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Let's see . . . I have a bunch of minor stories, but here's one for starters. I had just hired in with a freight railroad that used NJ transit back in the 90s. I was training in as a conductor. They ran a tight schedule between passenger trains, and were understandably slick with their moves. Maybe a little too slick. So I'm getting my typical crew hazing on the first day, and we pull up to the branch junction at the westbound crossover. The crew drops off, and the engineer pulls ahead of the switch. We get permission from dispatch to line for the backing move, cross over, and shuffle into the eastbound branchline switch. Since the conductor doesn't want to use the west lead of the wye (since it's blocked with other loads), we yank our fresh loads off the interchange to the main for a drop. Now, up until this point in my railroad career I haven't much used a drop. I worked in a chemical plant, and that was a no-no. About the time I'm calculating the total moves in my head, we cut off, I get down at the branch switch to line the main, while the brakeman bleeds the air (and probably bottles the cut). Meanwhile, the *REAL* conductor is somewhere down on the siding, getting papers or something. Our brakie was an older guy, but a real mushmouth. I have my radio turned up all the way trying to make out his phrases. Suddenly, I hear this: "I've asdghr ghrfdklhkd !" (What the heck?) "ADSRIUYREG AHHHHH!!!" (By now the engineer comes on.) "What's that Rog?" "I got aBAD werrtylon thebasdkend! I caafrfnthrdown!" (The cut is coming toward me, steadily by now . . .) "Oh, )(*&^! What's that?" (About this time the cut is picking up some speed . . .) "Where are you Joe, can you get it?" I look at the cars. I look at the engine. Now I'm calculating that this thing will be really moving by the time it gets to me. I start to move toward the cut and realize by the time I run 25 feet it will have doubled its speed. Plus, there's no B-end facing me. The engineer sees me stop, jumps down the steps from the 1500, (which is hard enough to do on a vertical ladder) and runs across the ballast, reaching the cars as they start to gently rock back and forth. He grabs the ladder and drags himself onto a box, and manages to start winding on the handbrake, as they coast by me. Now the conductor has run into the picture, hops up into the cab, as I stay put. My blood runs cold in the summer heat as I realize I may have to line this for a running couple. "What's going on Rog? You got them?" "Yeah, Bill hopped on the middle. . ." And so ends my first exhilerating experience with my crew (not to be my last).Everyone breathes easier. No one says a word. It turns out that the grade is a steady 0.5-1% in there all the way to Dover. It was about 8:00 in the morning with frequent commuter trains for the Midtown-Hoboken runs. When the brakie let off the handbrake, he didn't realize it was bent. The wheel kept catching on the ribbed bulkhead. If the engineer hadn't caught it, we would have been playing catchup, not to mention clearing the main through to Morris Plains. . . 'Course, this was the same *conductor* (also road foreman) who was best buds with the GM, had run a few engines off the rails, and hit a series of hirail dumps in an unflagged section of track. And they ran 30-45 mph as "restricted speed" on a technicality in NORAC. Needless to say, since I was a straight arrow (along with some other issues), I didn't last long . . . I can't tell you how many times it was a comedy of errors for me. Everytime something happened, it became my fault. And of course, I wasn't vested yet, so I couldn't breathe a word, crew loyalty and all that. I won't mention the road, but things are probably safer and calmer now with the old owner out of the way . . .
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