Confusion, bravery, awe: What really happened after train derailed in East Palestine, Ohio

A new wall of flames leapt from a drainage ditch running along the train tracks in East Palestine, Ohio, on Feb. 3, separating firefighters Stephen Szekely and Jared Musial.

The two were working alone at one end of a 38-car train derailment, trying to quash flames on a factory and stop the flow of fiery chemicals before they moved any farther west, threatening the heart of East Palestine’s downtown.

All the other nearby firefighters were on the other side of the train derailment, cut off from Szekely and Musial by an even larger firestorm that snaked down the tracks like a monstrous serpent ablaze.

Szekely radioed for help.

“I lost sight of Jared and we’re by ourselves and only have a half tank of water,” said Szekely, who had responded to East Palestine from neighboring Mahoning County.

A commander told Szekely to reach out to East Palestine. 

But Szekely had no idea how to do that. East Palestine used a different radio channel. And even if he reached someone there, he couldn’t tell them where he was because he didn’t know.

The icy night air around him smelled of smoke and nail polish remover, only sweeter, as two- and-three story flames stretched as far as he could see.

In that moment, Szekely thought the gates to hell had opened.

As federal, state and local investigators continue piecing together all that led to this rail disaster, along with how to clean it up, East Palestine residents, first responders and others impacted by the derailment still marvel at what happened in this small village on the eastern-most edge of Ohio.

Interviews with more than 25 people affected by the calamity, along with information from a dozen press conferences, public records and a visit to the site of the derailment, offer a glimpse into the fear, the bravery and the confusion that unfolded on what started out as an ordinary Friday night.

Warning comes too late

People started filling the bleachers in the East Palestine High School gym around supper time that Friday night for a home basketball game against United, another rural high school from the other side of Columbiana County.

Combined, the schools have less than 1,000 students in grades 9-12, fewer than a single graduating class in some suburban districts. 

Dwayne Pavkovich, who does double-duty as East Palestine’s athletic director and assistant high school principal, brought his 5-year-old son, Oliver, to the game.

As the varsity squad hit the gym court just before 7 p.m., a Norfolk Southern train was chugging its way south and east, bound for the company’s large rail yard in Conway, Pennsylvania. 

Students Cami Kridler and Jacob Griffith were there, too, in part to watch their friend, Jake Johnston, who was on the East Palestine Bulldogs team.

After passing through densely populated Toledo and Cleveland, the train almost certainly followed tracks through Summit and Portage counties before turning east in Alliance toward East Palestine, where the high school sits about seven blocks from the tracks.

The train, about 1.7 miles long, carried everything from innocuous flour and automobiles to hazardous materials like vinyl chloride, a gas used to make plastic products that is associated with an increased risk of cancer.

When burned, vinyl chloride can also release dioxins, toxic pollutants that can cause long-term health threats. 

Trains like this pass so frequently on the Norfolk Southern line that the screaming whistles and grinding wheels have become a sort of white noise, the soundtrack to everyday life.

More: Trains keep derailing all over the country. What's going on?

People in East Palestine, like others who live near rail tracks across the country, don’t know what’s on the freight cars and tankers passing through their town. 

But on Feb. 3, a train carrying danger was heading East Palestine’s way.

About 8:12 p.m., as the East Palestine basketball game was winding down, the 23rd freight car on the Norfolk Southern train showed signs of trouble.

As it passed through Salem, a town about 20 miles to the west of East Palestine, a camera at a business along the tracks  – Butech Bliss, an industrial equipment manufacturer – recorded images of the passing train that showed the undercarriage of one of its cars aglow, as if on fire.

About a minute later, a camera at a second business – Fresh Mark, a meat processing plant – showed fire on an axle of the same car.

A wheel bearing on Car 23 was overheating.

The crew of the train was receiving alerts from what are called “hot box detectors” installed along tracks to pick up spikes in temperature, a sign of potential trouble with wheel bearings that can cause derailments.

