Building Coney Island’s Centerpiece – The Boardwalk

Through the ups and downs of nearly 100 years, Coney Island’s boardwalk has been the beachfront spot for untold millions to stroll, catch some sun, meet friends, munch hot dogs, or just look out at the water. And, like all big new projects in New York City, bringing the boardwalk to life hit snags and was kicked around as a political football while its cost went up and work moved more slowly than expected.

Boardwalk, Coney Island, general view looking east from Municipal Bath, July 7, 1922. Photographer: Edward E. Rutter. Borough President Brooklyn Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.

The first serious talk of building a public boardwalk came in the 1890s, when Coney Island was transitioning from a private playground for the rich – with giant fences preventing public access to the beach – to a place of fun, leisure and a little weirdness for all.

The Municipal Archives holds some 200 pictures of what was originally known as the Coney Island Boardwalk, including dozens of the construction in 1922 and 1923. Newspapers of the day, especially the old Brooklyn Daily Eagle, tell the story.

Boardwalk, Coney Island, general view, looking west from Martino’s Bath, July 7, 1922. Photographer: Edward E. Rutter. Borough President Brooklyn Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.

While the idea of a public boardwalk was debated for years, planning didn’t begin in earnest until August of 1912. The West End Improvement League, consisting of merchants and developers, launched a campaign to build the promenade, starting a local newspaper and mailing 12,000 postcards to politicians, business owners and influencers. Although there was strong public support locally, landowners along beachfront area fought the proposal bitterly and tried to find friendly lawmakers to stop it.

On October 24, 1912, the Eagle reported on the first legal salvo in the war to build a boardwalk: “State Sues to Win Back Coney Island Beach for the People,” the headline screamed. “Demands Removal of Obstructions Preventing Free Passage for Purposes of Bathing, Boating and Fishing.” The story reported that State Attorney General Thomas Carmody had filed suit against the owners of the Steeplechase Company and other landowners, claiming the beach belongs to the public and branding the fencing and barriers “a public nuisance.”

Boardwalk, Coney Island, general view showing pouring of a reinforced concrete girder, July 7, 1922. Photographer: Edward E. Rutter. Borough President Brooklyn Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.

A lawyer for the owners, claimed they had a legal right to the beachfront land and said, “…we certainly intend to fight the state’s claim to the finish.” The “finish” came rather quickly: A judge upheld the state’s claim in 1913 and the Court of Appeals affirmed it in 1916.

Political wrangling in the State Legislature delayed progress for several years, but on August 22, 1920, The Brooklyn Eagle optimistically reported: “Coney Island Boardwalk to be Completed by 1921.” Brooklyn Borough President Edward Riegelmann, an “energetic booster” of the plan had laid out details earlier that month.

Boardwalk, Coney Island, general view, looking west from Municipal Bath, August 4, 1922. Photographer: Edward E. Rutter. Borough President Brooklyn Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.

Riegelmann, who some dubbed the “Father of the Boardwalk,” said it would be 80 feet wide and two miles long running from Ocean Parkway to Sea Gate. He estimated the boardwalk would be built at a cost of $4 million (more than $50 million today). It would use 1.7 million cubic yards of sand, 110,000 tons of stone, and 7,700 cubic yards of reinforced concrete. Workers would build 16 rock jetties spaced 600 feet apart to protect the boardwalk from violent waves, while others drove 28-foot-long piles 19 feet deep into the sand. But the political wrangling continued even before the first shovel hit the ground. On Jan 6, 1921, the Eagle reported that the plan had hit “a $7 million snag,” the amount the owners claimed  they would lose in property values – perhaps the first sign that the boardwalk would not be completed in 1921.

Boardwalk, Coney Island general view, looking east from Martino's Bath, August 4, 1922. Photographer: Edward E. Rutter. Borough President Brooklyn Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.

Five months later, a fight erupted over whether to use timber or concrete for boardwalk supports. Advocates for the use of concrete argued that wood would not be “permanent” and would have to be replaced or shored up from time-to-time. Wood supporters argued that concrete was much more expensive than creosoted timber and noted that wooden trestles under the LIRR’s Jamaica route were still in good condition after many years and that the first concrete-supported Santa Monica Pier had “gone to pieces” in just a few years. Concrete won the day.

Undeterred by the delays, a long story in the July 3, 1921 edition of the Brooklyn Eagle breathlessly – though erroneously – reported: “Coney Island is to Replace Atlantic City as Society’s Playground, is Prediction.” The story began: “If the prediction of the Coney Island Boardwalk enthusiasts should be verified in the not distant future, the sad waves will murmur ‘Good night’ to Atlantic City and gently rock that out-of-date seaside resort to sleep … Good-bye hot dog; Good-bye chamber of horrors; Good-bye museums of monstrosities …”

Boardwalk, Coney Island hauling floor beams to the top of the walk by tractor, August 4, 1922. Photographer: Edward E. Rutter. Borough President Brooklyn Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.

Boardwalk construction finally began in 1922, with wooden planks in a chevron pattern atop the concrete and steel bearings. The first section, from Ocean Parkway to West 5th Street, opened to the public in October 1922. The second section, from West 5th Street to West 17th Street, opened with pomp and a ribbon-cutting on Christmas Eve of 1922 attended by Borough President Reigelmann and thousands of celebrants.

Boardwalk, Coney Island, Borough President Riegelmann opening the Boardwalk between West 5th and West, December 24, 1922. Photographer: Edward E. Rutter. Borough President Brooklyn Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.

