As a relatively 'new' brakeman on the railroad, I got off at the switch. I was in the employ of the Penn Central Railroad, after a merger between the New York Central (my former employer) and the Pennsylvania Railroad. How odd that these two arch rivals should become one? For awhile after the merger, if NYC guys were sitting in the shanty and a Pennsy guy came and sat down - the NYC guys would get up and sit somewhere else!
I'd not been braking for more than a year or so, making it about 1974. I was still relegated to being the headman on the crew more often than not. The Conductor and the Fieldman worked the rear of the train. The Engineer and the Fireman ran the engine. I rode on the engine with them, and usually - but not always - had a seat. Most of the smaller yard switchers, only had two seats. As a 'train service' (vs. engine service) employee I wasn't actually entitled to one of them. Dang Unions. Many times my 'seat' was the top step on the short stairs down into the nose of the locomotive, where I sat facing the commode. Or I could choose to stand, of course. Or sit crosslegged somewhere. Whatever, there were only two factory provided seats on most of the yard power.
When the weather was nice, I could ride outside. There were lots of good seats outside. Not padded, perhaps, but not looking into that rather dark and smelly chamber, either. Since it was early May and a very pleasant spring day, I was planted on the steps of the engine ladder. This was just as well, since the whole crew was riding the head end. We were going to switch some local industries.
We had cars in our consist for this and that other place of business, maybe twenty altogether. For this type of work, we'd pull the train past the main line switch for a particular industry, and the Conductor would stop the train with an air valve in the caboose. That valve is called, appropriately enough, a 'conductor's valve'. They'd get off, and then we'd back up to them.
They would get back on the engine at this point and discuss the work with the engineer and fireman. It was then that I would receive my instructions, too. I would be on these jobs because the regular head man was off that day. With my scant seniority, I could only hold the extra board, and fill vacancies.
"Dave, you get off at the switch." I'd get off.
The Conductor and fieldman would shove the train into the nearest siding or stub track, and cut the engine away from the cars. Usually the fieldman would stay with them, tying on a 'sufficient' number of hand brakes. That's what the Rules call for, and if the cars run away, that's what you'll be charged with - not applying a sufficient number of handbrakes. The engine would head back to the switch where I was waiting. I'd line it for the industry, and continue my wait.
The engine would disappear off down a winding lead in search of the work. And just like that, I would be alone out in the middle of nowhere. From experience I knew that eventually, sometime between 30 minutes and an hour or so, the engine would return pulling (or sometimes shoving) some cars. When the cars cleared the switch I would swing down (give the hand sign to stop) and re line the switch for the main. Then give a back up, and wait some more.
The Conductor, with the help of the fieldman, would get rid of the cars that came out (called the 'Glory') and grab some cars out of our train to take back into the plant. Then he'd come back to me, I'd get them lined into the industry, and off they'd go.
And once again, I'd notice how quiet and peaceful it was, once that noisy locomotive disappeared. My responsibilities there at the switch kept me on my toes the first few times this business of 'get off at the switch' occurred. After that, within a few minutes of enjoying the sun and quiet I'd get pretty bored.
I could walk up and down the tracks a ways. And I did. A lot. I could go just so far that when I heard the engine coming I had time to beat feet back to my post. After awhile, all railroad tracks look the same, is what I learned. I could also choose to doze; the origin of the old expression, 'Asleep at the Switch'. Or I could play baseball derby.
All that was required was finding a proper 'bat' and 'ball'. This was usually a stick, piece of a branch, or perhaps some other wood. Wood bats are the best, but I've used metal rods in a pinch. Plastic pipe. Old railroad airhoses. It just depends on exactly how bored one might find oneself. Almost any rock or stone makes a fine ball. Or anything else of the proper weight and size. Fortunately, railroad ballast - those stones between the rails - is about the right size to make an adequate ball.
Believe it or not, I've had to play baseball derby in places where it took a lot of scrounging to come up with a few balls. Older sections of track that hadn't seen any ballast for twenty years or better could be tough. And without a fair supply of balls, the game ends pretty quickly. I liked to have at least 10 or fifteen balls ready to swing at before starting to play the game. For the record, any fruit - apples, pears, etc., makes terrible balls. And you'll smell like whatever you were swinging at for the rest of the day.
OK. We're ready to play! Pick up a ball, toss it in the air - swing! Judge by how far it goes (if you connected) how many base hit it was. If you missed, it's a strike. You might foul it off, too. The rest is up to your imagination. There were afternoons where I got into extra innings.
