The Well-Digger's Ordeal

When he began digging the well under Brooklyn's Sixteenth Avenue Garage, brawny, heavy-shouldered Dominick Atteo took all the short cuts he could. He had done hundreds of such sweaty, commonplace jobs, and all the garage owner wanted was a hole to supply water for car washing during the New York water shortage. At 50, Dominick had six children and a pretty auburn-haired wife, and had to stretch dollars as far as they would go.

He didn't bother to take out a city permit (which would have called for inspection of the job) or to bring timber to shore up his shaft. He just ripped up a patch of concrete flooring near the garage's main support pillar and began to dig. At 18 feet, as he was trying to dislodge a big rock, a cave-in buried him up to the waist in loose sand and gravel. When he tried to wriggle out he discovered that he was trapped; his right leg was doubled beneath him and pinned immovably by the boulder.

Help. Overalled cops from the police emergency squad were finally called in. They cut the ends from an oil drum, lowered it around him as protection against further caving and then began to shore the well with lumber and rig supports under the roof in case digging weakened the pillar. A crowd gathered. Photographers fired flashbulbs down the hole; Dominick grinned up sheepishly.

But as evening came it was evident that he would be down in the well a long time. Encased in his oil drum, he filled the bottorn of the hole; it was virtually impossible to dig beneath him. For a while he tried to dig himself out. But finally, dirty and aching with fatigue, he gave up.

Fire. His wife arrived and peered down the hole in fright. He reassured her. But the police sent for a doctor and a priest. Oxygen was piped down the hole. Big floodlights were brought in; they threw a harsh, garish light over the scene and heated the air until the toiling cops were wet with sweat. At 8:30 there was a terrible interruption. A lighted cigarette was lowered down the well in a tin can; a few minutes after it reached the bottom there was an explosion--apparently caused by oxygen and seeping gasoline fumes. Fire filled the well.

A workman threw a bucketful of water down on Dominick. Another squirted a fire extinguisher at him. The fire puffed out. Dominick had made no sound, but he had endured fearful burns. His shirt was all but gone, he had breathed flame, and his throat and lungs were scorched. The rescue work stopped and Dr. Harold Berson, a young intern from Coney Island Hospital, was lowered to him. He greased the burns and gave Dominick morphine; a priest was lowered, performed the last rites of the Catholic Church.

As the night wore on, rescue workers--now numbering 150--tried a new scheme: men with pneumatic jack hammers began the ear-splitting job of tearing up the garage floor. A huge bucket crane rumbled ponderously into the garage. The rescuers began digging a deep slanting ditch to connect with the well. All night, all through the early morning, as the frantic work went on, people took turns kneeling at the mouth of the well to encourage Dominick.

Death. The doctor made five trips into the hole to give the trapped man stimulants, and a transfusion of plasma. Warm milk was lowered to him. He sipped at it listlessly. After daylight, his wife knelt at the mouth of the well and dropped religious medals into the excavation; she rose with her face white, her hands fumbling with her rosary. A policeman called, "How are you feeling, Dom?" The well-digger replied quietly, "I am going to die."

His eldest son, John, a black-haired husky of 27, called in a quavering voice: "Pa . . . Pa, don't get excited." Dominick moaned, and his blackened head dropped. But at 2:40 in the afternoon, as the excavators reached him and began digging the dirt away from his legs he was still conscious and still uncomplaining. He asked for a bottle of Coca-Cola and drank it.

Lifting tackle was rigged under his arms, hauled tight. He groaned with pain. Fifteen minutes, a half hour, three-quarters of an hour passed before his rescuers freed his leg. Then, after 27 1/2 hours, he sagged limply. "Pa!" his son called. "Pop!" There was no answer. The mud-stained, exhausted doctor climbed down into the pit, came up slowly with his face lined and sad. Dominick was dead.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.