Memories of tragedy in town of New London, Texas, still vivid

bore his burden silently until 1977, when, in a dramatic turnaround, townsfolk decided to host a reunion for survivors and their families. That led him to phone the dead girl’s brother, a call that brought long-sought peace of mind.

“He told me not to feel guilty about Ethel’s death,” Thompson said. “That her family felt what would be would be, and that it had been Ethel’s time to go.”

Today, Thompson, now 87, will join hundreds of others at the town’s rebuilt school to markthe calamity’s 75th anniversary. A fading generation with vivid memories, they will study victims’ names on Main Street’s granite cenotaph, peruse explosion exhibits in the town museum, pray, eat barbecue and — most of all— give vent to long-buried feelings.

Town came together

“Most of the people in this community are enormously kind,” said Judith Susia, an oil field worker’s daughter who attended the New London school in the 1950s. “After the explosion, they came together and protected one another from the curious. ... They didn’t make a nuisance of themselves over pain, weeping and drooping. The idea was that talking about it keeps it fresh. If you left it alone, it would scab over and heal.”

Today, New London, population 998, is little more than a wide spot on Texas 42, a has- been oil town 12 miles south of Kilgore. Seventyfive years ago, it was far more lively. Starting with wildcatter Columbus “Dad” Joiner’s 1930 gusher, the Daisy Bradford No. 3, New London oil production steadily grew through the Depression years. In 1937, it topped 170 million barrels.

Wealth, and frugality

“There still were a lot of active drilling rigs everywhere,” said Marvin Dees, 96, who was among roughly 2,000 rescue workers who rushed to the devastated school. “There was one well for every five acres. From the school you could see steel derricks for miles around. The drilling rigs, the steam engines and pumps made a lot of noise. There were roads to every lease and crews going up and down. It was like a bee hive.”

New London likely was the richest rural school district in the nation, said Miles Toler, director of the town museum, and the two-story, steelframed E-shaped brick school was a proud $ 1 million emblem of the region’s wealth.

“The school offered everything, and when you finished 11 grades you could come back for still more classes,” Toler said. “In 1934, the school got the state’s first lighted football stadium. ... Basically, there was a feeling that there weren’t any poor people. Just about everybody’s dad worked for an oil company and had a good job.”

Newlondon may have been wealthy, but frugality still mattered. Thus, in January 1937, district officials elected to disconnect school gas pipes from a commercial provider, which cost $300 a month, and take up an oil company’s offer of free “green” gas. Many homes in the area used the same fuel.

Later investigations revealed faulty plumbing had allowed the gas to fill a huge crawl space under the school. At 3:17 p.m. on March 18, shop teacher Lemmie Butler turned on an electric sander, triggering the blast. The explosion lifted the school into the air, then dropped it with a crash. A 2-ton chunk of concrete was propelled 200 feet.

In the aftermath, telegrams of condolence from around the world — including one from Adolf Hitler — flooded into the town. Locally, dozens of lawsuits were filed against the school district by grieving parents, but most were dismissed for lack of evidence. Within a short time of the blast, the site was cleared and construction started anew. A new school opened in 1939.

Watching the clock

On the fatal morning, students at London School eagerly were anticipating the next day’s “county meet” in Henderson, the county seat, where local students competed with their peers at other schools in assorted athletic events.

“We were kind of disappointed because we were supposed to have gotten out of school an hour early,” Thompson said. “Just before the next- to- the- last period ended, they announced that we would go into the last class for the day.”

Bobbie Cox, a second-grader, andherbrother, Perry, who was in fifth grade, planned to skip school. The youngsters soon were intercepted by their father, delivered them to campus in his car.

“I was between the cafeteria and the high school when the school blew up,” Bobbie Cox Myers recalled. “I saw smoke. It looked like something you see on the news. ... Everything was flying through the air — chalkboards, chairs. It didn’t take long for total chaos.”

Asearch for Perrywasfruitless. That night, a neighbor a boy had been found and had been taken to a physician’s home. His parents found Perry near death. “He was nearly unconscious, but he could still call for my mother,” Myers said. The doctor warned that Perry would soon die, and he did.