American Magazine, November, 1909

The railroads for which the author worked as a telegraph operator are all located west of the Mississippi River. The experience, which covered three years, was recent, having terminated within two years. - The Editor.

THE real reason, I think, for my taking up the study of telegraphy and railroad book-keeping was that I was just a little lazy. In my ignorance I thought that if I could once learn the trade, and get a position, all my troubles would be at an end. Poor, misguided young heart! I was then not quite eighteen years old. It was nearing the end of a term of high school, examinations loomed up big and black in the near future, and a little farther along, graduation. So I quietly stepped out of a side door and entered the depot of the only railroad that ran into our small town, and began to learn to railroad.

My first responsible position as agent and operator was very nearly forced upon me. The traveling auditor came to the station at which I was learning, to make a transfer of agents, and before he left he asked me if I did not think I could hold down the station. I answered doubtfully that I did not think I could. To which he laughed softly, and said that he thought that I ought to hold a small station.A short time after this I received a telegram from the chief despatcher ordering me to go to a small station on one of the branches, and begin work as agent. He also sent me a wire pass, and said that the auditor would meet me at the station and make the transfer. As there was no examination to pass which would show what kind of an operator I was, I decided to take the job.

I arrived at the station all right, the transfer was made, and, after giving me some fatherly advice, the auditor left me alone with my first station. Of course I felt rather proud of myself, but for a time I also felt very homesick.For a time I got along all right as there was little work to be done, but I lived in great fear of the despatcher. For this particular despatcher could, when he chose, send a lot of words in a minute, and it was his delight to frighten "hams," as he called students and young operators. Every time my call sounded on the wire I began to tremble, and if it were the despatcher, I generally had to go outside and walk around the station to quiet my nerves sufficiently to manipulate the key.

Guessing at a Train Despatcher's Orders

Things moved along this way for perhaps a month; and then came the dreaded day. The engine of a passenger train broke down within a short distance of my station, and I was compelled to copy some train orders. And such copies as I made! No one could have read them as I copied them from the wire. Half was omitted. I had to guess at much of what was sent me when I repeated the order to the despatcher, and then I re-copied the order before delivering it to the trainmen. In the state of nerves into which I was thrown by this sudden rush of work, I was apt to leave out a part of the order when I re-copied it, or in guessing at what was left out, guess wrongly.

Think of it: leaving out a part of an order to a passenger train governing its movements against other trains! But the company was short of men, and almost any kind of an operator would do. This was a road which paid its operators and agents poor wages, and as a consequence all good men avoided it. Surely the god of all fools watched over me with unusual care, for most of my mistakes were trivial ones and caused no accidents. But my troubles were like those of many other young operators when starting to work. The wonder of it is there are so few wrecks caused in this way. There are many narrowly avoided ones, however, of which the public never hears, and sometimes the officials themselves do not learn of them. There was so little work to do at this small station that I improved not at all in telegraphy; and when I was ordered to another place to take the position of day operator I was hardly equal to the job.

This new position was at a place I shall call Noel. There were two other men working in this office besides myself: the agent and his assistant. I was supposed to be just the operator, but in reality I was a kind of an assistant to both the other men. I did what work they could not find time to do, and the rest of the time I could devote to getting the trains by the station with as little delay as possible. I still had to re-copy the train orders after I received them, and this kept me very busy at times; for the despatcher sometimes sent three or four orders, one after the other. These I would string out on a piece of "clip," omitting some parts when the despatcher got too fast for me, and filling in when I copied them on the manifold.

As before, my good luck was with me for I made but few mistakes, and these caused no accidents. But still, there is no credit due me for this, for I was very careless, and recopying orders is a very dangerous practice among young operators. Think if I should have written the name of the wrong station in the order! And this is very easily done.

