The Atlantic Refinery Fire of January 21, 1924

This article article was written by John Gombita for this website. It tells of the worst fires in Lawrenceville history. It was posted on October 19, 2008.

In the fall of 2003 our engine company, Pittsburgh Bureau of Fire No.6 Company, responded to the former St. Francis apartment building at 44th Street near Penn Avenue for an elderly woman complaining of difficulty breathing and chest pain. We arrived on the scene in two minutes and found our patient already in the lobby sitting on a couch. She was a very petite woman with pure white hair that was cut and styled short. She had rather pale, wrinkled skin that was speckled with age spots. She was dressed neatly in a big comfy white sweater, corduroy slacks and penny loafers. Garrett Meade had the medic bag and he set about administering oxygen to our patient while I checked her pulse and then put the blood pressure cuff around her frail arm.

Captain Bruce began the routine questioning: “What’s your name ma‘am?” “Phone number?” “Date of birth?”; “What’s the trouble today ma’am?”; “Are you taking any medications?”

I interrupted with “Pulse eighty-five and steady.”

Then Garrett checked in with “Respirations twenty-seven, labored.”

Our patient was also studying us as she answered Bruce’s questions. Her big brown eyes quickly darted from Garrett, to Bruce, and me; and then back around. As I began pumping up the blood pressure cuff she looked up at Bruce and said in a shaky voice “Oh, you’re all firemen?” And Captain Bruce replied, “Yes ma’am, we respond first and then the medics come for transport.” And then she said, “Did you know my brother? He was a fireman too.” Bruce smiled and very courteously replied, “Well ma’am he was probably a lot older than us.” With that she lowered her eyes and with some disappointment said “Oh yes… he was…he died in the oil tank.” All activity stopped among us as we exchanged surprised glances. We all knew of the incident but never really knew any of the details. I stopped pumping the cuff, took the stethoscope out of my ears and said to Bruce “What’s her name?” Bruce looked down at the medical pad and read “Bertha Bollinger, she’s ninety-six years old!”

“Ma’am I’m sorry for your loss.” I said.

“Its ok…it was a long time ago.” she replied through the oxygen mask. We continued treatment of our patient and waited in an uneasy silence, occasionally monitoring her vital signs, until a unit of Pittsburgh Paramedics arrived and relieved us from the scene.

During the short ride back to our quarters at 40th Street and Penn Avenue, we talked among ourselves about the loss of seven firemen at the refinery incident. “How did we lose all those guys in an oil tank?” Garrett asked to no one in particular. Captain Bruce responded with his own question “ Why would they have been on top of a burning oil tank anyway?” We all had read a pamphlet titled “1870-1970 Pittsburgh Fire Department.” The document is a four-page supplement to the one hundred year anniversary book and contains a list of firefighters killed in the line of duty. Names, dates, company numbers, and cause of death of each man were listed. The men killed at the refinery fire had a cause of death stated as “fell in burning oil tank.” In 2003 that’s all we knew about that fire. I thought about Captain Bruce’s question, “Why would guys be on top of a burning oil tank?” The only answer I could think of was “they wouldn’t be on top of a burning oil tank.” It just didn’t make any sense.

That same summer we did an inspection tour of Sun Oil Company’s storage facility located at the site of the old Atlantic Refinery. In the event of a fire our company is the second due engine and first due truck on the first alarm.

Officials from Sun Oil met with us, our Battalion Chief, No.7 Engine company, No.8 Engine and Truck, and the city’s Hazmat Company, No.37 Engine. The plant manager gave us an overview of plant operations, showed us the location of fire extinguishment systems and location of fire hydrants. No longer a refinery it is a simply a filling station for tanker trucks to fill up with gasoline to be distributed throughout Western Pennsylvania. Incredibly, the gasoline is piped to the facility from Philadelphia! There are several huge gasoline storage tanks with piping in, and out of them, which lead to two large filling stations for the gasoline tankers.

As a group of thirty of us were led around the grounds, I noticed old concrete footers where buildings and storage tanks were situated. Near Butler Street the old building footers lined the front of the facility. My thoughts began to wonder and turned completely to what happened there in 1924. I wanted to learn why seven brave Pittsburgh Firefighters perished on grounds where we walked.

“HELP ME!” The panicked call came from a fireman inside the tank trying to pull himself up on the windlass chain, which hung from the top of the tank. The chain and the man’s hands were slippery with oil. “Oh God I can’t hold on!” was followed by a deep inhaling wheeze and the heavy sloshing sound of liquid moving. After brief seconds there was choking and coughing followed by an urgent gurgling and gasping plea, “Help me…help me…oh God!” There was another deep choking sound and then…nothing.

The smell of coal and wood, burning in furnaces and fireplaces, was thick in the morning air as the temperature in Pittsburgh hovered around minus three degrees Fahrenheit. There was a thin layer of frozen snow on the ground and icicles hung from houses in typical Christmas card fashion, glistening in the early morning darkness. A light snow was gently falling, quietly covering the tire tracks and footprints on the streets, which had been laid the day before, then frozen over night. The peaceful early morning scene was about to be interrupted by an industrial accident and fire which, if not for the courageous efforts of Pittsburgh Firefighters, had the potential to become an inferno of epic proportions.

Around 5:24 in the morning operations from the night shift at the Atlantic Refinery Co., located at 57th and Butler Street along the bank of the Allegheny River in Pittsburgh‘s Lawrenceville neighborhood, were coming to a close when a six-inch gasoline pipeline failed. The piping system, located within one of the firewalls of the storage facility, carried the fuel from the refinery into and through the brick and concrete Receiving and Testing House. A ninety-degree elbow either broke or blew completely off the piping system. The failure resulted in thousands of gallons of newly refined gasoline to be pumped, at 40 PSI, into the Receiving House and onto the ground around a battery of ten crude oil storage tanks. When the fuel was ignited the resulting spectacular explosive fireball brought instant daylight to the refinery and to lower Lawrenceville’s 10th ward. Fortunately the operators at the facility were able to shut off the flow of gasoline. However with so much fuel spilled and ignited, the huge gasoline fire was already consuming the Receiving House and one of the crude oil storage tanks.