The city held a formal opening of the entire boardwalk – which was re-named the Riegelmann Boardwalk – in May 1923. Some mildly amusing controversy continued: In June 1923, the Eagle reported that 25 people plead guilty and were fined $25 each for violating a public ordinance by strolling along “only in their bathing suits.” And that August, there were complaints that mothers were bringing their children to benches on the boardwalk to eat, leaving food scraps and refuse on the boardwalk – and that amorous couples were “spooning” on the benches.   

Boardwalk, Coney Island, looking northeast from Boardwalk, near West 12th Street, showing present character of buildings, September 6, 1922. Photographer: Edward E. Rutter. Borough President Brooklyn Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.

The boardwalk would be repaired many times over the years and, in 1938, under City Parks Commissioner Robert Moses, parts of it were expanded, straightened, and relocated 300 feet inland. He tried to expand it again into Manhattan Beach, but that plan was defeated.  

The city declared the Riegelmann Boardwalk a landmark in 2018.

Those Boys of Summer Are Gone Again

It’s 1958 all over again.

That was the year after the Brooklyn Dodgers and New York Giants played their last games in New York City and left for the West Coast – Los Angeles and San Francisco respectively. Those storied old National League ballparks – Ebbets Field and the Polo Grounds – became ghost towns, with no teams playing in them and no fans cheering, booing, drinking beer and munching on hot dogs.

More than 35,000 baseball fans turned out to witness the Dodgers defeat both the Yankees (6-1) and the Giants (1-0) in a double header at Yankee Stadium to benefit the Civilian Defense Volunteer Office on April 14, 1943. Fiorello LaGuardia Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.

Now, 62 years later, all the ball parks across North America, from Boston to San Diego, are ghost towns – victims of the coronavirus, COVID-19, that has scratched at least the first half of the baseball season. There were tentative plans to start the season in July, but many details – big and small – must still be worked out.

But a trip through the Municipal Archives digital galleries brings back those sweet memories of the 1955 Brooklyn Dodgers – “The Boys of Summer” Roger Kahn wrote about, and the rival New York Giants. The Yankees were the only game in town from 1957 through 1961, depriving at least two-thirds of all New York baseball fans of a team to root for.

Now, even Yankee Stadium is quiet in this Summer of Covid-19.

Mr. and Mrs. Babe Ruth (center) and Kate Smith (lower left) at the 1936 World Series (Yankees vs. Giants) at the Polo Grounds. WPA Federal Writers’ Project Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.

The Dodgers and Giants rivalry dates back to the 1880s. They first faced each other in the 1889 World Series, when the Giants, based in Manhattan, played against a Dodgers’ forerunner, the Bridegrooms from Brooklyn. It was an inter-city rivalry — Brooklyn and New York City were separate cities at the time. The Giants, who played in the Polo Grounds, took the best-of-11 series, six games to three from Brooklyn, which played in the old Washington Park near the Gowanus Canal.

Charles Ebbets eventually accumulated 80 percent ownership of the Dodgers and built Ebbets Field at a cost of $775,000 ($19.4 million in today’s dollars) in 1912. The new stadium hosted its first game in April 1913.

Ebbets Field, plot plan, New building application,1912, Department of Buildings (Brooklyn) Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.

Ebbets Field, Cedar Place elevation. New building application,1912, Department of Buildings (Brooklyn) Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.

Ebbets Field, Second tier plan, New building application,1912, Department of Buildings (Brooklyn) Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.

The team, known lovingly as “Dem Bums,” had its share of characters in the 1930s, including Dazzy Vance, Babe Herman and Chick Fewster, who somehow once all ended up up on third base at the same time. Two were called out in one of baseball’s wackiest plays.

They also had some of the most loyal fans who stuck with them despite losing five of six World Series matchups with the Yankees between 1941 and 1956 – and their collapse in 1951 when they blew a 14-game lead to the Giants and lost the pennant race on Bobby Thompson’s homer known as the “Shot Heard ‘Round the World.”

Ebbets Field, Brooklyn. 1940 Tax Photograph Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.

In the late 1940s, when Brooklyn had a growing African-American population, General Manager Branch Rickey broke the game’s color barrier by signing Jackie Robinson, who overcame discrimination, segregation and vicious taunting by opposing players and fans in other cities, to become the first black Major League Baseball player and Rookie of the Year in in 1947. He later led the Dodgers to their only World Series championship in 1955. (No one counts the 1889 win as a Dodger victory since they were then called the Bridegrooms, ostensibly because about a half dozen of their players got married in 1888).

Polo Grounds, Field and Lower Grandstand plan. NYC Municipal Archives.

Then the seemingly impossible happened – owner Walter O’Malley decided to move the beloved Bums to Los Angeles after a rancorous fight with the city and its imperious Parks Commissioner, Robert Moses, over building the Dodgers a new ballpark to replace the deteriorating Ebbets Field.

The Municipal Archives contains letters, telegrams, and pleas, mostly from Brooklynites, to build the Dodgers a new stadium at Atlantic and Flatbush Avenues – all for naught. The Dodgers played their last game at Ebbets Field on September 24, 1957, beating the Pittsburgh Pirates 2-0 in front of a paltry crowd of just 6,700 fans. The stadium’s capacity was about 30,000 at the time every game was nearly sold out during the Dodgers’ heyday.  

At the same time, the Giants, who played in the Polo Grounds since 1885, were also planning to go westward. The team, known as the Gothams from 1883 to 1885, fielded some powerhouse teams winning a handful of pennants and World Series matchups in the early 1900s and then again in the 1930s through 1954.

