The Dust Bowl Take on NYC

 By Jennifer L. Wright 

New York City was dirty.

Fueled by rapid industrial and population growth, by the early 1930s New York City had swelled to almost seven million people. Immigrants seeking a better life, rural Americans seeking better pay, and hundreds of thousands of people from all walks of life seeking the fun, excitement, and culture of a city that never sleeps had the Big Apple expanding, expounding, exploding...and getting filthier by the day.

Waste from the thousands of shops and businesses (not to mention homes and apartments) flowed freely. The sanitation department was still primitive, decades away from the modernization we have now, and they simply couldn't keep up with the garbage and sewage. The city, for all its glamour and prestige, literally stunk.

And it wasn't just the streets: auto exhaust and factory emissions left a perpetual haze in the air, severe enough that many doctors began advising those with respiratory ailments to move west, out of the city and away from the rapid urbanization of the East Coast in general. On a typical day, the smog measured 227 particles per square millimeter, way above the recommended "healthy" levels of 50-100.

But, to the people of New York, it was normal. A small price to pay for the prestige and promise of the greatest city in the world. The Great Depression was here too but, if you had to suffer through times of want and need, why not do it where the streets still buzzed with the hope and hint of better days to come? The other problems of the 1930s--those rumors of drought and dust--were for other people, those backward bumpkins of the Great Plains who'd settled in the wrong part of the country.

All of that began to change on May 9, 1934. Thousands of miles from the heart of New York City, and even further from the minds of its inhabitants, the winds above the plains of the Dakotas and eastern Montana began to swirl, kicking up mounds of red and black dust. The next day, loaded with millions of tons of prairie soil, the winds shifted their course east, combining with the jet stream to gain strength before descending over the Midwest. In Chicago alone, the storm deposited twelve million pounds of dust, coating the walls and floors of every building and forcing pilots trying to land at Chicago Municipal Airport to abort, many of them having to climb to an altitude of over 15,000 feet to get above the storm.

Photo Credit: newspapers.com

By the following morning, the storm had moved over Pittsburgh, creating a haze so thick that visibility was reduced to only a mile, and Scranton, where initial reports of snow in May turned out to be dust. By the time it reached the eastern seaboard, enveloping cities like Boston, Washington D.C., and New York in darkness, the storm had traveled over 2,000 miles and was over 1,800 miles wide, carrying an estimated 350 million tons of dust. Washington Post reporter George Will described it as a "great rectangle of dust," which stretched from the Great Plains to the Atlantic.

The wall of dust blocked out the sun, casting an eerie shadow over the city like that of a solar eclipse. Streetlights in Manhattan flickered on in the middle of the day. Automobiles needed headlights to navigate through the fog. Tourists enjoying the view from the top of the Empire State Building were aghast at the sudden change in the scene below them; instead of miles and miles of skyscrapers and streets, they saw nothing but a cloud as thick as soup.

The New York Times reported that "dust lodged itself in the eyes and throats of weeping and coughing New Yorkers," sending thousands to area hospitals in a panic. Air filters in buildings were changed hourly, but still the dust seeped in, laying a layer of fine brown film over balconies, windows, and floors. In a city accustomed to un-breathable air, May 11, 1934 brought in the worst air quality reading it had ever seen: 619 million particles per square millimeter, over six times the normal "healthy" limit.

In the harbor, dust shrouded the Statue of Liberty and turned the water gray. Ships bobbed blindly, unable to dock due to lack of visibility. Even boats over two hundred miles out at sea reported dust collecting on their decks.

Photo Credit: New York Times

The storm lingered over New York for five hours and over the region for two days, spreading southward to fall on the National Mall and infiltrating the White House and the Capitol building where, ironically, President Roosevelt and members of Congress were debating measures of drought relief for the Plains. The next day, the New York Times declared it to be "the greatest dust storm in United States history."

It wasn't, of course. Many more storms had plagued the Great Plains over the past few years, some of them bigger, more fierce, and carrying more dirt. But, to the people of New York and the entire East Coast, this storm was a real taste of what the "rest" of the country was dealing with on a daily basis. The drought and the dust were no longer a rural problem, a Plains problem, or even just a farmers' problem--they were America's problem. Forced with a firsthand account of the enormity and devastation dirt can havoc, public outcry and concern spurred Roosevelt into action. "Waiting out the drought" was no longer an option, not for the Plains, not for Washington, and not for the East Coast. 

A solution was needed, and it was needed now. 

But what could that solution be? 

PART TWO COMING NEXT MONTH

J

Jennifer L. Wright grew up wanting to be a reporter, but it only took a few short months of working in journalism for her to abandon those aspirations for fiction writing instead. She loves to reimagine and explore forgotten eras in history, showcasing God's light amidst humanity's darkest days. Her books have won multiple awards, including Golden Scroll and Angel awards. She currently lives in New Mexico with her husband, two kids, a couple of hyperactive dachshunds, and an ever-growing herd of guinea pigs. 

Fort Slocum, New York--Civil War through the 20th Century

Occasionally, a setting in history is a perfect microcosm of the bigger picture, a stage if you will for the theater at large. Just outside of New York City, on Davids' Island, a military fort named for Major General Henry W. Slocum, offers that slice of historical pie in American and even global history. New York City has served as a port since the Dutch colonial times, and as such, also held important military significance. Davids' Island offered a battery of defense for many of the years between the Civil War and the Vietnam War, and its situation lent itself to military presence.

