Railroads

When my family moved to Tuscaloosa Alabama in 1956, Mother and Daddy indulged Daddy's nostalgia for living in the country by buying a house on Mallard Lake, about twelve miles east-northeast of the city of Tuscaloosa. Mallard Lake resulted from Jane Frierson and her late husband’s  building a dam over a creek named Bee Branch. It was Y-shaped and had seven houses on it and 20 or 30 rental lots. Only home owners and lot owners had use privileges. I was not enthusiastic because it was so far from town. I was twelve years old at the time, and it would be another four years before I could drive.

A major plus, however, was the proximity of the main line of the Alabama Great Southern Railroad, a component of Southern Railway's main route from the Chesapeake region through Chattanooga and Meridian to New Orleans: today called the “Crescent Corridor.” The railroad was about a 20 minute walk from my house, across the “Birmingham Highway—U.S.  Route 11 – behind Ham’s Pottery.  A particularly attractive feature was the presence of the western end of a passing track known as "Fleming." I subsequently learned that this had been the approximate location of a flagstop known as “Grimes,” the station for which had been torn down long before.

Southern had avoided bankruptcy coming out of the financial stresses of the 1930s by investing heavily in dramatic transformations of its capital. It been the first major railroad to dieselize completely, thus avoiding huge costs associated with maintenance of steam locomotives. It paid for dieselization with the savings. It also had been the first major railroad to install Centralized Traffic Control (CTC) on its main lines. It paid for CTC by salvaging rails, ties and ballast from a second main line which was made unnecessary by CTA.

Before CTC, railroads prevented trains from running into each other by a combination of timetables, train orders, and block signals. The timetable was associated with rules that specified which trains had to give way to others. A train crew of, for example, the Turnaround Tuscaloosa Local, a low priority freight train that ran every day from Birmingham and Tuscaloosa, picking up and setting off cars on both the outbound and return trips, could know that it had to be out-of-the-way of the Southerner, a New Orleans bound passenger train that was due in Cottondale at shortly after noon. Accordingly, the Turnaround  crew make sure it had entered a sidetrack at or before a time that would permit the Southerner to pass it on the main line without impediment or risk. This was a “meet.” The train obligated to give way was the “inferior” train; the one with right of way was the “superior” train.

Of course, the Southerner might be late, and the system needed to a way to prevent the Turnaround Local from waiting for hours on the usual sidetrack until the Southerner finally passed. This was the role of train orders. A train dispatcher in Birmingham – dispatchers usually worked about 100 miles of railroad – kept track of the position of all the trains in this territory he oversaw. If, as in the example, a train was running late, he would recalculate meet times and transmit train orders by Morse telegraph, addressed to the affected trains – the Southerner and the Turnaround Local in the example. Telegraph stations manned by "operators" were spaced along the railroad at 5 to 10 mile intervals. The operators would copy train orders, and set signals at their stations to stop inferior trains for whom they had orders and hand copies of the orders to the crew of superior trains on the fly—as they ran by the operator’s station at reduced speed. In the example, the order addressed to the crew of the Southerner would be transmitted to an operator located east of Cottondale, and the corresponding order addressed to the crew of the Turnaround Local would be send to an operator  west of Cottondale. The contents of the order would both trains to meet somewhere other than Cottondale, situated more closely to where the natural progression of the trains would cause them to come in proximity to each other. The usual priority would govern, so the crew of the Turnaround Local knew that it had to take the siding at the newly designated meeting point.

Block signals primarily prevented trains operating in the same direction from running into each other. They were triggered by the presence of a train in a block, which closed an electrical circuit comprising the two rails and—when a train was in the block—the wheels and axles of the train.

Over the first half of the 20th century, telegraph dispatching was gradually replaced by telephone dispatching, reducing the skill levels required for dispatchers and operators alike.

Railroad sidings are connected to the main line by switches, which move small sections of rail so that, when the switch is set one way (the diverging route), a train coming down the main line is diverted onto the siding, and when the switch is set the other way (lined, the train proceeds down the main line past the siding. A train entering the siding whether pursuant to the timetable or train order, had to stop twice: once for the crew to throw the switch to the diverging route into the siding, and again after the train was completely in the siding, so other trains could pass it the main line. To leave the siding and reenter the mainline, two stops again were necessary. Typically, a crew member known as the head-end brakeman threw the switch when it was near the locomotive, and another crew member, typically the flagman or the swing brakeman, riding in the caboose would throw it in the other direction after the train it entered or left the siding.

