 Isn't that Gemini 5? The air was fair at Cape Kennedy, lacy clouds in a warm August sky, as Gemini 5 took off for space, but there is no weather at all. The only problem, a leaky fuel cell threatening to cut their flight short at the start, it didn't. But out in the Atlantic, something else was brewing, a rising breath of wind soon to be known as Betsy, August 27th. At Florida and Island bases, Navy, Weather Bureau and Air Force planes are warming up to their daily tasks. 180 miles overhead, Gemini 5 is whirling around the world in its sixth day of work. The astronauts are still alone in space, but not quite alone. From the first day on, they've been sharing the sky with Tyros' weather satellites, circling endlessly, clicking their pictures back to Earth. At mid-morning on the 27th, both Tyros 10 and the Navy Weather plane make a discovery. A tropical depression at 13 degrees north latitude. The astronauts see it next, same day. Do you have any sort of a, yes, but told about it. A hurricane's born and christened Betsy, and in two places the new spells trouble. The National Hurricane Center in Miami, where Chief Forecaster Gordon Dunn is checking first reports, and Houston control for the space flight, scheduled to splash down Sunday right in the path of the storm. The victim of Betsy, Gemini 5, its eight day flight is cut one orbit short, the landing area's changed. Cooper and Conrad splash down safely into a sunny seal. Betsy wanders north toward the Bahamas. In Nassau, American tourists are pouring off the Yarmouth Castle on a final fling, sightseeing, souvenirs, shopping. And in the native churches, only a few bother to give thanks that another hurricane's passed them by, as Betsy swings by safely to the east, heading north toward Cape Hatteras. Florida relaxes too. The start of Labor Day weekend, a time for sea and sun. But for the Weather Bureau and the hurricane hunters, it's no holiday at all. In 10 days now, Betsy's already traveled 2,000 miles past Barbados and the Grenadines, the Windward and Leeward Islands, skirting Cuba, Puerto Rico, the Bahamas. Now 300 miles north, she runs into westerly trade winds. There's a lazy loop-to-loop, then stalls. A probable course, still north and west toward Hatteras, New Jersey, or New England. But bad news, wherever it hits. By now, it's packing 125 mile an hour winds, swirling around an enormous eye. Only on Sunday night, Betsy runs head on into a high pressure ridge, turns into a Yankee hurricane. Traveling south and coming fast back toward the Bahamas. Monday night, the wall cloud rips over the out islands and into Nassau, grinding and tearing at the town for nearly 15 hours. Then it turns toward the mainland. Hurricane flags are flying now from Key West to Cape Kennedy. In Miami, the county's civil defense emergency operating center designed to direct government services in either natural disaster or enemy attack. All forces have been on emergency alert since early Labor Day morning. Small craft warning, winds may reach hurricane force and squalls by early Tuesday evening. All vessels in the area of hurricane display should seek safe harbor. For the first time in local history, one of the all warrants that keep the skein in Miami Beach will be under water. Residents are advised to get out now. The bull groceries, hardware stores and lumber yards now closed for the holiday are urgently requested to reopen so the public can lay in food and emergency supplies. If you're boarding up, be sure to use strong lumber and nail securely. Check trees and shrubbery. Remove coconuts from nearby palm trees. Bulls are suddenly deserted as advanced winds begin to come in. But on the beaches, youngsters are finding the best surfing since Hurricane Carol for the skateboard sailors too. Not so good for last minute choppers. Winds have turned to driving rain. That Miami International Airport, normally one of the busiest in the world, the last bird of passage has flown. Workers are still tying down traffic lights, making other last minute preparations. All storm shelters, repeat, all storm shelters are now open. If you feel that your home is insecure, then go to your nearest Red Cross emergency shelter. Gale force winds are striking now from pound beach to the tip of the key. In the six counties of southern Florida, more than 18,000 people are crowded into the Red Cross shelters, just waiting for it to happen. In the greater Miami area, and escape routes will be cut off shortly. Hotels along Miami Beach, waters already pouring over the welter map. Our mobile unit just reported fish swimming down Collins. A long night for civil defense. Now all the dull, quiet things done over the years. The free hurricane drill, the planning and preparation for any kind of disaster. The coordinated efforts of all the government and voluntary agencies are finally