Sometimes the rescue comes too late; sometimes there is a miracle
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Date and time <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />January 9th, 1969 at 8:00 P.M.
Place B 70th St and Rockaway Freeway, Far Rockaway
In the 100 Precinct Police district Sgt. Ford reported an accident.
Address given 94th& Rockaway Boulevard
Car involved: 1963 Chevy License 8822xg NY
90, 95, 100 mph hurtling, back pressed against the seat, images whirling by, racing
faster and faster, 105, splintering glass, crunching metal against cement, an elevated train line,
eight feet thick cement pillars, rending metal, flying debris, car airborne, and nothingness
complete blackness, peace, silence
Most of the remainder of our story comes from second hand accounts as the driver Al Schmitt (age 19) of 105 Powell Avenue in Rockville Centre fled the scene leaving his passenger, William P Haynes (age 17) of 34 Brower Avenue in Rockville Centre for dead.
Al was an unlicensed driver and had borrowed the car from one Joseph M. Hermann of 337 Kandall Avenue in Freeport, NY. In an effort to try and repay Mr. Hermann for the damage Mr. Schmitt enlisted the aid of a nearby garage to help strip the automobile for parts. However Mr. Schmitt did not inform them that there would be a body trapped in the wreckage.
After using a torch to cut through the roof they found the body in the front seat of the demolished automobile. After removing the blood soaked body from the Chevy the mechanics fled the scene fearing the arrival of the police.
Staggering, alone, bloodied, dying, and wandering an unknown street.
The ending of our tale, I actually recall parts of this.
It was an UPS driver who stopped and picked me up. He was way off of his route but drove me to PeninsulaGeneralHospital. I remember that he handed me something to try and stop the flow of blood. He apologized for not being able to help me inside but explained that he would lose his job if they found out he was building up extra mileage off-route.
The lights of the building looked a lifetime away; the parking lot the greatest expanse that I ever had to cross. I made it inside the hospital. I clearly remember one last thing. When they asked me who I was I flippantly responded: Sylvester Kent, if you have any questions ask my brother, Clark. I dont think they laughed. They asked me if I had taken anything. Okay, perhaps it wasnt the best Superman joke ever told but at least I tried for a laugh.
I got lucky that night; one of the top neurosurgeons in New York was pulling emergency duty. Surgeries lasted nearly three hours and again more luck, I still had both eyes but I had cut off a very tiny piece of my skull. It took one hundred and fifty stitches to close the cuts. I was home a week later.
