Max Gergel

I copied this little story by William Price Fox that piqued my interest in Max Gergel and the Columbia Organic Chemical Company he owned and ran. I hope you enjoy it!

Max taught physics at the University of South Carolina and ran Columbia Organic in the evenings. His plant was small. He was poor. In order to make ends meet, he would subcontract jobs from Union Carbide, DuPont and Allied Chemical. Often the jobs were too small for them to fool with. Often they were too dangerous. Often both.

One day, Max received a call from DuPont: “Mr. Gergel, we would like you to make us six ounces of 2,3-dichloropropene.”

Max replied, “It’s dangerous. That stuff will explode. I could be ruined.”

DuPont: “We know. But we don’t want to risk blowing up Wilmington.”

Max: “No, I’m afraid I can’t make it. I appreciate the offer, but no thanks.”

Hours later a call came from Oak Ridge, Tennessee. “Mr Gergel, this is a top-secret call and you are not to repeat a word of it. I’m calling from the Manhattan Project.”

“Yessir, I understand.”

“We want you to make us up six ounces of 2,3-dichloropropene.”

“No sir, I can’t do it. I just told DuPont I can’t get involved with that stuff.

After a pause: “Mr. Gergel, I am looking at your draft classification papers, which just happens to be before me. I see that, owing to the essential nature of your teaching-physics job, you are classified 4-F.”

“Yessir, I am.’

“Mr. Gergel, if you don’t wish to make this material for us, I am afraid your classification, in the next ten minutes, will change from 4-F to 1-A. Now would you like to reconsider making up this very small batch of 2,3-dichloropropene?”

“Yessir, I just did. If you will be good enough to send me the order and the particulars, I shall go ahead.”

Max’s first move was to run an ad in The State newspaper requesting the services of an ex-moonshiner. A six-foot, three-inch man called Preach showed up the next day. He explained how he had been a pot-still man down in the Wateree swamp for twenty years but had recently been caught. He had done a year in jail and now wanted to work in a legitimate field. Max hired him on the spot.

Then he explained about 2,3-dichloropropene. How it had to be made by distillation and how, at a critical temperature that could not be avoided, it exploded. The explosion could be delayed and the yield increased by soaking down the cooker with water-soaked towels, but it couldn’t be avoided. Preach understood. Together they built the cooker and began the preparation. They added the chemicals, fired the burner and began watching the temperature rise. They then poured water over the towels wrapped around the cooker and held their breath waiting for the explosion. It came. The seismic shock destroyed the ceiling and left behind dangling debris, a lethal black smoke and Max’s and Preach’s eyebrows and most of their hair.

When the smoke finally cleared, they returned and sopped up the material with rags and squeezed it into a bowl and measured it. The first run yielded only one ounce, but it had destroyed almost everything. After rebuilding the concrete-block plant and three more setups and three more explosions, they produced the six ounces and shipped it north.

The Manhattan Project people were pleased and sent congratulations. DuPont was pleased and sent congratulations. Max and Preach were pleased. It was all over, and Max returned to making roach powder and other fine household products.

Then the Manhattan Project voice was on the phone again. This time they needed fifty-five gallons of 2,3-dichloropropene. Max screamed and refused. It was impossible. The voice paused and then rustled the classification papers. Max told the voice to send him the particulars.

Max and Preach built an assembly line of ten stills and underneath each they placed a stack of towels, a bucket of water and a washtub. But here’s how Max tells it: “Preach had taken hold of everything and had gotten so he could do the whole job by himself. He had developed a rhythm. I was just in the way. It was wonderful to see that old gentleman work. He had a sense of ease and grace about him that you just don’t see much of anymore.

Nothing rattled him. Not even the explosions. He’d put the chemicals in the first cooker, and then the second, and then on down the line to the tenth. Then he’d fasten in his stoppers and reflux condensers, wrap towels around the cookers, fire his burners and move on down the line. He was fast for a tall, methodical fellow, but you never felt that he was hurrying. Dignity, I guess that’s what it was. He had a real sense of dignity. By the time the number one cooker was about to explode, he’d pour a bucket of water over the towels to keep it under control and move on to the second and third and fourth. Then number one would explode and he’d move on to five and six. It was almost like a dance — or like he was playing an enormous organ. When all ten cookers had blown and all the towels had been gathered, we started squeezing out the 2,3-dichloropropene.”

Eventually, the fifty-five gallons were produced and shipped. DuPont was grateful. The Manhattan Project was grateful.

Another week passed and Max received a letter from DuPont. They told him the material had worked beautifully but now they had to make it in even bigger quantities and wanted to know what procedure he’d followed. Max sent back a long letter. “Sirs, I have a gentleman who is six-foot-three and well into his seventies named ‘Preach’ who used to be a moonshiner. Well, he sets up ten stills in a long line, as long as my plant. Then he takes him some towels and some washtubs and some water.”

Max said, “I told them exactly how Preach had done it. After a week or so I got a wire. I don’t believe I’ll ever forget that message. Never. You know something, I’ve decided to put it on my tombstone. It was from DuPont and the Manhattan Project, and it was only two words: ‘Ship Preacher.’ ”