"It was so bad," Jerry Campa, a Donora, Pennsylvania, restaurateur recalls, "that I'd accidentally step off the curb and turn my ankle because I couldn't see my feet." The acrid, yellowish gray blanket that began to smother the Monongahela River mill town in late October 1948 was more suffocating than anything any Donoran had ever seen—or inhaled—in the past. Before a rainstorm washed the ugly soup away five days later, 20 people had died or would soon succumb and nearly 6,000 of the 14,000 population had been sickened.
"Before Donora," declares Marcia Spink, associate director for air programs for the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency's Region III office in Philadelphia, "people thought of smog as a nuisance. It made your shirts dirty. The Donora tragedy was a wake-up call. People realized smog could kill."
When I was growing up in western Pennsylvania, grime and dirty air were facts of life. We walked home for lunch with streetlights still blazing; my mother washed the living-room curtains almost every week. But memories of the Great Depression were still vivid and smog meant prosperity.
When, as a cub reporter in Pittsburgh, I phoned in a police report that gasping, coughing Donorans were swamping the local hospitals, the rewrite man shrugged it off. "People are always coughing in Donora," he said. This was different. Before the evening ended, I was phoning every Donora official I could locate, and the rewrite man was beating out a story about a public health and environmental disaster.
"Frightening, scary," recalls white-haired Eileen Loftus. She was a nurse at the American Steel & Wire Company, whose blast furnaces and zinc works stretched along the Monongahela and employed most of the town, and one of the 70- and 80-year-olds who shared recollections one sunshiny morning half a century later. You couldn't see the Halloween parade, they remembered—"just shadows moving through the gloom," one woman said. A football game against rival Monongahela was almost invisible, with teams running the ball because they couldn't see it in the air.
"About 4 o'clock Friday," Loftus recalled, "a worker staggered in, gasping. I had him lie down and gave him oxygen. Then another man came in, and another." By early evening, every bed and examining table was occupied by a wheezing and often panicky worker.
Bill Schempp, now a vigorous, wiry, 82-year-old, was the fire department's oxygen specialist. He remembers receiving a call early Sunday morning from the fire station, which was being deluged with desperate requests for breathing assistance. Schempp picked up three addresses and started off up Sixth Street.
To retrace Schempp's path through the smog, even on a clear, bright day, is to appreciate his heroic effort. Sixth Street rises at a breathtakingly steep angle. Driving was out of the question; even the town's ambulance could only creep through the smog with a pedestrian ahead to mark the way. Carrying an 18-inch tank of oxygen, an inhalation mask and hoses, he groped blindly uphill. "I knew that street like the back of my hand," he recalls. "But it took me an hour to cover what I could normally do in ten minutes."
On arrival, Schempp applied the mask over the nose and mouth of a middle-aged, asthmatic worker and administered a one-minute infusion of pure oxygen. After five minutes, Schempp gave a second round, then a third. Then, to conserve his life-giving supply for others, he left, to the anguished protests of the family. "They said, ‘You're taking his life away!'"
The first death occurred Friday. By Saturday the three funeral homes quickly had more corpses than they could handle. The town's eight physicians hurried from case to case, able to spend only a few minutes at each bedside. Pharmacists dispensed medications by the handful. The town set up a temporary morgue.