble
which had been houses, that hole which had been a mighty factory, it seemed
impossible that any one within a mile of the disaster could have escaped
horrible death. But even while the first rescuers still worked, survivors were
telling amazing stories of miraculous escapes.
"I was at work in the office when I heard women shrieking," said one. "I came to
the door and saw the high explosive building well alight. Somehow,
providentially, I was able to get away without a scratch; though others running
along the same road were knocked down beside me by the fragments which flew in
all directions. The force of the explosion seemed to take a curious zigzag
course, and it must have missed me, though I could not have been more than 200
yards away."
"The house fell away from me, leaving me unhurt," said another woman who was
standing at her front door when the explosion occurred.
But for the most part, those in or near their houses suffered the most from the
effects of the detonation. Rocking for a second on their foundations, they
collapsed, burying every one inside them. Many were killed outright, and many
more died of their injuries before they could be extricated. Early that Saturday
morning troops were drafted into the district to assist in the rescue work, also
to be at hand to control the crowds which began to converge upon the scene from
all parts of the country. A cordon was placed completely round the area, and at
points along every road the ever-growing army of curious people were met by
policemen, who turned them back. The roads were crammed, none the less, and for
two and a half miles on every side it was with the greatest difficulty that
relief workers, doctors and ambulances made their way through. Coster-carts,
trams, trains, bicycles, and buses all bore their full loads of would-be
sightseers, but only those who had legitimate business in the stricken area were
admitted; and, indeed, theirs was not a task to be envied. Many of them were
returning to homes which they knew did not exist any more. Beneath the jumbled
heaps of brick and mortar were their pitiful treasures, and pieces of furniture,
all that they possessed in the world. They were going back to see what they
could save.
By the evening of that first day following the explosion there was still no
telling how many had lost their lives. Though the soldiers had been digging
hard, for hours on end, they were still coming upon victims of the disaster,
some unharmed, some dead, some so grievously injured that death was almost
certain. Already it was known that some 500 people had been treated in the
streets by private practitioners, and at one hospital alone no fewer than 300
received aid. Accurate news was scarce, however, and the censor had the last say
before figures were published. On the morning following the explosion only the
shortest and vaguest of paragraphs appeared in the Press. Issued by the Press
Bureau of Ministry of Munitions at 11.40 p.m. on the fateful evening, the
statement was absolutely uninformative; in fact, any one living within fifty
miles of London could have told the Ministry of Munitions considerably more:
"The Ministry of Munitions regrets to announce that an explosion occurred this
evening at a munitions factory in the neighbourhood of London.
"It is feared that the explosion was attended by a considerable loss of life and
damage to property."
A further official report, issued on Saturday, the day after the explosion,
stated that between 30 and 40 bodies had been recovered, and that approximately
100 had been seriously injured; but no mere figures could tell the tale of
misery and suffering. At least 1,000 people were homeless, and almost every one
of them had some relative or friend amongst the killed and injured. In some
cases whole families had been split up in the panic which followed, and it was
not until some days afterwards that they knew for certain which of them were
safe. Mothers searched frantically for their children amongst the debris, and
after giving them up for dead, were relieved beyond measure to learn that they
were unharmed, or only slightly injured, having spent the night - several nights
in some cases - in a kindly stranger's house.
By Monday, although the soldiers continued to dig, the worst was known.
Forty-four men, eleven women, and fourteen children had either been killed
outright or had died in the various hospitals from their injuries. Amongst the
more seriously injured were nineteen men, thirty-four women, and nineteen
children. And, in addition, 155 men, 102 women, and 71 children were suffering
from lesser injuries. A death roll of 69 persons, with 72 on the danger list;
and, in all, a total of four hundred and sixty-nine on the records as having
been involved.
But, terrible as this figure may appear, it was nothing short of a miracle that
the death roll was not three times that size. A visitor from Norfolk, who had
been told that the shock he felt came from the Silvertown explosion, was highly
sceptical until he saw the scene of the calamity. Then he just stared in silent
amazement. Many soldiers of the rescue party who had "been through the mill" at
the front admitted that nothing they had seen out there carne anywhere near to
approaching the terrible spectacle of devastation. The Ministry of Munitions
also announced on the Monday that they "Hoped that all people in various houses
and factories had now been accounted for." That was three full days after the
explosion.