Baseball teams composed of active members of the New York City Police, Fire, and Sanitation Departments drew crowds to the Polo Grounds stadium in the late 1930s. The New York Police Department vs. the Sanitation Department, September 17, 1939. New York Police Department Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.

During those years, fans filled the stands to root for such as stars as Mel Ott, Carl Hubbell, Bill Terry, Bobby Thomson, Sal Maglie and Willie Mays, who made a nearly impossible over-the-shoulder catch of a Vic Wertz blast to deepest center field of the Polo Grounds – some 470 feet from home plate – during the 1954 World Series between the Giants and the Cleveland Indians.

The Polo Grounds also hosted games between city police, fire, and sanitation teams for many years when the Giants were out of town – as well as Negro League games. In 1941, the Dodgers, Giants and Yankees played a double header “City Championship” game at Yankee Stadium, offering 50,000 tickets at $1.10 apiece.

The New York Police Department vs. the Fire Department, Polo Grounds, June 11, 1938. New York Police Department Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.

But in 1957, Giants owner Horace Stoneham joined forces with O’Malley and went to California seeking a second Gold Rush. The Giants played their last game at the Polo Grounds on Sept. 29, 1957, losing to Pittsburgh 9-1.

Collegiate football at the Polo Grounds. Texas A. & M. vs. Manhattan College, October 1937. WPA Federal Writers’ Project Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.

Like Ebbets Field, the Polo Grounds went quiet for baseball. For Ebbets Field and the Dodgers,the quiet was  permanent. The stadium was demolished in 1960 and replaced by a huge housing complex known as the Ebbets Field Apartments; the only remnant of the baseball stadium is a plaque.

The Polo Grounds, which had hosted many football games over the years, went quiet for baseball until the New York Mets were founded in 1963: They played their first two hapless seasons there while Shea Stadium was being built. The Polo Grounds, home of the old American Football League’s New York Titans in the early 1960s, hosted its last-ever game in September 1963. It was torn down the following year to be replaced by a giant – pardon the pun – housing complex. All that remains is a huge old staircase that led from Coogan’s Bluff downhill to the stadium.

Mayor LaGuardia stands by while New York State Governor Herbert Lehman prepares to throw out the first ball for the first game of the 1936 World Series (Yankees vs. Giants) at the Polo Grounds, September 30, 1936. (Negative damaged.) WPA Federal Writers’ Project Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.

And, now in the Spring and Summer of 2020 the ballparks of New York – Citi Field and a new Yankee Stadium – are once again quiet. The Boys of Summer are gone once again.

Spectators enjoy the 1936 World Series ( Yankees vs. Giants) at the Polo Grounds, 1936. WPA Federal Writer’s Project Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.

There are no fans roaring like they did when Willie Mays robbed Vic Wertz at the Polo Grounds; no wild cheers as when Gil Hodges — tied the then-record for most National League grand slams in early September 1957 at Ebbets Field. Things just won’t be the same until a Major League umpire cries out “Play Ball,” in a stadium that, for at least a while, won’t have any fans in attendance, no kids to chase after balls in the stands and no smell of hot dogs and beer.

Every baseball fan in America is waiting.

The Smelly History of Barren Island, a Piece of the Lost New York

Many pieces of New York have been lost over the years – from the days before European settlers arrived through the more recent places we loved, the restaurants we knew and even the sports teams we lost to California, New Jersey and elsewhere. One of the lesser-known losses – as infamous and smelly as it was – is Barren Island, which was located on the southeast shore of Brooklyn, on the way to the beach at Jacob Riis Park. Some of its history can be found in the Municipal Archives – largely in late 19th century state and local Health Department investigations – and in the digital collection of images from the early 20th century.  

Houses built on stilts over swamp land, Barren Island, Brooklyn, 1937. Photographer: Edwards. WPA Federal Writers’ Project Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

Historical records indicate that the Canarsee Native American tribe used what became known as Barren Island as a fishing outpost in the early 17th century and later “signed over” much of it to Dutch settlers. Largely unoccupied for many years, by the mid-19th century it had become a vast dumping ground where tons of waste and dead animals like horses, cattle, dogs, cats, rats and many other species from Brooklyn, Manhattan and The Bronx were rendered in several large factories on the island.The grease extracted from the waste yielded more than $10 million in profits annually.  

Street scene, Barren Island, Brooklyn, January 1938. Photographer: Sam Brody. WPA Federal Writers’ Project Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

The residents, an ethnically diverse mix of blacks and poor European immigrants from Italy, Ireland and Poland, mostly worked in the factories and rendering plants, or service industries like grocery stores and bars. There also was a school, PS 120, and a church.  

Catholic Church, Barren Island, Brooklyn, January 1938. Photographer: Sam Brody. WPA Federal Writers’ Project Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

View fullsize

A street in Barren Island, Brooklyn, Long Island, January 1938. Photographer: Sam Brody. WPA Federal Writers’ Project Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

The Island inhabitants apparently became accustomed to the odors and noxious fumes from the island’s incinerators, but people living in the rest of Brooklyn complained long and loud about the stench. Finally, in October 1890, Governor David Hill responded to complaints about the “nuisance” on Barren Island “which affected the security of life and health” throughout Brooklyn by ordering a State Health Department investigation. The report from that investigation, contained in the archives, noted that a rendering plant operated by Peter White’s Sons received the carcasses of all dead animals collected on the city’s streets. “On an average there are over two thousand hogs kept on the premises… and the dead animals are dismembered and boiled and oils extracted therefrom,” the report said, noting that the odors were carried along to Rockaway Beach and other neighborhoods, “rendering those inhabitants sick and destroying the comfort and enjoyment of their homes.” The report also noted that a fertilizer plant on the island received “large quantities of fish,” which were allowed to accumulate on loading docks. “The smells from those fish factories are so powerful that it is impossible to keep the doors or windows of dwelling houses open when the wind blows from the direction of Rockaway, and many persons have been made sick…” The report recommended that the factories take measures to contain the odors and that state health inspectors make regular visits.

