Often when one thinks of fog, they envision a dense aura that is both mysterious and romantic. It is nothing more than a soft, drizzly cloud that tickles the skin and chills the breath. Life around us appears hazy as former rigid edges are dulled and mystified. Time seems to have stopped and anything feels possible. However, this was not one of those times.
It was December 5, 1952 and the rush of Christmas Shopping had already begun. The bright lights and heavy traffic of London had risen due to the influx of people out on the town. By three in the afternoon, a fog had rested upon the city. Londoners, used to winter fogs, did not let this detour them. However, just an hour later, the fog had swirled with the black soot of coal to form a dense cloud. Visibility was so low that many people complained that they could not see their own feet. Not even the sun could penetrate the cloud.
By this time sulfur dioxide had mixed in to create a “yellow and black” like smog, referred to as pea soup consistency. “It had an acid like taste,” read one account, “It was inescapable.” Everyone was forced to walk and soot clung to them like paint. It seeped so deep that even undergarments were black.
The opaque mass did not just envelop the outside, but leaked into buildings and covered everything with a grey, slick film. Those at the cinema recalled not being able to even see what was on the screen. They could only see the square of where the fog was illuminated.
Traffic had completely halted and motorists had to abandon their cars. Ambulances tried to continue by sending out a scout to slowly guide them. These scouts were typically police officers (on foot) holding a flare to guide them through the puzzle of stopped traffic. But even that became useless.
Photo by BBC News
People couldn’t see, they couldn’t breathe. The smog soaked the city for four long days. “It was a warm fog that wrapped around you. It was all possessing.” The dismal fog also permeated the lungs and slowly choked a person to death. Hospitals were filled with gasping patients. Since smoking cigarettes was all too common for the time, people’s lungs were already compromised and unable to withstand the poisonous air.
Harold Macmillan, a government official, blamed the weather for the catastrophe. No one had even considered that the “killer-fog” was manmade. Upwards of 12,000 people died from the pollution. But the public was not satisfied with only blaming Mother Nature, and insisted something needed to be done. Now pollution was no longer seen as something that city dwellers must accept (due to the advances in industrialism), but as a beast that must be regulated.
*How reminiscent of the Great Stink of 1858.*
Why it happened:
An anticyclone had rested on the city. In the atmosphere, Northern Hemisphere winds rotated clockwise, while the Southern winds rotated counterclockwise. This created a dense pressure that cooled the air considerably in the lower atmosphere. London was already dealing with winter cold, but the lack of heavy winds to push out the pollution created stagnant air. The upper atmosphere was warm, lighter air that trapped the cool air below like a lid. This is called temperature inversion. Since the smog had nowhere to go, it just continued to thicken over the city.
Why I wrote about it:
I am apart of a “Poem a Day” program. This morning I read “Guilt” by John Betjeman. It immediately reminded me of this disaster. I am so familiar with it because of my involvement with my university’s Environment Club. There are countless other concepts I could write on in relation to the poem, but it would be dreadfully personal.
Here is the poem:
Guilt by John Betjeman
The clock is frozen in the tower,
The thickening fog with sooty smell
Has blanketed the motor power
Which turns the London streets to hell;
And footsteps with their lonely sound
Intensify the silence round.
I haven’t hope. I haven’t faith.
I live two lives and sometimes three.
The lives I live make life a death
For those who have to live with me.
Knowing the virtues that I lack,
I pat myself upon the back.
With breastplate of self-righteousness
And shoes of smugness on my feet,
Before the urge in me grows less
I hurry off to make retreat.
For somewhere, somewhere, burns a light
To lead me out into the night.
It glitters icy, thin and plain,
And leads me down to Waterloo-
Into a warm electric train
Which travels sorry Surrey through
And crystal-hung, the clumps of pine
Stand deadly still beside the line.
jack everlasting 