Ireland's Arctic Siege of 1947

The Big Freeze of 1947

Kevin C. Kearns

• Publisher: Gill Books
• Year: 2011
• ISBN:
  9780717151967
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: Irish History
• Index: History

On 19 January 1947 Ireland was invaded by a freakish anticyclonic weather phenomenon unleashed from the depths of Siberia. Its prolonged two-month grip entombed the country in snow and ice.

This arctic siege brought freezing temperatures of 7° Fahrenheit -14°C, a piercing east wind reaching 60-70 m.p.h., five major blizzards, and snowdrifts of 12 to 20 feet-some topping 50.

Cars, buses, houses and entire villages were buried, leaving scores of passengers and inhabitants marooned. Roads were blocked, telephone and electricity lines felled and towns and farms isolated as food and fuel dwindled.

Tragically this happened amidst the worst fuel crisis in Ireland's history. People were forced to strip wood from their homes, and nearly half of all Dubliners were burning furniture to survive. Severe food shortages and a virulent influenza epidemic weakened people. By 19 February 1947 Dublin's death rate had more than doubled as the poor and elderly succumbed to hunger, cold and illness.

Kevin C. Kearns presents a graphic account of what was regarded as a near-biblical calamity of blizzards, freezing, hunger, floods, and threatened famine-so imperilling, wrote one newspaper, that it seemed almost as if the wrath of God was directed against Ireland.

It is a vivid tale of suffering and courage, death and survival, of human resilience and real heroism, poignantly authenticated by the oral testimony of those who lived through the arctic siege.

Chapter 1

BATTLE FOR THE HARVEST
(1946)

Nothing is of greater urgency than to save what remains of the harvest and turf . . . if our people are not to be hungry and cold during the winter. If calamity is not prevented it will bring suffering into every home.

(Irish Independent, 6 SEPTEMBER 1947)

My older sister and my father, they volunteered to help the farmers. It was an awful time . . . and if they hadn’t saved the harvest there would have been a famine!

(UNA SHAW, 78)

We’d go off in the army lorries down the country to help take in the wheat. Out in the fields, they showed us what to do. We loved it! And coming back we’d have a singsong.

(AGNES DALY, 81)

AUGUST BANK HOLIDAY, 1946

Weather was on everyone’s mind. It was the week of the August bank holiday, and most Dubliners had outdoor plans of one sort or another. The gift of good weather ensured a glorious week, while rain would bring gloom and disappointment. Early August was always dicey.

On the morning of Saturday 3 August sixteen-year-old Annie Gahan awoke early in her tenement dwelling in Francis Street in the Liberties. She needed to help her mother, one of Dublin’s storied street dealers, to prepare for a day of selling at the Baldoyle Races. “She had a tea tent and sold tea, sandwiches, and cake. I helped her doing it for as long as I can remember.” In good weather, throngs descended on the racecourse and spent freely. Those enjoying a lucky day with the horses might press a few pence or even a shilling into her palm. A few coins could get her into the local cinema, this week showing the rousing western Don’t Fence Me In, starring Roy Rogers, one of her favourites.

As she helped her mother make mounds of sandwiches she peered out the window at the grey, sullen clouds settling over the rooftops. On dismal, soggy days spectators didn’t buy as much at her mother’s tent. She’d keep her fingers crossed for decent weather.

Foul weather threatened holiday plans for thousands of Dubliners. When a light summer rain began falling at about 10 a.m. many fretted. However, by 11:30 it was apparent that most had decided to proceed with their outings, as hordes of cyclists, hikers and motorists “hoping for the best” were seen heading out of the city. Scores of others were preparing to visit seaside resorts, sports events or Dublin Zoo or to enjoy a picnic in the Phoenix Park.

