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‘A woman being carried to her death’
By Davene Schuler
Published July 27, 2003
I had graduated from Ball High School in January 1943, celebrating my 17th birthday on July 24 and was engaged to marry in August 1943.
I was working as secretary to S.E. “Pat” Kempner and T.E. Flock, president and vice-president of the Texas Prudential Insurance Company in the Texas Building, 415 22nd St. My dad was manager of the Texas Filling Station at 23rd and Church streets.
On July 27, 1943, my Dad and I said goodbye to my mom at our home at 4115 Ave. Q1?2 and went to our jobs on a sunny, hazy, cloudy day with no warning of what was to come.
As the workday passed, the weather began to change to squally conditions.
I called Mom and said all was OK, but it became apparent that conditions were worsening rapidly. The bay water was flooding 22nd Street, making our work place an island within an island despite the very tall curbs.
The weather bureau was then in the 2200 block of Postoffice Street, thus we could watch the meter catch the ever-increasing wind with its cups spinning.
As rising water edged up to the second step inside of our building, the rain fell in sheets and suddenly the wind crashed the skylight on the fifth floor where the executive offices were.
Everyone, including the vice-president and president, mopped frantically to save the floors below.
Just then a young man yelled, “Oh! There’s a woman being carried to her death” by the deep, swirling waters. This brave young man dove into the water and swam to the woman only to find that she was a mannequin that was set free as the winds shattered the glass show windows of the Robert I. Cohen Department Store at 22nd and Market streets.
My co-workers and I continued to watch the wind machine until it gradually broke free and flew away like a mini chopper.
We made a note to learn the last reading of the wind velocity. Later it was stated as 120 mph.
As the storm continued its wrath, hunger and thirst seemed a great need. We were fortunate because our neighbor was Walgreens with a soda fountain. There was a rather thin wall separating us from food and drink. Our strong men bashed the wall in to the relief of all concerned. Thanks, Walgreens.
All afternoon the storm howled complete with horizontal rain. Finally about 5 p.m. or so the winds calmed, the rains stopped and we wanted out.
The street water was lowering, but it reached my waist as I walked to 23rd and Church streets, my dad’s store. We hugged and started home in my dad’s coupe.
Because it was a small car we could ford flooded Broadway by traveling in the middle of the then, wide esplanade dodging the streetcar tracks all the way. Home at last, we all hugged and felt luck to be together and alive. We had beaten this unannounced, unnamed hurricane of 1943.
We understood why the weather information was kept secret: Arms and supplies were being shipped from Galveston and from close by ports.
There were spies who would alert enemy subs as to shipping times and weather conditions. We found much evidence washed on our beaches of ships’ wreckage. Also, we lived our nights in blackout conditions so as not to silhouette the tankers against our lights as they carried supplies to aid our troops and allies in World War II.
No one knew I blamed the weather bureau for the surprise storm. But we couldn’t have been separated if we had known in 1943 what is commonplace information today.
Davene Schuler Galveston
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