I didn't have a name for this game, actually. However, one day upon returning to the shanty, one of the old timers said, "I saw you out there by the switch today, playing Baseball Derby. Didja' strike yerself out?" He had been on another train crossing at a diamond quite a ways off, but figured out what I was doing, as I swung for the bleachers. Well, any number of fellows heard the comment, and the name Baseball Derby stuck for the rest of my career.
"Hey, Dave - how's your Baseball Derby average this year?"
About the only thing worse than not being able to locate proper balls is not finding a bat. As you might expect, the area immediately around a main line or industrial track switch is apt to be picked pretty clean of anything remotely interesting. This would require some sort of sweep, or expanding search pattern, working out from the switch in hopes of locating the necessary utensils for a few good innings of Baseball Derby. Some days this search might take a body right out to the edge of what might be considered a reasonable 'return in time to get the switch' distance. This is a lesson that I learned the hard way, of course. Getting back just as the Conductor finishes throwing the switch himself, is a major faux pax.
Another time that Baseball Derby can be played is when one finds oneself on the rear of the train, and the train stops. This happened a lot with two-man crews, where the second man had to ride the engine. After a few years I had enough seniority to work the rear. I was a promoted Conductor, but still learning the ropes. Even after 28 years I can honestly say that I usually learned something new each and every day.
The occasion I am thinking about was another sunny day, about mid summer. I was the Conductor on a cross town Extra, or local freight. We were working shorthanded and had spent most of the morning getting our cars ready, and doubling up our tracks. We were going for the overtime, of course. Finally we got permission to enter the main, which we did. The yardmaster had said that we could 'Hiball the switch', meaning that I didn't have to stop the train, then walk back and close the main line switch. We didn't have radios, and it would have meant stopping the train with the Conductor's valve, and leaving the air blowing while going back to re line the switch. Then walking back to the caboose and closing the valve or 'giving back' the air to let the head end know it was OK to proceed. At which time the engineer would have to sit awhile and pump the trainline back up.
However, within no more than a few miles the train came to a stop. With no radio, it's anybody's guess why? It's also pretty tough to estimate how long before the train will start moving again. It could be literally minutes, or hours. I've been called to re crew a train stopped at a red signal, sat on it for twelve hours and never turned a wheel, and been relieved right there. So in a case like this, one would sit for a spell, and just see what might happen? Then the boredom sets in. Since the weather was cooperating this fine day, I bailed off the caboose in search of entertainment.
The conductor does have certain responsibilities when the train stops. If the air had gone away on the caboose and wasn't coming back up (as read on the conductor's brake pipe gauge/valve), he would begin a slow walking inspection towards the engine. If the air was up but nothing much else was, then he might wander off in search of a railroad call box, which were occasionally located every mile or so along the main. At least, in theory. Most of them were still there - the boxes anyway. Some still had the phones. A few even had a good battery - it took a six volt lantern battery to operate these 'phones'. You needed your switch key to open the door (if there still was one). If there was a phone and a battery, you would crank a handle to try and raise someone. I think I actually raised someone maybe two or three times, ever.
The first time I got a guy who was just as surprised as I was to be using this means of communication. He told me to hang on a minute, and that was the last I heard. Maybe the battery died? The other time I got hold of someone and explained my problem - I thought the train was being robbed - he said, 'Whattya' want me to do about it?' and that was the last I heard.
So I didn't have a lot of faith in the call boxes, really. Besides, on overtime, or trying to make overtime, wait and see is usually the best program. Or, maybe a few innings of - Baseball Derby!
The plan, whether in search of a call box or a bat, is to head towards the engine. This is due to that unknown factor - when might the train start moving? If you've walked a ways away from the train, and don't notice right away that it's moving again, the next time you look up you might be all by yourself out there on the main. This is not a good feeling.
So, I was heading slowly up the engineer's side of our train with an eye out for a decent bat. As mentioned, without this important implement, it's hard to play the game. I wasn't finding much in the way of bats, but I did notice that I was only about fifty yards from a nice looking apple tree, off in a field next to the tracks. Looking back to the end of the train, I figured that I had walked perhaps thirty or forty carlengths. Less than half the distance to the engines.
This meant two things - I would have a certain amount of time once the train started moving to work my way back to the tracks, but - would I be able to get back on? If the train got up to much more than a brisk running speed, it's pretty hard to climb aboard. Ideally, I'd want to wait until the caboose came to me, and get on there. But if the train was picking up too much speed too fast, I might have to hop on sooner. We had a mixed consist of older and newer cars. The older cars have ladders going to the roof, and running boards down the center of each car, making it possible (and exciting) to move about the consist. But the newer 'Hi Cube' cars do not. One cannot get past a hi cube car without getting off the train, and then trying to get back on. I could be stuck riding my own train like a hobo.