paying off. 740 North West, 8th, 2th Street, roof blown off a house. There are injuries. Some hotels on beach badly damaged. Some treated me, federal counsel. Betsy, with her hurricane winds, is on the Florida mainland. She is also on Key Largo. At dawn, the eye of the hurricane crosses Key Largo, heading west. Spins will continue for hours, and so will calls for help. Flooding in the Arvita Parkway area needs some amphibious ducts. Right out of any injuries involved. Only evacuation. In the Lake of Southwest Fifth Avenue. Betsy blows by Florida, she leaves her moth behind. Damage, around 140 million. Several dead. 4,000 homes wrecked or flooded out, plus smaller losses. On Riviera Beach, a bigger whale's been grounded. A foreign quater driving in blindly through the night. The Yarmouth Castle's been a little luckier. The Bahamas cruise ship has written out the storm at sea and put back safely into Miami next morning. She'll sail another day. The hurricane roars on, still hunting for land. And 900 miles of coastline ahead to choose from. All the way to Texas, where the astronauts are safely home, but beginning to wonder if they're being followed. But early Wednesday morning. Hurricane Betsy is taking a more north-westerly turn, and is now heading directly for the Louisiana coast. New Orleans Weather Bureau picks it up now, and warnings go out from civil events in the state's capital at Baton Rouge. Flying coastal areas should be evacuated early today, before escape routes are cut off by rising waters. Offshore oil rigs are abandoned. Ships head into port. Cars come screaming up from the Delta. A quarter of a million refugees, many of them heading for New Orleans. For New Orleans itself, there's literally no place to go. It's surrounded by river, lake, and swamp land. So the town boards up and batons down, in the shelter of its levees. Already its civil defense emergency operating center is manned by nearly 200 people, representing all the city's emergency services. Near dusk, Mayor Victor Skirro comes down the stairs to hear disturbing news. So the case should be advised that extremely dangerous Betsy is headed toward New Orleans. Here it's flooding America, just south. Lake Pontius Rain is half a mile back, or the imperative. A strong north wind force water out of the sea water. Chief, we're expecting 12 feet of water in this area, over the lakefront. Charlie Urdman, the city's civil defense director. We're getting it out of the water. What about our preparations in this area? Now, I would suggest this, that we move, evacuate these people from this parish line, to the wrigglies, and from the lakefront, to Florida Avenue. Lake Pontius Rain, the huge, shallow treacherous lake lying just north of New Orleans. If the eye passes east of the city, the hurricane's counterclockwise winds would scoop the lake clear over the levee. The mayor's warning goes out. Now, we are providing buses. If you look out on the West End Boulevard, that's a train, Boulevard, you'll find public service. In one place, particularly, the news strikes home. The Barrios home on Windgate Drive, just a few blocks south of the lakefront. For nearly six years now, Gene Barrios has been half paralyzed by polio, dividing his days and nights between an iron lung and a rocking bed. Both needed nearly every minute of the day, to keep the breath of life in his body. If hurricane winds knock out the power lines, the equipment will stop. Or if water starts pouring over the levee, you'll have no chance of a ski. Hello, my old man. Let me tell to Henry, ma'am. Yeah. Mrs. Barrios, calling her brothers for help. Hello, Henry. Hello, it's Mrs. Mylena. I have to get some way of getting old. Gene to the hospital this afternoon, and I was wondering if you and maybe one of the other boys could help, you know? No, as soon as possible. Yeah, well, that'll be okay. It's time to get home from work, but I want you to hurry up now, because it's important. Other distress calls are beginning to pour into the emergency operating center. You need registered nurses. You want any available for duty tonight, to report to 2000 Tulane Avenue. You need gasoline? The same thing's taking you around the auxiliary generator? All right. Real proud to get you 50 gallons. You mean your wife's having a baby right now? Can't you get her to a hospital? No, no, hold on. We'll get a doctor on the line. The doctor's Rodney John, the city health director, being called on to tell a frightened young father how to deliver his very first baby without training or forces or fading. Too late, under rising wind, the phone line's already gone dead. And growing short, on Windgate Drive, Mona Berias is getting her husband ready for the trip to the hospital. Out of the bed and into the wheelchair, getting him dressed and worrying over what's keeping her brothers. When will