The most pitiful and heartbreaking scenes were witnessed by those who carried on
with the grim rescue work, as mothers, wives, and husbands sought vainly for
dear ones who were missing. One woman of at least sixty years was found digging
about in a heap of bricks, weeping as she worked. A policeman took the spade
from her, asking her what she was looking for.
"My son," she replied. "My son. This was my home, and my only son is buried
here."
She was led away to a neighbour's house where they promised to look after her;
but a short while later they again found her pulling at the rubble with her
hands. So certain was she that her boy lay buried beneath the debris that they
called over some soldiers and told them to dig - just to satisfy the poor,
half-demented woman. And, after a few minutes' work they found him, unconscious
and seriously injured.
Another woman, who came running from her home, child in arms, at the alarm of
"fire!" met the full blast of the explosion as she left the door. Her child was
torn from her grasp and hurled from her, and the house collapsed upon it,
burying it deep beneath the wreckage. For some long time the mother lay stunned,
and then awoke to find she was alone. Feverishly she began to claw at the
debris, mad with anxiety. How long she toiled, neither she nor any one else will
ever know, but when they found her, well after midnight, she was lying
insensible beside the tangled masonry. She had reached her child, only to find
it dead; and four of her fingers were broken from the effort of her terrible
task.
Mr. Lloyd George, the Prime Minister, visited the stricken area on the second
day, together with his youngest son and daughter, in order to see that
everything possible was being done to alleviate the suffering. The Ministry of
Munitions notified the local authorities that they would make themselves
responsible for any money spent on emergency measures, such as housing those who
were rendered homeless, and feeding the hungry who had lost all they possessed.
A fund was started for the relief of sufferers, and amongst the first to
subscribe to it were, King George V., who gave £250, Queen Mary, who gave £100,
and Queen Alexandra, who also gave £100.
An official report of the disaster, received from the Home Secretary on March
27, included the following details:
That, the explosion was preceded by a fire which broke out either in the melt
pot, or in a corrugated iron structure at the top of the building immediately
above the melt pot.
That, the fire rapidly gained a fierce hold, and as the melt pot contained a
large quantity of explosive material in a state of confinement, it is possible
that the initial detonation took place there.
That, the evidence available is not sufficient to determine with certainty how
the fire was started, but all accidental causes presenting any degree of
probability may be eliminated except the two following:
(a) A detonation spark produced by friction or impact.
(b) Spontaneous ignition, due to decomposition of material in or about the
melt-pot.
That, the possibility of the disaster having been maliciously caused, cannot be
disregarded: but searching investigation by the police and other authorities
failed to discover any evidence which would warrant such a conclusion, and no
suspicion fell on any employee or other person. (There was much talk at the time
of espionage and sabotage, and many of the workers were inclined to blame the
disaster upon some unknown enemy in their midst.)
That, the casualties were as follows: - Sixty-nine persons were killed on the
spot. Ninety-eight were seriously injured, of whom four have since died in
hospital, and 328 were slightly injured. In addition the Committee were informed
by the police that 500 or 600 persons who received cuts and bruises were treated
in the streets by private practitioners. Of the ten men belonging to the shift
at work in the building, nine were killed and one escaped, but of the 10 women
at work, only one lost her life.
That, the Committee's attention was called to the gallant conduct of Dr. Angel,
the chemist in charge of the works; Mr. George Wenborne, the leading male hand
on the shift, and Police Constable Greenoff, who was on duty outside the works.
These three men bravely remained at their posts when they could have escaped,
and lost their lives in their endeavour to save the lives of others by warning
them of the dangers of an explosion.
It was not until six days after the explosion that the dismembered body of Dr.
Angel was recovered from the ruins, and only by means of the shirt he was
wearing was Mrs. Angel able to identify her husband's remains. For their extreme
bravery King George conferred the Edward Medal of the first class upon both Dr.