P.S. 120, Barren Island, Brooklyn, ca. 1905. Lantern slide. Board of Education Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

The results were mixed at best. An 1896 report from the Brooklyn Department of Health – Brooklyn did not become part of New York City until 1898 – found that nuisances were still rife on the island five years after the state report. “This bureau, together with the sanitation bureau and the inspector of offensive trades has kept a close watch of the manufactories situated on Barren Island,” but noted that as long as rendering and fertilizer companies exist, there will be noxious odors and complaints. A subsequent inspection “found at the rendering plant dock three garbage scows, two of them being full and the other about half full… the plant is running night and day.” An inspection report for January 1896 found the carcasses of 21 dogs, 17 cats, 35 rats, along with numerous dead cattle, sheep and horses, which led to the naming of the nearby Dead Horse Bay. The City stopped dumping its garbage there in 1919. Complaints worsened in the early 20th century and the island’s population dwindled from a high of about 1,500 to several dozen by 1936, when City Parks Commissioner Robert Moses ordered the eviction of all residents as part of his plan to expand Marine Park. Before that happened, many of the buildings were abandoned and crumbling, as can be seen in 1930s-era photographs in the Archives.

Abandoned rendering factory, Barren Island, Brooklyn, January 1938. Photographer: Sam Brody. WPA Federal Writers’ Project Collection, NYC Municipal Archives..

The island eventually vanished as the city used landfill and tons of sand to connect it to the rest of Brooklyn. It later become the home of Floyd Bennet Field and eventually part of Gateway National Park area. Now, it is gone and largely forgotten – yet another piece of the lost New York.

View fullsize

Municipal Airport Floyd Bennett Field (remains of incinerator on Barren Island), July 27, 1934. Department of Bridges, Plant & Structures Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

View fullsize

Demolition of 227 ft. reinforced concrete chimney at Floyd Bennett Airport on March 20th, 1937. NYC Municipal Archives Collection.

View fullsize

Floyd Bennett Field - aerial, May 7, 1970. Department of Marine and Aviation Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

New York City Hurricane Relief for Puerto Rico: 1899

In the song “America,” in “West Side Story,” Anita and her friends sing of Puerto Rico: “Always the hurricanes blowing/always the population growing/and the money owing...”

It may always have been that way, but in the last three years Puerto Rico has been hit with a devastating hurricane, a couple of minor ones, several earthquakes, island-wide power blackouts and a persistent financial crisis. But the deadliest hurricane in Puerto Rican history—even after Hurricane Maria devastated the island in 2017—remains Hurricane San Ciriaco, which killed more than 3,300 people as it barreled across the island in six to nine hours in 1899.

The entire storm, then known as the West Indian Hurricane or the Great Bahamas Hurricane of 1899, lasted 28 days—the longest-lived Atlantic hurricane on record—as it made its way up from Cape Verde through the Caribbean, Puerto Rico, Florida, North Carolina and finally out to sea. It lashed most of the Caribbean, but by far did the most damage and took the most lives in Puerto Rico.

The storm was so bad that it was front page news in The New York Times for several days at a time when the sensational Dreyfus Affair dominated the news—and it sparked a massive relief effort spearheaded by Washington and New York City, under Mayor Robert Van Wyck and Governor Theodore Roosevelt.

Much of the story is told in the Municipal Archives through letters and appeals for help from the Military Governor of Puerto Rico—which became a U.S. possession a year earlier as a result of the Spanish-American War—and the U.S. War Department to Van Wyck. An index to The New York Times articles about Puerto Rico from 1899 to 1930 compiled by the CUNY Centro de Estudios Puertorriquenos is very helpful.

It was spotted off Cape Verde on August 3, but it wasn’t covered by the The New York Times until the August 8 edition, which contained a small story saying that a cyclone hurricane had slammed into the Island of Guadalupe on August 7 and that “many houses had their roofs blown off and were flooded and some of them were destroyed but no fatalities were reported.”

The news soon grew ominous. In a dispatch filed on August 9th for the August 10th edition—this was, after all, decades before television, the Internet and news-as-it-happens—The Times ran a short story on Page One headlined “WEST INDIAN HURRICANE.” A sub-headline screamed: “GREAT HAVOC IN PUERTO RICO.” The story, filed from Washington, began: “Hundreds of houses have been destroyed and several persons killed by the hurricane that has swept over the West Indies...”

The story reported that military officials in San Juan said cavalry barracks had been destroyed, “many other public buildings partially demolished and hundreds of native houses wrecked; that telephone and telegraph wires are down, and that several people have been killed.” San Juan escaped with relatively minor damage compared to the south, center and west of the island as the storm made its way diagonally northwest from Guayama. 

View fullsize

Copy of cable from George Whitefield Davis, Military Governor of Puerto Rico, to the US War Department. Mayor Van Wyck Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

Also on August 9, the military Governor of Puerto Rico, George Whitefield Davis, sent an urgent message to the Secretary of War in Washington D. C. It is among Van Wyck’s papers, and began: “A hurricane of extreme violence passed over Porto Rico [the American spelling at the time before it was changed back to Puerto Rico in 1931] yesterday.”

