This column appeared in July 2011.
It was another rainy Halloween in Indianapolis, Oct. 31, 1963. Some 4,400 people decided the “Holiday on Ice” show scheduled that night at the Indiana State Fair Coliseum was the better alternative to the prospect of cold, wet children toting bags of soggy candy and treats around the streets of Indiana’s capital city. Built in 1939, the 8,200 seat Coliseum was still a marvel to Hoosiers in 1963. Mostly used for state fair events and concerts, this would be a great opportunity for parents to show the multi-purpose arena to their kids for the first time. Besides, it was “Shriners’ Night” at the coliseum.
Inside the massive building, Hoosiers were enjoying the final moments of the “Holiday on Ice” show. The program featured 18 numbers including Holiday On Parade, The Sleeping Beauty, Egyptian Fantasy, and Broadway Holiday. A chorus line of 36 barelegged beauties on skates swirled like a pinwheel on the ice rink in perfect unison; dressed in sparkling, sequined leotards and yellow-feathered headdresses, to the sounds of a Dixieland band. Overhead inside the building, fireworks popped near the roof girders, as the crowd oohed and aahed. This was the finale of the Holiday on Ice show’s first night in Indianapolis — a Mardi Gras production number.
Without warning, at 11:04 p.m.. a massive explosion rocked the building. In the blink of eye, the rink was littered with broken concrete, charred programs, burning popcorn boxes, splintered seats, and twisted metal. Horrifically, limp bodies landed on the ice rink 60 feet away. In spots, the ice slowly turned red with the blood of wounded victims, lying helpless on the cold, hard surface. Many victims were either severely burned or crushed by concrete. Dozens of victims were dropped down into a newly opened cavern beneath their grandstand seats that seconds earlier had been a concession stand where popcorn was being prepared in advance of the next day’s performance. It took a moment for the horror of what had just occurred to register. The chorus line broke into a wild, flashing jumble of shiny skate blades and shrieks of terror.
Some people in the unaffected parts of the arena thought for a moment or two that it must be part of the show, as the band continued to play Dixieland for several seconds after the explosion. This notion was wiped from their minds when that initial explosion was followed by a second explosion less than two minutes later.
The first explosion had been caused by a leaking gas tank in a concession stand storeroom beneath the south side mezzanine seats. The thunderous eruption sent a 30-feet tall sheet of flame and debris up through a 700 square foot area centered around aisle 13, catapulting men and women — many still in their seats — through the air. Large jagged slabs of concrete then slammed down on a crowded section of folding chairs in the choice box seats below, crushing dozens and trapping many more under a mountain of rock and steel. Some survivors stumbled bleeding or dazed out of the Coliseum, unsure of what had just happened. Others instinctively fled in panic across the ice, slipping, sliding or skidding as they tried to escape the carnage. Many brave bystanders clawed with their bare hands to drag away tons of concrete that pinned people in the wreckage.
Just moments later, the second explosion was caused by the heat expanding as the air rushed into the void caused by the initial blast. Many of the volunteers who had rushed in to help survivors were singed and burnt by this second fireball that rose to the ceiling. The result of the second blast was that many of those victims who had fallen into the pit were instantly incinerated. The auditorium was still illuminated by the spotlights that were meant to shine on the stars of the ice show, but now seemed only to blind the eyes of the fleeing survivors. The smoke of the finale’s fireworks mixed with the concrete dust and smoke from the explosion to make it all but impossible for shocked survivors to grope their way through the building. The grand Coliseum echoed with screams of the injured, some of which were now lying helplessly trapped beneath bodies of the dead. After the initial shock, the audience remained remarkably calm as they exited the building. The cattle barn next door was turned into a triage hospital.
In the end, 54 people were killed immediately; 11 would die within minutes of the explosion; and nine others would die in the days and weeks that followed. A total of 74 people died as a result of the tragedy, and nearly 400 others were injured. Most would carry the scars, both physical and psychological, for the rest of their lives. The 1963 State Fairgrounds Halloween nightmare would become the worst disaster in the state’s history.
Even though an event like this was unprecedented in scope and history, the Indianapolis emergency response network mobilized quickly. Within minutes of the explosion, a call went out for every available ambulance within 50 miles of the state’s capital city. Every area hospital called in all of their off-duty personnel, and before midnight hundreds of rescue workers flocked to the Coliseum. Automobile wrecker trucks and a large construction crane rumbled onto the ice rink to lift the blocks of concrete to free the dead and the injured still entombed below the crater.
Heroic Hoosier doctors and nurses, their clothing streaked with dried blood, worked feverishly inside the hellish pit, as still others organized a makeshift morgue on the rink itself. In a surreal scene during the hours that followed the explosion, relatives of victims identified their loved ones’ bodies and belongings which now lay on the bloodstained ice; the bodies illuminated by the colorful Chinese paper lanterns left over from the ice show’s finale. Volunteers laid bodies on boards, covering them with blankets, tarps, overcoats or anything they could find. Medical personnel marked each body with sad descriptions such as, “Young girl, sandy hair, blue eyes. Unidentified.”
In spite of this macabre scene, within 24 hours local and state officials had the scene and its aftermath under control. The Disaster Relief Center would later use the tragedy as a positive case study published in 1968, five years after the tragedy. The findings in this report would result in the formation and planning of several nationwide situational disaster response teams.
It’s important to note that less than two months later, on Dec. 19, 1963, seven people connected to the event — including the State Fire Marshall and Fire Chief, and the Coliseum manager — would be indicted on charges ranging from manslaughter to dereliction of duty, but all would be exonerated eventually. The victims and survivors of the event were awarded $4.6 million in compensation. A memorial plaque to the tragedy was erected on the site 40 years later in 2003.
The world was changing rapidly in 1963. Within three weeks of the explosion, America would lose its President when John F. Kennedy was murdered in Dallas, Texas, on Nov. 22, 1963. This undoubtedly contributed to the attempted prosecution of the officials involved in the Coliseum explosion. But, as always, life goes on. In less than a year, the State Fairgrounds Coliseum would host a concert by the Beatles on Sept. 3, 1964; and within four years it would be home to the three-time ABA Champion Indiana Pacers.
In the spirit of the column, I will admit that the fairgrounds Coliseum, now known as the Pepsi Coliseum, has long been rumored to be haunted by ghosts of those unfortunate people who died in the explosion; but it must be noted that this opinion is not shared by the State Fairgrounds officials — and I’ve never had the pleasure of trying to find out for myself.
Al Hunter is the author of the “Haunted Indianapolis” and co-author of the “Haunted Irvington” and “Indiana National Road” book series. His newest books are “Bumps in the Night. Stories from the Weekly View,” “Irvington Haunts. The Tour Guide,” and “The Mystery of the H.H. Holmes Collection.” Contact Al directly at Huntvault@aol.com or become a friend on Facebook.