Across Butler Street residents were violently shaken from their beds and they knew immediately that the explosion had come from the refinery. Just seven months prior on June 15, 1923, a lightning strike caused a fire at the plant that burned for twenty-seven hours. Seven large oil storage tanks and four smaller tanks were destroyed before firefighters could bring the fire under control. Thirty-six firemen and spectators suffered injuries from explosions and residents along Butler Street had been evacuated.

Box 547 alerted the first alarm companies, rousing the firemen from the cozy warmth of their bunkrooms. Engine companies 9, 36, 25, and Truck 9 along with Battalion Chief 3 responded on the first alarm. No.9 engine and No.9 truck had a short five-block ride over the icy cobblestones from their quarters at 52nd and Butler Street. No.36 Engine located at 4603 Stanton Avenue near the top of the steep and winding cobblestone road was slowed on their ride to Butler Street by ice. Battalion Chief 3 (BC3) responding from his quarters at 44th and Calvin Street was slowed going down the icy hill of 44th Street. No.25 Engine had a long level run from their quarters at 3339 Penn Avenue at the point where it is intersected by the 3400 block of Butler Street.

The fire was visible to the crews of No.9 Engine and Truck as they traveled east along Butler Street. They were familiar with the layout of the facility and although they couldn’t see the tanks situated behind the firewalls they could tell that one or more of them were burning. Huge flames and thick black smoke was billowing high into the sky. They could also see fire enveloping the Receiving House, which was built between and connected by firewalls to the battery of oil storage tanks. In the area of the fire, ten tanks faced to the south, five abreast, and six storage tanks faced north, three abreast toward the river. The Receiving House was forty-eight feet long between the batteries of storage tanks, twenty feet wide, and three stories high. The crude oil storage tanks were all sixteen feet in diameter and twenty feet in depth. Abreast, the tanks were eight feet apart but in line only two feet separated them. The firewall from the outside was eighteen feet high, but from the inside where the tanks were located it was twenty-three feet high. The tanks sat down inside a five-foot deep earthen dam the purpose of which was to contain spills. This placed the top of the tanks five feet lower than the firewall. Inside both storage batteries was a catwalk that ran between the tanks through a myriad of piping. A stairway from outside of the firewall and earthen dam provided access to the fifteen-foot high catwalk and to the top of the tanks.

The crew of No.9 Engine and Truck arrived at the plant in five minutes and connected to a hydrant on the west side of the facility, traveled north around the plant to set up operations on the east; the five fire hydrants serving the two batteries were all on the west side and the fire was on the east. As ‘Senior’ Lieutenant Rudolph Blisk was issuing orders to his crew he was met by Walter L. Davis, the chief of the plant firemen, who was a retired veteran of twenty-four years with the Pittsburgh Bureau of Fire. Davis reported that one tank, No.143, was burning and his men were inside the battery of tanks extinguishing the gasoline fire and trying to contain its spread to any more of the tanks. ‘Senior’ Lieutenant Blisk ordered his men to set up and begin to attack the fire in the Receiving House. When the 3rd Battalion Chief, Captain James O’Toole, arrived on the scene he immediately put in a second alarm. When Engines 36 and 25 arrived on the scene, they also connected to hydrants, laid hose to the east side of the battery, and began pouring water into the Receiving house.

The second alarm brought engines 6, 26, 28, 14, Truck 25, and 4th Battalion Chief (BC4), Fred Beckett. No.6 responded from their quarters at 44th and Calvin Streets. No.26 had a very long run from their quarters at the corner of Webster Avenue and Wandless Street in Pittsburgh’s Hill District. No.28 and Chief Beckett also had a long run responding from their quarters at Filbert and Elmer Streets in Shadyside. No.14 quartered on Neville Street near Ellsworth Avenue also had a very long run over the icy streets. Truck 25 had the most level run of all second alarm companies. They were first to arrive on the scene from their quarters at 3339 Penn Avenue. Once BC4, Chief Beckett, arrived, he took overall command from BC3. The Third Battalion Chief, a Captain normally assigned to Engine 25, was ‘acting’ for the night shift in the absence of the usual Chief. As the second alarm companies began to arrive, Chief Beckett deployed them around the battery of ten tanks to prevent any more of them from catching fire. Using 2-½” hose lines the firemen began putting thousands of gallons of water on the tanks to keep them cooled and to keep any flaming debris or embers from igniting them. Captain O’Toole remained in charge of the first alarm companies who were making good progress attacking the fire in the Receiving and Testing House through windows on the ground and second floor from a stair access. They had extinguished the fire in the first floor and had advanced up the stair and were attacking the second floor. Ice was forming everywhere. With the bitter cold temperatures anywhere that water fell, other than on the fire, it instantly froze. The stairs were iced completely over and stalactites of ice from the railings and supports were working their way to the ground from the continuous flow of water. The ground around all the operating units was a sheet of ice which made movement around the fire ground treacherous. Above the firemen ice and icicles had formed from the firewall, stairways, catwalks, power lines, and piping systems. Ice also completely covered everything on the grounds and equipment surrounding this section of the refinery. The firemen themselves were encrusted with ice from the ever present mist that is produced from spraying water to the fire. Their helmets, gloves, coats, boots, mustaches, and even eyebrows were ice coated. The men were freezing; the cold and moisture penetrated through their bodies and stung exposed skin like angry hornets. Yet in this extreme of elements, the icy cold, the heat of burning oil, and the ever-present danger of thousands of gallons of fuel igniting, they stayed at their posts. Daylight was slowly coming upon them, and they knew that the crew coming on duty for the day shift would soon relieve them.