It went on to say that at least one temporary barrack had been destroyed, but that there was “no injury to shipping here save for two small local schooners, two sailors drowned and San Juan’s lights were temporarily disabled.” But it did warn that outside of San Juan “the losses by the inhabitants is very great and extreme suffering must result.” He noted that there were fears the damage would exceed that of the last big hurricane, San Felipe, in 1876, which caused a famine, and that “many thousands of families are entirely homeless and very great distress must follow."

The situation quickly became much worse. A front-page story filed from San Juan August 10th reported the grim news. “HUNDREDS DEAD IN HURRICANE.” The sub-headlines read: “PONCE A TOTAL WRECK,” and that “Gov. Davis Asks Gifts of Food, Clothing, and Money.” The story said the storm raged for nine hours over Puerto Rico and that in San Juan four “natives” had drowned, 80 homes were demolished and hundreds more unroofed.

Yet San Juan was largely unscathed compared to Ponce, The story continued: “A dispatch by cable from Ponce, sent at 10 o’clock this morning, says the town was almost destroyed. Almost all the frame buildings are down; the bridge is swept away, and there is no communication between the port and the city proper.” Early estimates put Ponce’s damage at $250,000, the equivalent of more than $7 million in today's dollars.

Reports from Humacao, Bayamon, Carolina and other cities and towns were similar, with dozens of deaths to people and livestock. Twenty-three inches of rain drenched Humacao in 24 hours and several other cities recorded similar tolls. The island’s coffee and orange crops were ruined and would not recover for years.

View fullsize

Copy of cable from George Whitefield Davis, Military Governor of Puerto Rico, to the US War Department. Mayor Van Wyck Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

A cable filed by Davis from San Juan that day, which was circulated to Van Wyck’s office recounted the damage and made an urgent plea for supplies.

“Later reports show that hurricane was far more severe in interior and southern part of the island than here,” Davis reported. “Data for the number of Porto-Ricans who have lost everything is deficient but I am forced to believe the number on the island cannot fall below one hundred thousand souls and a famine is impending.... (I ask) that two and one-half million pounds of rice and beans, equal amounts of each, be immediately shipped on transports to Ponce, some here.... There have been many deaths of natives by falling walls.... Several towns reportedly entirely demolished.”

The next day, August 11, War Secretary Elihu Root wrote a letter to Mayor Van Wyck and mayors of other large cities saying that President William McKinley had sent him a telegram asking him to make a public appeal for support “for those who have suffered in Puerto Rico.”

Root wrote that at least 100,000 Puerto Ricans were homeless and destitute. “Unless immediate and effective relief is given, these unfortunate people will perish of famine. Under these conditions the President deems that an appeal should be made to the humanity of the American people… I beg that you will call upon the public-spirited and humane people of your city to take active and immediate measures.”

View fullsize

Appeal to Mayor Van Wyck from Secretary of War Elihu Root, August 11, 1899. Mayor Van Wyck Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

View fullsize

Appeal to Mayor Van Wyck from Secretary of War Elihu Root, August 11, 1899. Mayor Van Wyck Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

By August 12, a New York Times correspondent had arrived in Ponce and filed this report from that devastated city. The headline screamed: “2,000 DROWNED IN PONCE DISTRICT.” A subhead said: “300 Bodies of Storm Victims Already Buried… Natives Uneasy and Cavalry Patrol is Established… Villages Destroyed.”

The story said the storm had “destroyed the crops and demolished a number of houses on the higher ground, while the floods destroyed bridges and houses and caused great loss of human life.” Some major cities were destroyed and some “entire villages were swept out of existence.” In response, Van Wyck and then-New York Governor Theodore Roosevelt urged New Yorkers to contribute to the “Puerto Rican Hurricane Relief Fund.”

View fullsize

Appeal for aid from Randolph Guggenheimer, City Council President (and Acting Mayor of New York), August 12, 1899. Mayor Van Wyck Papers, NYC Municipal Archives.

View fullsize

Appeal for aid from Randolph Guggenheimer, City Council President (and Acting Mayor of New York), August 12, 1899. Mayor Van Wyck Papers, NYC Municipal Archives.

By August 13, the storm had left the Caribbean and churned on toward Florida, Cape Hatteras and the Outer Banks of North Carolina. But officials in Puerto Rico still had no idea of the exact death toll and the breadth of the devastation.

The following week, two ships, the military transport ship the McPherson and steamer Evelyn of New York and Puerto Rico, reportedly carried hundreds of millions pounds of rice, beans, green peas and bread to Puerto Rico The relief shipment included such supplies as 12,600 vests for women, 4,200 men’s undershirts, 600 pairs of pants and clothes for 215 children. Other transports followed.

Despite the efforts of relief agencies and the people of New York and other cities, the scars of San Ciriaco remained for decades. The final death toll from the entire hurricane was 3,855—with 3,369 of those in Puerto Rico alone. Total damage in Puerto Rico was estimated at $20 million—about $620 million today.

There would be other deadly hurricanes after San Ciriaco, but only Hurricane Maria came close to that death toll in 2017, when an estimated 3,000 perished on the island, though some claim the toll was higher.

Death From the Skies Over Brooklyn

Disaster visited New York City on a cold, snowy, gray morning nine days before Christmas in 1960.

