False Starts, Near Misses and Dangerous Goods

by Geoff Body

  More serious, however, was an item in the monthly return from Scarborough booking office simply described as ‘purchase of new gun’. ‘What gun?’ I asked in an urgent call to the station manager. He was as surprised as I was, but promised to investigate.

  A day later, back came the explanation. Scarborough station had, and still has, a train shed covering the main platforms, with the rafters offering ideal roosting sites for pigeons. While great for the pigeons, the experience for passengers below was rather less pleasant when the pigeons did what pigeons do! To get round the problem, the station supervisor had found a way to tackle the difficulty with regular Saturday-night pigeon shoots. For this purpose he had commandeered a family heirloom in the form of a First World War rifle. Sadly, after more than half a century, the rifle had fired its last round, so a replacement had been bought.

  There was a fundamental problem with all this. No firearms certificate could be found for either the old rifle or its replacement, quite apart from the unacceptable practice of uncontrolled use of a gun in a railway station. Of course, the problem of pigeons in railway buildings was not new, and there were other less dramatic ways to try to control them. For now, though, the pigeons of Scarborough would sleep more easily on a Saturday night.

  STRIKE SERVICE

  In the difficult period of a train drivers’ strike, Philip Benham and Nottingham-area colleagues kept many services going

  The early 1980s were difficult times for industrial relations, with the still relatively new government of Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher determined to change the rules. The steel industry had only recently seen a major strike and trouble was brewing in the coal mines, while the BRB was striving to improve operational efficiency against a background of much, often ill founded, criticism for being out of date.

  The year 1982 was to prove a particularly challenging one. The issue at stake was the lengths of duty that train crews should work, with the BRB wanting to move away from a rigid 8-hour day to more flexible shifts of between 6 and 10 hours. After months of threatened action, the National Union of Railwaymen went on strike in late June, but returned to work after just two days. The Associated Society of Locomotive Engineers and Firemen (ASLEF [the drivers’ union]) then called an all-out strike from early July.

  I was the on-call officer for the Nottingham division on the day the strike was due to start (Sunday 4 July). Early in the afternoon indications started to come through to the control office that some drivers, particularly at the Leicester depot, were prepared to continue work as normal. This was encouraging, but the work of one depot tended to be closely integrated with those from another – a train worked by a driver from depot A would often be handed over to another from depot B at a station en route – so how could we make the best use of those drivers who were prepared to work?

  I made my way to the control office and, with the help of the deputy chief controller and head of the division’s trains office, we devised a plan. To understand our approach, a little explanation is needed about crew diagrams. These diagrams set out what each driver, second man or guard has to do during their shift. For each turn of duty, the following details are given: sign-on and sign-off times; allowances for preparing engines or stock; starting and finishing points for each train worked; which turn they are relieved by; and times for meal or physical needs breaks (PNB), which then had to allow 30 minutes clear somewhere between the third and fifth hours after signing on.

  Apart from local shunting and trip working, the divisions rarely became involved in producing crew diagrams. On the London Midland Region they were normally issued by the train planning office in Crewe and were subject to consultation with trade union representatives. Tearing them up and starting again just did not happen, but in order to produce a coherent train plan that is exactly what we did. New diagrams were drawn up to get the maximum use ‘out and back’ from those drivers expected to report for work. In particular, we made sure times were built in for a PNB and avoided handovers from a driver at one depot to another who might be on strike. We figured, correctly, that if a driver had made the decision to work he would be prepared to accept new diagrams.

  Initially, we concentrated on preparing new diagrams to support an emergency passenger timetable, and, to make life simple, planned to use only DMUs, as these worked single-manned. The strategy worked well, and for the first full day of the strike on the Monday we were able to offer a regular-frequency DMU service between Derby, Nottingham and Leicester that was rather better than normal! Venturing further afield was more challenging but by Tuesday, as the full availability of drivers at Leicester became clear, it proved possible to reintroduce loco-hauled services on Midland Main Line services through to London St Pancras. Soon, a few drivers from other depots indicated they wanted to work, including Cambridge Street in London, enabling services to be extended north to Sheffield. By now we were able to find enough crews to offer a timetable approaching normality on the Midland Main Line, although little was running on the cross country and secondary routes to the likes of Birmingham, Lincoln, Peterborough or Crewe.

