HALIFAX, 1917
An horrific accident in the Canadian harbour city caused the largest pre-nuclear explosion
The 6 December 1917 started like any other day for Vincent Coleman, a telegraph dispatcher for the Canadian Government Railways, based in Halifax, Nova Scotia. He left his wife, Frances, and children at home in the morning and walked the few blocks downhill to his workplace at Richmond Station. His job was to control traffic flow in and out of the maritime city, directing the incoming cargoladen trains to their correct wharf. Pier 6 stood only a short distance away, a site that, in a matter of hours, would become the epicentre of the greatest man-made explosion before the 1945 atomic bomb detonations. Coleman had seen his family for the last time, though his legacy would live on.
At the time there was little concern other than the crisp cold of winter and the prospect of snow. The war, while tragic, had brought commerce and bustle to Halifax and neighbouring Dartmouth. Businesses flourished, throngs of people crowded the docks and ships bound for Europe awaited orders in the harbour. To the northwest, the Bedford Basin formed a narrow passage where vessels, guided by harbour pilots at the helm, could enter and exit, protected by two antisubmarine nets made of steel mesh. Gates in the nets were opened in the day and closed at night to prevent the boldest of U-boat captains from attacking. The more than 40 ships inside its boundaries should have been safe when, just before 8am, Mont Blanc, an Alliedaligned freighter carrying 2,925 metric tons of explosives, hastened from the harbour and towards disaster.
French Captain Aimé Le Medec had ceded control to Pilot Francis Mackey, who kept Mont Blanc to the Dartmouth side of the narrows as per standard regulations. All was well on deck and in the four holds filled with a volatile cargo of picric acid, trinitrotoluene (TNT), benzene and gun cotton. However another vessel, the Norwegian Imo, piloted by William Hayes and bound for Halifax, had swung into the narrows. She posed little threat until a third ship, the outbound Clara, steered close to the Halifax shoreline in the face of oncoming traffic, against protocol. Clara did not give way to Imo, leading to the fatal decision to turn Imo into the other shipping lane.
Mont Blanc, steaming dead ahead despite the new obstacle, blew the first warning whistle. More signals followed from both vessels, causing only confusion. Neither appeared willing to change course as the distance between them closed rapidly. Only when it was too late did Mont Blanc manoeuvre hard-left and, almost simultaneously, Imo was ordered into reverse as her bow jutted out. Collision was now inevitable. Mont Blanc’s steel hull buckled under the sheer force of Imo’s impact. Barrels of benzene came crashing down, spilling their flammable contents across the deck. Sparks from Imo’s reverse-engaged engine ignited the explosive material. The fire blazed as Mont Blanc, its crew having abandoned ship, drifted helplessly towards the neighbourhood of Richmond.
Coleman had been informed of what was happening a short distance away from his office. He was aware that, minutes after the collision, Mont Blanc had run ever closer to Pier 6 with the fire on deck spreading. Outside, people gathered at the water’s edge, stood at their windows, schools and workplaces, and climbed onto rooftops to get a better view. They thought they were observing a firework display. They smiled, laughed and cheered while flames shot up 30 metres. They pointed in awe at the thick plume of black, oily smoke rising into the sky. Few would be spared from the onslaught about to unfold. Coleman at first ran for his life, only to pause, remembering that a train filled with 300 passengers was en route, and return to his seat with his telegraph key in hand. His final words were directed to Rockingham Station 8km away: “Hold up the train. Ammunition ship afire in harbor making for Pier 6 and will explode. Guess this will be my last message. Goodbye, boys.”
At 9:04am, a supersonic blast of almost unimaginable magnitude tore through stone, steel, brick and bone, reshaping two cities and the lives of their residents forever. An estimated 1,600 people died instantly, including Coleman, as internal organs were
“HOLD UP THE TRAIN. AMMUNITION SHIP AFIRE IN HARBOR MAKING FOR PIER 6 AND WILL EXPLODE. GUESS THIS WILL BE MY LAST MESSAGE. GOODBYE, BOYS”
smashed and bodies were thrown around like rag dolls. The shockwave from the explosion hurled shards of glass, wood and metal through the streets, blinding and mortally wounding anyone in their path. Structures became kindling and rubble. Nearby Africville, home to roughly 400 Black Canadians, suffered significant damage and loss of life. Across the water in Dartmouth, the Indigenous Mi’kmaw community called Maskwiekati Malpek (directly translated to Birchbark Cove but often known as Turtle Grove or Tuft’s Cove) was obliterated. A 5,000°C fireball – almost as hot as parts of the sun – vaporised water around Mont Blanc, which no longer existed, and created an 18-metre high tsunami that swept away entire families of the Mi’kmaw people. The wave also reached Halifax as ships crashed over the waterfront and into what remained of the city.
Then came the cries from the ruins while, from the sky, benzene residue rained down to turn scorched skin a deep black. Victims walked naked, the clothes ripped off their backs, calling out the names of their loved ones. The landscape resembled the trenches of the Western Front some 5,000km away, while smoke from the explosion itself, accompanied by dozens of smaller fires started by toppled wood-burning stoves, bellowed more than 3,000 metres above. In surrounding towns and cities, the smoke was far from the only sign of what had taken place. In Lawrencetown, about 16km away, people had recoiled from the explosion’s energy; in Truro, 80km from the blast, hotel windows had been blown out; 180km away in Charlottetown, situated in the neighbouring Canadian Province of Prince Edward Island, and as far as Cape Breton, 320km away, the sound of the explosion had carried like an ominous thunderstorm. But, miraculously, the hundreds of train passengers that Coleman had attempted to reach were safe. Despite the telegram failing to alert them directly, it had at least informed nearby communities and would enable faster mobilisation. The locomotive continued on its journey, its passengers now tasked with searching the wreckage for the injured and dead.