This system had several shortcomings of the system. For one thing, it required large numbers of dispatchers, operators, and brakemen. Second, it was for train-crew members, operators, and even the dispatcher to get confused by the cascade of train orders, many of which amended or replaced earlier ones. Third, the stopping and starting to enter and leave sidings considerably slowed traffic, especially when it was heavy freight trains having to do the stopping and starting because it takes them a long time to stop and an even longer time to get started again.

Centralized Traffic Control was meant to eliminate these shortcomings. Initially developed and tested on the New York Central Railroad in the 1930s, CTC was a sophisticated system for wide-area remote control relevant railroad assets. The dispatcher, instead of sitting in front of a telegraph key and sounder or a telephone microphone and loudspeaker, sat in front of a big board that displayed a schematic of his portion of the railroad. The main line and each siding—now they usually were extended in length and called "passing tracks" – was portrayed on the diagram. At each end of each depicted passing track the board had a cluster of small indicator lights, levers, and buttons representing the switches and wayside signals controlling entry and exit to and from the passing track. By turning rotary switches and pushing buttons under each of these positions, the dispatcher could cause coded signals--patterns of electrical pulses--to be transmitted over wires running alongside the railroad to each of these "control points.” At the actual control point a combination of high-capacity “crowfoot” gravity batteries, electrical motors, electrically operated signals, and associated circuitry made the whole thing work. At each control point a corrugated steel shack, about 6-feet by 6-feet in horizontal dimensions, housed the many electrical relays and other components necessary to translate to translate the coded pulses from the pole line, determine when one was directed to that particular control point and then generate the requisite electrical currents to the switch motors and wayside signals. The system of control coded was largely standardized by railroad industry groups to spare equipment manufacturers from having to provide completely different systems to different railroads. The components and circuitry were strikingly similar to the technology then being developed for automatic dialing in the public switched telephone system. When the dispatcher twisted the knob on his board to set a switch on a passing track for the diverging route, the pulses sent over the pole lines were not unlike the pulses sent over a telephone line when the telephone subscriber released, say, the six position on rotary dial on a telephone instrument. The relays that responded to the pulses were functionally similar, as well. A hand-cranked telephone typically was positioned in a wooden box beside the CTC shack to enable train crews to call the dispatcher when there was some kind of problem.

When CTC was installed, the operating rules were changed. Now, a train got its authority, not only from the timetable and train orders, but also from control-point signals. The train could be instructed to take a diverging route–or to pass a siding on the main line by causing the signal at the entrance to the passing track to display red over yellow, for example. On the Southern Railway, then and now, that signal aspect indicates that the train must take the diverging route onto the passing track at no more than medium speed, prepared to stop at the other end. Similarly, after a meet, a train was authorized to leave the passing track and reenter the main line by a signal displaying red over green, signifying medium clear. At the time, at Fleming, the signals comprised stacked searchlight devices, in which colored lenses moved to change the color of the signal. Two searchlights governed westbound movements from the siding and the main track; a stack of three governed movement eastbound—three to allow for medium clear (red over green over red), indicating the train must enter the siding and expect to exit the other end—as might be the case if a train was stopped on the main line to allow the eastbound train to pass—medium approach (red over yellow over red), indicating the train must enter the siding and be prepared to stop at the other end—or restricting (red over red over green), indicating the train must enter the siding and be prepared to stop short of another train already occupying the siding.

The train crew didn't have to throw the switches; the electric motors controlled by the CDC system did that, so the train did not have to stop and start as it entered or left passing tracks, because the switches would already be set in the proper position conforming to the signal indication.

The improvements in average train speed were immediate. The reduction in crew size reduction had to wait another thirty years, because collective-bargaining agreements and state statutes preserved the flagman and swing- and head-brakeman positions, even though they had little – or nothing – to do on CTC-equipped segments of railroad.