  Elsewhere in the division, it was proving possible to move some vital coal services to power stations and aggregate trains from the quarries at Mountsorrel and around Coalville. By the second week of the strike it was evident that sympathy from depots across the country was starting to ebb away, although many depots remained solid in their support to the end.

  After a fortnight, following the intervention of the TUC, ASLEF called off the action. In the event, there was a compromise on the length of rosters, with the final outcome being turn-of-duty lengths of between 7 and 9 hours, somewhat less than BRB had intended.

  It had by no means been plain sailing. Industrial disputes are always very emotive and the actions of the working drivers had, of course, been highly unpopular with those on strike. Picket lines had been set up, including one on the ring-road overbridge south of Derby that was prominently in the line of vision for drivers of passing trains. Attempts to get the police to move the pickets on, or at least dismantle some of the more inflammatory placards, had little success.

  No. 45104 with an eight-coach strike ‘special’ passing the idle Freightliner depot at Beeston, Nottingham. (Philip Benham)

  So while there was satisfaction at having kept the trains moving, it was sad to see the bitterness that arose between good railwaymen – bitterness that may have lasted to the present day. One irony was that Leicester, the depot that decided to work, lost most of its London turns shortly afterwards with the introduction of High Speed Trains on the Midland Main Line. Personally, while understanding the logic, I felt this was a shame. Whatever the politics, as professional railway managers our job was to try to operate as good and as safe a service for passengers and freight customers as possible. That, I felt, we had done and, in the process, had helped our industry through a very dark time.

  OFF THE ROAD – AGAIN

  During the course of a wide and varied railway career Bryan Stone found himself derailed on quite a few occasions

  Many of us at one time or another had duty call-outs to derailments. It was, however, my misfortune to be personally involved in several, although, as far as I know, I was never personally to blame. The following stories may seem trivial but be careful: in many walks of life, but especially on the railway, no mistake is trivial. A short distance from you someone else may also be making a trivial mistake and between the two of you it might end up in disaster. The railway, with its fixed systems, lends itself to safe operations, but these same systems mean that interdependencies are everywhere.

  The first of my misfortunes was, as so often, a narrow escape. It was during National Service for the army at Longmoor on the Royal Engineers’ military railway. I had passed various operators’ trade tests and in spring 1961 was called to act as brakesman/shunter (guard, in BR language) on a specially ordered freight working from Longmoor Downs towards Liss. My workplace was a heavy 20-ton brake van, a bit like a big LNER Queen Mary; al
l was straightforward. I gave the ‘right away’ signal and the driver, who was a few wagon lengths ahead, acknowledged my wave from my platform and his steam WD 0-6-0ST responded briskly to the sharply opened regulator. We were off with vigour up the bank to Liphook Road and No. 6 bridge. Now, out of Longmoor Downs, the line climbed in a sharp curve, and just as I got back inside my van and shut the door there was a fierce jolt and an unholy bang. The brake van leapt into the air and came down again, with me close behind. We were now running quite fast and as I looked back there was a great red dust cloud over the single track, just clearing in the wind. But we were away and all seemed well; the van ran smoothly and there was no sign of an obstacle or damage, so, more shaken than convinced, I sat down. In a minute or two we were across No. 6 bridge and up at Weavers Down where I could signal the driver to stop.

  There I climbed down, told the blockman (signalman) to refuse other trains, told the driver what I was doing and went to examine the van. The rear wheels of the two-axle van were visibly scoured on the outside, the metal tyres brilliantly clean. That meant trouble. All I could think of was that the locomotive had spread the track, so that one rail was so loose in its spikes it had allowed the brake van to slip down between the rails. Then, improbable as it seemed, the van must have been lifted up and re-railed by the resilience of the following rails which were better secured. The more secure rails forced the wheels to jump back on to the track. My van had thus fallen into a ‘hole’ and then re-railed itself. By this time I was shaking, but we still had to examine the locomotive and train. Nothing seemed amiss and, unsurprisingly, the engine driver expressed thoughtful scepticism.

