Bath Massacre: America's First School Bombing by Arnie Bernstein Page B

dynamite, and pyrotol were removed from the building. 40
    But some cavities and burrows were too small to accommodate a full-grown man to get at the explosives. A search went out for a person possessedof both the size and the maturity needed to take on this dangerous job. They found their man in fourteen-year-old Chester Sweet, the older brother of Ava and Dean. No longer enrolled at Bath Consolidated, Chester had opted out of school to work on the family farm. Without hesitation, he volunteered for the potentially deadly mission. Chester was short, young, and perhaps touched with a bit of daring-doworthy of screen idol Douglas Fairbanks. Between his stature and his tenacity, State Police officials knew that Chester had the stuff they needed.

    Fig. 12. Michigan State Police officers holding some of the dynamite planted by Kehoe.
(Courtesy of the Bath School Museum.)
     
    He was led into the dark passageways of the basement. Showing no fear, Chester squeezed his body through tight spaces, gently removed the dangerous material from hidden alcoves, and handed it to men waiting just beyond the entrances. 41
    More explosives were found in a carefully concealed hideaway. A trail of eaves troughs, the rain gutters found along rooftops, was precisely secreted within the basement ceiling. Rows of dynamite sticks and pyrotol lined the troughs, which were shoved deep within the recesses using either metal well rods or bamboo poles that stretched for twenty-five to thirty feet at some points.
    School janitor Frank Smith spent a good deal of time beneath the school, yet never once saw the gutters. And why not? They were hidden in the ceiling, practically invisible in the darkness. Realistically, they were unnoticeable to anyone except the man who put them in place. 42
    In all, 504 pounds of unexploded dynamite and pyrotol were pulled from the building on May 18. The material included at least nine bushel baskets full of dynamite, several thirty-pound sacks of pyrotol, ten blasting caps, and two timing devices. 43 An estimated 100 pounds of explosives had detonated beneath the north wing. 44

    It was supposed to be a typical luncheon, a dry, dull talk about fund-raising for Lansing’s Edward W. Sparrow Hospital. Walter Foster, president of the hospital’s board of directors, regarded his lunchtime crowd at the downtown Olds Hotel. Two tables reserved for doctors were empty. These guests were either headed to Bath or furiously working in the hospital’s emergency room.
    One of Sparrow’s leading medicos, Dr. Fred Drolett, came to the luncheon, late and urgent. After the first emergency call came in from Bath, he reported, thirty-five nurses from the Sparrow and Saint Lawrence hospitals were sent to the scene bearing blankets, sheets, stretchers, and medicine. Both hospitals were given dire instructions: prepare to receive between twenty-five and thirty victims.
    “This is the worst disaster I ever saw in my life,” Drolett said. “While Lansing can be proud of the police, fire and hospital aid rushed to the sufferers, the catastrophe brings home the needs which this campaign is designedto care for more than anything that could have possibly happened.”
    Perhaps it was a little off-putting, discussing fund-raising with diners eager to hear news about the situation in Bath, but Drollet certainly knew the importance of donations. If anything, the bloody school site drove home the hospital’s overall financial needs with sobering reality.
    The next speaker was Fr. John O’Rafferty, a Catholic priest. He too spoke of the importance of fund-raising, telling the gathering that the spirit of God would be in anyone who donated to the hospital. The unfolding disaster only underscored this point, he said, adding that such charitable work built the character of a community.
    In about forty-eight hours, Father O’Rafferty would discover for himself exactly how the disaster would affect his own character. 45
    Joseph Dunnebacke was at the