The apples were looking mighty tempting, as food items. As mentioned, they make poor baseballs. I climbed a broken down fence and set off through waist high weeds and small shrubs. In a few moments I was looking up at some of the juiciest apples that you can imagine. Way up. Once again I cast my eyes to the ground, this time for something to throw at the lower branches and perhaps knock a ripe apple into my waiting hands. I couldn't find anything. Then I remembered that I had two railroad fusees in my back pocket. Perfect! I took careful aim with the first, and gave a mighty pitch towards a nice looking specimen. I missed that shot by several feet. However, I felt that I now had the range, and after a moments worry about casting off my last fusee (a valuable communication device, [SAVED by a FUSEE] in those pre radio days) flung it heaven and apple wards. And thereby lost it, and still no apples. I did search for some time for those fusees, (they had to right around here somewhere?) - but instead came across a piece of board about a foot long.
Throwing it and caution to the wind I once again attempted to knock down a bright red apple. As that board sailed aloft an unseen nail ripped into the soft flesh on the underside of my first finger. It laid open the end of said digit for over an inch, to the bone. I stared at the fountaining blood for a moment before I realized that I'd sprung a pretty good leak. Glancing back towards the train I noticed something else. It was moving right along.
Now, how could this be? How could these two most terrible things be happening at the same time? I recall feeling a bit light headed and somewhat flustered. Also a bit stupid.
It didn't take me long to realize that I didn't have the luxury to meditate on these matters. Wrapping my index finger with my handkerchief and holding it tight with my other hand - above my head to stop the bleeding, as I recalled from somewhere - I started off through the scrub. Here is what I noticed right off: it isn't easy to run through the scrub holding your hands over your head. Your butt goes from side to side so bad it almost knocks you over. To stupid you may now add: silly.
Flopping over the fence at last I found myself next to a train, my train! I was still maybe ten cars from the rear, which was good. The train was moving right along, however, which was bad. It was already going at a speed that made me doubt my ability to get myself aboard, in my injured condition. The soggy redness of my handkerchief made me determined to give it a try.
I had my leather gloves in my back pocket, and decided to put them on, at this point. Better late than never. It took some cramming to get my injured digit into its designated glove finger, but once it was in there the pressure felt good. I started running next to the train, and looking for a place to try and board.
Ideally, to board moving equipment one merely plants oneself in place facing the movement, lifts ones forward leg and both arms, and waits for the next ladder. Stab the lifted foot onto the far corner of the bottom rung or stirrup, tighten both hands around the sides and let the motion of the equipment lift you away. This actually works quite well, at less than walking speeds. Much over that, and it feels like your arms are going to be jerked out of their sockets. There is also the danger that one's foot will go through the stirrup, which often results in being run over by one's own equipment.
At faster speeds, such as the speed my train was moving while I tried to match its progress, it becomes a matter of picking out something that it appears you might be able to hold onto - GRAB ON - and hopefully lift yourself aboard. A ladder works well for this, except for the dreaded problem of getting one's leg stuck through the stirrup instead of catching one's boot heel in the bottom corner. As long as you can get your heel on that bottom stirrup, you will then be able to stand up. That's why it is always wise to have footwear with a pronounced heel. It's even in the dang rules!
The combined circumstances of train speed and my indecision resulted in the caboose approaching rapidly. My last chance. Either I get on this caboose, or do some tall explaining later. As well as enjoy a nice long walk holding my hands over my head. Blood was running freely out from my glove, at this point. I was vaguely aware at this juncture that if I still had my fusees, I might have had a chance of stopping the train.
Pushing THAT thought out of my mind, I took a desperate lunge as the caboose stairs pulled next to me. I should have tried a ladder. One hand, my 'good' one, got a grip on a grab iron that saved the day. My other hand didn't have the strength to hold on, and slipped off, swinging my body to the right. Whereupon I slammed into the edge of the stairs, my feet dragging on the ground. I had to scrabble frantically to get some kind of foothold before my right hand slipped off altogether. Fear of falling and death will give one amazing strength and I held on.
Fortunately, there were no more stops until we arrived at our destination, and I was in place to dump the air when the rear end cleared on a yard track. I went into the shanty and called up the yardmaster. I told him that I had a family emergency. I then called a cab, which I took immediately to the nearest hospital and got my stitches.
I still played Baseball Derby for another 20 odd years, after I got off the injured reserve list. I didn't miss any work as a result of this misadventure, and hopefully did get a little smarter.