Flood, Sweat and Tears

By GEORGE J. CHURCH

THE WORST IS SUPPOSED TO BE OVER THIS WEEKEND. THE FLOOD CREST ON THE MISsissippi, 46 ft. above normal (and 3 ft. above the highest ever recorded before), was scheduled to pass St. Louis, Missouri, on Monday. It should roll by Cairo, Illinois, about 180 miles to the south, by Friday. There, the Ohio joins the Mississippi, which moves into a broader, deeper channel that should be able to carry all the water pouring in from upstream without overflowing the levees, dikes and dams south of Cairo. The people, businesses and farms lining the Father of Waters for the roughly 600 miles south to New Orleans should be safe. Upstream, houses, roads and fields should begin to resurface above the new lakes and inland seas covering parts of nine states inundated by the Mississippi, the Missouri and tributary rivers, streams and creeks that nobody outside the immediate area had ever heard of before last week.

If. But. Only.

If . . . sunshine finally puts an end to the rains that have been lashing the upper Midwest and swelling the rivers for the past three months, in amounts often difficult to believe (an inch in only six minutes last week at Papillion, Nebraska). Otherwise the crest could be even higher than predicted; continued rain caused forecasts of the expected maximum height at St. Louis to be raised a full foot within two days late last week. On Saturday, thunderstorms dropped an additional 5 in. of rain on central Iowa. A dangerous second crest could chase the big one down the Mississippi, and secondary rivers could burst their banks in areas so far spared. That happened last Thursday night in Fargo, North Dakota. The Red River, engorged by a daylong deluge, rose 4 ft. in six hours, rampaging into town and causing sewage to back up into homes and Dakota Hospital.

Another if: more levees, soaked and pounded by rushing waters for weeks, could give way as the crest approaches or even after it passes. Early last Friday morning the Missouri River poured over the top of a railroad embankment being used as a levee in St. Charles County, Missouri, northwest of St. Louis. Its waters mingled with those swirling south from the Mississippi 20 miles sooner than usual, forcing several hundred people to join the 7,000 who had already evacuated. Then, Friday night, the Mississippi broke though a sand levee at West Quincy, Missouri, forcing closing of the Bayview Bridge about a quarter-mile away -- the last span that was open over a 200-mile stretch of the river where it flows between Missouri and Illinois. The bridge will be closed for weeks, whatever happens, an indication that worse may yet come before the worst is over.

But . . . even with few or no additions, the Great Flood of '93 is already one of the all-time monsters. It might go down as the worst of all in the U.S. by many measures: height of flood crest, area inundated (close to 17,000 sq. mi., vs. 12,700 in the awesome flood of 1937 along many of the same rivers) and property damage. Government estimates skyrocketed in little more than a week from $500 million to as much as $8 billion, and the final tally might be higher still.

The big exception: the death toll, 26 late last week, was only a hair above the 23 killed by the mammoth flood of 1973 in many of the same areas, and only a tenth of the 250 who perished in the 1937 flood -- to say nothing of the record 2,100 drowned on the single day of May 31, 1889, in Johnstown, Pennsylvania. Main reasons: abundant warnings, evacuation plans well worked out in advance, the lack of flash floods and above all the fact that over the years most population centers have been protected by levees and dams built high and strong enough to hold against the pounding of a once-in-a-century flood. Hold they did: with few exceptions, the cities flooded were those protected only by privately built levees that were not well constructed. The waters that flooded agricultural land mostly broke through or swept over levees not as tall as those guarding the cities.