  The blockman reported to Control, trains were stopped in that section, I signed the book and we completed our errand. On the way back, we were allowed down the line again. We disposed of our little train and the van in Longmoor yard, at which point I was told that I was needed, which was always bad news, but it was to hear that my report had allowed the location to be identified in time. The spikes of one rail had indeed been torn out and the rail had sprung open as we passed, widening the gauge. My heavy van had a long, fixed wheelbase and was perhaps most vulnerable, but the missing spikes had been hammered back home before our return and no more damage had been done. So I was, on balance, in favour, but the locomotive driver was cautioned for his zeal. That evening I walked up to see the spot. Sure enough, corresponding to my van’s wheels, both rails had been equally scoured to a bright shine on the inside where the wheels had fallen down. I had a tale to tell, which I never forgot, but it could have ended very differently – we might have been off the road and down the bank – it was a narrow escape!

  At Longmoor we had a lot of derailments, many of which were deliberate and for training purposes, which we had to set up for trainees and reservists to clear up. However, some were not deliberate; the year before I went to Longmoor, six sappers (Royal Engineers’ soldiers) were killed in a disastrous collision involving a works train.

  My next real derailment caught me out badly. In the summer of 1961, I was once again rostered for duty as brakesman/shunter – this time in a ramshackle old brake van, perhaps of London Midland and Scottish (LMS) origin, with an 0-6-0ST attached to my short extra goods – to pull out of the yard and cross the main road to Longmoor Downs. All was ready and I gave the hand signal from the top step to pull away. We didn’t get far. Under the first bridge, as I leaned out holding the handrail, my van dropped off the road; my footstep did not hold and I fell sharply and mercifully away from the van. The engine driver saw me scramble to my feet to give the stop signal, with both hands raised. That was a wonder, since I had fallen on my outstretched right arm and, as was later discovered, the radius head in the elbow had snapped off; I could no longer move it.

  This was the end of my Longmoor career. Being near demob day I spent the remainder of my service in hospital and in convalescence. I was, however, listed on Orders as ‘on duty and not to blame’. My reputation was safe, but for over fifty years I have had a crooked and slightly shorter right arm.

  So, in September 1961, I went to BR. After surviving my training, medical and various trials, I was posted to Doncaster division and, in 1965, was given a project in Grimsby. Passenger trains on the line from Doncaster to Grimsby were at that time rare and irregular, so this was a difficult posting. I needed to study the operational working at different times, so in the evening I took a lift home on a freight, of which there were many, and I had a duty pass. Conveniently it was a fast freight, 8.42 p.m. from Grimsby East Marsh to Doncaster Decoy, vacuum-braked on all wagons, which took the route through Brigg and Lincoln and then the Joint Line to Doncaster; power was usually a Brush 2750hp Type 4, later known as Class 47.

  On 19 February 1965 I rode back on the almost new D1770 (built in October 1964), which played with its forty-five wagons (equal to fifty-nine in the jargon of the day, perhaps 600 tons). All went well and we duly rolled slowly into the Down Decoy yard on an arrival road.

  As we stopped in the darkness by the lever-frame cabin, the shunter came up and uncoupled the engine from the train to release it to the Doncaster shed across the Great Northern Main Line. We didn’t make it. I have forgotten the layout in detail, but we were then called forward, ready to stop and set back on another road; here, disaster took over – we eased forward, but obviously not far enough. The decisive set of points was between the two bogies. Setting back, the locomotive took two diverging tracks as far as it could and then dropped. It seemed an age as the cab settled, some 20 degrees from vertical, and I distinctly remember the driver saying, ‘That’s it: we’re back on old England.’ He then shut everything down.