Minutes earlier, people were going about their business, shopping for the holidays, working in stores and grabbing coffee from a deli. A man on the corner was hawking Christmas trees.

Suddenly, at about 10:30 a.m., on December 16, 1960, United Airlines Flight 826 out of Chicago’s O’Hare Airport bound for Idlewild (now JFK) plunged from the sky near the corner of Seventh Avenue and Sterling Place in Park Slope, Brooklyn. It broke into jagged pieces after slamming into the street with an ear-splitting thud and exploded several times, killing all 84 people aboard and six others on the street, including a customer in the deli and the man selling Christmas trees.

View fullsize

Remains of United DC-8 at Sterling Place and Seventh Avenue, Brooklyn, December 16, 1960. Department of Sanitation Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

Most of the plane landed a block off Flatbush Avenue, not far from Eastern Parkway, destroying and setting ablaze a church—ironically named Pillar of Fire—several businesses and brownstones. The resulting fires—caused by a dark stream of leaked jet fuel—also ignited parked and moving cars and turned the quiet neighborhood into the scene of what was then the nation's worst air disaster.

View fullsize

Crash site of TWA Lockheed L-1049, Miller Field, New Dorp, Staten Island, December 16, 1960. NYPD Aerial Unit Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

What was not immediately known was that the airliner had been involved in a spectacular mid-air crash with a TWA Lockheed L-1049 Super Constellation about 10 miles away over Staten Island. That plane, TWA Flight 266, traveling from Dayton, Ohio to LaGuardia Airport carried 44 souls and crashed in a remote corner of Miller Field on Staten Island. All aboard were killed. No one on the ground was injured.

The city’s Municipal Archives holds a half-dozen photographs from that fateful day as well as 16 minutes of sometimes frantic radio reports from the scene in Brooklyn that tell the story.

The radio dispatches describe the chaotic scene that covered several blocks of what was then a thickly populated middle-class neighborhood in brownstone Brooklyn. They include reporters phoning in original reports and updates, and interviews with police and fire officials, a Catholic priest, and several witnesses. The reports noted that the plane narrowly missed two nearby gas stations, which would have made the fires much worse, and a nearby Catholic school holding about 1,000 students, which would have made it an even deadlier tragedy.

View fullsize

Aerial view of the crash site at Sterling Place and Seventh Avenue, Brooklyn, December 16, 1960. NYPD Aerial Unit Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

Here are some transcripts of the reports, which began shortly after the crash and continued throughout the day. The first reports are from a highly-excited and somewhat frantic WNYC Radio reporter describing the scene in staccato-like tones.

View fullsize

Remains of United DC-8 at Sterling Place and Seventh Avenue, Brooklyn, December 16, 1960. Borough President Brooklyn Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

“Some time ago, a large Voyager plane, apparently a United Airline plane, fell from the sky into an area of three-family houses in this vicinity at this moment” in an area whose size “is impossible to (quickly) estimate,” he reported, noting that hundreds of firefighters, police officers, hospital and ambulance workers and other rescue workers had responded almost immediately. Some 200 off-duty firefighters rushed in to help as well.

View fullsize

Firefighters battling the blaze at Sterling Place and Seventh Avenue, Brooklyn, December 16, 1960. NYPD Aerial Unit Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

“Flames are now coming out of buildings and due to the cold and wind, the flames are being whipped up. Several bodies have already been taken away from the scene. Automobiles standing in the middle of the street have been burned and are being towed away,” he said. “It is impossible to estimate at this time how many people were involved, how many people were aboard the plane or were in houses in the area who have lost their lives or were injured by this holocaust.... We will bring you further reports from the scene of this plane crash as soon as they are available.”

The reports soon continued with an update from an emergency official at the scene on the number of rescue personnel frantically working. The reporter then asked the official, who he addressed as General: “Would you say this is a major disaster?” The official demurred, saying it would be up to “the governor or the mayor” to declare an emergency. “Is this one of the worst air crashes you’ve seen,” the reporter asked gamely. The official responded: “Yes, it’s one of the worst I’ve seen.”

View fullsize

Remains of United DC-8 at Sterling Place and Seventh Avenue, Brooklyn, December 16, 1960. Department of Sanitation Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

The reporter then cut away. A few moments later, he resumed with an excited update, noting that police were trying to keep the gathering crowd orderly. Firefighters were pouring “tons and tons of water onto the burning structures” and he noted there were “charred bodies” lying in the street. “Dozens of cameramen are out there shooting this fantastic scene. It certainly is a major disaster at the corner of Seventh Avenue and Sterling Place... thick, swirling, choking smoke, which is so much in evidence in the area. Downtown Brooklyn indeed is the scene of a major holocaust.” He then signed off for the moment as “Jay Levy.”

He soon returned with an interview of a local priest who had witnessed the disaster. “I was about to go into the rectory. I looked up and saw something that looked very silvery coming down... Then there was a loud report. I ran around the corner and the whole street was in flames,” the clergyman said. The reporter then asked: “Father, was there a tremendous explosion?” “There was,” the priest answered. “At one time, the flames were shooting about 50 feet in the air.... People were running around. There was pandemonium.... Obviously there were people in the houses on both sides of the street who were killed.... It crashed into an automobile that was passing by, killing the driver, I understand.” He said he saw rescue crews take six bodies “from the plane itself.”

Soon after, came another report from a different newsman, who was much calmer and identified himself as being with the WNYC Mobile Unit. “We’re talking to you from the scene of the plane crash in Brooklyn at Seventh Avenue and Sterling Place. At least 200 people live in that area. A United Airlines four-engine plane fell from the sky into a church and several other buildings. The church was demolished. Several other buildings are completely afire and heavy smoke is blanketing the area.

