Mac and the Mad Mountaineer: The Gunfight at Rays Hill

 

A hush fell over the State Police Barracks at 18th and Herr Streets in Harrisburg on May 12, 1931. The loss of an ordinary police officer's life in the line of duty can be a cause for grief; but this particular hush, on this particular day, was not the result of sorrow, but of absolute disbelief. It was simply inconceivable that Mac could ever be killed, because Mac was no ordinary officer. He was indestructible-- or so everyone thought.

Standing six feet tall-- in an era when the average male stood at just five feet and six inches-- Sergeant Timothy McCarthy cut a daunting figure to the many criminals he apprehended. The officer known to his many friends simply as "Mac" had earned a reputation for bravery, and possibly invincibility, long before he ever wore the badge of the Pennsylvania State Police. Surprisingly, or perhaps fittingly, the journey which led him to a 13-year stint in law enforcement began with a whipping from his stern Irish father.

Born in Kilkenny, Ireland, McCarthy made a name for himself on the field of battle during First World War, becoming a veteran of both the British and U.S. armies. However, in his youth, Mac was an unruly and mischievous troublemaker. One day, when Mac was around 14 years of age, his father punished him so severely that Mac made up his mind to run away from home. He managed to enlist in the British army, and spent three years in South Africa. Upon his return he learned that his cavalry regiment had been assigned to India, but Mac's mother persuaded him to leave the army and go to America. He arrived in Boston but found little to scratch his itch for adventure, so he went west and prospected the gold fields of Nevada and California. Upon his return to Boston he enrolled in a nursing course, and was employed at a mental hospital until the outbreak of the war.

While serving with the 102nd Field Artillery in France, Mac was gassed by the Germans. Although his health would be forever affected by his brush with chemical warfare, the experience made him a superior law enforcement official; the average criminal frightened him no more than a house spider, and Mac never backed down or hesitated in the face of danger. It was a soldier from Wilkes-Barre, whose name has long been forgotten, who first suggested to Mac a career as a policeman after the war.

"He was an ideal trooper with an excellent record," later recalled Major Lynn Adams, head of the Pennsylvania State Police. "McCarthy never used force unless compelled when making an arrest. He employed tact instead."

"Sergeant McCarthy was one of the bravest and most efficient members of the State force," another former colleage would later remark. Captain Elmer Laitheiser, who was deputy warden of the Graterford State Prison at the time of Mac's tragic death, had been assigned to the Hershey barracks with McCarthy, who entered into the service of the State Police twelve years earlier. His reputation for courage and devotion to duty led to his promotion to corporal in August of 1921, and, five years later, he would be promoted to sergeant. 

It was around this time Mac chalked up one of his most notable accomplishments, which was his capture of a wild and ruthless mountain man named Samuel Shockey, who fled into the rugged wilderness of Franklin County after shooting his brother. McCarthy, who was assigned to the Chambersburg sub-station at the time, spent days tramping through a foot of snow and fording icy mountain streams to bring Shockey to justice. So it was perhaps no great surprise that a call was placed to the Troop E Barracks in Harrisburg years later when another dangerous mountaineer near the Fulton-Bedford county line began causing havoc. "Send me McCarthy," was the request, and Mac was happy to oblige. He had been serving as the State Police riding instructor, and was itching to get back into action.

Sadly, it would be Mac's last assignment.

 

 

Marshall the Maniacal Mountain Man

Ninety miles away in Brush Creek Township, Fulton County, inside the Lodge family home built in the shadows of Rays Hill, Frank Lodge had his hands full. His son, Marshall, had always been a problem child, but his violent antics had always been chalked up to "mental deficiency". Yet, as the years went by, Marshall grew bigger and stronger though his brain never developed beyond that of a little boy. By the spring of 1931, Marshall had become a muscular, well-developed 31-year-old man of 200 pounds, and his aging parents no longer had the ability to keep him under control. Thinking not only of their son's safety, but of their own, they made the painful decision to have Marshall institutionalized.

Marshall Lodge, however, had other plans. For two months he had been terrorizing Rays Hill by going on shooting sprees and threatening neighbors with his rifle. When his mother finally put her foot down and attempted to take away his guns, which he stored in his bedroom, Marshall beat her mercilessly. Frank Lodge, who was out farming his fields at the time, was unable to help, but when he returned home he placed a call to Sheriff F. Glen Yonker, asking to have Marshall taken into custody and placed into an insane asylum. The original plan called for Martha Lodge to hide sedatives in her son's food, but when that failed, it became obvious to law enforcement that Marshall had to be taken away by force, if necessary.