Only . . . statistics, and even the view from rooftop level, give little idea of the sheer extent of inundation. That can really be glimpsed only from the air, as by the crew of a U.S. Coast Guard Dolphin helicopter that flew over the St. Louis area last week to survey the damage and scout places where it might later land to evacuate flood victims. The seemingly endless expanse of water made visual navigation difficult by submerging the landmarks pilots usually look for. Long stretches of highway and railroad tracks were invisible; river islands had disappeared; the river channels themselves could not be distinguished from the water that had spread onto once dry land. Mountains of strip-mined coal that usually glisten in the sun south of St. Louis poked only their very tips above the water. At the Kirkwood Athletic Association complex in Kirkwood, Missouri, only the dugout roofs could be seen above the water covering baseball diamonds, and a nearby golf course looked like a series of small green islands lost in a sea. At the Shrine of Our Lady of the Rivers in St. Charles County, a statue of the Virgin Mary appeared to be dancing on the waves.

Even if the rain and flooding stop completely now, it may take a month in some areas for all that water to flow back into the rivers, through the levees it came around or over. (Yes, through. The water might go back through holes eroded in the levees or through gravity drains that are closed during floods but reopened to allow a backflow into the river.) Then comes the monumental task of cleanup. The receding waters will leave behind all manner of wreckage. Examples: the floating chicken coops and broken tree branches Paul Rice has to steer his flat-bottomed boat past to reach his submerged home in St. Charles County. Or the lumber, three ice chests and four plastic garbage cans he has plucked from the waters around his house and placed on his roof -- still a foot above the waterline. In some areas, agricultural chemicals and human and animal wastes will be mixed with the debris. And of course, mud -- tons and tons and tons of mud.

While throwing sandbag on top of sandbag on top of sandbag to erect makeshift barriers against the water, some people nonetheless wondered what could be done with all that sand -- or, for that matter, the bags -- once the waters subside. The Army Corps of Engineers calculates that it has distributed 26.5 million bags through the flood area, and each has been filled with roughly 35 lbs. of sand; they can't just be left in piles all over the place.

Piling up the bags has been good therapy for people eager to do something to combat the floods while keeping their minds off their losses. "All we can do is sandbag," said John Boerding, 50, who figured that more than half his 2,000-acre crop of soybeans, corn and wheat in St. Charles County had already been destroyed by late last week, and was worried that his home would sink as well. "What else can we do? Most people in this area don't even have flood insurance." But even if there are no outbreaks of disease because of the filth in the waters, the Midwest will shortly be suffering one of the world's worst collective backaches from the unaccustomed labor of filling the bags and muscling them into place.

Elizabeth Smith, assistant professor of psychiatry at Washington University in St. Louis, who has done extensive research into the psychological effects of disasters, expects emotional as well as physical pain among flood survivors. Many, she notes, have been under stress for weeks, since flooding started in some areas as far back as April. People who go through that, Smith notes, react in a different way from those who survive one-shot traumas like fires or plane crashes: they do not experience flashbacks to the disaster or extreme jumpiness but instead suffer prolonged "depression, sadness and feelings of hopelessness." She adds that even people who were only near, not in, the floods may feel a new sense of vulnerability.

Perhaps, but in the middle of the disaster Midwesterners showed a stunning good humor, resilience and neighborly spirit. It was especially notable in the Iowa capital, Des Moines, which was hit possibly harder than any other big city. A flood along the Raccoon River at the beginning of last week knocked out the city's water-treatment plant. Officials expect to send water for bathing and flushing toilets coursing through the pipes again this week, but there will be no running water safe to drink for an additional three weeks or so. Meanwhile, residents seeking water for any purpose last week had to line up for supplies trucked in from outside and dispensed at 100 different locations (limit: 2 gal. to a customer); they were forbidden to enter office buildings because sprinkler systems could not protect them from fire. Downtown at times looked like a city under military occupation: deserted except for National Guardsmen who patrolled the streets while helicopters buzzed overhead. President Clinton, who toured flooded areas many times during his 12 years as Governor of Arkansas, flew in Wednesday and declared, "I've never seen anything on this scale before."