The first two alerts showed temperatures were rising but weren't yet high enough for the crew to stop the train under Norfolk Southern safety protocols.

But the third alert just outside of East Palestine sounded an alarm. The temperature had skyrocketed to 253 degrees above the surrounding air temperature and the engineer began to stop the train. 

By then, it was too late. 

'Look, Dad, fireworks!'

The East Palestine basketball game ended about 8:20 p.m. United’s Golden Eagles crushed the East Palestine Bulldogs 51-31.

After Pavkovich cleared people out of the gym, he and his son Oliver went to Pavkovich’s office. While Pavkovich sorted the box office take, Oliver used a dry erase board to draw his favorite cartoon: Thomas the Tank Engine, a moon-faced train engine that has charmed generations of children who follow Thomas’ adventures with his train friends.

The father and son headed home shortly before 9 p.m. In the school parking lot, just after Pavkovich buckled Oliver into the back seat, the night sky lit up.

“Look, Dad, fireworks!” Oliver said. 

Pavkovich didn’t think so, but he didn’t tell his son what he initially feared: Someone set off a bomb in downtown East Palestine.

At the same moment and about a mile to the east, East Palestine high school students Cami Kridler, Jacob Griffith and two friends, were driving toward the Ohio/Pennsylvania state line.

After the basketball game, they stopped at a Circle K downtown for Polar Pops and then headed toward the nearest Wendy’s, which is Beaver Falls, Pennsylvania, about 14 miles from East Palestine.

As they traveled along East Taggert Street in Jacob’s Ford Fusion, they saw the sky light up, too.

When they looked out the car windows to their left, they saw flames shooting 100 or 200 feet in the air somewhere behind Leake Oil, a local gas station and heating oil company that sits on the railroad tracks that run through town.

“Oh my God!” they all screamed as they were hit by a wave of heat coming off the explosion.

Jacob, 18, who was driving, immediately pulled into the parking lot of State Line Tavern next door to Leake Oil.

Cami, 15, tried to call 911. But she was so rattled, she first dialed 991. When she tried again, her call went to a dispatcher in Pennsylvania. This time, Cami couldn’t speak. Her mouth felt frozen and her lips wouldn’t form words.

She turned the phone over to Jacob, who told the dispatcher they had just witnessed a giant explosion. The dispatcher seemed skeptical of a call from a bunch of screaming teenagers in a car on a Friday night, the teens said, but patched their call through to East Palestine.

The dispatcher in East Palestine seemed skeptical, too, leading the teens to believe they might have been the first to report the disaster. But the dispatcher said they’d send a police officer to check it out.

Jacob suspected an arsonist may have blown up the gas or oil tanks behind Leake Oil and they circled back to take a look. 

The giant flames they first saw had disappeared and, as they got closer, the teens could see what really happened: Train cars, more than a couple dozen of them, lay scattered haphazardly across the tracks like toys. 

Firefighters initially in the dark about Norfolk Southern train’s contents

No one was at the East Palestine fire stations when the call came in about the train derailment.

The fire department has only one full-time employee: Chief Keith Drabick, who took over the job 12 months earlier after working at another fire department out of state for more than a decade.

East Palestine’s other firefighters are volunteers who are paid per fire. Most say they don’t do it for the cash. They want to protect their friends, family and neighbors.

It took about 10 minutes for the firefighters to respond, first to the fire stations for equipment and then to the derailment. 

All the while, flames were beginning to spread.

The blaze soon became so intense they couldn’t get close enough to see placards showing which cars contained hazardous materials like vinyl chloride.

If they knew what the chemicals were, they could have looked up the contents in the U.S. Department of Transportation’s Emergency Response Guidebook (ERG), the hazmat bible for dealing with gas leaks and chemical spills.

When you type “vinyl chloride" into the ERG app it tells you it’s an extremely flammable gas and, if a rail car or tank truck carrying vinyl chloride is involved in a fire, evacuate 1 mile in all directions.