Dr Clement Ligoure, Nova Scotia’s first Black physician, was ready and waiting for the surge through his doors. His private surgical practice on North Street, which he had established after being denied hospital privileges, was then manned only by his housekeeper and a railway porter boarding at his house. The first casualties arrived almost immediately following the incident. He testified later that there were “very severe cases, jaws cut, noses off. One hand hanging off”. Many of those flooding his office, eventually numbering in the hundreds, had been turned away elsewhere as medical facilities reached capacity throughout the day. Such was the influx at Dr Ligoure’s newly designated dressing station that, finally, several nurses and military personnel were dispatched to provide support.
More help was needed. In Camp Hill Convalescent Hospital, which looked after disabled veterans, all of its 280 beds were taken by victims of the blast and, by accounts, over 1,400 more wounded flooded its dorms. An American coastal passenger steamer, USS Old Colony, having survived the blast with only minor damage, was transformed into a 150-bed floating hospital to accommodate the ever-increasing number of injured. Emergency shelters for the 25,000 homeless were set up in the Salvation Army Citadel, church halls, theatres, a monastery and any houses that were still standing. News had also spread across the border. By 10pm that evening, Massachusetts Governor Samuel Mccall had organised for a train carrying surgeons, nurses and medical supplies to travel to Nova Scotia. The state later donated $700,000 to the Massachusetts-halifax Relief Fund, a contribution that, with time, played a vital role in recovery operations.
For some, that relief couldn’t come soon enough. Hundreds remained trapped under collapsed buildings as night set in and temperatures dropped. Many were children.
One dead infant had been draped in a soldier’s greatcoat, that of deceased Sapper Claudin Gaudet, 19. In the pocket was a letter from his brother serving overseas, instructing Claudin to “stay in Halifax” for “this war is no picnic”. The search for the survivors nevertheless pushed on, even after rumours of an imminent second explosion – a threat that never materialised. Meanwhile, when his duties at the practice
were done, Dr Ligoure packed up a medical bag and began to visit patients at their homes, dedicating only a couple of hours to sleep. He didn’t charge a single cent for his services, though, unlike the late Coleman, his actions went unnoticed by most.
Outside of the ravaged city, smoke still visible on the horizon, ten-year-old Rachel
Cope had awoken to strange circumstances. One of the last things she remembered was her heading to Indian School with her brother and cousins when they noticed a burning ship in the harbour. Her world had turned black not long after. She stirred from her unconscious state to find herself wrapped in blankets on a blown-out door. What she didn’t know then was that a priest had already given her a final blessing. Her brother, Henry, and cousin Louis were dead, and her mother, Sarah, and sister Annie were severely burned. Three-yearold Frank, another brother, would eventually succumb to his injuries, while her younger siblings Leo, Matilda and Mary were at that point unaccounted for. Meanwhile, though Rachel hadn’t broken anything, it hurt to move and breathe, and so she blacked out again. The next time she came to, the door she lay on was moving. Rachel’s family was dragging her the 20km from her destroyed home in Maskwiekati Malpek to Windsor Junction – fearing, perhaps, that further carnage was yet to come; that the Germans had seemingly attacked and would attack again. But the only disturbance was in the clouds as the first snowflakes dropped from the sky and landed around her – a blizzard was coming.
Shortly before 9am the next morning, 7 December, a white sheet of snow blanketed the rubble and rescue attempts came to a grinding halt. Throughout the day, the wind increased as the snow fell with more force. Drifts deepened, trucks and cars became useless, and trains were hampered by the covered railway tracks. Rachel and her surviving family had escaped the new onslaught, finding refuge away from Halifax, but for those still trapped, hope faded quickly. When, three days later, a second blizzard brought further misery, residents reluctantly turned their attention away from infirmaries and towards mortuaries, one of the few aspects of recovery with precedent. Years before the war, the Titanic had sunk some 700 nautical miles from Nova Scotia. John Barnstead, then the city coroner, had improvised an identification system to keep track of remains efficiently and respectfully. His method would be used again on a much greater scale. It offered closure to anyone willing to brave the fierce, unrelenting weather. Only then could the healing begin.
On 17 December 1917, the Wreck Commissioners Court was convened to gather testimony from witnesses, the proceedings of which ultimately determined that Mont Blanc’s Captain Aimé Le Medec and Pilot Francis Mackey were solely responsible for the collision. Mackey spent a short time in prison before the decision was overturned. The final conclusion didn’t come until February 1920, when the
Privy Council in London declared that both ships’ captains were jointly to blame. By that point Halifax bore little resemblance to its once disfigured self, its structures rebuilt and its people, while scarred physically and mentally, having moved on as best as they could. Rachel Cope lived for many more years, got married, and went on to have a family. Dr Ligoure closed his practice and, with little money – or, indeed, renown – to his name, died in 1922. He was just 32 years old. Coleman’s family had survived their ordeal and remembered him fondly, along with the 2,000 others who had been killed, 500 of whom were children.
The help provided by Boston is recognised still today – every year since 1971 Nova Scotia has gifted the American city with a Christmas tree that stands proudly in the Boston Commons. It tells a story of camaraderie and, above all else, the tenacity of humankind in the face of immense peril.
“A 5,000°C FIREBALL – ALMOST AS HOT AS PARTS OF THE SUN – VAPORISED WATER AROUND MONT BLANC”