  After we had compared notes, reported and signed the book, I was free to go home. That meant a long walk over running lines to where my bicycle waited by the engine shed and a 6-mile ride home. The next day there was a short inquiry and I learned that D1770 was recovered in the night, unserviceable and damaged underneath. I never saw her again, but I know she became 47 175, and later still 47 575.

  Now a big jump in time. In 1969 BR sent me to work at Intercontainer, the European rail company for international container traffic, located in Basel, Switzerland. There I travelled widely, including frequent trips to the USA. After 1994, when Intercontainer was being wound up, I was, for some years, a consultant expert on intermodal affairs and the USA trips became a big part of my work, but there was still time to relax a little. So on 16 May 1998 my wife and I, staying with old friends in Santa Fe, were on the first train of the season at Chama, New Mexico, to ride the Cumbres and Toltec 3ft gauge line to Osier and back – an all-day trip. Nos 489 and 497 (two 2-8-2s) took about twelve cars, roughly 500 tons, on a line with a 1 in 25 grade reaching 10,015ft (about 3,000m) altitude; snow lay deeply on the mountainsides. On the return trip, K27 Class 2-8-2, No. 463 (built in 1903) was used. As she was rounding a curve on the falling grade at a gentle 10mph, just 8 miles from home, a severe shock went through the train and we abruptly stopped. I said to my wife, ‘We’re off the road,’ which she found incredible, as no one had noticed. I walked forward over the open platforms and, sure enough, there were the broken sleepers and spikes which showed that wheels had hit them hard. Old 463 was lying slightly out of line but upright, with most wheels off.

  The engineer (driver) who had talked with me earlier said that the melting snow had undermined a well-known soft spot. Now, these are not toy trains: 463 weighs – engine and tender – just over 100 tons and the ramps that these engines carry had no effect, so another 2-8-2 came up from Chama with the tool vans.

  Some 200ft above us, up the mountainside, was the highway. The brakesmen/conductors told us all (some 250 people) to walk up the mountainside, if we could, or walk a mile down the track to where the highway crossed the line. After a couple of hours we were rescued by private vehicles, SUVs and the Chama school bus. My wife and I were very late for dinner with our friends in Santa Fe – still an 80-mile drive further south.

  There was, however, a seq
uel to this saga. Twelve years later, on 28 August 2010, I was a volunteer conductor with La Traction, which runs two Mallet steam locomotives in western Switzerland on the Chemins de Fer du Jura. On that particular day the train was a charter for US rail fans with both our engines. One of the group had a wind jacket with ‘Cumbres and Toltec’ printed across the back. This was too good to miss, so I spoke to him about my adventure in 1998. He was astonished and delighted and explained that he had been head brakesman on train 463, it had been badly damaged and they didn’t get back to Chama until 2 a.m. We exchanged a lot of tales and I got him on to the footplate of our Mallet No. 206.

  So railways have truly surrounded my long life, but I wasn’t done yet. My wife Johanna comes from Lingen in Niedersachsen, Germany, where there is a nearby first-rate museum of the turf-cutting industry, which we visited in the autumn of 2013. At the museum there is a 600mm-gauge Feldbahn (a very light railway), which once brought turf to the dryers, and runs through the museum grounds; we of course took the 20-minute ride for €2. The trains consist of a diesel tractor and a number of light trolley cars.

  Now, I do have some expectations – railways may go up and down and round corners, but it is usual for the rails to be at least reasonably parallel. This quality, however, seemed not to trouble the turf diggers. Nevertheless, speeds were low and we set off in high spirits – after all, I was a professional and understand these things. But guess what? After 15 minutes there was a severe jerk and we came to a sudden stop, as a wagon in the middle of the train was on the ground. Everyone got off and, using a large yellow jack that was found under the seat, there was some vigorous winding and a heave with the shoulder. We were ready to go again. The ride was happily completed but my reputation for being able to identify poor-quality track, especially with my wife’s sister, is now severely in doubt.