The stair where the men of Engines 9, 36, and 25 were attacking the Receiving and Testing house fire went up fifteen feet to a ten-foot long catwalk along the second floor. From that position they had to fight heavy fire through an entry door and across an extremely hot second floor. Due to the brick and concrete design of the structure, the interior held the heat like a kiln. From the second floor catwalk the stair traveled up to the center of the third floor. Fifteen feet along the catwalk to the right was an entry door. To the left the catwalk traveled twenty feet before continuing up to the roof. The entire thirty-five foot span was a raging inferno. Fire was blowing from the door and window openings and the firemen could not get into a position to attack it. They couldn’t advance up into the flames and heat and they couldn’t effectively get water into the windows from their position underneath them.

To attack the third floor they needed another platform from which to operate. Instead of going back to one of their own apparatus for a ladder, which would involve walking some distance over the icy ground, they used a ladder that had been placed earlier by the Standard Refinery employees. The refinery firefighters had taken a steam hose line up the ladder and attempted to extinguish the fire in the crude oil storage tank with it. When the steam failed to stop the fire, they carried the line back down and left the ladder in place. It was in perfect position for the Pittsburgh Firemen. The ladder was a wooden, forty-foot, two-fly sections Bangor or pole ladder, similar in style and construction to what the Fire Bureau commonly used. The poles are attached to the outside rails and when the ladder is raised they are spread and used for additional support. This type of ladder is much heavier than standard ground ladders and usually involves six or eight men to raise one. Around 7:00 A.M. Captain O’Toole re-positioned his men. One crew with a hose line remained on the stairway. Two firefighters from No.9 Engine took a hose line up the ladder to put water into the third floor of the Receiving House. O’Toole and six other firefighters took two hose lines around to the top of tank 144 which was along side the burning tank, and attempted to smother the burning oil with a deluge of water. With the frigid temperature and the ice that had encrusted every stair and walkway this movement of men and heavy canvas jacketed hose was a superb and exhausting effort. Near 7:30 A.M. Chief of the Fire Bureau, Michael Shanahan and Deputy Assistant Chief, Frank Loxterman, arrived on the scene. As senior commanders they did a walk around of the entire scene, checking on the overall safety of the crews, employment of each unit, and talked to the men offering encouragement as they checked for evidence of cold weather injury. Several men had fallen on the ice; two firefighters had already been transported to the hospital for injuries sustained from falls on the ice. Even with their heightened awareness of the danger ice presented, firefighters were falling down.

Chief Shanahan found his crews at this fire making good progress and his subordinate Chiefs had done a good job placing them in positions of relative safety. He later reported, “I found hose lines laid from the engines to different parts of the building and on the second and third floor of the fire escape. Chief Beckett had two companies manning hose lines laid across the tanks and the refinery’s men were also at hose lines strung along through the same place. Everything looked as safe as possible. I found everything to be in a very safe condition so far as hazardous risk of any kind was concerned…”

Between 8:00 and 8:30 a.m. the daylight shift crews were starting to arrive in police wagons to relieve the night shift crew. The incoming crews walked cautiously over the ice but their gait was smooth and easy. The men being relieved walked slow, hunched over and stiff. The cold had tightened their joints and the three hours spent battling the fire had numbed their extremities. Even with the extreme cold, some of the firefighters remained working at the scene after their relief man had arrived. Chief Beckett was one who chose to stay and see the fire brought under control. When Captain Weihrauch of No.6 Engine relieved Captain O’Toole as BC3, Beckett took charge of the operations on the top of tank No.144. He was now supervising the men from Engines 9, 26 and 28. On top of the tank with Chief Beckett were Captain Edward Johnston and Firefighter Joseph Blanchard of No.28 Engine. Manning the hoses were Lieutenant Edward Jones from No.26, Captain John Markham, Lieutenant Rudolph Blisk, Firefighters Robert Smith, Samuel Bollinger, and Peter Frazier from No.9. With their two hose lines they continued to pour water on the blazing tank directly across from them. Above and behind them with a hose line, still directing water into the third floor of the Receiving and Testing house, were Charles Bollinger, Samuel’s older brother from No.9, and Patrick Abbott from No.26. The Bangor ladder was leaning on the fire wall and rose above it nine feet. It was fourteen feet from the tip of the ladder to the top of the tank. Charley Bollinger was near the top with the nozzle and Abbott was just below clinging to Bollinger and the hose. Standing on the firewall and holding on to the ladder was Firefighter William Lowrie of No.26. It was near nine-o’clock in the morning.

Without warning the section of ladder above the firewall suddenly broke. Nine feet of the top fly section failed under the weight of Bollinger and Abbott hurling them fourteen feet down onto the top of tank No.144. They fell into the midst of their comrades. In the same moment Firefighter William Lowrie who had been holding on to the ladder as he stood on the firewall lost his balance. He attempted to catch himself from falling forward, twenty-five feet down in between the tank and the firewall, but only succeeded in falling backward. He fell eighteen feet and landed with a horrible thud on the ice. The men on the tank heard the loud crack when the ladder failed but even before they could turn their heads toward the sound, Bollinger and Abbott were down. Bollinger never let go of his hose line and rode the ladder down. Abbott either fell or jumped clear of the ladder. When he impacted on the top of the tank his weight multiplied by his velocity plus the weight of six other firefighters was more than that small section of roof could stand. The section failed and seven Pittsburgh Firefighters plunged simultaneously into four thousand gallons of freezing crude oil. Bollinger still clinging to the hose landed awkwardly with the ladder but was uninjured. He landed forward of the seven other firemen and was spared falling into the tank.

The tank cover was made of wood. The conical shaped support framing was built of two by six joists spaced seven feet apart at the perimeter. The joists then rose slightly and connected together at a six-inch vent pipe in the center. The framing was covered by 7/8” plywood sheeting and tarpaper and, according to a refinery engineer report; the cover had strength of eighty pounds per square foot. There were a total of eight pie shaped sections that made up the top. One of the sections between the two by six joists had collapsed when Firefighter Abbott fell on to it.