Young, Careless and Forgetful

Two branches ran into this station from the north, but for two miles to the south there was but a single track over which the trains of both branches ran. At the end of these two miles of track the branches again separated, this time at a little junction where there was nothing but a little shack in which was kept a register and a telephone. The telephone was connected with the station at Noel. All trains were supposed to stop and register at this junction as the trains on either branch were despatched from separate offices, and neither branch knew what the trains on the other branch were doing. On arrival at the junction, north-bound trains would call me up on the telephone, if they needed orders or instructions; and if the conductor were in doubt as to extras, or trains that were not registered correctly, he got his information from me. I was supposed to ask the despatcher if I were in doubt; but this took time, and the trainmen generally preferred to take the risk. Thus, I had a great deal of control over this little stretch of track.But sometimes when a train was in a hurry they neglected the formality of registering. They knew that the operator should keep rather a close watch upon them, and if a train at the junction were in doubt, they could get protection from me.

A good operator could easily have protected these trains, but I was very young, very careless, and often forgot. Sometimes a conductor at the junction needing time on an overdue train on the other branch, would call me up, and ask me to hold the other train until the one at the junction arrived at my station. Twice during my stay here I let a south-bound train by me after I had promised to hold them for a train coming from the junction. But no collision resulted, as both times this happened the incoming train was sighted by the outgoing train just as the last-named was leaving the yards and was not going at a fast rate of speed. Either time, if the outgoing train had started a few minutes sooner, the two trains would have met on a crooked piece of track which ran through a dense wood. It was a close call both times, and it was due merely to a little carelessness on my part - carelessness and inexperience. But I wonder why the railroads are permitted to employ such inexperienced and careless men? Of course they did not know that I was such a one, but that was because they did not take the trouble to put me through an examination. Neither did they know of these mistakes of mine, for the trainmen, after roundly cursing me, let the matter drop. You see, what the officials did not know did not bother them much.

"Getting Into a Tight Box"

The agent at this place was a middle-aged man, old in the service of the company. He seldom came down to the depot on Sunday, and on that day his assistant, Hills, and I ran things very much as we pleased. On Sunday we had but two passenger trains to meet, and these came near the middle of the day. The rest of the day Hills and I were free to do as we pleased. One Sunday evening we were loafing around the depot with nothing to do, when Hills suggested that we run down to the next town, a distance of about six or eight miles, and see what was going on. There was a hand-car, we knew, down in the yards with the wheels chained together, and locked with a switch-lock. But, as both of us had a switch-key, there would be no difficulty in getting the car. Hills claimed the acquaintance of a young lady or two in the next town, so we decided to go down and look them up. After a little delay, Hills got one of the young ladies on the 'phone, and made an appointment. We found the hand-car easily enough, and with some difficulty got it onto the track. Then began the up and down hill ride to the next town. It was hard work climbing those two hills, and we were not what you would call in trim condition. It must have been over an hour before we sighted the switch-lights of our destination, and stopped to open a switch. As we pumped slowly down through the yards, we saw the headlight of an engine which was drawn up before the depot. Under the headlight were two small, white lights which marked the train as an extra. When we had the hand-car off the track, we crossed over before the engine, and walked down the station platform on our way up town. We came to a stop beside the lighted office window, and glanced in.

Inside the office were the trainmen of the extra; the operator sat at his table repeating an order. I could hear distinctly the click of the sounder. When the order was completed, the despatcher addressed a message to the conductor of the extra, ordering him to pick up five loads of time freight at Noel! When I heard this, little shivers began to run up and down my back, for I remembered well enough those five cars of freight that this train was to pick up, and I also remembered that I had not left the register and way-bills outside. I knew that if the conductor found no bills in the box he would not take the loads; and when the chief despatcher learned of this he would probably tell me that he did not need me any more. How to get back to Noel with the hand-car before the extra got there, was the question.

A Wild Ride On a Hand-Car

I explained to Hills, and we drew away from the depot discussing the question, the young ladies forgotten in the more urgent question of getting back home and saving my job.

"The only thing to do," said Hills with decision, "is to hitch the hand-car onto this freight train." I had doubts, but there seemed no other way out of it, and so it was decided. We rushed down into the yards, as anxious to get out of town as we had been to get in. We got the car onto the side track, ran down to the main line switch, and then pumped back up to the rear end of the extra. We had brought the chain with us that locked the car wheels together, and we began the task of attaching ourselves securely to the extra's caboose. We managed somehow to fasten the chain to the drawhead, and then to the car. I remember we had to lock the chain to the car with the switch-lock to make it secure.