Davids' Island, former site of Fort Slocum

From 1861, the island was used as a training ground for Irish troops from the 3rd corps of the Irish 63rd Brigade for the Civil War. "Camp Carrigan" as it was called, mustered, housed and trained infantry. A year later in 1862 the regular army assumed control of the real estate and set up the largest regular army hospital during the war.

dubbed "Camp Fed" for amenities

De Camp General Hospital housed over 2,000 patients at a time, including both Union and Confederate wounded after Gettysburg. As these Confederates convalesced, the island soon held 2,500 prisoners of war until they could be shipped to proper prison camps elsewhere, such as nearby Hart Island. After the war, the US government retained Davids' Island as a military reservation and moved its chief recruiting station there from Governor's Island. In 1878 Davids' Island became the principle depot of the general recruiting service, in fact enlisting all recruits who would serve in the Indian wars of the next decade from here.

In the 1880's new brick structures replaced the aging wooden ones, including officers' quarters, a hospital, mess halls, and regular recruit housing, plus ancillary use buildings, like the landmark water tower in the north of the island. These would remain until demolition in 2008. Through the end of the nineteenth century the island was used as a coastal artillery defense post, and officially named Fort Slocum in 1896.


For a brief time Fort Slocum was a critical component of the coastal artillery program, then the guns were deactivated late in the first decade of the 20th century. Still the fort continued to be a recruiting station of great importance to the army. In 1917, at the onset of American troop recruitment for WWI, this little island processed more than 100,000 enlistees, with an overflow spilling into New Rochelle. In the years between the two world wars, Fort Slocum survived by various supplemental roles such as housing the Civilian Conservation Corps and the Works Progress Administration, as well as a US Olympics Team. For a brief time, an army bakers and cooks school was stationed here as well. Recruiting for foreign service during this time was done exclusively through this post. So anyone deployed abroad between WWI and II would have passed through this island first. 

WACS in Central Park

Then came Word War II. In order to avoid the overflow situation of the former war's enlistment, new recruit posts were made, but Fort Slocum remained a critical New York Port of Embarkation, as a training and processing center for those bound for the European theater. During the years the fort served in WWII, it integrated women into the regular army in the WAC program. Fort Slocum was also the place of origin for that quintessential army march, the "Jody Call".  I don't know but I been told.... sound off one, two. Sound off three, four was first sang by Private Jesse Lee Duckworth in 1944 here. Aside from troops, the fort was also key in moving equipment oversees during this time. And then, after a few years of war, the fort became the place where tired troops returned and fresh ones were sent. A "provisional training center" sprang up on the island to address the need to deprogram battle-hardened GI's and reorient them to civilian life. A school to integrate civilian transportation workers to army applications was also housed at Fort Slocum during the thick of the war activity. Add to this USO dances and programs, and you had a buzzing hive of activity on these 80 acres outside of New York City.

In the years after WWII, Fort Slocum struggled to maintain its usefulness to the government. For a short time it was the headquarters for the Air Force. It also served from 1951-1962 as the Army Chaplain School, and in the early fifties passed through a few names essentially as a school for army communications and information. Military Journalism, TV and Radio broadcasting, and photography were all taught here for a time. Finally, in November 1965 the fort was decommissioned by the government and left to neglect and deterioration. 

Davids' Island parallels the story of many American towns that have struggled in recent years with the downturn in the economy. Empty dilapidated buildings were razed after the new turn of the century, and the property has not been redeveloped. Investors have nibbled on the island over the years, including NYC real estate mogul Donald Trump, but no one has bit. The wonderful history that happened here is hidden from view, except in the memories of its witnesses and the writings and photos they leave behind. 

Aunt Dorothy Cronin

On a personal note, the history of Fort Slocum plays a part of my family story. My mother's only sister, ten years her senior, was of courting age during WWII. My aunt--Dorothy Cronin, and her cousins Dolores and Marion, comprised the singing group the Croonin' Cronins, who visited Fort Slocum and performed for the soldiers. My aunt met many war-bound soldiers who sent tokens of their admiration. According to family legend, on the eve of her engagement to my uncle who served in the Construction Battalion (CB or the Sea-Bees as they were affectionately called) my aunt on the advice of my grandfather burned many a letter from these admirers. What history must have been contained in them! I can only imagine. But as a young bride about to wed the love of her life, how could she do anything less? Talk about romantic conflict! I am currently writing a novella inspired by their story.  I hope to be able to share it with you all one of these days. 

Now it's your turn as the reader. Do you have any favorite WWII family stories you would like to share? Leave them in the comments below. Thanks for stopping by today, and don't forget to share our blog with your friends.


Kathleen L. Maher’s first literary crush was Peter Rabbit, and she’s had an infatuation with books and fictional heroes ever since. She has a novella releasing with Barbour in the 2018 Victorian Christmas Brides collection, featuring her hometown of Elmira, NY. Her debut historical “Bachelor Buttons” was released in 2013, and incorporates her Irish heritage and love of the American Civil War. She won the American Christian Fiction Writers' Genesis Contest for unpublished writers, historical category, in 2012.
Kathleen and her husband raised their three children in an old farmhouse in upstate NY, along with a small zoo of rescued dogs, cats, and birds. They run an art business in their spare time and enjoy spoiling their grandchildren on the weekends.

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