A further consideration is that during earlier times on the railroad everyone on the crew ran the engine at one time or another. The engineers didn't like being stuck up in the cab for twelve or fourteen or sixteen hours at a stretch. So a member of the crew would trade places and the engineer would help switch cars or whatever else we might be doing. And although I hate to say it, there were times when it was the soberest guy amongst us that was elected to run the engine.

By the time I hired out we were already using diesel engines. Diesels are not nearly as complicated to operate as are steam engines. I don't mean to belittle the skills of an engineer today, especially road engineers operating trains of great length over hilly terrain with loads and empties scattered about anywhere in the consist. Or any engineer, for that matter, road or yard. It is an immense responsibility being in control of hundreds if not thousands of tons of equipment valued at millions of dollars. The advent of more powerful locomotives, longer consists and crowded mainlines using mixed signal systems makes it a challenge to operate over the road safely. I still don't want the job, it's a great deal of responsibility.

No one was more shocked than I was the first time an engineer got up from the throttle and announced, "I gotta' take a leak. Takeover." "But, I've never run the engine!" "That's okay, just blow the crossings." Meaning, sound the horn over the road crossings and don't touch anything else. I was never so glad to see a grown man come out of the bathroom. The first time I actually sat in the engineers seat was during our lunch break while switching out a factory. The rest of the crew went to the restaurant but I had brought my own lunch. I was the headman that day so I had been riding with the engineer and my lunch was on the engine. After I finished eating and tired of looking out the window I decided to have a seat at the controls. Whenever the engineer gets off the engine he usually does four things; he removes the reverser, turns off the generator field switch, isolates the engine and puts on the independent brake. He may also apply the handbrake if conditions warrant. This particular engine had been left sitting on the lead while the crew went to eat. I reinserted the reverser and flipped the generator field switch. I turned the isolate switch to 'run'. Checking carefully around the engine to make sure no one was about I turned on the Bell. I knew that was the first thing the engineer did before contemplating a movement. He turned on the Bell. I slid the reversing lever forward and pulled the throttle out to notch No. 1, leaving the independent brake applied. I was somewhat reassured when nothing happened.

Feeling somewhat bolder now I gradually released the independent brake, and after a few seconds hesitation the lite engine began to creep forward. I immediately reapplied the independent brake and was immensely relieved when the engine immediately came to a stop. I realized that I had a large grin on my face. The kind of grin one sometimes hears referred to as, 'shit eating'. It is undeniably fun to be in control of that large a piece of machinery and make it move. I was at the same time aware of the immense responsibility involved. As I went to back the engine up a few feet I realized that the engineer does this on faith because he cannot see what is behind his engine. I spent the next half-hour alternately driving the engine ahead a few hundred feet and then backing up again. As I became more confident I pulled the throttle out farther and farther each time until finally I was releasing the brake and slapping the throttle over into No. 8 position. The tired old 1000 horsepower yard switch engine we were using could not generate enough power to lose traction (pulling no cars) even in No. 8 throttle position. But I applied the sand, anyway.

When I saw the crew headed back my way I applied the independent brake, isolated the engine, killed the generator field and removed the reverser. And I returned to my seat on the firemen's side of the engine. A short time later the engineer clambered aboard the engine and got himself comfortable. As he was setting the engine back up to work he observed, "Been sanding the rail?" I admitted to having had a bit of practice up-and-down the lead. The next thing I knew I was back behind the controls and getting my first real lesson in operating the engine. There was some good-natured abuse from the Conductor and Fieldman, who joked that I was not running fast enough to suit them. "Fuck off. I'm training my relief, here," was the engineer's reply.

Over the years I came to realize that some engineers didn't care much for running the engine and would just as soon have you do it. And that there were some conductors who couldn't wait to get behind the throttle. I was never particularly anxious to run the engine but found myself doing it often enough to feel comfortable. Sometimes it came in very handy. There was the evening that I was working with an engineer who was having trouble getting even a minimal amount of performance out of our yard switcher. We were working a two-man job, usually referred to as a pinup job, at the 14th Street coach yard in Chicago. We had tied on to the tail end of train No. 6, 10 cars and two engines. We were to pull this train out of the station and drag it up onto the Burlington wye. Then shove it over the Lumber Street Bridge and then pull it through the car washer and put it away. Since we were going for a quit, it was frustrating that our tired old yard engine was having trouble pulling this train up the small hill into the Burlington wye. After we had tied onto the train in the station I had walked through the coaches, 'inspecting the train' as we say, and then positioned myself in the lead locomotive for the ride around the wye. So it seemed only natural, when I noticed we were hardly moving, to put the two big road units online and give a bit of help. "That's better!" Came over the radio as I notched out to No. 6. "It's all yours." Was the next thing I heard. So I ran the train from the road engines until it was time to cut the yard engine away and we had our quit in the pocket. How did I know what the signals where? Most of them I could see in the mirrors, and the ones I couldn't, I just watched the gauges - if the engineer drew off any air, I gave him the train back. When he gave me back the air, I ran the train.