 

We did not have to wait long after that until the train started. The first jerk of starting lifted our light car clear of the track, and sent it bouncing along after the caboose. Then for the first time we began to have grave doubts as to the safety of our position. We peered at each other through the darkness. Then Hills said, "We had better sit down, I think." I thought so, too, and we crouched down on the floor of the small car, out of the way of the rising and falling handles. As we passed the depot, two trainmen swung aboard the caboose, but they went directly into the caboose without seeing us. In our haste we had forgotten to reckon what the trainmen would do if they discovered us, and now we had other dangers to think of.

"I wish we had disconnected the handles from the gear," Hills complained above the noise of the moving train." I wish we hadn't started at all," my plaint arose into the darkness as the train gathered speed, and the handles, close to our heads, began to pump up and down with dangerous swiftness. "And those girls," Hills cried. "What will they think of us? I wish you could remember to leave that register out!" I felt aggrieved, but said nothing because I could think of nothing to say just then. "Anyway," Hills called with more cheerfulness after a pause," anyway, it won't take us so long to get back home."

It was up grade for a little way out of town, and then came the down grade. It was bad enough when the long train was mounting the grade, but when the cars began to file over the top of the hill, and the speed increased, it looked worse still. At last, when the whole train was on the down grade we began to see the foolishness of our act. Our little car jumped and bucked like a thing of life, and threatened to leave the track at any moment. Indeed, I thought that the car was off the track at least half of the time. And I do not understand to this day how it stayed near the track at all. We lay flat on the floor of the car, and hung on with all our might. Above us the handles swished up and down viciously, and a harsh, rasping sound came up from beneath that was very hard on the nerves. Our feet hung over the rear edge of the car, and our faces were within a few inches of each other at the front end. There were but few places to hold on to the car, and little room for our bodies anywhere.

"I'm going to try to unlock the chain from this car," cried Hills in my ear. "No you won't," I yelled in a panic. "You'll break your neck if you do." Hills must have come to the same conclusion, for he did not try to free us from the caboose. I do not know how we managed to hold on to that lurching, bouncing car, but we did somehow. I was badly scared. In fact, I think we were both badly scared; and I think we had good reason to be, for at any moment the car was due to turn turtle, and there was no telling where we should land, or how. I remember that I put my arm over the top of my head, even as I clung fearfully to that car, hoping thus to protect my skull if I alighted on it.

Then the engine began to climb the next little rise, and the speed slackened. I began to breathe a little easier, and to hope for the best, when suddenly there was a grinding, rending crash that sounded like the crack of doom. The car careened violently, and seemed about to fall to pieces. My wits left me for a few seconds, and I seemed to be floating in air. I waited with caught breath to come down, but finally. I came to the realization that I was still on the car, and that the car was still bumping along on the track. I peeked out from under my arm, and saw the dark shape of Hill's head and shoulders. "What happened?" I gasped when I had collected some of my wits. I was somehow afraid for Hills to answer me; and yet I waited anxiously for him to speak. I was trembling so that I could hardly keep my hold on the car, and, I hate to confess it, I think that I must have thought I, myself, was out of my head, or even worse.

"I think," called Hills at last, with something like a choke in his voice, "that we must have run into the caboose and broken the handles off of our car."

I noticed then that the vicious swish, swish above my head had ceased. Hills was right. When the train slowed down on the grade our car ran faster than the train, and we had bumped into the rear end of the caboose. The handles had probably struck the drawhead, and something had broken.

