Nearly six decades later, the memories still haunt him.

And so, each year for the past 58 years on the April 3 anniversary of the 1962 Van Tassel Warehouse explosion that killed four of his Norwich Fire Department colleagues, Thomas LaFreniere reports back to City Fire Headquarters.

There, at a plaque honoring those and others who died in the line of duty, he prays alone and in silence for the four men who, only feet away from him, died on that fateful spring afternoon.

In some years, one or more city firefighters have joined LaFreniere’s brief annual vigil, but he prefers to be alone with his thoughts and the nightmarish memories that have stayed with him every day since.

Until the early-afternoon call came in that spring Tuesday about a truck fire at the Van Tassel Warehouse, it had been a quiet day at Fire Headquarters, located then on Chestnut Street in down city Norwich.

The team of firefighters responded quickly to the factory, located on Forest Street, a remote dead-end off West Main Street, not far from where Fire Headquarters is now located.

The firefighters had been warned that there were explosive peroxide-based chemicals aboard the truck, which had been backed up to a loading dock at the warehouse. Soon after they arrived, a thunderous explosion occurred, almost instantly killing Capt. William Sheridan and firefighters Carl Burke, Leonard Counihan and Edward Romano.

It had rained the night before, and LaFreniere, a lieutenant, and firefighter Thomas DiMauro were blown into a nearby mud puddle, which saved them from the inferno that killed the others.

At one point shortly after the explosion, a dazed and critically injured LaFreniere, his face and hands burned and his helmet blown off, tried to venture back toward the fire in search of his comrades, only to be pulled back to safety by Norwich Police Sgt. John Sisco.

A newspaper photograph captured the horror of what had happened etched on their faces.

“Tom and I were on fire, but luckily the water was there and saved our lives — and God had a lot to do with it,” LaFreniere, now 92, recalled in a recent interview. “I was half-conscious and I wanted to go and see how we could get to these fellows who were burning.”

It was too late, however. They were gone.

LaFreniere knows that he could just as easily have died with them that day, and acknowledges feeling some guilt at having survived.

“I had my face burned and I was blind for a while,” he said. “My left ear was gone and my face, they had to fix it up. I was nine days in the hospital. I’m lucky I lived.”

The explosion also destroyed two city fire trucks and the warehouse, shattered nearby windows and cracked walls and ceilings as far away as the city’s Greenville section. The force of the explosion could be felt in surrounding towns. The heat was so intense, it bent the rails on nearby train tracks.

I was in the third grade then, in Mrs. Duval’s class at the John B. Stanton School on New London Turnpike. The school shook from the explosion, and when the students across the hall clamored loudly, some of us wandered over to look out the classroom windows and see the large plume of dark smoke that rose into the sky east of the school, perhaps a mile away.

LaFreniere would return to work a month or so later, but never overcame the emotional trauma of seeing four of his colleagues — all good friends — die in the explosion. He was helped by regular counseling from Father Francis O’Keefe of nearby Sts. Peter & Paul Church, but ultimately, re-living the disaster afterward with each sounding of the alarm, he couldn’t stay on the job.

He had seen death and intense combat during his years as a soldier in the Korean War, but this was different. It had brought him much closer to his own mortality.

“Yes,” he said of the feelings of guilt. “And it got to me mentally. ... I couldn’t sleep and it was getting worse. I kept visualizing it.”

His parents, who owned and operated the popular Bid’s Tavern near where the city’s Greenville and Taftville sections intersect, suggested he retire and take over the family business, which had opened in 1933, the second establishment in Norwich to have received a post-Prohibition alcohol permit.

Joseph Wilfred LaFreniere told his son at the time: “You almost got killed in Korea, you almost got killed here in Norwich. You better take over the business. It’s safer.”

And so, in 1968, LaFreniere and his wife, Betty, took over the venerable tavern, where patrons ranging from lawyers and bank executives to construction workers and public works crews could get hot, plentiful sandwiches and cold, domestic beer from the tap for a few dollars. The warmth and charm that Tom and Betty brought to the place, along with Tom’s corny jokes, were free. While there, you could also purchase anything from used golf clubs to a 20-pound bag of potatoes, pickled eggs to used yard tools.

There were about a dozen booths and 20 or so stools at the bar, with the grill in plain view at the far end so the couple could greet everyone who came through the door. A single television and pool table completed the establishment’s Norman Rockwell ambiance.

With calorie counts and health considerations left at the door, patrons happily devoured Combos, Supremes, Cosmos and New York Dogs with all kinds of savory menu features like steak, sausage, pastrami and hot dogs, onions and peppers, cheese and meat sauce. The place was an iconic fixture in this gritty city, and Tom’s cheery, welcoming demeanor showed no signs of what he had been through in his previous career.

That didn’t mean, however, that he had forgotten about the trauma and sadness he will take to his grave.

“I’ve been lucky,” he said.

The LaFrenieres worked six days a week at Bid’s until they retired in the late 1980s. Sadly, the place was closed a short time later when the next owner failed to pay taxes, relegating Bid’s to but a fond memory for two decades until 2010. When a furnace backdraft around that time had filled the LaFrenieres’ Scotland Road home with smoke, the Yantic Volunteer Fire Department responded in a few short minutes, eliminating any threat of fire and securing the home before they left.

LaFreniere was so grateful, he organized the annual Bid’s Reunion that takes place next to the department’s station on Yantic Road each year. Thousands of people — some past patrons and others who never experienced the joys of Bid’s Tavern — attend, waiting patiently in long lines to order their favorite sandwiches and cold beer or soda.

The proceeds — tens of thousands of dollars over the years — all go to the volunteer fire department as the LaFrenieres’ way of saying “Thank you!”

The 2020 reunion was cancelled by the pandemic, and it will be up to the department’s leadership whether to schedule one for this year.

As he aged, Tom used to say that each year’s event would be his last, but then he would return a year later for another. Now, he says, he’ll do it as long as he’s able.

“It supports a good cause,” he said. “These guys — every time they go out, they’re in danger. So, the least I can do is bring a little happiness and joy to this get together each year.”

He knows that danger first-hand. The reunion, he says, is also a way to acknowledge the blessing of survival some 59 years later.

Bill Stanley, a former vice president at Lawrence + Memorial Hospital, is a native of Norwich.