View fullsize

Remains of United DC-8 at Sterling Place and Seventh Avenue, Brooklyn, December 16, 1960. Borough President Brooklyn Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

“There are unconfirmed reports that there were 77 passengers aboard the plane. We have seen charred bodies taken away from the area and put into a tent.... We’ve also seen people taken from houses in the area. The plane barely missed two gasoline garages in the area and plunged into the church, demolishing it. Ironically, the name of the church is Pillar of Fire.” He said police were keeping the crowds and reporters from the scene, but he could see the tail of the plane and other debris down the block. He noted that Mayor Robert Wagner, Police Commissioner Steven Kennedy and Fire Commissioner Edward Cavanaugh were at the scene monitoring the situation.

He said it was “hard to imagine” how anyone survived the crash, but a witness told him that an 11-year-old boy who had been a passenger on the plane had fallen to the ground and landed in a snowbank—and miraculously was still alive. He was badly burned and in shock and was rushed to Kings County Hospital in serious condition. The boy, later identified as Steven Baltz from Wilmette, Illinois, died the next day from his burns and complications from pneumonia.

View fullsize

Remains of United DC-8 at Sterling Place and Seventh Avenue, Brooklyn, December 16, 1960. Department of Sanitation Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

“The scene on this street is quite a familiar one to anyone who has seen wartime destruction. We have seen charred bodies taken away. We have seen people in houses surrounding the area in shock being taken away.”

In the final report in the Archives, about 20 minutes later, the reporter noted that investigators from the Civil Aeronautics Board were on the scene and were planning to block off the complete area for a few days. Bodies were removed to Kings County Morgue and there was no danger of the five-alarm fire spreading any further.

View fullsize

Remains of United DC-8 at Sterling Place and Seventh Avenue, Brooklyn, December 16, 1960. Department of Sanitation Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

Reporters on the scene in Brooklyn, including a young Gabe Pressman, were unaware that another plane was involved—since this was many decades before the Internet and cell phones. The next day’s newspapers told that part of the story.

A three-deck headline in The New York Times exclaimed:

127 DIE AS 2 AIRLINES COLLIDE OVER CITY

JET SETS BROOKLYN FIRE KILLING FIVE OTHERS

SECOND PLANE CRASHES ON STATEN ISLAND

View fullsize

Crash site of TWA Lockheed L-1049, Miller Field, New Dorp, Staten Island, December 16, 1960. NYPD Aerial Unit Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

Officials reported that the collision took place over Staten Island about 10 miles away. While the smaller Lockheed plane went down directly, the United aircraft managed to stay aloft for about 90 seconds before plunging down in Park Slope. Investigators determined that the United plane was going too fast—about 350 miles per hour or about 100 mph faster than he should have been—and was about 12 miles off course, causing the accident that left blocks of Park Slope scarred for decades.

View fullsize

Crash site of TWA Lockheed L-1049, Miller Field, New Dorp, Staten Island, December 16, 1960. NYPD Aerial Unit Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

When Johnny Came Marching Home to Cheers

The only good thing about wars is that they end.

Because America and our allies were victorious in what some call our two “Good Wars” —World War I and World War II—ticker tape parades, elaborate welcome home events for our soldiers and the generals who led them, and often riotous celebrations followed.

To commemorate this year’s Veterans Day, we took a peek into the Municipal Archives, which holds pictures of the celebrations—from throngs of New Yorkers celebrating Armistice Day on Wall Street on November 11, 1918, Marshal Ferdinand Foch, the Allied Commander in World War I, during a ticker tape parade in October 1921, raucous celebrations in Times Square and Central Park at the end of both wars and many proud, patriotic parades.

The Archives also holds letters, telegrams and memos to and from Mayor John Hylan at the end of WWI and correspondence from Mayor Fiorello La Guardia on the intricate planning for what he hoped would be respectful and prayerful celebrations.

This being New York, the correspondence is not without some political infighting, intrigue and squabbles about money, particularly at the end of WWI.

View fullsize

Parade of the 77th Division, Major General Alexander, commanding the Division, passing through the Victory Arch at Madison Square, at the head of the parade, May 6, 1919. Photograph by Underwood & Underwood, Mayors Reception Committee Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

On October 29, 1918, with victory at hand, a Manhattan lawyer named John J. Hetrick wrote a letter to Hylan asking him to “give thought to a memorial of the deeds and valor and patriotism of its citizens,” and urged him, as chief executive of New York City, to “lead the way and not allow the war work of New York to be immortalized in a fragmentary way.”

Hylan soon appointed Deputy Police Commissioner Rodman Wanamaker to oversee construction of a temporary Memorial Arch to “welcome home the demobilized troops.” The city undertook a competition for ideas, ranging from the Arch, to a Victory Monument at Madison Square to a “Liberty Bridge” connecting New York and New Jersey.

But trouble quickly erupted when the mayor appointed William Randolph Hearst, the king of “yellow journalism,” who had close ties to Germany before the war and opposed U.S. entry into the fighting. The mayor was soon deluged with letters from several hundred prominent New Yorkers, including Henry Morgenthau Sr., who refused to serve on the committee, largely because Hearst would be on it.

View fullsize

Letter to Mayor Hylan declining appointment to the Reception Committee due to the presence of Mr. Hearst. Mayor Hylan Papers, NYC Municipal Archives.