they get off work and get here? Finally, time to go out toward the door and then goodbyes to Cindy, the baby of the family, his sons and his wife. To escape the flood, they'll all be going to a sister's apartment in another safer part of town. The Gentilly section in the southeast quarter of New Orleans. Jean is heading for Charity Hospital. Closes up Bourbon Street tighter than an eight o'clock curfew. And unpredictable to the very last, she veers again. The 930 Weather Bureau citizen says the eye may now pass west of the city instead of east. A last-minute reprieve for the Lakefront area. Probably bad news somewhere else. Our alarm to 306, your question is delayed by fall of three, you will have to handle alone. No one else can reach you. Have you heard anything about that woman in labor? Have you heard anything about that woman in labor? No, sir. No word yet, but bad news elsewhere. As the hurricane comes sweeping up the Delta. That's what the situation is right now. The longer incomplete officers in out the eye, this thing or the movie or the greater part of it must be right here right now. Because there's no staging in the end as one can tell. At 1146, all power fails at the New Orleans Weather Bureau and the wind gauge blows off the roof. Falling trees are knocking out telephone lines all over town, but not till Dr. Jung finally gets the word he's been waiting for. Oh, Dr. Jung, that woman you worried about had a baby and both are doing well. Fine. Sees over-filming the city. Dusts are reaching 150 miles an hour, and all the church bells in town are tolling wildly in the wind. Baton Rouge is next in line. That roof area are increasing in velocity to Hurricane Fort with winds of near 100 miles per hour by 1.38 AM. In the state emergency operating center, Governor John McKithan and his staff, disaster coordinator Leon Gary and civil defense director Marshall Capow are working with Red Cross Public Health and Salvation Army, the welfare groups, and National Guard. Emergency calls are pouring in from all over the state, including one from National Guard headquarters at New Orleans. Jackson Barrick, do Baton Rouge? Baton Rouge. Flooding now at Jackson Barrick. You're kidding. No one's kidding. Betsy's bringing in danger from a totally unexpected quarter. Her winds are pushing a 16-foot wall of water out of Lake Bourne and the Gulf, the greatest tidal surge in Louisiana history. Swibbing over the Delta, Plaquemines Parish, St. Bernard, topping the highest levees, roaring across the industrial canal into the southeast section of New Orleans. No one knows the full size of the disaster yet. In Betsy's wake, there's only darkness, confusion, and death, daybreak, and devastation. And the church bells are quiet now. Hurricane winds have done their worst. The tidal surge has caught them. Fatality list is as follows. 25-year-old Mrs. Joanne Mayu, her body was found in the Franklin Avenue ditch. She was swept away by floodwaters in the flooded area. People are still being pulled off roofs and out of the water. Another small dunker. I saw just a big wave coming right at the house. It looked like it's taller than the house. The heart for my husband and he ran. My brother-in-law called. The same boy, he gets the last call through. And he screams, tell him to get out. The levee broke. Well, we swam down the apartment. It was flooded to the second floor. And they lifted us into the boat. The water was coming that high. Another 25,000 refugees who swamped already overcrowded shelters. Whoo! Yeah. Well, Sam Bernard held a drone by golly. Well, you seem pretty happy here for the failure. I got my full-faceted possessions out, my children. You ever seen anything like this before? Never seen anything like this before, no sir. I've never heard. And I hope I never see it again. My children are swinging down at my sister-in-law's because I don't want to bring them to me. What's that there? Oh. By mid-afternoon, the presidential plane is on its way from Washington. Swinging out over the gulf, then up the delta, flying low, following Betsy's trail of destruction. Grand Isle with a hurricane-first-made landfall. Nothing left. Up the Mississippi, houses swept five miles from their front door steps. Levee's strewn with battered ships and barges, more than 450 beached or sunk, and missing near Baton Rouge, somewhere on the river bottom in Mississippi mud, barge MTC-602, laden with 600 tons of deadly liquid chlorine, enough to produce more poison gas than both sides used in all of World War I, and much more than enough to wipe out Baton Rouge. At 5 o'clock, Air Force One lands at New Orleans, bringing the president, his aides, and leaders of the Louisiana Congressional delegation to survey the damage. See what needs to be done. In one old grade school near the industrial canal, not meant for use as a