“Resist rushing in!” the ERG app urges. “Stay clear of all spills, vapors, fumes, smoke, and potential hazards.”

Within an hour, the fire was too big – too long, too high and too hot – for any one department. East Palestine called for help from neighboring counties that sent scores of firefighters to assist.

Stephen Szekely and Jared Musial answered the call from Springfield Township in Mahoning County. 

Szekely – a volunteer firefighter at the township and full-time chief of the hazardous response materials for Mahoning County – slid behind the wheel of a township tanker truck, the kind firefighters often used to supplement water needed to put out blazes in rural areas without public water lines.

East Palestine had hydrants and a public water supply. But the water was pumped from several wells that could never produce all the water needed to fight this extraordinary blaze.

On the drive south, Szekely and Musial became separated from the township’s fire engine, which was leading the way. But as they crested a hill, they knew they headed in the right direction because they could see a glow.

Shortly after they arrived, Musial noticed fire starting to catch on a nearby building on North Pleasant Street by the tracks.

The township tanker, unlike some tankers, had a pump, so Szekely and Musial decided to run a hose and tackle the small fire before it grew. 

Musial suited up and quickly knocked down the fire. He then headed around a corner to douse another blaze at U.S. Stoneware, a sprawling factory founded in 1865 that continues to make ceramic materials used in manufacturing.  

Szekely, meanwhile, saw another, possibly bigger problem: Chemicals leaking from the derailed train cars had caught fire, creating a blazing flow running in a drainage ditch and culvert that was heading closer to East Palestine’s downtown.

Szekely didn’t know what chemicals they were, but when they sprayed water on them, the fire initially grew and then shrunk back, sort of like putting water on a kitchen grease fire.

That’s what happened when a new wall of flames erupted, separating him from Musial. 

Szekely, after finding no help on the radio, was about to say the word no firefighter wants to say or hear: “mayday,” meaning a firefighter, Musial, was in trouble.

But before he could speak, the wall of flames receded. Szekely still couldn’t see Musial, but he could see the hose Musial was carrying. It was moving so he knew Musial was still at work.

When Musial came back around the corner, he looked a mess.

“Are you OK?” Szekely asked him.

The turnout gear Musial was wearing was permanently discolored on his left side. It’s supposed to be fire resistant up to 450 degrees. 

And the bottom of one of his boots was gone, eaten away by chemicals, Szekely said. 

“His heel was flopping like a sandal,” Szekely said.

Mass evacuations and many volunteers

East Palestine now looked like an unfolding disaster movie with flames several stories high and the sound of explosions.

When Cami, Jacob and their friends first saw the derailment, the train hadn’t fully caught fire, and they thought the incident was over and headed on to Wendy’s.

By the time they returned, about an hour later, East Palestine had issued a shelter-in-place order for about half the village.

Jacob and his friends were mesmerized by the surreal scene.

They continued driving around town, watching as Ohio State Highway Patrol troopers and sheriff’s deputies went door to door, knocking to alert people.

Other law enforcement were using bullhorns and microphones, slowly driving through neighborhoods announcing the evacuation. 

“I’ve never seen so many people in East Palestine,” Jacob said.

The fire, meanwhile, was growing. 

By 10:40 p.m., the smoke was so thick that it began showing up on weather radars in Pittsburgh and Cleveland.

And by 11 p.m., East Palestine fire officials knew hazardous materials were on the train.

Even though they couldn't yet see which cars and tanks were burning – including the five with vinyl chloride – they ordered an evacuation.

Some said it was mandatory, but East Palestine Mayor Trent Conaway initially hedged, saying the government couldn’t force people to leave their homes, a position he would later reverse.

Officials triggered an emergency evacuation plan already in place and opened a shelter at the high school.

When Jacob and Cami heard the Red Cross could use help, they headed to the same gym where they had watched the basketball game earlier that night.