Beckett, Johnston, and Blanchard were standing in front of and just to the left of the other men. They had also turned toward the sound and saw a blur of Bollinger and Abbott falling onto the deck among the other firemen and in the same moment saw the group plunge into the tank. In utter disbelief of what they had just witnessed they stood bewildered for only seconds before reacting. With no regard for their own personal safety on the precipice of a compromised sixteen-foot roof span they moved to the triangular shaped perforation and peered in after their comrades. Below them, from the oil, came the echoing sounds of liquid moving and splashing.

The men in the oil had no chance for survival. They were all dressed in heavy winter clothing under their long rubberized fire coats. They all were wearing leather fire boots, which immediately filled with oil. The tank was somewhat less than half full so they plunged twelve feet into eight feet of icy cold oil. Their momentum carried them right to the bottom of the tank where they were initially mired in a thick sludge of old oil waste. By the time they hit the bottom of the tank they would have already inhaled their first gulp of oil: the human response to being suddenly thrust into cold water is an involuntary gasping inhale.

Still there was an instinctive fight for life. Firefighter Peter Frazier managed to kick his boots off and push himself up to the top of the oil. He surfaced briefly, choking, expecting to breathe, and finding he still couldn’t. And he was unable to utter a sound. His head was out of the oil but still immersed in a blanket of fire foam. Terrified, breathless, he continued to thrash, sinking into the crude oil.

The refinery operators had put fire foam into every tank in the battery. The foam was generated in a separate building and pumped to the tanks through a piping system. There was several feet of the fire foam mixture on top of the oil. In those days they used a powder mix of aluminum sulphate, sodium bi-carbonate, and an extract of licorice. When the three compounds were combined a chemical reaction caused bubbles of carbon-dioxide gas to form. It was the CO2 bubbles that created the blanket of foam. This blanket of CO2 kept oxygen away from the oil, prevented it from igniting, and prevented poor Peter Frazier from breathing.

Lieutenant Edward Jones had managed to get a hold of the windlass chain that hung from the top to the bottom of the tank. There was a windlass located on the top of each tank used for periodic maintenance. Jones, weighted down with oil, had managed to pull himself up out of the freezing liquid and above the foam. The men on top saw him and he saw them. “HELP ME!” he cried out to them. “OH GOD I CAN’T HOLD ON!” Chief Beckett hollered back to him, “Hang on; we’ll get you out in a minute!” The chain and his hands were slick with oil and he sank from sight. He suddenly re-appeared. “HELP ME…HELP ME…OH GOD!” Lieutenant Jones, gasping for air, sank again.

The other men in the tank struggled against the oil, their gear, and each other. The panic in each of them kept them all submerged as they fought each other for life. They didn’t know and it didn’t matter that there was nowhere for them to go, theirs was an instinctive drive to survive. They, like Frazier and Jones, would’ve only managed to get above the oil to find that there was no air inside the blanket of fire foam. Surfacing would have only prolonged their suffering. In less than one minute there was no longer any movement in the tank and all was quiet.

Firefighter Joe Blanchard, from atop the tank, was yelling over the firewall for help. Firefighters had already gathered below the firewall coming to the aid of William Lowrie who had fallen. A ladder was quickly brought up, a sixteen footer that was too short and another was called for. On the ground word rapidly spread of the tragedy and men were going up on the tank to try and help. They had to be ordered off for fear of another collapse. A second ground ladder was hauled up, a twenty-eight foot extension ladder. When it was placed inside the tank Chief Beckett descended into the darkness only briefly and came back up ordering that it be drained. He said, “I went down the ladder and could not see anybody. I was up to my waist in foam and could hardly breathe from the fumes.” The refinery employees set about the task of opening and closing valves within the piping system to drain the tank of its contents. Chief Shanahan had his companies get back to the business of extinguishing the fire. The suppression operations on the west side of the battery had ceased after the calamity on the tank.

It took thirty minutes for the tank to drain. It seemed like hours to the firemen who stood shivering in the brutal cold waiting to get their buddies out. In the meantime an ambulance arrived and Firefighter William ‘Buck’ Lowrie was transported to St. Margaret’s Hospital. Lowrie was unconscious from the eighteen-foot fall and doctors would find he had also suffered a broken back, broken arm, and internal injuries. He survived his ordeal and returned to duty after several months of convalescence. Due to the lingering effects of his injuries he would no longer be in fire suppression. Buck Lowrie, a native Texan, would continue his career as a fire ‘inspector.’

When the tank was finally emptied of its contents, a refinery mill-right unbolted and opened a hatch near the tank’s bottom. A group of refinery riggers and Pittsburgh firefighters waited outside the access along with the city chief surgeon, Doctor Daniel F. Sable, and a Catholic priest, Father Thomas Brown. Father Brown had noticed a line of morgue wagons on their way to the refinery and had followed them to the scene, unaware of what had occurred.

Chief Beckett, Captain Weihrauch, and a crew of six men from No.6 Engine descended into the gloom of the death tank. They all complained of “sulfurous fumes” burning their eyes and throats and causing a bad taste. It was the remaining high concentration of CO2 that put the sour taste into their mouths and caused a stinging sensation in their throats. The symptoms were caused by the gas that dissolved in their mucous membranes and saliva, which formed a weak solution of carbonic acid. What they felt was a sensation similar to the feeling of trying to stifle a burp after drinking a carbonated beverage like cola or ginger ale. The concentration of CO2 was no longer immediately dangerous to life. It may have been unhealthy, but the men who entered the tank to remove the bodies survived the gruesome task.

Chief Beckett waded through the waist high thick black sludge and foam for a few minutes before finding the first victim. They carried the dead fireman to the hatch and pushed him out to the waiting arms of refinery personnel. One after another the dead were pushed out of the belly of the tank that had swallowed them. Retrieving the dead firemen was an awful task. It was dark and hard to breathe. Every sound was magnified by echoes within the tank. Oil sludge filled up the sullen men’s boots and saturated their clothing and undergarments. But worst of all, their dead comrades were completely saturated with oil that added to their weight and made them slick and incredibly difficult to manage.