There were numerous times over the years that I had occasion to operate various engines and trains. But I think I'll cut to the story about why I stopped. I was working with an engineer, again in Chicago, that liked to tell stories. He asked me to run for him while he expounded on one thing or another. Paul likes to get into his stories - stand up, walk around, gesturing big. So, on this day I came to be operating a set of lite engines from Union Station to the diesel pit, a distance of about one and a half miles. Both these engines were facing north and I was operating from the north unit, going south. In my rearview mirror I was looking down the length of two engines. It was up to my storytelling friend to watch his side, or the firemen's side, of the engines. An important assignment, you see, in that the track signals are on the firemen's side when operating in reverse. He didn't do such a hot job, as it turned out.

As we passed underneath the Roosevelt Avenue Bridge, where main 6 merges with main 7, I noticed that we didn't have the lineup. The crossover switch was lined for the main, and against our movement. I was pure lucky to spot this in the mirror, BEFORE running the switch and surely sealing our fate.

"Hey Paul, what was that last signal?"

"Uh, I don't know, why?"

"Because we don't have the switch, that's why."

I stopped the engines in the clear of the switch but on the wrong side of the Roosevelt Avenue Bridge and definitely on the wrong side of the last signal.

"I don't know Paul, I don't think we had the signal on the Bridge."

"Oh Jesus shit and fuck we're fired." An excellent observation from the man that should've been watching the signal. Now we are in no man's land. The signal to go north that I am looking at on the south side of the Bridge is red. Behind us is the switch lined against us. We are sitting on a piece of railroad that we do not own and upon which we do not belong. I put the engine in forward and notched out the throttle.

"Jesus, Dave, what are you doing?"

"I'm going back on the other side of the Bridge where we belong in the first place."

"You're going to run a red signal!"

"Yeah, and this'll probably make two - but at least I'll be where I'm supposed to be." I crept back north and got behind the signal governing southward movement. And we sat and waited. We didn't have to wait long. Bells and whistles go off big time in the tower if the sanctity of a red signal is violated. They were probably still shrilling from our running the first signal when I ran the northbound red.

"14th Street train director, job 17, hello Dave."

"Job 17, go ahead."

"Ah, why don't you fellows give me a call when you get to the diesel pit, Dave."

"Roger."

"Oh shit!" said Paul. "What'll we tell him? That's Dan Earts - I know him! What can we say? I know! I'll say I was running and the ice box had blown up and water and ice were everywhere and it was sparking and you were trying to unplug it and maybe we missed the signal?"

Not bad for short notice, but still a dumb story that couldn't be backed up.

"I don't know, Paul. If you know the guy, maybe just tell him the truth? Fall on his mercy?"

On most railroads and certainly at Amtrak running a red signal is an automatic 90 days on the ground. Minimum. I could imagine very well that a trainmaster would be waiting at the diesel pit, and I would be going to pee in the bottle in thirty minutes and on the street in less than an hour. This was very, very serious stuff.

If we said that Paul was running the engine, then I was at fault for not calling out the stop signal on the bridge. And to admit that I was at the throttle was an equally poor choice, as I had no business operating an Amtrak locomotive. Lose, lose, situation.

When we arrived at the diesel pit with no further misadventures and there was no TM waiting, I began to think that maybe, just maybe, we might get lucky. Especially since the train director just happened to be a good friend of my engineer and not so observant temporary firemen cum storyteller, Paul. Paul called him as requested and did tell him the truth, or most of the truth. The train director lit into both of us for various and sundry reasons, mostly that we were unobservant idiots, trying to get ourselves, and him, fired. We didn't allow that Paul hadn't been running, THAT would have been stretching our luck to the breaking point. We were indeed very fortunate that the train director was able to cut us a little slack and cover-up the incident. For me, however, it was the incident that broke the camels back and I decided not to run the engines anymore. I would do my job and watch the signals and watch the engineer do his job and perhaps not get fired if he screwed up. Well, I'd still get fired. The conductor always gets fired. But I'd get back sooner.

So you see, Mr. Tommy Batts, Conductor on the San Diego and Arizona Railroad, I have given some thought to going into engine service. And decided against it.