The teens helped set up cots and handed out water to their friends and neighbors until about 5 or 6 a.m.

Even though the evacuation impacted about 2,000 people, less than 50 were in the high school gym. Some opted to stay with nearby families or at hotels. 

Others declined to leave their homes, some because they didn’t recognize the danger, didn’t want to leave without their pets or had no way to get out.

Once the sun rose, Fire Chief Drabick said drones and other air support would help them figure out the risks.

By then, firefighters from about 50 area departments had responded. So had federal and state officials, along with Norfolk Southern officials.

But it was clear that scores of firefighters pouring hundreds of thousands of gallons of water on this fire wasn’t going to solve the situation.

Calling for extra help

By 8:15 a.m. Saturday, Feb. 4, East Palestine officials said firefighters were pulled from the immediate area.

The city had switched to unmanned firefighting devices called master streams to pour water on the derailment to keep the fire in check until federal, state and local officials, working with outside experts from Norfolk Southern, could come up with a plan.

That Saturday morning was a blur of press conferences, news reports and unfounded rumors spreading on social media.

Many were confused over whether they should evacuate or shelter in place. 

And then some started noticing the village tap water wasn’t coming out of their taps clear.

Firefighters, it turned out, had used so much of the city water supply – along with thousands more gallons from a local stream – that the water pressure had dropped.

Officials told residents it was safe to drink. But some in East Palestine were skeptical, especially after learning that tankers carrying vinyl chloride derailed.

By midafternoon, Fire Chief Drabick and Columbiana County’s Emergency Management Director Peggy Clark called the state for help managing all the resources coming into town.

Since 2000, Ohio has been carved into eight emergency response districts.

East Palestine is in District 5, which stretches north and south from Summit to Tuscarawas counties, and east and west from the Ohio/Pennsylvania line to Richland County on Interstate 71.

In Stark County, Jackson Township Fire Chief Tim Berczik – a regional coordinator for District 5 – gathered about five other area chiefs and headed east, arriving in East Palestine about 6:15 p.m.

By then, the local command staff had been working 21 hours straight.

“It was so clear they were just exhausted,” Berczik said.

Berczik’s incoming crew had a briefing with Drabick, followed by another with Norfolk Southern and Environmental Protection Agency officials.

The fire was still burning, they learned, but East Palestine firefighters and the surrounding departments that responded had contained the blaze. 

“The plan was we’re not going to get anyone hurt,” Berczik said. “And we’re going to let this burn and wait for experts” to tell us what to do next.

Two bad options  

Behind the scenes, it was becoming clear by Sunday, Feb. 5, that the immediate danger to East Palestine was growing.

Officials now knew that tankers filled with vinyl chloride were burning.

Rising temperatures in the tanks could cause a chemical explosion, not only sending hazardous gasses into the air, but metal shrapnel up to a mile. 

Video of the spectacular fire made national news and was shared on social media around the world.

All the while, the temperatures in some of the vinyl chloride tanks continued to rise.

As officials and experts huddled that Sunday trying to prevent an even larger catastrophe, they alerted Ohio Gov. Mike DeWine about “volatile” temperatures in the vinyl chloride tankers.

Experts said there were two bad options: Wait for the tankers to explode, spewing hazardous gasses and shrapnel in all directions, or intentionally blow holes into the tankers, drain and burn the vinyl chloride.

Either could leave people dead. 

Forced evacuations began Sunday night. Residents who hadn’t already left the evacuation zone loaded luggage, pets and children into cars.

Officials blocked off the area with snowplows, Ohio National Guard vehicles and police cars.

Controlled burn and ‘grave danger’ 

An independent expert with Norfolk Southern said the safer option was a controlled burn.

DeWine, Pennsylvania Gov. Josh Shapiro, Mayor Conaway, Chief Drabick and the Ohio National Guard “were all aligned that that was the right decision for public safety,” said Alan Shaw, president and CEO of Norfolk Southern.