Yet as a chain of about 100 people heaved sandbags to protect the water- treatment plant in West Des Moines from further flooding, the atmosphere was downright festive. Jokes flew (most popular: the state motto, "Iowa -- A Place to Grow," should be changed to "Iowa -- A Place to Row"). Valerie Kenworthy, 15, explained her presence: the scene "looked cool on TV so I came down." At Iowa Methodist Medical Center, the only designated trauma center serving the city, president David Ramsey explained why trauma cases are actually down: "People are helping out and are not out on motorcycles drinking beer and acting crazy." Hospital workers were busy carrying buckets of water for patients. "Our arms are six inches longer," joked emergency- room manager Linda Shoemaker. "We carry buckets here and go home and carry more." Lining up for water at a Des Moines parking lot, Donna Bailey was upbeat in describing her family's coping strategy: "Every surface is covered with bowls of water. And we flush the toilets with rainwater we keep in the bathtub." Doug Riggs, on vacation from his job as a social worker in Marshalltown, drove 75 miles into Des Moines to help out and found himself managing a shelter at Shepherd of the Valley Lutheran Church. But at week's end only 25 flooded-out people had arrived; many more had found family, friends or neighbors to take them in.

Downriver the story was the same. Mayor Chuck Scholz of Quincy, Illinois, was startled and touched to find two girls who looked to be a mere eight to 10 years old clutching shovels and waiting to board a bus carrying volunteers to work at a nearby sandbagging site. At Ste. Genevieve, Missouri, south of St. Louis, volunteer inmates from the Farmington Correctional Center heaved sandbags side by side with people from the neighborhood. "Man, these guys can throw sandbags like you wouldn't believe!" marveled Gerald Basler, a highway- maintenance worker. "Some of these guys can catch them in midair with one hand!" Ken Novak, who is serving eight years for first-degree assault, showed a reciprocal friendliness. "We had one lady who had tears in her eyes, she was so happy to see guys from prison coming to help," Novak related. "I told her my shoulder was clean and I'd give it to her to cry on."

There will be more tears later, and not of joy or friendliness, as the damages mount. Already, amid the determined good cheer, there are those like Mike Johnson who curse the river, the skies, the dams and levees upstream (for holding altogether too well and increasing pressure downriver), and the government. Mike, an out-of-work machine operator, and his wife Roberta and three children were ordered out of their two-story brick house in the St. Louis suburb of Lemay on July 9 at 3:30 a.m. Every day since, Mike has returned to the house in a neighbor's boat to inspect it; late last week 6 ft. of water sloshed around the living room. The family, plus two Chow show dogs and two Persian cats, is living in Mike's blue 1992 Bronco; Mike sleeps on the roof. Nearby, the roof of the family's second car, a 1977 Cutlass, is barely visible above the water. "It's a goner," says Mike.

The Rooney brothers live only a few dozen yards away from each other in St. Charles County, but the Great Flood is treating them quite differently. Walter Rooney's three-story house sits in 11 ft. of water, yet Rooney, 64, is able to pop a cold beer from the fridge, kick back in his air-conditioned second-story sitting room and listen to music, all thanks to a power line that hasn't been turned off. His brother Ray, 60, isn't so fortunate. "That's my house over there," he says, pointing to a blue roof just above the waterline. "I left my house in the 1973 flood, and they stole everything I had. There's no way I'm leaving this time." So he sits on Walter's second-story porch, just 1 ft. above the Mississippi, and watches debris from Minnesota and Wisconsin, Iowa and Illinois float by. "If it looks interesting, I'll grab it," he says.

Despite stunning TV pictures of flooded city streets, though, most of the inundation has affected thinly populated farmland. For example, the 7,000 people evacuated last week from the 40% of St. Charles County that was expected to be underwater shortly contrasted with 55,000 residents of the city of St. Charles who sat high and, so far, dry on elevated land.

But -- there always seems to be a but -- much of the drowned farmland is normally among the most fertile acreage on earth, and prospective crop losses are spectacular: $1.5 billion worth of soybeans in Illinois; $1 billion of corn in Iowa. "There is still time to recover," says Victor Lespinasse, a Dean Witter grain analyst in Chicago. "But none of us is ever going to forget how the rains came in the summer for the first time, out of nowhere. And we will never feel the same about our place on earth." He is referring to the flood's menacing peculiarity. It is an anomaly in the Mississippi basin that it came in July, giving farmers less time to recover than previous inundations, which almost always came in late winter or early spring. Summers in the area are usually noted for searing heat and Saharan drought rather than for rains on which Noah's ark might float.