As the dead were removed from the tank, Doctor Sable had them placed on heavy wool blankets where he quickly examined each looking for any sign of life. Father Brown then anointed each man with holy water, said a prayer, and blessed the deceased before the body was wrapped and transported. Abbott, Blisk, Jones, and Smith’s remains were taken directly to the morgue. Bollinger, Frazier, and Markham’s remains were initially taken to St. Margaret’s Hospital where they were pronounced dead before being taken to the morgue.

A large crowd of spectators along Butler St. had been watching the efforts of the firefighters battling the blaze. When the ambulances from the morgue began to arrive at the scene rumors of firefighters being killed at the fire spread rapidly. Wives and children of firemen who lived nearby began to show up hopeful that their loved one was not among the dead. No information had been released from the refinery or from the Fire Department. Spectators and reporters were not authorized to enter the refinery. As the second body was placed into a morgue ambulance, a group of hysterical women and children tried to rush through the police barricade at the refinery gate. They were held back by police officers until all the morgue vehicles passed by. None of the spectators knew who was in the morgue wagons as they left the facility. After the last vehicle had left, Father Brown went among the throng and gently urged them to leave. In spite of Father Brown’s insistence, those who had husbands or other family at the scene wanted positive assurance of the safety of their firefighter. When they ignored the recommendation of the priest and the police, officials of the refinery opened offices where the women and children could go to wait and warm themselves. Hot coffee was brought to them as they anxiously waited for news of the safety of their loved one. Two families, summoned by officials and returned to their homes in refinery automobiles, received news that was the worst imaginable.

The fire was struck out at 12:50 P.M. by Deputy Chief Frank Loxterman. The fire was completely extinguished by 10:30 A.M. but the coroner, William McGregor, along with his chief clerk, James Davidson, Public Safety Director C.A. Rook, and Merle Charlton, an official of Atlantic Refinery, surveyed the tank where the firefighters had perished. Director Rook also conducted a quick investigation with Chief Shanahan. Coroner McGregor was already planning to convene an inquest to determine responsibility for the death of seven firefighters.

The Atlantic Refinery fire caused the single largest loss of life among firefighters in the history of the Pittsburgh Fire Bureau. The suddenness in the way the men met their death shocked the whole city. It was a bitter reminder of the hazards firefighters face in their occupation and a sad irony they drowned while fighting a fire. It seemed an unlikely demise among all the risks firefighters must manage during a fire. In its aftermath, newspaper reporters swarmed to firehouse No.9 and firehouse No. 26 to learn out about the men who died.

Firefighter Patrick Benjamin Abbott was a lean and handsome thirty-three year old. He had piercing blue eyes and richly colored auburn hair. He was unmarried and lived at home with his parents, James and Elizabeth (Coots). Three younger sisters survived him: Elizabeth, Margaret, and Ella. They all lived in a well-kept two-story frame house at 3063 Zephyr Street, in the Sheraden neighborhood of Pittsburgh. He was also survived by his younger brother, Thomas, sister-in law, Evelyn, and niece, who lived in Carrick. His uncle Patrick, whom he was named after, also resided in Carrick with his family. Abbott was a veteran of World War I, serving with the Army in the American Expeditionary Force in Europe. Before the war he worked with his father, uncle, and younger brother at the Dilworth & Porter Company, a manufacturer of nails and spikes. He returned to his job after his military service and on July 20, 1920 he was hired by the Fire Bureau. Firefighter Patrick Abbott’s short career was spent at No.26 Engine Company. His tenure was neither distinctive nor without merit; he simply went to work every day and performed his duties professionally as a member of the company.

James Abbott traveled alone to identify his son’s body at the morgue. His statement on the coroner‘s ‘Proof of Identity’ form read, “I last saw my son alive on Sunday January 20th, 1924 about eight o’clock in the evening. I know nothing of the accident that caused my son’s death…” For two years while Abbott was fighting in Europe his parents worried every day. Mail was slow, but stories of the slaughter of soldiers on all sides were carried daily in the newspapers. Everyday until he came home, his parents were filled with the dread of a telegram from the War Department that would announce his death or some horrible wound. Life had been good in the Abbott home after the war. With two incomes they had been able to move from the smoky Southside, near the steel mills, to a new home in a new, fashionable, community. Abbott’s viewing was at his parent’s home on the tree-lined Zephyr Street. The house was filled with floral arrangements and cards from different firehouses and from veterans of the Great War. His funeral was held at Holy Innocence Church with members of the nearby Engine Company No.40 serving as pallbearers. Firefighter Patrick Abbott was laid to rest in Calvary Cemetery in the city’s Greenfield neighborhood.

‘Senior’ Lieutenant Rudolph Blisk had been Captain Blisk up until the city had begun closing firehouses around the city in 1922. The cuts were made due to the emergence of motorized apparatus, which responded much more rapidly than the horse drawn apparatus. Many fire captains found themselves out of a job as a captain, and the city fearing command problems didn’t want extra captains in the firehouses. So the displaced captains were given a new title of Senior Lieutenant, paid as captains, and placed in houses where lieutenant vacancies existed. Blisk joined the Fire Bureau on November 1, 1900 when he was twenty-two. He had spent twenty-four years on the job and was known and respected among his peers as being a good leader, and for being completely fearless. At the age of forty-six, Blisk was the oldest firefighter killed on that freezing day. In early January he had made application with the city to retire. He was scheduled to retire on January 31, 1924, only ten days after the catastrophic refinery fire. Blisk lived at 1022 Hallam Street, in the Homewood section of Pittsburgh, with his wife Florence (Murray), a daughter Myrtle, 9, and two sons Russell, 20, and William, 3. A married daughter, Frances Gallagher, four brothers, and a sister also survived him.

His funeral mass was held at the Lutheran Church of the Redeemer, Mt. Vernon Street and Lang Avenue, located in the Lemington section of Pittsburgh. After a short procession he was buried in the nearby St. Peters Lutheran Cemetery on a beautiful hilltop. His retirement plans went into the earth with him, and his wife was left alone to raise the younger children.