The Ohio EPA also supported the burn, Shaw said.

Norfolk Southern planned to use explosives to blow small holes in the vinyl chloride tankers at 3:30 p.m. Monday and burn off the gas.

Based on weather patterns Monday, officials expanded the evacuation zone southeast into Pennsylvania for the controlled release. 

 It was divided into two zones, red and orange.

Those who remained in the red zone – which covered fairly equal parts of Ohio and Pennsylvania – were “facing grave danger or death.”

Anyone in the orange zone – a larger area dominated by Pennsylvania – was “at a high risk of severe injury, including skin burns and serious lung damage.”

A little after 4:30 p.m., Norfolk Southern officials said employees used explosives to blow small holes in tanker cars containing vinyl chloride, draining the vinyl chloride into a trench, where it was set on fire and burned off to prevent it from going into the air.

Jackson Township Chief Berczik said draining the tanks was the same concept as shotgunning a beer.

When Norfolk Southern blew holes in the top and bottom of each tanker, the gas quickly gushed out into a trench, where it was burned off. 

When the controlled release began, the skies over East Palestine were light. 

But as a thick column of roiling black smoke emerged from the controlled release, the smoke appeared to hang over the area, turning a wide swatch of sky dark by 5 p.m.

It took workers hours to drain the vinyl chloride.

When it was over, Norfolk Southern declared the controlled release a success, though evacuated residents wouldn’t be allowed back into their homes until two days later as officials continued testing the air and water in the area.

Later, after meeting with Pennsylvania officials, Gov. Shapiro sent a three-page letter to Norfolk Southern criticizing its handling of the situation.

Among other things, he said Norfolk Southern’s failure to establish a unified command created confusion and a general lack of information for first responders.

He also accused the railroad of providing inaccurate information and conflicting modeling about the impact of the release and said Norfolk Southern was unwilling to discuss alternatives to a controlled burn.

What's left behind in East Palestine

By the first week of March, a month after the derailment, many who live close to the tracks still hadn’t returned, fearing toxic chemicals were left behind.

Workers in yellow reflective vests appeared to outnumber the residents of East Palestine.

They were pumping water out of creeks, digging out contaminated soil at the derailment site and doing test after test looking for health hazards.

Thousands of animals, mostly small fish, were killed, heightening the community’s worries about long-term health consequences caused by the derailment and fire.

Federal officials have promised to make Norfolk Southern clean up its mess, no matter how long it takes.

But not everyone is willing to wait.

Cami Kridler and Jacob Griffith said one of their high school teachers is already moving out.

Cami, a sophomore, and Jacob, a senior, both plan to leave, too, after they graduate – but not because of the train derailment. 

Each has long desired to explore the world beyond their small town.

Szekely, the volunteer firefighter who almost called a mayday, is due for his firefighter physical this year, which includes a special test for a type of liver cancer associated with vinyl chloride.

He is not particularly worried, he said, because the chemicals he breathed in East Palestine are the same ones released in everyday house fires, only on a larger scale. 

One hundred years ago, he said, house fires created white smoke because there was a lot of wood burning. Now, it’s black smoke because there are so many plastics in homes, from nylon carpets to PVC piping, which are made in part from vinyl chloride like that carried by the derailed train.

Back at East Palestine High School, the drawing of Thomas the Tank Engine remains on Athletic Director Pavkovich’s dry erase board, though it’s taken on new meaning.

In the days after the derailment, his son Oliver knew something was wrong.

Pavkovich said he finally tried to explain to the 5-year-old that it wasn’t fireworks he saw after the basketball game, but an explosion caused by a train derailment.

Not Thomas the Tank Engine or Oliver’s other favorite, Percy, the green engine character that loves to deliver mail. 

This was a Norfolk Southern train that ran aground and forever changed a town.

Paste BN Network Ohio Bureau reporter Haley BeMiller contributed to this report.