What was expected by 69-year-old Frank Lodge to be an uneventful capture by a sheriff and his deputy proved to be a dangerous undertaking. The sheriff had anticipated the possibility of trouble, so he called Captain Stoudt in Harrisburg asking for a detail of troopers. Sergeant McCarthy was selected for the assignment, along with Troopers Philip Duane and Russell Knies, and they arrived in Chambersburg on the evening of May 11. Early the next morning, they were met by Sheriff Yonker and Deputy Sites, and it was just after 8:30 when they reached the Lodge home near Crystal Spring in Brush Creek Township.

 

 

The lawmen found Mr. and Mrs. Lodge at work in the barn, and Mrs. Lodge went to the back door of the farmhouse to allow the men inside the kitchen. They had just entered the kitchen when Marshall came downstairs dressed in overalls, his black hair disheveled. It was Mac who, accompanied by a police German shepherd named Omar, stepped toward Marshall and noticed he was holding a .22-caliber revolver in his hand. But before Mac could take another step, Marshall fired at point blank range into his chest. Mac reeled backward and Trooper Duane rushed to his assistance, but the wounded veteran barked out an order. "Get him! I'll take care of myself. I'll get out of this. "

Trooper Knies jumped toward Marshall with his pistol drawn, but Mrs. Lodge stood in his way. Regardless of what her boy may have done, her instinct was to protect him. This allowed Marshall a chance to flee upstairs, leaving the troopers and their police dog no choice but to abandon the house through the kitchen door. They found McCarthy sprawled across the grass of the side lawn, still alive but fading fast. The lawmen called to McConnellsburg for an ambulance, while the sheriff's wife telephoned surrounding communities for assistance.

Within a short time all available local officers and members of the State Highway Patrol, under the command of Corporal R.W. Frutchey, were on their way to Brush Creek Township. When Corporal Frutchey and his men arrived, they found themselves in the midst of a gun battle. From his bedroom window Marshall Lodge fired intermittent shots with his pistol, rifle and shotgun. The police returned fire, and took a shot every time they observed the crazed gunman at one of the upstairs windows. It was reported that neighbors living as far as a mile away took shelter for fear of being struck by a wayward bullet.

During a lull in the fighting Corporal Frutchey was able to organize his men and they surrounded the house. Frank Lodge then appeared on the porch with his arms raised, begging the officers not to shoot his son. He assured the lawmen that he could convince his son to surrender. For a moment it looked like the situation was under control, for Marshall soon appeared on the porch, warning the officers not to come any closer. But rather than give himself up, he crept toward Mac's prostate body and picked up the sergeant's service revolver from the grass. He then ran back into the house and launched a second wave of lead at the policemen. The officers returned fire, with Knies succeeding in shooting the maniacal gunman in the elbow.

The police pressed their advantage by lobbing tear gas grenades into the home then rushing inside. As they burst through the front door they were confronted by the hulking mountain man-- and from the angered expression on his face, it was impossible to predict what would happen next. Marshall's right arm dangled at his side. He had been shot twice, once below the elbow and the other above. Shards of splintered bone protruded through the wound. But in his left hand Marshall still held onto a .32-caliber revolver, and his shotgun, rifle, and .22-caliber revolver lie within easy reach. For the briefest of moments, all parties stood still with bated breath. What would Marshall Lodge do now?

Lodge surrendered without resistance. He was handcuffed and taken to a hospital in Chambersburg in a waiting automobile. Everyone's attention now turned to Mac, but when the ambulance from Bedford finally arrived, it was clear that the seemingly invincible Irishman's luck had run out. His body was taken aboard and transported to Chambersburg, while Trooper Knies, who had suffered a head wound during the gunfight, was taken to a hospital in Bedford. Omar, the fearless German shepherd, was also wounded in the line of duty, having been shot by Lodge from a basement window. Omar had gone back into the house during the peak of the exchange, and Lodge's movements were traced by the dog's barks. Omar was later treated by a Chambersburg veterinarian for a gunshot wound in his leg and abdomen. He would eventually make a full recovery, and the following year was awarded a silver medal for bravery by the New York Anti-Vivisection Society.

 

 

The Aftermath

Inside the home, officers found Mrs. Lodge in the kitchen, rocking nervously in a chair. Her torment was obvious, as were the bruises her son had given her, and she wondered if she would be held responsible for playing a role in Timothy McCarthy's death. "Please don't think I came from the barn to warn him," she pleaded. "I only saw the car come up and came down to see what was wanted." The officers said not a word-- many of them had children, too. They later announced they found no fault with either parent's actions. Frank Lodge, upon surveying the damage to his home, counted nineteen bullet holes alone in his piano.