The car ran more smoothly now with the handles disconnected from the gear, and as we hummed along up the grade, I had time to collect most of my wits, and prepare for the next descent. Then Hills thrust his face close to mine, and said: "We had better watch out when we come to the bottom of the next hill, and try to keep the car from running into the caboose." I saw the logic of this at once. With the handles gone we would run under the caboose at the bottom of the next grade, and collide with the rear wheels, which meant derailment and probably death. At last the speed began to increase, and we knew that the engine had topped the hill. Then the whole train slid over, and we swept down the lone descent, our little car dancing and humming along behind; but hardly so much as it had before. But we whipped around some very sharp curves that nearly took our breath away and we were glad indeed when the slackening speed proclaimed the last grade into town was reached. Our car began to gain on the caboose, and at last we were compelled to put out a hand, and brace against the drawhead to keep from running under the caboose. It was a little dangerous and wearisome, this, and we were nearly exhausted when we came at last onto the incline. At last we passed the little shack in the woods which marked the junction of the two branches, and we knew that we were only two miles from home! Oh, what a relief! I began to rest a little easier, and we began to plan what we should do when we got into the yards. We did not stop to register at the junction that night, and were rather glad that the conductor omitted this formality. Soon we came to familiar landmarks, and, as we approached the first switch, we hauled the hand-car up to the caboose and cut ourselves free from the train. Then we stopped the car, and with much exertion dumped it off the track down the bank and out of the way. We were shivering with the cold and fright as we ran up the track after the slowly retreating tail-lights of the caboose. The swift ride in the open through the cool night had chilled us to the bone.

We caught up with the caboose, and swung aboard. Then when it had nearly stopped, we dropped to the ground and ran ahead, reaching the depot before the conductor got off of the caboose. We got the register and the way-bills out into the bill-box and slipped back into the depot before any of the trainmen came up, and we waited in the office until they had switched the five cars into the train, and departed. Then we lit a lamp. We looked at each other for a few moments in silence; for we were both begrimed with dust and ashes, and looked more like tramps than the swains dressed in Sunday best of a few short hours before. "Why, where is your hat?" I managed to articulate at last.

Hills clapped his hand to his head, then looked at me ruefully. Then he grinned. "Where is your own?" he said in return. I clapped my hands to my head, then drew them away abruptly, for there was a very large lump on the back or my head. But we had saved our jobs, and escaped with our lives, and that was solace enough.

An Engineer Breaks a Rule

I stayed at Noel about two months, and was then transferred to another station. For a time, I was sent from place to place as relief agent, which is not very desirable work. Then, one day, I brought up on the main line with a suddenness that was startling. My career hitherto seemed as peaceful as a parson's compared with what my first few weeks on the main line were. First of all, I learned that I could not telegraph fast enough to keep warm; second, I learned that I had never seen real trains before. Why, it seemed to me that the trains moved by in herds and droves, and it kept me going all the time to keep the trains moving. Then there was the block system. It seemed that that system was the most intricate thing that was ever invented, for I never could work it just right. Now, of course, it seems more simple, but then I nearly gave it up in despair. Generally I pulled the wrong lever and stopped a train when I had intended to give it a clear signal. I still had to re-copy the orders, and I soon saw that if I intended to become a railroad man, I had better learn the trade. One evening when I came on duty, I filled and cleaned the semaphore lantern, and then drew it up to its place at the top of the pole in front of the station. But on this particular night I did not draw the lantern high enough, and the light did not shine out brightly.

Soon after, a heavy passenger train came thundering through town at top speed. This particular train happened to be one of the crack overland trains, and any one who needlessly delayed it was liable to get his "head cut off." What was my horror, then, to see the flagman of this train coming into the office about five minutes after the train had passed. He asked for a clearance card, and I asked the reason. He explained that my semaphore light was not shining brightly enough to be seen at any great distance, and the engineer had been unable to see in what position the signal was - whether "proceed" or "stop." But the train had been going so fast that he could not stop her until he was some distance out of town. The depot was set under the bluffs so that an approaching train could not see the semaphore until it was close in. But the trainmen did not blame me for the delay when they reported it, and I did not "get my head cut off." For, you see, all trains were supposed to approach a station under full control so that they could stop at any moment. This train, however, had gone about half a mile out into the country before stopping.

 

We know, of course, that this was not the end of Harry Bedwell's railroad career, nor of his writing career. He was a boomer telegraph operator until he (apparently) retired in the 1930s, and he went back to work during the second world war, replacing younger men who went off to war. He died in 1955, and his last story was published in 1957.

Look for more to come in future “Reflector’s”.