shelter at all, they find 3,000 refugees from the flood, and only four young volunteers on hand to help. How much training do you have for this type of work? About 15 minutes, I guess. The president declares Louisiana and Florida both disaster areas, tells the Office of Emergency Planning to coordinate federal assistance. More than a million 200,000 people from nearly every agency of the national government will be involved. Down the Delta, roads are flooded out, but 2,500 national guardsmen come in by river steamer to begin rescue operation. Coast Guard helicopters are flying more than 2,000 missions. The military choppers are matching them. Red Cross is flying in staff from all over the country, and with them, to help in this overwhelming task, come hundreds of health and welfare workers on loan from other states and cities, the other voluntary agencies. Captain Ward of the Salvation Army has placed an urgent request for a clothing of any kind, especially children's clothing, blankets, diapers, food and money to purchase clothing. A refugee city is being created at the Algiers Navy facility. More than 12,000 people will be bedded down, fed and cared for at the Algiers Naval Station by nightfall. The Army is providing fear kitchens, bedding and latrines. And the Red Cross is providing the transportation for these evacuees. Officials of Crackerman Parish have requested that all persons entering Crackerman Parish by boat must stop at Delta Chase School for typhoid shots. Typhoid shots are necessary due to a large amount of dead animals in the area. Charity Hospital is in dire need of blood. Blood donors can give blood at Charity Hospital any time from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m. The clinics will be closed and there will be no visiting hours at Charity Hospital. No visitors and no word at all to tell Gene Barrios if his family is even alive. But in the gently section, the phone lines are down, the water is still up, laughing at the door sills. For three straight days, the whole Barrios clan has been marooned in a small first floor apartment, short on food and short on room. Eight adults and 14 little monsters with nothing else to do with their time. But relief's in sight. Well, Hurricane Betsy's finally blown itself out. She's down to Rainstorm Intensity now and is heading northeast through Tennessee toward New York. I hope it still has enough rain in it when it gets to New York to help them alleviate their water shortage. And finally, the pumps are taking effect. In gentility at least, the water level's falling. And for the first time in four days, it's possible for Mona Barrios to get out, call Charity Hospital. After all the worrying, the family's safe and coming home tomorrow and again. People starting all over. Just how bad is it with you? Well, I'll tell you. We're down, but we're not out. You're not out? What happened to you first? What about the family? We're all safe. We'll rebuild. Oh, yeah. You don't think this has knocked you out? No, indeed. We're going to build a levees higher and have a prettier community. How do you feel about it? I always do want to redecorate. A man who dealt with a dozen major disasters said it. There isn't a city in the world that may not face the same sort of thing some day. Major disaster in one form or another can have to be organized immediately, using resources from many public and private agencies. And at New Orleans City Hall, they're working around the clock, civil government in emergency, meeting the needs of its people, fighting a thousand problems at once. Welfare assistance for victims of the flood, locating medical supplies, arranging to fly in a civil emergency, and providing medical supplies locating medical supplies, arranging to fly in a civil defense emergency hospital unit, answering emergency calls for food, water, sanitation equipment, for trucks and ducks to handle relief operations, the endless job of cleanup, fumigation, inspection. At the civil defense office, the coordinating point for this kind of planning, the lights burn late, an endless string of coffee cups, and still no sleep in sight. Betsy's final bill won't be in for months. The chlorine barge near Baton Rouge will take a million dollars to raise, or of engineers supervising the salvage job. Army, Red Cross, and civil defense evacuating the sick and the aged in case anything goes wrong and gas starts sweeping the city. Others can take care of themselves, and they do. On November 10th, two months to the day since the hurricane hit, they bail out of town in a hurry. But 602 will rise again, and so will Louisiana. And Betsy? Long gone. After 16 days and 3,000 miles, whistling out through the woods of northern Louisiana, Arkansas, Tennessee, to die next day in a simple whirl of dust. The danger over at last. Till the next one comes along.