The following day, Marshall had his arm amputated at the hospital. Though he appeared in good spirits after the operation, many believed that Mac's killer would never face trial, and, if he did, he would be acquitted on grounds of insanity. This opinion only grew after it was disclosed by the Lodges that Marshall had once been confined to a mental hospital in Ohio as a child.

By this time, stories of Mac's heroism and dedication spread throughout the state, and tributes poured in from every corner of the Commonwealth. From Harrisburg came a statement from Governor Pinchot:

"He obeyed the full pledge of the State Police. His life was given in an effort to protect other lives from a killer. Pennsylvania loses a first class fighting man and a first class citizen in the death of Tim McCarthy. When we consider the courage, the devotion to service, and comparatively small pay of the State Police, and the temptations toward softer living which assail us all in these days, we should be proud that such men as McCarthy are fellow-servants of the State. I sympathize deeply with his relatives, and congratulate the State Police force that it has produced a man of his stature."

 

 

On the afternoon of Wednesday, May 14, the casket containing the body of Sergeant Timothy McCarthy was somberly paraded through the streets of Chambersburg by state troopers, a troop of cavalry, and members of various fraternal organizations to which Mac had belonged. Sergeant McCarthy's horse, its saddle reversed in tribute, followed the funeral procession with a drooped head. They had just concluded services at the American Legion, and what a spectacular service it must have been; seven different troops of State Police were on hand, as was the entirely of the Harrisburg city police force. They filed past the casket one by one, each man stopping to click his heels and raise a gloved hand in salute to their fallen comrade.

Thousands of onlookers lined the sidewalks as the procession passed by; the streets were crowded from curb to curb. As fate would have it, the funeral procession passed directly under the room at the Chambersburg Hospital occupied by Marshall Lodge, who was kept under strict supervision by officers around the clock. They recalled that Lodge appeared unperturbed by the mighty procession and the soft, stirring roll of the drummers.  

The procession halted at Lincoln Lawn Cemetery, where a large crowd had gathered to pay their respects. Robert Ferris and his wife-- Mac's only relatives in the country-- traveled from Massachusetts to attend the funeral. Walter Donaghy, an old army buddy who had first read about Mac's death in a Connecticut newspaper, rode all night from Hartford by train to be in attendance. When asked why he had made such a long and impetuous journey, Donaghy replied, simply, "He was my friend. It was the least I could do." Prayers were read at the graveside by Pastor Melvin Riddle of Chambersburg and the Rev. Father Timothy O'Hanrahan of the Rosary Chapel at Mont Alto, where Mac had often attended services, as the gleaming aluminum casket was lowered into the sacred ground. Eight members of Troop E fired three volleys into the wind as the flag draping the casket was removed and presented to the fallen hero's aunt, Mrs. Ferris.

 

 

On Monday, October 19, 1931, Marshall Lodge was removed from the Fulton County jail at McConnellsburg and committed to Farview State Hospital at Waymart, at the recommendation of Judge Donald P. McPherson. To prevent any further acts of violence, authorities lured Lodge from his cell by telling him that they were taking him to get an artificial limb to replace the arm he had amputated. The ruse worked, and Lodge was taken to Farview without incident. He would die there on October 15, 1969. As for Frank Lodge, the ordeal proved to be too much to bear; he would pass away six months after the shootout, in March of 1932. Martha Lodge passed away in a house fire in McConnellsburg at the age of 84.

A month after the Fulton County shootout, Trooper Philip Duane, at the insistence of his parents, resigned from the State Police. Knies would fully recover from his injuries, and continued to serve until 1963, retiring with the rank of major. Omar, Mac's beloved German shepherd, also returned to duty in time, with Trooper Dewey Nye his new handler. But like any loyal and faithful canine, Omar was devastated by his master's death; while recuperating from his injuries at the Chambersburg sub-station, Omar would lay down silently beside McCarthy's uniform. Born four years earlier in Switzerland, Omar was sired by Wiger von Blaisenberg, a German shepherd who received more citations for bravery than any other dog in the country's history. Omar seemed destined to follow in his father's pawprints; on November 12, 1931, when Omar was presented a silver medal for heroism by the American Anti-Vivisection Society, he became the first animal in the long history of the Pennsylvania State Police (the oldest state constabulary in the country) decorated for valor.

 

 

 

Sources:

Harrisburg Evening News, May 12, 1931.
Harrisburg Telegraph, May 13, 1931.
Gettysburg Times, May 15, 1931.
Harrisburg Telegraph, May 16, 1931.
Chambersburg Public Opinion, Oct. 19, 1931.
Lancaster New Era, Oct. 26, 1932.