By noon a steady shower fell along the east coast. Undaunted, people stood in long queues waiting for buses, trams and trains to take them to their holiday destination. With umbrellas popped up and picnic baskets in hand, they were in cheerful spirits. Meanwhile down at the docks the Brazilian ship Cometa was unloading hundreds of cases of oranges. During the war years Dubliners rarely saw an orange, a lemon, or a banana. As dealers wheeled their barrows of oranges through the streets the Dublin air was suffused with what one reporter called the sweet “aroma of the golden fruit,” enticing those standing in queues or milling about the city centre.

In addition to the hugely popular Baldoyle Races, two other holiday events were the dog show at Monkstown and the Blackrock swimming championships. This year the dog show was attracting record numbers of entries and spectators. The English springer spaniel Tania, proudly owned by C. S. Dorrity, would trot off with the ribbon for the highest honours.

As swimmers were competing for awards at Blackrock, ordinary bathers at Dublin’s seaside resorts had to be cautious this year. J. W. Bigger, professor of bacteriology and preventive medicine at Trinity College, had just published his study confirming that parts of Dublin Bay and many coastal areas were “contaminated with sewage to such an extent as to be unsafe for bathing.” A problem long in the making. Mothers were advised to keep an eye on their little ones.

By mid-afternoon on Saturday a drenching rain was driving people indoors, and Dublin’s cinemas and restaurants were profiting, with capacity crowds all day. Patrons endured long queues to see some excellent films, such as the smash hit The Bells of St Mary’s, starring Bing Crosby and Ingrid Bergman, showing at the Metropole. The Adelphi was featuring Gene Kelly and Frank Sinatra in Anchors Aweigh, while the Grand Central offered more serious fare in Destination Tokyo, with Cary Grant and John Garfield. As people stood patiently in cinema queues getting wet, at least they could buy a luscious orange from street dealers for 3 pence.

Throughout the remainder of the weekend and during Dublin Horse Show week the weather stayed nasty, intermittently misty, drizzly, rainy. As always, crowds adapted to prevailing conditions, visiting a variety of indoor events. The Royal Horticultural Society of Ireland drew admiring crowds with its profusion of exotic, colourful flowers and alluring scents. And “if showers had their effect on the outdoor events,” one newspaper wrote, “they helped to swell the crowds in the Industries Fair,” where by afternoon “one had to elbow one’s way around.”¹

A magnet for young and old alike was the model railways exhibition. This year CIE boasted a special attraction, a model of the largest and most powerful locomotive in Ireland, the Maeve, which hauled mail from Dublin to Cork. The model, nearly six feet long and precise in every detail, had been created by a Co. Wicklow amateur over a period of four years. Admirers leaned close to marvel at its intricacy. Those not interested in trains could wander around looking at new inventions, such as the latest in washing-machines, which had women wishing.

On 8 August, “Ladies’ Day” at the Horse Show, “inclement weather militated against any [outdoor] display of fashion . . . a day for raincoats rather than finery.”² Though drizzly conditions drove the fashionable set indoors, smart outfits with “rainbow colours” dazzled admirers. Fancy hats stole the show. Laden with a brimful of flowers and clouds of veiling, some were trimmed with paradise plumes and exotic fruit, looking like a Brazilian carnival. Onlookers smiled. However, it was noted that, by contrast, upper-crust gentlemen appeared less impressive than usual, as they were not sporting their grey toppers as in pre-war days.

At the end of the soggy week the Irish Independent declared that the “weather was a spoil-sport.” It was mild chastisement. In months to come the weather would be called far worse: a “malignant evil,” “wicked,” an “enemy,” even the “wrath of God.”

______

Farmers had more serious concerns about early August rains, as it was a critical time for the coming harvest season. Compulsory tillage regulations introduced during the war years were still operative in 1946, under which farmers were required to cultivate a certain proportion of their holdings. Growing wheat was essential for ensuring the country’s supply of flour for bread. Vast acreages of wheat, oats and other grains would soon be ready for autumn harvesting, for which dry, sunny weather was required.

