Near the town of West, about a half-mile off busy Interstate 35, used to be the historical marker for “The Crash at Crush,” site of an intentionally staged catastrophe for public amusement and private gain.

Placid farmland now, the acreage was — for one glorious, outrageous day 115 years ago — the largest city in the great state of Texas.

The marker has been moved to the MKT Depot in West, 308 N. Washington at Columbus Avenue, where officials with the McLennan County Historical Commission will rededicate the plaque at 10 a.m. Thursday, the anniversary of the collision.

Two steam locomotives near impact in Crush, Texas, where both boilers exploded, killing four and injuring dozens.

Organizers plan a 45-minute program, to include testimony from the descendents of participants, the display of some artifacts and tales of family lore about the notorious stunt.

On Sept. 15, 1896, in front of an estimated 50,000 spectators, two trains of the Missouri Kansas & Texas Railroad — better known as the M. K. & T. or “Katy” railroad — were deliberately rammed into each other.

The story of how “The Crash at Crush” came to be is a triumph of hype and hope.

‘Monster wreck’

William George Crush, assistant to the vice president of the railroad, was a promoter who convinced Katy officials that staging a “monster wreck” of two trains destined for retirement would be great publicity for the line. The railroad, like many businesses, was suffering during a nationwide economic downturn.

Crush chose a spot about 15 miles north of Waco and three miles south of West for the event, on a straight stretch of track on the Katy’s main line. The site, on a specially-constructed four-mile set of tracks, was in a shallow valley with hills rising on three sides, a feature forming a natural amphitheater.

Handbills promoting the crash were posted on every available telephone pole along the Katy line. Newspaper and magazine ads touted the spectacle, creating buzz months in advance, from California to New York. Almost every major newspaper provided free publicity through news accounts of the meticulous planning of the purposeful head-on collision of the locomotives.

Crush selected two 35-ton Pittsburgh 4-4-0’s of 1870 vintage with diamond-shaped stacks for his dance of destruction. He sold advertising on the sides of the box cars to the Oriental Hotel in Dallas and Ringling Bros. Circus, among others.

The Katy, meanwhile, decided not to charge admission to the stunt itself, but to make its money selling seats to fans of mechanized mayhem at $2 dollars per round-trip ticket from anywhere in the state.

Two telegraph offices were constructed for the occasion. Two water wells were drilled at the site, and the railroad hauled in five tank cars of water and several tons of ice for the crowd. Water was piped to the top of a hill on the property, and several hundred faucets placed at convenient intervals.

A temporary jail was erected for all the “bad characters” like drunks, brawlers, conmen and pick-pockets that were expected to show up. Three hundred specially-hired policemen were brought in to maintain order.

Workmen also constructed a grandstand for officials, three speakers’ platforms and a bandstand. In a tent borrowed from Ringling Bros. circus, food service was offered. A carnival midway sprang up, with medicine shows, politicians and preachers, game booths, cigar stands and soft-drink vendors to distract visitors while they waited for the main event.

Overlooking it all was a giant sign, informing all comers that this spot of soil was “Crush, Texas.” In 1896, by way of comparison, Waco only had a population of about 12,000 and Dallas had just 40,000 citizens.

By 10 a.m., a crowd of 10,000 had gathered to swelter beneath the broiling Central Texas sun.

By early afternoon, the group had swollen to 30,000. By show time, the clamoring assembly numbered more than 50,000. The mob grew restless and only Crush threatening to cancel the event altogether kept the crowd from rioting.

The event

At 5 p.m. the two locomotives — No. 999 painted in bright green trimmed in red and No. 1001 painted in bright red trimmed in green, each pulling six cars — met cow-catcher to cow-catcher, to be photographed for posterity prior to their destruction.

Then the trains backed slowly up the low hills to their starting points. After the smoke-belching behemoths started their final run, the two train crews jumped from the lumbering locomotives to watch the result with everyone else.

Maximum speed reached about 90 miles an hour. They set off mini-torpedos laid on the tracks to create small explosions as the trains rolled at full throttle, which spiced up the performance.

“A crash, a sound of timbers rent and torn, and then a shower of splinters,” The Dallas Morning News reported in its editions the next day. “There was just a swift instance of silence, and then as if controlled by a single impulse both boilers exploded simultaneously and the air was filled with flying missiles of iron and steel varying in size from a postage stamp to half of a driving wheel.”

Deaths, injuries

The VIP reviewing stand where reporters, photographers and railroad officials and special guests had gathered for a closer look was showered with scalding debris.

Official photographer for the event, Jervis C. Deane of Waco, was hit by a flying bolt that tore out his right eye and embedded several other pieces of metal in his head. J. Louis Bergstrom, another Waco photographer hired to document the event, was knocked unconscious by a plank.

The expulsion of shrapnel occurred so quickly, the crowd which stood shoulder-to-shoulder found it impossible to run for cover. In all, three people died and several dozen spectators were injured.

Ernest Darnall of Bremond was sitting in a mesquite tree and killed instantly. A heavy hook on the end of a wrecking chain caught him between the eyes and split his skull. DeWitt Barnes of Hewitt, standing between his wife and another woman, also was struck and killed by a flying fragment. Neither of his companions were injured in the debacle.

Many others were scalded by steam and burned by jagged, hot shrapnel. The huge crowd stood stunned for minutes. When all recovered from the shock, they swarmed over the smoking ruins for souvenirs.

Victims’ compensation

The injured and the families of the dead were paid off by the MKT.

Deane was paid $10,000 (about $250,000 in modern dollars) and accepted a lifetime pass from the railroad as compensation for the loss of his right eye. A few weeks later, he posted a notice in the Waco newspapers: “Having gotten all the loose screws and other hardware out of my head, am now ready for all photographic business.”

Crush was fired immediately but quietly rehired a few days later because his trick actually had worked.

News of the “Crash at Crush” earned headlines for Waco around the world. The Katy’s business picked up speedily. Crush worked for the company 57 years before he retired.

Additional sources: Railroad and Heritage Museum in Temple; Texas State Historical Association, the Texas Collection at Baylor University, TexasAlmanac.com., Baylor Lariat, TexasEscapes.com.