It was a sweltering July morning in 1973 when tragedy hit St. Louis—one which would silently reverberate across generations of veterans and their families. On July 12, fire broke out on the sixth floor of the National Personnel Records Center (NPRC), a large federal complex tasked with storing millions of military service records. Inside, rows and rows of official personnel files—paper testimonials to decades-long military careers. But when the fire got going, those delicate pages had little to protect them. The building had no sprinklers. No fire alarms. No automated safeguards. And when the fire raged on, even the firefighters had to abandon it—some with their face masks melted off by the flames.
The blaze burned for 22 hours, smoldered for days, and created a legacy of destruction felt even today. In its aftermath, approximately 16 to 18 million military personnel records were lost. Whole histories were erased. Some 80% of U.S. Army records from 1912 through 1960 perished. So had 75% of Air Force records between 1947 and 1964. Navy, Marine Corps, and Coast Guard files—kept in other locations—remained intact, but for millions of those who’d served in the Army and Air Force, the paper record of their time in service had been reduced to nothing.
Nobody ever figured out precisely where the fire began. But its effect was instantaneous. Veterans were left suddenly without the records they required for benefits, health care, or acknowledgment. It wasn’t a loss of information—it was personal. Whole lives of service and sacrifice were erased. Archivist Dr. Colleen Shogan described the fire’s long shadow: “It’s been 50 years, and we’re still recovering from the ashes.” And she’s not mistaken—five decades on, and the repercussions are still being experienced.
But from that loss, there was an amazing recovery effort. The National Archives, which operates the NPRC, undertook a mission to reconstruct what could be retrieved. Director Scott Levins later described how, through those initial steps—particularly finding alternative methods for verifying service—they were able to rebuild enough information to produce substitute documents many times. Occasionally, those reconstructions became surrogates for DD Form 214, the key documentation for veterans’ benefits. They weren’t ideal, but they provided many veterans a path forward.
In the weeks following the fire, employees put on protective clothing and combed through the ashes to salvage what they could. These burned files, now referred to as “B-files,” were typically wet and disintegrating. Some were freeze-dried to prevent mold from taking over. Others were too far gone. But even the tiniest pieces counted.
When original records were not salvaged, the staff improvised. They scoured auxiliary sources—morning reports, unit rosters, pay vouchers, enlistment cards, even disciplinary reports. Often, veterans or their relatives sent in personal reproductions of discharge documents or letters, filling gaps. As genealogist Michael Strauss has explained, if no recoverable file existed, the NPRC would use whatever the veteran could provide. It turned into a giant jigsaw puzzle of war service, assembled one detail at a time.
The 1973 fire was not merely an alarm call—it compelled the federal government to reassess how it conserved America’s past. In ensuing years, the National Archives underwent sweeping reforms. A new, high-tech building was constructed in north St. Louis County, with walls made of fire-resistant materials, climate-controlled bays, and advanced detection systems. Fire drills became regular, emergency procedures were re-authored, and local fire departments were educated in archival firefighting practices. The design of the building itself was reconceived to minimize danger and keep records more securely guarded.
But maybe the most significant change came in attitude. Digitization, from being a long-term aspiration, suddenly became a top priority. Rather than being stuck on paper, archivists started to scan, photograph, and index military documents, making it simpler to save and retrieve them. Metadata was attached, which made it possible to search by name, unit, or location in seconds. This change didn’t come in one night, but it was born out of stern lessons learned the hard way.
Even today, the legacy of the fire continues to haunt us. Not all record requests can be satisfied with the touch of a button. Occasionally, it involves a visit to the cold storage rooms at the NPRC, where those charred files are kept in controlled environments. Archivists sift through what’s left each day, salvaging service histories piece by piece.
And for the families of the veterans, that work is everything. A rebuilt file isn’t form-filling—it’s verification. It’s a folded flag presented to a spouse, a headstone inscribed with rank and unit, or a VA claim approved after years of waiting. It’s a means of saying, “This mattered.”
The St. Louis fire not only burned records—it altered the way America remembers its veterans. It demonstrated just how vulnerable history is, and how important it is to save it. But more significantly, it unveiled the dedication of those who safeguard the past, not for fame, but because each record has a story that someone still needs to be told.