One letter, from Richard Henry Gatling, declared, that normally he would be honored to serve on the committee, but refused because, “His Honor the mayor has made the shameful mistake of appointing the unspeakable Hearst as a member."

Another, from lawyer Henry Clay, declared: “It was an insult to both the citizens of this city and the returning soldiers to give a prominent place on such a committee to a man of the character of Mr. Hearst.”

In any event, a Welcome Home Committee was formed, 50 memorials were eventually built and parades were held before crowds of up to 250,000 people, including ones for the 27th Infantry Division on March 25, 1919; for the 332nd Division on April 21, 1919 for the 332nd Division, and on May 6, 1919 for the 77th Infantry Division.

View fullsize

Parade of the 27th Division, Major General John F. O'Ryan and Brig. General Palmer E. Pierce reviewing the parade, 108th Infantry passing, March 25, 1919. Photograph by International Newsreel / Film Service, Inc., Mayors Reception Committee Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

View fullsize

332nd Infantry coming up Fifth Avenue on their way to the North Meadow in Central Park, April 21, 1919. Photograph by Underwood & Underwood, Mayors Reception Committee Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

Later that year, on September 8, 1919, General John J. (Black Jack) Pershing, commander of the American Expeditionary Force, arrived in New York on a confiscated German ship, the Leviathan, to be honored for his leadership. His motorcade went under that temporary Victory Arch at Madison Square at 24th Street and Fifth Avenue. And on September 10, he mounted his horse and led a parade of soldiers from the First Division to Central Park, where a crowd of 50,000 people greeted him. That evening, he was honored at a 1,600-guest banquet at the Waldorf Astoria.

View fullsize

General Pershing welcomed home (left to right: Police Commissioner Richard Enright, General Peyton C. Marsh, General John J. Pershing and Secretary of War Newton D. Baker), September 8, 1919. Photograph by International Newsreel / Film Service, Inc., Mayors Reception Committee Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

View fullsize

General John J. Pershing, passing the Official Reviewing Stand in front of the Museum of Art and saluting Secretary of War Newton Baker and General March, Chief of Staff, September 10, 1919. Photograph by Underwood & Underwood, Mayors Reception Committee Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

The city also sponsored and paid for a variety of welcome home dinners for the troops at prominent restaurants, including the Astor, the Netherland, the Yale Club and the Knickerbocker. The archives holds letters from some of the restaurants claiming the city short-changed them.

A DIFFERENT WAR, A DIFFERENT TONE

The greetings and welcome-home plans for the end of WWII, under Mayor LaGuardia, were decidedly different. For one thing, almost all of those invited as sponsors accepted, including prominent people from the worlds of art, music, business, politics and the press—even though Hearst's son, William Randolph Hearst Jr., was on the official committee planning festivities for VE Day.

Mayor La Guardia took a solemn tone in all letters regarding plans for V-E Day, starting as early as nine months before victory was declared.

In an August, 2, 1944 letter to the secretary of the U.S. Chamber of Commerce, the mayor said City Hall and police were “fretful of wild and unbridled celebrations” and wanted to avoid a repeat of the “riotous celebrations” on Wall Street and around the City on Armistice Day in 1918.

View fullsize

Ticker Tape Parade for General Eisenhower, June 19, 1945. Mayors Reception Committee Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

On August 22, Walter White, secretary of the NAACP, suggested that the City hold “the biggest prayer service of thanksgiving in Central Park and perhaps in Prospect Park, ever held ... to remind all citizens of New York that their joy should find expression in thanksgiving rather than in drunkenness and vandalism.”

Two weeks later, La Guardia called White’s idea “a very splendid one and suggested the mall in Central Park. On September 9, a New York Times editorial called for a “thoughtful celebration rather to have people riot in the streets, throwing confetti and getting drunk.”

As the fall of Germany approached the City made plans for a thankful celebration in Central Park patriotic songs and musical performance.

When V-E finally arrived on May 8, 1945, the City erupted in both kinds of celebrations —two million people jammed Times Square, singing, dancing and drinking as confetti rained down on them and a huge replica of the Statue of Liberty. There were similar scenes on Wall Street, in the Garment District and in Rockefeller Center.

That night, La Guardia had his prayerful event, launched with a benediction from Episcopal Bishop William T. Manning and featuring musical performances, dramatic readings and a stirring speech from the mayor, which is in the archives, complete with handwritten edits.

It reads, in part: “The war has ended in Europe. There was no doubt as to the ultimate outcome. It was only a matter of fixing the day. This is not exactly a day of rejoicing. It is a day of great satisfaction. But there is still work to be done; there is still a great deal of fighting and dying yet ahead ... (But) it means that the evil forces of Nazism and Fascism are destroyed.”

View fullsize

Ticker Tape Parade for General Eisenhower, General Eisenhower, standing, waves at crowd from car (Mayor La Guardia seated), June 19, 1945. Mayors Reception Committee Collection, NYC Municipal Archives.

It was just the beginning of the celebrations. On June 19, 1945, four million people—and a ticker tape parade—greeted General Dwight D. Eisenhower, the Supreme Allied Commander, who would be elected President a little more than six years later.

In January 1946, 13,000 men of the 82nd Airborne marched four miles up Fifth Avenue amid tanks and under flybys, and in March, 1946, Sir Winston Churchill got a ticker tape parade of his own.

Japan would fall three months after Europe, and similar celebrations were held in New York around the world. VJ Day would also yield perhaps the most famous of the time—Alfred Eisenstadt’s photograph of a Navy sailor kissing a woman in white in Times Square.