Firefighter Samuel Bollinger left this world when he was twenty-seven. His sister Bertha, our patient in 2003, was seventeen. He was laid out for viewing at his home at 5114 Lotus Way in Lawrenceville. His wife, Rose (McDermott), was numb with shock. Initially she had refused to believe that her husband was dead. Bollinger’s uncle, Anthony Miller, went to the coroner’s office to identify his remains. It was overwhelming for her, with their five-year-old daughter, Marie, and eighteen-month-old son, Clifford, needing constant attention. Their house was filled with so many relatives, neighbors, firemen, and other visitors that she hardly had a moment to herself. At night with no one around and her husband’s body in the parlor she would succumb to her grief. Young Marie couldn’t understand the sadness surrounding her as she held her dead father’s hand saying, “Daddy you said you would bring me cookies home from the firehouse.” Amid the hushed voices Rose walked Marie to the kitchen explaining, “When you become a big girl you’ll understand about death and what a gallant man your daddy was.”

The funeral service for Firefighter Samuel Bollinger was held at Saint Kiernan’s Church at 53rd Street in Lawrenceville. With a large group of family and firefighters attending, Bollinger was buried in St. Mary’s Cemetery.

Firefighter Peter John Frazier was appointed to the Fire Bureau in June of 1919. He was also a veteran of the First World War. At twenty-eight years old his life was only just beginning. Five months earlier in August of 1923, he and his wife Olive (King) were married. They found a home at 5169 Butler Street in Lawrenceville and were establishing themselves in life and in love. Olive Frazier was one of the many wives who had shown up at the refinery fearing for her husband. When officials had approached her in the office where the family members had been invited to keep warm, she began sobbing aloud, “No, no, no, not Pete, oh no, not Pete!” She fell to her knees and was gently removed by Father Brown and police officers.

Frazier at the time of the accident did not even have to be on the scene. Olive had written on the Coroner’s Proof of Identity statement “…he reported for night duty Sunday, Jan. 23 at 6:00 P.M. …” Frazier was relieved by the daylight shift but he chose to remain at the scene. Peter Frazier’s dedication to duty and bravery reflects great honor. He was duty-bound without notice or credit, giving up his life in doing so.

Frazier’s funeral mass was held in St. Kiernan’s church one hour after Samuel Bollinger was laid to rest. Pallbearers were all former military men from No. 9 and No. 26 Engines. Men from the Ralph McNulty Post of the Veterans of Foreign Wars and firefighters filled the church. Frazier was given a military funeral and twenty-one-gun salute at his burial.

‘Senior’ Lieutenant Edward L. Jones had also been a Fire Captain until reduced in responsibility by the city’s closure of firehouses. Jones was appointed to the Fire Bureau on May 16, 1913 at the age of twenty-nine. He rose quickly through the ranks of Firefighter and Lieutenant and was promoted to Captain on January 1, 1921. Chief Beckett, quoted in the newspaper said, “Captain Jones was an old pal of mine, a mighty fine fellow, and my best friend.” Beckett, grieving for his friend and for the loss of the other firefighters, wondered aloud to reporters, “What will become of his brother and sister?” Jones was single and he had been caring for his sister who was blind and his brother who was ill and bedridden. If that wasn’t enough, he had also been caring for his brother’s four young children, all under the age of five. “Things are going to be hard on them now” said the Chief Lieutenant Jones was the only means of support for his siblings and the children. Every sense of the term ‘selfless service’ applied to Jones not only as a firefighter but also as sole caregiver of his siblings; he spent most of his paychecks for the needs and care of his brother, sister, and those children. He had very little left for his own needs and at the age of forty resided as a boarder at 1371 Missouri Street.

Jones’s viewing was from the residence on Missouri Street. Members of No.26 and from nearby No.38 acted as his honor guard and pallbearers. Lieutenant Edward Jones was laid to rest at St. Peter’s Lutheran Cemetery near his pal, Rudy Blisk. It is curious to note that Lieutenant Edward Jones was the second man named Edward Jones to perish in the line of duty. There is no evidence to suggest that Lieutenant Jones was related to Edward E. Jones, killed on March 1, 1920.

Captain John Markham followed his older brother James into the fire service. James was appointed as a Firefighter on April 3, 1902 at the age of twenty-two. John was appointed four years later, December 1, 1906, at the age of twenty-three. John Markham spent ten years as a Firefighter and Lieutenant. He was an aggressive and tactically proficient fireman. Additionally he possessed the leadership qualities and intestinal fortitude necessary to deal with all the different situations and personalities of the job. He was promoted to Captain in July of 1916 and assigned to No.14 Engine on Neville Street in Shadyside. The years on the job were good to Markham, but his personal life was marred by the early death of his parents, William and Mary Markham, and his wife, Ann (Hauer). The loss of his parents and wife further endeared Markham to his job, his men, and the fire service as a whole. He would always be happy and be at home at No.14 Engine Company. During the week of January 14, 1921, the forty-year-old Markham was summoned to the office of Fire Chief Michael Shanahan where he was informed that he was being transferred to No.9 Engine. The transfer was necessitated by cutbacks in the Fire Bureau and reductions in the number of fire captains.

“Please don’t transfer me Chief.” Markham pleaded. “I’ve been at old No. 14 so long that it’s just like home to me. But that’s not the only reason why I object to the transfer. I had a dream a few nights ago and I can’t get it out of my head. It haunts me day and night. Chief I know that if I’m transferred I’ll be killed on the first run we make. Can’t some other arrangements be made?” Chief Shanahan was astounded by Markham’s pleas but he dismissed Markham and disregarded his story and request. In those days Fire Administration reserved the right to transfer any firefighter based on the needs of the Bureau. It was typical of firefighters who objected to being transferred to concoct stories to try to keep themselves at their current assignment. Captain Markham’s transfer was effective January 21, 1924 at 8:00A.M. By 9:00A.M. He was dead. Before they left the firehouse that morning Markham told the crew of No.9 about his dream and cautioned them to be careful. At the fire scene Markham performed his duties and led his men without the slightest bit of worry about his premonition. The story of Captain Markham predicting his own death spread to every firehouse in the city and was published by all the newspapers. When questioned by reporters at No. 9 Firehouse, firemen just shook their heads not wanting to talk; but one man wondered aloud, “Why didn’t the chief listen? ‘Cap’ might still be joking with the boys at fourteen.” “It’s just fate, it’s all it is.” said another.

