Historical Fires: Antlers Hotel Blaze

By Lynn Walker in The Wichita Falls Times Record News
Billie Miller was 24 years old on Dec. 12, 1929, 80 years ago on this date — a young woman stopping for the night in Wichita Falls. She awoke at 3:30 a.m. in her room at the Antlers Hotel to the sound of a woman’s scream, a sobbing cry for help. As she got out of bed, she smelled smoke, heard voices in the hallway and the sound of many feet running — first in one direction, then the other. She started toward the door, but just as she saw yellow flames licking at its edges, she heard a noise like a thousand tin cans dropping, more screams, a crash. Smoke grew heavier. She turned to the window and pushed it open. She saw flames leaping from other windows — the Antlers Hotel was on fire.

The pavement was far below, but the roof of an adjacent building was closer — if the young woman could just leap that far. Heat and more smoke rolled into her room. Billie Miller jumped.

On the other side of the building, police officers A.E. Miller and I.N. Austin scrambled up fire escape ladders. They were on routine night patrol when they spotted the flames coming from the roof of the Antlers. By the time they called in the alarm, people were on the ladders that zig-zagged down the walls of the building, calling for help. The officers rushed into action

Like Billie Miller, R.D. Rankin of Sterling, Okla., awoke to screams and sensed immediately what was happening. He took time only to pull on his trousers before throwing open the window. For him there was no adjacent roof. Neither was there any other option. He took a deep breath and jumped to the pavement — three stories below.

A young woman worked frantically to get her three young children out of the burning hotel where the little family was living. When they were safe, she ran back into the flames to rescue her sister and 9-month-old niece.

When the alarm sounded, Red, the big mixed-breed dog who served as Mascot for Fire Station No. 2 on Buchanan Street, was cozied up with her new litter of pups. But if James Childers — the human assigned to her — was going on a call, he wasn’t going without her. Seconds later, Red was braced against the cold wind in the open cab of the engine, speeding toward the orange glow that rose in the east.

The crowds gathered at Indiana and Eleventh Streets. They saw the dim figure of a man appear in the smoke of a third-floor window. He screamed just as the floor below him collapsed into a glowing cauldron.

The register was inside, in the blaze. The terrified manager told firefighters he thought 30, maybe 40 people were in the Antlers that night. By 4 a.m., most had been accounted for. Then the west wall collapsed.

A.O. Johnson and W.J. Geis, assigned to Fire Station No. 5, were manning a hose on the roof when the wall began to go. They scurried to a fire escape — but the bottom was gone. Geis rappelled down the fire hose. Johnson made a split-second decision as the ground rushed toward him. He let go of the escape rail.

Roy Anderson and Smiley Turner were among the best at their jobs. Turner was assistant chief, a tough World War I firefighting Marine. Anderson had worked fires for a dozen years. The two climbed the fire escape on the southwest wall to fight the blaze on the second floor. Roy Anderson’s younger brother, Gano, stayed on the ground with James Childers to feed the hose up to them. Roy started to scramble down as soon as the bricks began to fall. Then the avalanche came.
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