Few farmers were unduly troubled by the early August rainfall, which wasn’t that unusual. So long as it didn’t persist. However, some of the old-timers who trusted their instincts would later confess that they had a nagging prescience before the 1946 harvest season that the weather would “turn bad.”

Some of these premonitions might have been bred by post-war reports from various parts of the world about “peculiar” weather patterns. Spells of weather that were abnormal: too cold, too warm, too wet, too dry, too windy. Unusual tornado, hurricane, typhoon activity. It had meteorologists from as far apart as the United States, Japan and China scratching their heads. Among both scientists and lay people, two hypotheses had a popular appeal. The first was the belief—or at least suspicion—that atomic bomb testing, and dropping, might be causing climate change. The second related to curious sunspot activity, prompting the notion that there might be some connection between the sun and Earth’s climatic cycles.

On Friday 9 August newspaper-readers stared in awe at a photograph just released by Associated Press. It was a wide-angle picture of the huge mushroom-shaped cloud arising from an American underwater nuclear blast in Bikini Lagoon in the South Pacific—one of the most historic photographs ever taken. Viewing the unearthly sight, people found it all too easy to imagine massive clouds of radioactive contaminants ascending into the upper atmosphere and being carried by winds clear around the planet. In every country people wondered if such a colossal—and yet scientifically unproven—force could alter nature and weather patterns. The world’s farmers in particular believed that meddling with nature could be risky. It might bring tragic consequences for those who lived off the land—and, consequently, for all consumers of food.

Back in 1946, immediately following the war, Dubliners closely followed news of sunspot activity and atomic bomb testing, as articles regularly appeared in the newspapers. In McDaid’s pub in Harry Street, a mecca for the city’s intelligentsia and literary luminaries, the legendary barman Paddy O’Brien recalls stimulating debates over unleashing atomic power.

During the early months of 1947 the topic would appear more often in Irish newspapers, discussed widely and debated vehemently. Cursed by many.

______

Over the weekend of 10/11 August a strong depression slowly formed to the south of Ireland, moving gradually in a north-easterly direction. By midday on Sunday seamen some distance from land felt the winds picking up, saw skies darken as clouds ominously gathered. A storm was sure to strike.

Throughout Ireland multitudes were enjoying cycling, hiking, camping, picnicking, seaside bathing. In Dublin every golf course was packed, and the bay was filled with boaters. The Phoenix Park and the zoo were filling up by the hour. Many Dubliners had headed for the nearby mountains to cut their own turf for the coming winter.

Late afternoon brought a quickened breeze and a slight drop in temperature. To many it was welcome. By early evening an overcast sky appeared threatening but nothing to suggest anything other than an ordinary August rainstorm, which would quickly pass, leaving the air fresh and cool.

On Sunday night, between 9 and 11 p.m., a strong gale gathered force. The first bursts sent campers dashing to fortify their tents and seamen to furiously secure their vessels for facing a big blow. Shortly after 11 the wind grew angrier, increasing rapidly in velocity from 30 to 35, 40 then 45 miles per hour. Around the city, loose windows began rattling, and debris was blown through the streets. Then, following the howl of the wind, a torrential rainstorm lashed the city and the east coast, while “campers were forced from their tents and hurried into towns to seek accommodation.”³

Throughout the entire night the storm continued, showing no sign of abating as Dubliners awoke. Veering now south-west to north-east, the winds hit 50 miles per hour between 7 and 10 a.m. on Monday as the “rain descended in torrents.”

During the storm the wind was abeam the mail boat as it travelled from Holyhead to Dún Laoghaire, causing it to roll heavily for most of the journey. Those aboard were tossed roughly about, and stomachs churned. When its 1,100 visibly shaken passengers finally set foot on terra firma, observers commented that they “looked very much worse for their trip.” In Dún Laoghaire harbour eighteen yachts of varying classes were either awash or capsized. One 32-year resident of Dún Laoghaire remarked that it was the worst storm he had ever experienced in August.

