Food was left on tables and washing left on lines as more than 47,000 people began a mass exodus; within 18 hours the town was deserted.
In the days following all people within 10km of the plant had been evacuated, and by May 7, all within 30km, a total of 116,000 people from 186 settlements. The huge movement of people was swollen by the evacuation of tens of thousands of cattle as well as sundry other farm animals.
Meanwhile the shattered remains of No 4 reactor continued to burn. Tons of graphite ignited, while molten metal fissioned out of control, releasing dangerous isotopes that were sucked up into the smoke, adding to the radioactive soup above the plant.
Helicopters dumped huge loads of lead, sand and boron onto the plant in an unsuccessful attempt to staunch the conflagration. Water could not be used because it would have reacted with the graphite which would have created a huge cloud of deadly carbon monoxide.
The authorities realised the only option they had was to try to contain the fire until all the flammable material ran out. Meanwhile an enormous radioactive plume began to drift toward Pripyat◦— and beyond.
Of course, none of this was known to the outside world and at first the Soviets did their best to conceal it. The first the West knew of something untoward was when the Swedes detected abnormal levels of radioactivity outside their nuclear power plant at Forsmark.
The monitors revealed five times the normal radioactive emissions. Similar reports came from other parts of Sweden as well as Finland and Norway. Sweden after hours of searching confirmed the radiation was not coming from their country.European wind patterns soon revealed the source of the radiation pointed in one direction: the Soviet Union.
When the Swedes and other Scandinavian countries demanded an explanation from Moscow, they were initially met with denials and silence. But after several hours, an expressionless newscaster on Moscow television read a statement from the Council of Ministers, which was dour and uninformative even by Soviet standards.
In full it read: “An accident has taken place at the Chernobyl power station, and one of the reactors was damaged. Measures are being taken to eliminate the consequences of the accident. Those affected by it are being given assistance. A Government commission has been set up.”
The news made sensational headlines all over the world. The more Moscow tried to conceal what had happened, the more hungry the West came for information regarding it.
Stories of a huge movement of people and animals on a biblical scale were irresistible. Newspaper editors and broadcasters scrambled for news of this mighty exodus.
Scientists, doctors and nuclear experts where wheeled out to give their opinions on what had happened, while assorted, soothsayers, religious cranks and other doomsday merchants predicted the end of the world.
Despite the best efforts of the Moscow censors, more details of what had really happened began to emerge. Finally President Gorbachev, in the spirit of glasnost, decided to open the door and let the outside world in.
He issued a decree whereby nothing was to be hidden, nothing covered up. Film was released of the helicopters above the smoking reactor ruins desperately trying to damp down the flames and footage was released of queues of evacuees being monitored for radiation at the roadside. The Novosti News Agency was given full powers to release information to Western scientists and news organisations.
One story immediately stood out among many: the heroism of the fire-fighters who had doomed themselves to certain death by entering the nuclear maelstrom without a thought for their own safety.
And one man in particular was hailed the “hero of Chernobyl”. He was Lieutenant Colonel Leonid Telyatnikov, head of the Pripyat fire brigade who was one of the first on the scene.
According to Novosti it all began for Telyatnikov at exactly 1.32am when he received a telephone call telling him there was a fire at the nuclear power plant.
He immediately dressed and rushed to his car. Driving toward the plant he had to weave round fiery debris that littered the road. As he got closer to the plant he saw a bluish glow from the remains of what had been reactor No 4.
He realised this was no ordinary situation. Telyatnikov knew he and the rest of the fire fighters were “entering the gates of hell”, but he knew what had to be done. They were the only ones who could prevent the fire spreading to reactor No 3.
At the gates, the radiation sensor had frozen at a radiation reading higher than existed in Hiroshima after the atomic bomb.
Telyatnikov and his 27-man crew pressed on nevertheless, even though they knew it was now a suicide mission. They stared up in horror at the reactor room where flames were leaping more than 50 feet into the air, and at tiny figures scurrying in panic in the exposed upper levels.
Several times Telyatniknov climbed to the 120-foot top of the blazing building to direct operations at the very heart of the blaze. He stayed there until the roof collapsed and the flames were finally extinguished.
He and his incredibly brave crew carried on until they were finally relieved by fire fighters from Kiev. The firemen along with paramedics and power-station guards who were injured were flown to Moscow’s hospital Six where they were put into an isolation ward and enclosed in sterile plastic bubbles.
About 300 people, suffering from radiation sickness and damage to skin and lungs were later treated at the hospital. But within the first few days, 22 died following a terrible pattern of vomiting, bleeding, black blisters, hair loss and high fever, before lapsing into a coma from which they never recovered.
All over the Soviet Union the fire-fighters of Chernobyl were being treated to the kind of acclaim usually reserved for war heroes.
Two of the fire team that died were given posthumous medals. Telyatnikov, aged just 35, and a father of two, was the only survivor given permission by the authorities to talk about his ordeal.
In a screened interview from his hospital bed, speaking hardly above a whisper, he said: “The fire was raging, devouring everything. The reactor’s mouth was pouring out a death-carrying breath. But we had no choice but to stay. It was our duty.
“We didn’t know how many people were trapped and we had to stop the fire spreading to the other reactors. We found eight survivors, naked and huddled in the lavatories, miraculously still breathing.
“We stayed for three hours in the choking, blinding poisonous atmosphere and one by one my men began to buckle. I saw my comrade Vladimir Tisschura writhing on the ground and after that Nikolai Vaschuk swayed and fell flat on his back. Then a third man fell. Bravest of all was Vitali Golopa who was only 25.
“He plunged into the radioactive pool beneath the reactor to pull the plug and drain off the contaminated water. He died soon after…”
The outside world was just as enthralled by their bravery as in the Soviet Union. Messages of support and offers of medical and technical help poured in.
Ken McGinley, still pushing his own nuclear agenda back home, wasn’t going to let the opportunity pass. As far as he was concerned he and the Chernobyl firefighters were “brothers in arms” and he persuaded his local council and fire service authority in Renfrewshire to strike two bravery plaques in honour of the heroes of Chernobyl.
But he wasn’t content to send these prestigious awards via the diplomatic bag: he decided to travel to Chernobyl to personally deliver them. But he was told that was impossible. In those days the Soviet Union was still a closed society for foreigners, and even ordinary Soviet people were not allowed to travel inside their own country without permission.
In any event, the hero fire fighters were in an isolation hospital in Moscow, and virtually the whole of Ukraine and Belarus had been declared a disaster zone.