Rescue
As a second team prepared to go in to bring the first crew out, Yates, 43, and Vocke, 29, suited up. They'd spent hundreds of hours in chemical protective clothing. They had the advantage of having been on a training exercise on this road a month before, so they knew it.
At 10：12 a.m., accompanied by a railroad official, Yates and Vocke climbed through the jagged pinnacles and crevices of the debris. One little rip in their suits would compromise their mission. Turning south, they waddled robot-like down Nelson Road, sweat streaming into their boots. Everything they saw was dead —— vegetation, birds, even rattlesnakes.
They came first to the house where Wayne's stepmother lived. “Has the pink house been searched？” Yates radioed. The first team had reported searching a house, so it was assumed this was it. “Yes, we think so,” came the reply.
Moving on, they rounded the bend next to Wayne and Mary's home. “The green Suburban！” said Vocke, pointing toward the carport at the rear of the house. But surrounding the house was tall fencing and an electronic gate that Wayne had installed after a string of burglaries in the area. The place was an impenetrable compound.
Just then they spotted a man walking up the road from the other direction as natural as could be. He was wearing street clothes and breathing normally. “Stop right there！” yelled Vocke. “Are you feeling okay？” he asked. The man nodded. He lived in a gated, private campground next to the river. Because of wind direction, the area had not been affected by the toxic cloud at all. And the gas seemed to have dissipated there now as well.
Yates and Vocke made the decision to come “off air.” They unzipped their suits and tied them around their waists. They felt some discomfort —— watering eyes, scratchy throats. Using some rusty tools from the man's home, they went to work on Wayne's fence, finally chiseling a hole to get through.
Yates and Vocke raced to the back door. Opening it, a rush of air like a mustard gas attack slammed them. They pulled on their masks and entered. “Fire department！” they yelled. “We're here to help！ Anybody here？”
Wayne Hale stumbled into the kitchen. “Sir,” said Yates, “you need to come with us.” “I'm not leaving without my wife,” Wayne said. “I've been calling you guys for hours. What took so long？” He led them to Mary, prostrate on the bed, gasping, her lungs gurgling. Wayne had been administering artificial respiration on her, forcing her to breathe. Bob lay on the sofa, unable to stand.
Working quickly, Yates and Vocke carried Mary and Bob outdoors to cleaner air. Then they called in a rescue helicopter. After six hours, the deadly ordeal was over for the Hales.
Learning from Wayne that the pink house belonged to his stepmother, Yates and Vocke went to investigate. Their fears were confirmed. Gene had never made it out of bed. Lois, in nightclothes, lay across her bed, a telephone still in her hand. Four months later, Bob Whitworth died due to complications from chlorine, according to his daughter.
Wayne and Mary were hospitalized for a combined total of five weeks and still suffer lingering effects from the toxic cloud. Their home required a complete renovation. After waiting three months, they moved back in. The Hales settled out of court with Union Pacific for damages.
Rodney Hitzfelder, deputy chief of operations for the San Antonio Fire Department, said the city and county have worked together to improve response procedures： “City and volunteer firefighters recently held a joint training exercise that re-created this type of disaster.” Homeland Security funds paid for new equipment, including chemical monitors and ATVs that could have rescued the Hales.
As a second team prepared to go in to bring the first crew out, Yates, 43, and Vocke, 29, suited up. They'd spent hundreds of hours in chemical protective clothing. They had the advantage of having been on a training exercise on this road a month before, so they knew it.
At 10：12 a.m., accompanied by a railroad official, Yates and Vocke climbed through the jagged pinnacles and crevices of the debris. One little rip in their suits would compromise their mission. Turning south, they waddled robot-like down Nelson Road, sweat streaming into their boots. Everything they saw was dead —— vegetation, birds, even rattlesnakes.
They came first to the house where Wayne's stepmother lived. “Has the pink house been searched？” Yates radioed. The first team had reported searching a house, so it was assumed this was it. “Yes, we think so,” came the reply.
Moving on, they rounded the bend next to Wayne and Mary's home. “The green Suburban！” said Vocke, pointing toward the carport at the rear of the house. But surrounding the house was tall fencing and an electronic gate that Wayne had installed after a string of burglaries in the area. The place was an impenetrable compound.
Just then they spotted a man walking up the road from the other direction as natural as could be. He was wearing street clothes and breathing normally. “Stop right there！” yelled Vocke. “Are you feeling okay？” he asked. The man nodded. He lived in a gated, private campground next to the river. Because of wind direction, the area had not been affected by the toxic cloud at all. And the gas seemed to have dissipated there now as well.
Yates and Vocke made the decision to come “off air.” They unzipped their suits and tied them around their waists. They felt some discomfort —— watering eyes, scratchy throats. Using some rusty tools from the man's home, they went to work on Wayne's fence, finally chiseling a hole to get through.
Yates and Vocke raced to the back door. Opening it, a rush of air like a mustard gas attack slammed them. They pulled on their masks and entered. “Fire department！” they yelled. “We're here to help！ Anybody here？”
Wayne Hale stumbled into the kitchen. “Sir,” said Yates, “you need to come with us.” “I'm not leaving without my wife,” Wayne said. “I've been calling you guys for hours. What took so long？” He led them to Mary, prostrate on the bed, gasping, her lungs gurgling. Wayne had been administering artificial respiration on her, forcing her to breathe. Bob lay on the sofa, unable to stand.
Working quickly, Yates and Vocke carried Mary and Bob outdoors to cleaner air. Then they called in a rescue helicopter. After six hours, the deadly ordeal was over for the Hales.
Learning from Wayne that the pink house belonged to his stepmother, Yates and Vocke went to investigate. Their fears were confirmed. Gene had never made it out of bed. Lois, in nightclothes, lay across her bed, a telephone still in her hand. Four months later, Bob Whitworth died due to complications from chlorine, according to his daughter.
Wayne and Mary were hospitalized for a combined total of five weeks and still suffer lingering effects from the toxic cloud. Their home required a complete renovation. After waiting three months, they moved back in. The Hales settled out of court with Union Pacific for damages.
Rodney Hitzfelder, deputy chief of operations for the San Antonio Fire Department, said the city and county have worked together to improve response procedures： “City and volunteer firefighters recently held a joint training exercise that re-created this type of disaster.” Homeland Security funds paid for new equipment, including chemical monitors and ATVs that could have rescued the Hales.