The most powerful hurricane to hit Galveston in more than a generation roared ashore on the morning of July 27, 1943 catching island inhabitants and other Texans as far inland as Houston almost completely by surprise.

With no radar, satellites or television to provide them with breaking weather news, Texans living within striking distance of Gulf storms depended upon advisories and warnings from the Weather Bureau.  Government forecasters, in turn, relied upon eyewitness reports from ships at sea and observers along the coast.

That system, which functioned relatively well in peacetime, broke down during the Second World War.  So as not to reveal their position to German U-boats, vessels in the Gulf of Mexico maintained strict radio silence.  In the aftermath of hurricanes and other natural disasters, reports of property damage, especially to defense plants, and loss of life were censored in the name of national security.

As far as the public knew, there was no cause for alarm as late as Monday, July 26, the day before the hurricane made landfall.  Newspapers in the Houston-Galveston area quoted the meteorologist-in-charge of the Houston Weather Bureau as saying, “Don’t get the people disturbed by use of the word hurricane.  As matters now stand, it is a small tropical disturbance.  If it gets worse, we will let everyone know in plenty of time.”

Even as the underrated hurricane was flattening everything on the Bolivar Peninsula east of Galveston with wind gusts of 74 miles-per-hour, the Weather Bureau insisted upon calling it “a tropical storm of minor size and intensity.”  Therefore, employers in downtown Houston saw no reason to send their workers home early, a decision that resulted in thousands spending the night at their desks or in emergency shelters opened at the last minute in the municipal auditorium and other public buildings.

Hardest hit were the communities and industrial centers ringing Galveston Bay and the Houston Ship Channel.  Winds packing a 132-mph punch destroyed four cooling towers at the Humble Oil Refinery in Baytown and brought production of toluene, a key component of TNT, almost to a halt.  The Shell Refinery in Deer Park, a prime source of aviation fuel, also lost a number of towers and with them much of its capacity.  

A couple of utility towers over the Ship Channel, built to withstand 120-mph gales, were blown away, as were various structures in Kemah, Seabrook and La Porte.  In Texas City, nine out of ten private homes and buildings ended up underwater or in ruins.

Fifteen miles southeast of the heart of Houston was Ellington Field, an Army Air Corps training school.  Air cadets and foot soldiers were pressed into hazardous service to tie down the aircraft there had not been enough time to move out of the hurricane’s path.   

As the wind swiftly increased in velocity to 90 miles an hour, some of the uniformed personnel, who were too young to know any better, held onto the wings to keep the planes on the ground.  Twenty-two sustained broken bones and other injuries, while five craft were sent cartwheeling across the runway.  

At another airfield in Bryan north of Houston, where British pilots were being trained in instrument flying, the order was given to start ferrying the AT-6 “Texan” Trainers to safety.  The “guest” aviators, who had never seen a hurricane, teased their instructor about how delicate his pride-and-joy trainer must be if it could not stand a stiff breeze.

Col. Joe Duckworth called the Brits’ bluff by betting he could fly a “Texan” into the hurricane and live to tell about it – something that had never been attempted.  He persuaded Lt. Ralph O’Hair, the only navigator on the base, to accompany him, and off they went in the wild blue yonder without bothering to clear the risky stunt with their superior.

The navigator later compared the unique experience to “being tossed about like a stick in a dog’s mouth.”  Just as the trainer seemed on the verge of breaking into pieces, the plane entered the “eye” giving the intrepid pair a glimpse of the clear sky above and the earth down below.  The base weather officer was so thrilled by their amazing account that he pestered Duckworth into taking him on a return trip into the hurricane.

Damage from the “minor” storm was assessed at $17 million — $234 million in today’s dollars.  The FBI closed down the telegraph office in La Porte because a wire had sent with sketchy details of the damage, and Houston’s chief weatherman refused to share wind readings with the press out of obvious fear for his job.  

Of the 19 deaths officially blamed on Mother Nature, 15 were drowning from the loss of two vessels.  The Galveston, a Corps of Engineers dredge, broke up on a jetty off Galveston killing 11 crewmen, and a sea tug called Titan sank in rough seas near Port Arthur at the cost of four lives.

The federal government, military and Weather Bureau apparently learned a valuable lesson from the “surprise” hurricane of 1943.  Never again would civilian lives be put at risk by intentionally keeping the public in the dark about an imminent tempest capable of leaving death and destruction in its terrible wake. 

Signed copies of “Texas Boomtowns: A History of Blood and Oil” are in short supply but still available. Order while they last with a check for $28.80 to Bartee Haile, P.O. Box 152, Friendswood, TX 77549 or online at barteehaile.com