Besides his firefighter brother James, Markham was survived by another brother and three married sisters. He was laid out at his home at 1620 Jancey Street in the city’s Morningside neighborhood. Markham’s pallbearers were firefighters from his old home, Engine No. 14 and his brother James, who was assigned to Engine Co. No. 47 on Pittsburgh’s North Side. Captain John Markham was laid to rest for eternity beside his beloved wife Ann.

The funeral of Firefighter Robert Smith was held at St. John the Baptist Catholic Church at 36th Street and Liberty Avenue in Lawrenceville. Smith was thirty-four years old and had been a firefighter for ten years. A steady, seasoned veteran, he joined the Fire Bureau in July of 1914. He and his wife of seven years, Catherine, resided at 4 St. John’s Place in the Denny’s Apartment complex, near 38th Street and Liberty Avenue. The couple had three little girls: Dorothy, aged 6, Marcella, 4, and Mary Louise, 2. Catherine Smith was at home with two of her little girls and knew nothing of the tragic events of the day. Her husband left for the firehouse a few hours earlier and she had been out walking Dorothy to school in the frigid morning air. She was completely unsuspecting when she answered a knock at her door and saw two Chiefs, some neighbors, and a Catholic priest. They all crowded into her small living room and the chief lowered his eyes and began to speak. “There was a fire this morning…” Catherine knew what was coming. She jumped up from her chair, little Mary Louise in her arms, and headed for the kitchen. If only she could get away from these people it would be alright. But it wasn’t, and the sad reality hit her so hard that she collapsed with her baby daughter into a neighbor’s arms sobbing for her husband. Four-year-old Marcella began to wail for her mother, with only the understanding that something was wrong with her.

When a firefighter works at what will be his last alarm and he is burned, crushed, broken, electrocuted, drowned, suffocated, or blown to bits he may suffer for an insignificant amount of time or days before he expires. But his passing will end his pain. The families, wives, and children suffer far longer. There is no morphine to numb the brain and nervous system. There is no prosthesis for a broken heart and crushed feelings. The despair left to the families from the sudden shock lasts for years, or even an entire lifetime. For some wives it never ends and they remain in that moment, loving without, living without. Wives left accompanied only by the children, or without children, alone. The younger children unable to understand the loss are distraught by the sadness of their mother; older children feel a sense of betrayal because their father has left them. Later in life as they mature and realize the loss, feelings of guilt can overwhelm them because they hadn’t properly mourned their vanished father.

Catherine Smith’s and the other wives nightmare was just beginning. There was the immediate and overwhelming sense of despair. The feeling of wanting all to be right while still knowing that life as it once was would never be again. Four loving wives left alone and nine children left to the world, fatherless. The worry of financial loss would come later. The families of the dead would receive a one-time death benefit of $1,000, a figure that hadn’t changed since 1900. Additionally a widow would receive a monthly payment based on the number of dependents. A widow with no children would receive $6 a week for 300 weeks. After the expiration of 300 weeks, the payments stopped. Widows with children would receive an additional $3 per child continuing until the child reached age sixteen. After a child reached age sixteen, those payments stopped. This was an age when few women were in the work force. Short of re-marrying, these women had few options.

Catherine Smith was left alone to raise two children. Grief for her husband would haunt her for several years. Anxiety over a lack of finances would increase in the near future. In the fall of 1924 she gave birth to a baby boy whom she named Robert after her late husband.

The coroner’s inquest was convened on February 5, 1924. A jury of six men listened to testimony from fifteen witnesses, most prominent among them was Battalion Chief Fred Beckett and Merle Charlton, chief clerk of the Atlantic Refinery.

Early press reports released by the coroner’s office had indicated that the seven firefighters had died from drowning in oil. That determination changed, and it was done without the aid of an autopsy. Chief Beckett testified that during the fire an unknown refinery employee told him the storage tanks were empty and the men were safe on top of them. After the men had fallen into the tank and Beckett had climbed down inside, it was his opinion that the men in the tank suffocated from the fire foam. Charlton supported the chief’s hypothesis by testifying under oath that the ten thousand gallon oil storage tank had only two feet of oil and five feet of fire foam in it and only took five or ten minutes to drain.

At the initial examination of the deceased firefighters, the deputy coroner’s report states that the men had drowned in oil. Bureau of Fire reports from the scene, and newspaper interviews of firefighters, acknowledged that it took over thirty minutes for the tank to drain, not five or ten minutes as Merle Charlton testified. The men tasked to retrieve the seven dead were mired in two feet of oil sludge and foam after the tank was drained. If the firefighters had fallen twenty feet into an empty tank there would have been obvious signs of trauma, however there were none. Firefighter Buck Lowrie fell eighteen feet outside the tank, was knocked unconscious, and broke his back and arm. It is unlikely that Lieutenant Jones, after twenty-foot fall, would have been able stand up let alone pull himself up on the windlass chain. If the fall was into an empty tank, why did Firefighter Peter Frazier kick his boots off?

The broken refinery ladder was also a point of contention at the hearing. It was indisputable that the breaking of the refinery owned ladder directly caused the firefighter deaths. The condition of the ladder and whether it had been tested for safety came into question. Charlton testified that he had only recently purchased the ladder and the fire was the first time it was used. He offered no receipts of purchase, nor was he asked to provide any. As to the testing of the strength of the ladder and its worthiness in regard to safety, he stated that is the responsibility of the manufacturer to test their products. No manufacturer or manufacturer’s representative was called to testify. Testimony from firefighters at the scene declared that the ladder was employed correctly. The jury came to the conclusion that the ladder was frozen to the ground and to the firewall which created stressors at the point where it broke. Their conclusion was only speculation. They had no agency to turn to for independent testing and evaluation of similar ladders under similar conditions.