On Monday morning, with the storm still raging, Dubliners had to brave the gale as they made their way to work. “They were soaked as they waited in queues for trams and buses . . . as bus conductors did their best” to squeeze in as many passengers as possible, with an apology for those left behind.⁴ Bus-drivers and motorists risked getting stalled as they dared to drive through vast pools of water.

By noon on Monday, after nearly twelve continuous hours of heavy rain, “streets became like miniature rivers as the gullies failed to take the volume of water.”⁵ Where storm drains clogged, pools formed, larger and larger. In many places residents and pedestrians found themselves stranded on one side of the street, unable to proceed in any direction—without a boat.

By now, water was entering houses and shops, doing considerable damage. As residents frantically sought to protect furniture and valuable belongings, shopkeepers hurriedly tried to move merchandise to higher shelves. In some of the city’s lower spots water accumulated to a height of several feet, flooding lower levels of houses and driving inhabitants up the stairs to the first floor, where they yelled out the windows for help. Dublin Fire Brigade and the Gardaí were called to carry out evacuations. Eleven families had to be evacuated at Classon’s Bridge in Milltown when the Dodder flooded and water tore through their houses. Accommodation for the homeless victims was provided by the Red Cross Society.

At about 1 p.m. the storm ended, and waters began subsiding. People ventured outside and sloshed through the streets. Shopkeepers propped their doors open as they tried to sweep out the water and muck. Children splashed happily in the ponds. Everyone was talking about the ferocity and duration of the storm, as meteorologists were tallying the totals. When it was all over the amount of rainfall was verified at 2.4 inches—the equivalent of 240 tons to the acre.

______

No-one needed to tell Irish farmers about water volume per acre. All they needed to know they could see with their eyes from the window. City-dwellers may have been drenched, inconvenienced, even made temporary evacuees; farmers, however, had suffered a serious blow. Possibly a lasting blow, some worried.

In the aftermath of the storm, the Irish Independent reported, “from the Provinces has come news of homeless families, damaged crops, burst river banks, broken bridges, drowned animals and flooded roads.”⁶ Much of the countryside had been ravaged by violent wind and sheets of rain, turning fields into swampland. As accounts filtered in it seemed that Leinster and Munster had been the hardest hit. Here, it was said, “torrential rains beat the crops to the ground.” As surely as if a hurricane had swept over. Wheat, oats and barley fared worst, and there were many reports of hay, both loose and in stacks, having been simply carried away by floods before the farmers’ eyes. In north Co. Dublin much wheat, heavy in the ear, was levelled, while oats and barley were battered nearly flat. All across the land, “farmers expressed grave anxiety for the harvest.”⁷

Apart from the extensive damage to crops, turf was shockingly deteriorated. Many boglands and bog roads were completely under water. Laboriously cut turf, awaiting transport to city homes or depots, was sodden, some of it as mushy as a saturated sponge. From the Dublin Mountains came word that “thousands of tons of [cut] turf are believed to be past saving.”⁸ This was devastating news to those who had cut the ...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Title Page
• Epigraph
• Maps
• Prologue
• Chapter 1: Battle for the Harvest (1946)
• Chapter 2: “Big Freeze” and “Big Jim”
• Chapter 3: “Surprise Blizzard ”
• Chapter 4: The Arctic Grip Tightens
• Chapter 5: “King Winter Returns to Battle”
• Chapter 6: No Warmth in Words
• Chapter 7: “The Daddy of Them All”
• Chapter 8: “Snow Army” Assault
• Chapter 9: Quarry Pond Tragedy
• Chapter 10: Rescue on Land and at Sea
• Chapter 11: Inquiry And Inquest
• Chapter 12: Floods and Famine Threat
• Chapter 13: A Race Against Time
• Chapter 14: A Cold-Hearted Epitaph
• Notes
• Bibliography
• Images
• Copyright Page
• About the Author
• Dedication
• Acknowledgments
• About the Publisher