"Blow the whistle, Buck!" shouted Sgt. William Naughton to Patrolman Elmer "Buck" Lynch.

It was about 8:30 p.m. on July 2, 1918, a date which would be long remembered as one of the most tragic in the history of Central New York.

Lynch followed orders and the shrill whistle alerted the 600 workers of the early night shift at the Semet-Solvay Company's 1,000-acre munitions plant at Split Rock, just four miles to the southwest of Syracuse, that there was something wrong.

There was fire in the plant.

The Semet-Solvay factory was built at the site of an abandoned limestone quarry.

Before the United States entered World War I, it supplied picric acid for the French, English and Russian governments.

With the American entrance into the Great War, it would become a vital facility for the war effort.

It was, by 1918, the "best equipped and most efficient" munitions factories in the country. Nearly a quarter of the TNT used by American troops, mostly in artillery shells, was produced at Split Rock.

Working with explosives was dangerous work and fire was a constant concern. Minor fires were a common occurrence.

Safety measures were in place: 300 patrolmen specially trained for fighting munitions fire guarded the plant around the clock. They received constant drilling.

But with the blast of the whistle on this evening, workers were certain this was not a drill.

An overheated bearing in the grinding machine of TNT Building 1, the manufacturing hub of the plant, is believed to have caused the fire, which spread quickly through the 140-foot long wooden building.

Firemen, some armed with hoses, others with fire extinguishers, kept the blaze somewhat under control for the first ten minutes.

After the roof burned through, a strong southerly breeze fanned the flames making the building a "seething furnace."

Fire hoses then went limp as the water pressure failed. Some of the firefighters fled, while many stayed at their posts, believing the water would be turned back on momentarily. (Many of their bodies would be discovered the next day, clutching melted fire nozzles.)

Then electricity to the quarry stopped, plunging the area into darkness.

"Everyone in the sound of the wailing whistle and the frenzied shouts of the workmen knew now they must run for their lives," the Post-Standard remembered.

Suddenly there was a blinding light, and then a deafening roar.

A history of the disaster published on June 29, 1958 in the Post-Standard by Jasena Foley paints this scene:

"A huge ball of smoke shot up in the air, split like a rocket and descended in a cloud of sparks. Human beings were tossed in the air like flaming firecrackers, dead when they hit the ground.

Men were blinded by the flash, then thrown into confusion by the sudden return to darkness.

Men were seen stripping their burning clothes off their bodies, while other perished without a scratch, poisoned by the noxious gases.

On a night of absolute terror, Syracuse and the surrounding area received an incredible stroke of luck. While the 100-foot-tall flames spread, workers realized that that if the blaze reached Canada Hill, where bunkers held more than 1.5 million pounds of explosives waiting to be shipped to Europe, the city of Syracuse and the southern part of Onondaga County would be destroyed.

However, thankfully, the winds changed direction and an even further disaster was averted.

Syracuse residents, unaware at how lucky they were, still felt the explosion and saw the fiery red sky to the southwest. Many rushed into the street.

Horses bolted from the Jefferson Street Armory and the steel fire doors at the Temple Theater blew open, sending patrons into the street.

Thousands headed to the Post-Standard office for the latest bulletins. The newspaper scrambled to print 16,500 special "extra" editions.

Around the area, windows shattered, horses bolted, and the trolleys stopped.

People panicked: Had there been an earthquake or had the Germans bombed the city?

The call was made for every available doctor and undertaker to get to the site. Company horse-drawn wagons were used to shuttle refugees at the plant to safety.

Dr. L.R. Mellor, of Bellevue Avenue, was startled by the explosion, he at first thought an automobile had slammed into his house. When he ran outdoors he saw his neighbors pointing to the black smoke rising to the west.

He drove to Split Rock and is credited with being the first doctor on the scene. (It took him about ten minutes, mainly because the roads were already filling with the curious.)

He shuttled three injured men to the Good Shepard Hospital.

With the threat of more explosions still a possibility, ambulances and the dead wagons were not permitted at the danger zone, the injured and dead had to be carried to the gates.

Fifty critically injured were taken to Syracuse's seven hospitals and kept surgeons busy overnight with amputations. Only two died while receiving care.

Fifty people died at Split Rock. Attempts to identify the crushed, burned or mutilated bodies was difficult. Clothing, dental records, wedding rings and paycheck numbers were used to help identify victims.

The fires were put out the next day.

Mobs of curiosity seekers jammed the roads to the plant.

Forty National Guard troops were sent to keep them away armed with sidearms, without any ammunition.

Luckily the troops had a secret weapon to keep the crowds away. The explosion had frightened all the snakes out of the woods and they were everywhere and did a good job of creeping out the curious.

The Split Rock plant finally closed at the end of 1918, its remaining buildings and equipment sold for scrap.

Twelve days after the disaster, the Syracuse Herald ran a full-page memorial to those who had died at Split Rock. It said that those who lost there lives there were just as brave as those fighting in the trenches of France:

"They were as surely soldiers of civilization as are their brothers in khaki. They knew the danger. They accepted the challenge. They were heroes in that they died courageously, fighting to protect their city from disaster. They deserve the praise and gratitude of the community and of the country for their sacrifices."

This feature is a part of CNY Nostalgia, a section on syracuse.com. Send your ideas and curiosities to Johnathan Croyle: Email | 315-427-3958.