After several hours of testimony from other firefighters and refinery personnel who were at the incident, the jury reached a verdict. They ruled that deaths of the firefighters were caused by asphyxiation due to the action of the fire foam and that the deaths were accidental. No fault was found in the tactics of the firemen or in the management of the refinery.

History officially notes that these men suffocated to death in a solution of fire foam. There is, however, more circumstantial evidence suggesting that they were drowned in the oil. The discrepancies left the Bureau of Fire and the Atlantic Refinery no more, or less, guilty of the firefighter deaths. The verdict might have protected both organizations, but it remains unclear how death by suffocation in fire foam, or death by drowning in oil, made any difference at all.

Pittsburgh Paramedics transported Bertha Bollinger to a local hospital on the day we treated her. Whatever her condition was, it didn’t take long for her to recover. I was very curious about her and her brother Samuel. I wanted to know what had happened on that dreadful day eighty years ago. On March 21, 2004, I went unannounced to visit Bertha. One of our local newspapers had featured some stories about Pittsburgh Firefighters and the Atlantic Refinery fire was mentioned. She buzzed me into the apartment without even inquiring as to whom it was ringing her doorbell. I went up to her apartment and was surprised that at age ninety-seven she remembered me. I introduced myself and she said, “Oh I know who you are. You’re one of the firemen.” “Do you know my nephew?”

She ask and then proceeded to tell me that she is the great aunt of a firefighter whom I do know. Then I showed her the newspaper article about the Atlantic Refinery Fire and politely ask if we could talk about it. Bertha read over the newspaper article and then looked up at me with a forlorn, very far away look in her eyes and said, “Sammy loved the horses. I used to go down to No.9 and help him feed and brush them.”

Appointed as a firefighter in 1918, Samuel would’ve been on duty the last remaining days of horse-drawn apparatus in Pittsburgh. “I loved that No.9 firehouse,” she said. “The city should have made it into a museum. I get so mad when I think about them just closing it. It wasn’t fair. I have so many memories of that place. Some days I’d carry Sammy’s lunch down to him.”

“Didn’t the fellows cook?” I asked.

“Sometimes, but usually their wives would take their meals to them.” she said.

Then she smiled and said, “Oh Charley and Sammy used to fight…”

“Who’s Charley?” I interrupted.

“Charley was Sammy’s brother.” She said. “He was older and didn’t want Sammy doing anything too dangerous. So if Sammy was getting ready to climb up on a roof or go into a building and Charley thought it was too dangerous he’d try to stop him. But Sammy was brave, you know he loved the job, and he didn’t want Charley telling him what to do. The next thing you know Sammy and Charley are fighting and the other guys were going in and putting the fire out! Oh we used to laugh at those two! But they were really best friends; they did everything together. Even before they became firemen they worked at the shovel factory together.”

“The shovel factory? Where was the shovel factory?” I ask.

“It was right on Butler Street.” She said. “My father worked there too. We had a big family; sometimes some of the children had to go live with the neighbors because there just wasn’t enough food! But they’d always come home. There were fifteen children. Lena was the oldest, then Grace, Charlie, Frank, Sammy, Joseph; he died of summer complaint. The twins were Leo and Raymond…”

Bertha stopped short. There was a sibling she couldn’t remember. Her eyes were fixed somewhere in the past as she re-counted her brothers and sisters in her mind but she still couldn’t remember the eleventh born sibling.

She smiled and continued, “Well…Matilda was next, then me, Katherine…” Bertha lowered her eyes a little and said quietly, “She got married at fourteen…and Frederick was last; he had scarlet fever.”

“Bertha what were your mom and dad names?” I ask. “Oh, my mom and dad were Frances and John.”

For a few moments Bertha continued to view the world through her mind’s eye, and then she looked at the newspaper and stated: “They didn’t write anything about the foam. It was the first time fire foam was used and when the men fell into the tank they couldn’t breathe in the foam, so they suffocated.”

I was quite surprised by this statement, having never thought about when foam was introduced into the fire service. If her statement was true, how did the newspaper miss it?

Bertha continued, “The top of the tank was made of wood and the sections were shaped like pieces of pie. There were men on top of the tank and men on a ladder above them. When the men on the ladder fell down onto the men on the tank, a piece of the pie collapsed and they all fell in the tank. Oh it was terrible.”

She never mentioned that Charley was on the ladder and I don’t know if she knew that he was. I never ask her that question because at the time I didn‘t know about Charley.

“All the men used to come to our house to play cards on Sunday nights. That last Sunday before Sammy was killed he won all of the money. I can still see him laughing about it when he was leaving for home. He said he wasn’t going to spend any of the money because he’d probably just lose it all at next Sunday’s game anyway. And that’s how I remember him, smiling and laughing about that money. It was the last time I saw him.”

I visited Bertha two more times, once to present her with a Maltese cross embroidered t-shirt and sweatshirt on her ninety-seventh birthday. The guys at our firehouse pitched in and we had No.9 shirts made for her with her name on them.

She sent us a thank you card that read: “My brother Sammy’s last call was 512-my love and prayers each time you answer yours. After all these years someone remembers and cares.” It was important to her that we acknowledged her brother’s sacrifice and remembered him.

On her ninety-eighth birthday we sent her a card and flowers. On her ninety-ninth birthday she graciously let me tape an interview with her. She was still sharp and her mind concerning these events was clear. I was very fortunate to have met Bertha Bollinger. She was a lovely person and talking to her was like taking a journey back in time. It was both enjoyable and remorseful: I felt a certain guilt in asking her to remember such an unpleasant event.

Bertha Bollinger, the last of the fifteen Bollinger children, expired peacefully in her bed five days shy of her one hundredth birthday on October 7, 2007.

Patrick Abbott, Rudolph Blisk, Peter Frazier, Samuel Bollinger, Edward Jones, John Markham, and Robert Smith were the thirty-second through thirty-eighth Pittsburgh Firefighters to die in the line of duty.