Suffering and losses may be eased this time because the Federal Emergency Management Agency is moving with uncharacteristic speed and vigor. From its creation 14 years ago right through Hurricane Andrew in Florida last summer, FEMA built a reputation for bumble-footed sluggishness. Democratic Senator Ernest Hollings once called its officials "the sorriest bunch of bureaucratic jackasses." Under a new administrator, James Lee Witt, however, FEMA has moved quickly to set up offices in at least eight flooded states. Regional staffs actually went into some areas before flooding became serious to help state officials apply for disaster assistance. Witt has since started a daily morning conference call with state emergency managers and directed FEMA workers to respond immediately to state requests -- indeed, not to wait until asked but to approach state officials with lists of things that the agency thinks might be needed and that it can supply, such as the water-purification equipment that was delivered to a hospital in Des Moines within 24 hours.

Bill Clinton has also been trying to move fast. Last Wednesday he cut short a Hawaiian vacation to fly to Des Moines, where someone along his motorcade route held up a sign reading ALOHA, BILL. WELCOME TO THE OTHER BIG ISLAND. The President announced that he will ask Congress to put up an additional $2.5 billion for flood relief, which will have to be borrowed and will add to the budget deficit. On Saturday, he returned to the area with nearly half his Cabinet to talk about the region's needs, and promised to send federal troops if necessary. Clinton is determined not to get caught in the same bind as George Bush, who reacted slowly to hurricanes in Florida, Hawaii and South Carolina and got himself blamed not only for failing to relieve suffering but also for slowing economic recovery in those areas. But the President and his aides insisted that Washington could not make up flood losses dollar for dollar: states, local governments, private charities and the victims themselves will have to bear much of the cost. Said Chris Edley Jr., a program associate director for the Office of Management and Budget: "For farmers, the point is to make sure that it's not a disastrous year. The object is to get them through the crisis, not make them whole."

Even before the rains stopped and the rivers crested, a debate was breaking out about how to handle the next flood. "There are two extremes," observed Brigadier General Stanley Genega, director of civil works for the Corps of Engineers. "There are the folks who say we ought to remove everything from the banks of the rivers and let nature take its course. On the other extreme are folks who urge us to line the river with levees and control the whole thing. The real answer is, there has to be some balance." An unexceptionable sentiment, no doubt -- but where to strike that balance? Should the levees that gave way be rebuilt and made higher? Or should they be left alone, on the assumption that they give people living behind them a false sense of security, and emphasis be shifted to waterproofing buildings and moving them to higher ground? In theory, it might be advisable to try to discourage people from building or farming on floodplains -- but how, given that they are very fertile and scenic?

The debate is all the more vexing because it involves trying to outguess Mother Nature -- a futile endeavor, as evidenced by the wild unlikelihood of devastating rain in July, which nonetheless happened. The consistent pattern of late 20th century flooding in the U.S. has been a decline in deaths proportionate to the area inundated, but a startling rise in property damage, due to increased building and farming on the floodplains and inflation in dollar values. Beyond that, all is as uncertain as the exact height of the flood crest and the precise time it will pass St. Louis. A 1955 book, A Treasury of Mississippi River Folklore, quotes an obscure orator, one S.S. Prentiss, as saying, "When God made the world, He had a large amount of surplus water which he turned loose and told to go where it pleased; it has been going where it pleased ever since and that is the Mississippi River." No doubt it will continue to go pretty much where it pleases for centuries to come.

With reporting by Jon D. Hull/St. Charles, Staci D. Kramer/St. Louis, J. Madeleine Nash/Chicago and Elizabeth Taylor/Des Moines