Angel and Mr. Wenborne, and, as has been mentioned, Police Constable Greenoff
was honoured with the King's Police Medal.
Within about a week of the disaster, the soldiers had finished their gruesome
and difficult task of digging and clearing away the debris, and plans were
draftee! out for immediate rebuilding. The explosion occurred on January 19,
1917, and on January 23, a report was presented to the Prime Minister by the
first Commissioners of Works. The very next day Mr. Lloyd George ordered the
immediate procedure of renovations, and the replacement of lost and destroyed
property. On the 25th January a staff was sent to Silvertown to prepare a
schedule of dilapidations. Photographs were taken, and authority was received
for expenditure. By February 1, all dangerous building were either shored up or
felled. By February 5, 8,000 men were at work. The debris was cleared away from
about 600 homes, and in spite of very unfavourable weather conditions, about
four thousand pounds worth of work was completed.
Thus, rapidly and precisely the ravages of the disaster were made good. By
February 7, all roofs had been temporarily covered where occupants were still
able to carry on in their damaged homes. By February 26, thirty-eight days after
the accident, the amount spent on work exceeded £31,000, and 792 houses had been
re-roofed and slated. About 120 workers went on strike at this stage, demanding
War Bonus terms, but they were paid off, and new hands engaged. Nearly two
months after the calamity thousands of workmen were still at the task of making
good the havoc. Although some 800 houses had been re-roofed, glazed, and made
weatherproof, practically every home still had to be re-plastered. The cost of
the work had mounted up to £55,000, but so great was the damage that little more
than a hundred houses were turned over to their occupants as complete by that
time.
Such figures tell, more plainly than any description of the explosion itself,
how ghastly was the damage. And to-day, twenty years after that terrible night
in Silvertown, one may still see blatant reminders of the mighty blast. The
remains of that huge crater still gape in the soil. Large cracks are in many
walls, and the local inhabitants need walk only a few yards to point out a dozen
or more of the houses which were built as rapidly in the ensuing weeks. But, far
worse than cracked walls, there are many alive in Silvertown to-day who still
suffer from the terrible shock of the calamity. Lucky as they know themselves to
be, their nerves were shattered that day, and for as long as they live they can
never forget what they went through.
Speak to any score of residents in that district, above the age of thirty, and
you will be sure to meet at least half a dozen to whom the tragedy is still as
vivid as the night it occurred. Although official figures gave official lists of
those killed, it can never be said for certain that those figures are complete.
There are tales in the world of insurance of life policies that were never
claimed. Some policies took months to settle. Documents were lost. Families were
wiped out. In many cases relatives might have claimed insurance money, but were
unable to do so because they never knew for certain whether policies existed. In
many more cases the big companies went to extreme trouble to seek out relatives
- who were more than surprised to learn that they were beneficiaries.
There were few false claims, however, and extreme honesty was the keynote of
those terrible weeks. People who were asked to estimate their losses, for the
purpose of claiming relief, were often hard put to it to know what to do. One
old woman, widowed by the explosion, was heard to remark:
"But how can I tell what I have lost? Most of my furniture and belongings was of
no real value. Although I was quite happy with it, it was very old. They say
they want to replace it, but then I shall be getting more than I should, shan't
I?"
And that was the general spirit which existed, once the people had recovered
from the catastrophe. During the days of anxiety and nervous tension following
the night of the disaster, those people behaved with bravery and generosity;
their one thought was to help their neighbours whose misfortunes were greater
than their own. After the strain was over they thought only of returning to a
normal life - or a life as normal as the ever-threatening war clouds allowed.
But though Dockland is still the same to-day as it has been for years, there is
still that memory of a great calamity which shook it to its very foundations.
And in years to come, long after the last sufferer has passed on, men and women,
who were children at the time of the tragedy, and too young to understand their
loss, will pause when they pass along the North Woolwich Road. Between them and
the water stands a stone monument, carved with a long list of names. For the
visitor that memorial will always be a point of interest, telling as it does of
one of the greatest explosions of all time. To those who come to it from
Dockland, however, it represents the graveyard of their kin.
From this site: https://oreald.com/b12/ch31.html
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