Not all errors were eliminated, however. In 1941, the eastbound Southerner was diverted onto the siding at Woodstock, some 15 or so miles east of Fleming, to allow the first and second sections of the westbound Southerner to pass. It was only about six months after CTC had been commissioned on this part of the railroad. It's not clear from the accident report whether the crew of the eastbound train was confused about its obligations, whether it misunderstood the signal indication, or whether sunlight caused a red signal to appear green. The eastbound fireman claimed that the signal indicated they could leave the siding. It is equally plausible that the crew thought the meet was complete as soon as the first section of the westbound train passed. That’s what they would have expected from the timetable. In any event, the eastbound train prematurely ran through the switch onto the main line, there was a head-on collision, and eighteen people were killed.

I was fascinated by all this, although didn't really understand how everything worked until fifteen years later when I worked for Conrail. I haunted the western end of Fleming during a good part of my free time. The crews of westbound trains stopped in the passing track usually were friendly – often it was the Tuscaloosa Turnaround Local itself that was waiting. They often invited me up into the locomotive cab and always were willing to answer my questions and tell stories. Occasionally, a signal maintainer would come while I was there, and I would pepper him with questions about the electrical circuitry and the basic concepts and design of CTC. Before long, I understood basically how it worked, although it was not until my Conrail days that I memorized the signal aspects, indications, and their significance.

Occasionally, I would be present–on at least one occasion with a signal maintainer, who had the door to the CTC shack open--when a signal was transmitted to set the switch. When that happened, there would be a burst of rhythmic clacking by the relays in the shack as they interpreted the code. It was the 1958 equivalent of a human operator copying morse code for train orders setting up a meet.

Occasionally, train crew would leave the padlock securing the hand-cranked telephone alongside the control-point shack unlocked, allowing me to inspect how the telephone was connected alternatively to two different circuits by a double-pole-double-throw knife switch. By listening in the two circuits, I ascertained that one was the dispatcher’s line, and the other was a line for more general traffic allowing train crews and station agents to inform the traffic department about changes in train contest – which cars were on a particular train. As I became bolder, I surreptitiously sliced the insulation from the wires feeding the phone and used a pair of headphones and a set of alligator clips to eavesdrop on the dispatcher’s line. Then it didn’t matter whether the box was unlocked.

At the time, in late 1950s, there were about a dozen trains that passed Fleming daily: the east and westbound Southerners shortly after noon. The timetable scheduled them to meet at Fleming–it was exciting to see that. Often the meet was so perfectly executed that neither train had to stop; one just took the passing track and slowed down. The westbound Pelican came through about 10 PM, and the eastbound Pelican early in the morning. The Birmingham-Meridian passenger local lurched along at almost any time—it was the era in which the railroads were trying to get rid of passenger trains by showing low numbers of passengers. A sure way to drive passengers away was to run ratty equipment an erratic schedule. The passenger local usually was pulled by a beat-up switch engine. There were also a half-dozen or so hotshot freights. I pretty much memorized the schedule and whenever possible would make sure I was there when a train passed. All the passenger trains except the local were pulled by General Motors E7 and E8 diesel locomotives and the hotshot freights were pulled by F7s and F8s, with rounded noses, and the cabs in front. Only toward the end of the period were GP diesels introduced on the freights.

During the six years from our move to Tuscaloosa until the time I went away to college, there were three major accidents in the vicinity. One involved a minor derailment a couple of miles toward Tuscaloosa. I took a photograph of a freight car that had toppled down an incline and spilled white sand all over it place. It ran on the front page of the Tuscaloosa News, fueling my intention to become a newspaper photographer. The second occurred right behind Hams Pottery and resulted in fifty or more freight cars thrown up into trees and scattered down embankments, many of them perilously close to where to where the Hams lived. This provided hours of entertainment as two enormous steam powered derricks from Chattanooga and Meridian untangle the wreckage and lifted the broken cars onto flatcars so they could be carried away. The third involved a sideswipe between a freight train waiting at the east end of the Fleming passing track and a westbound freight train on the main line. A fire resulted in the derailed locomotives and fifty-sixty cars were in the woods. In that case most of the entertainment was provided by the marshaling of equipment and crews at the western end of Fleming.

Radio communication only beginning to be used at the time, but was beginning to be introduced by 1960 or so. Jimmy Neal Jones, my buddy who lived between the highway and the railroad, and I unsuccessfully schemed to get our hands on two of the radio sets, which were configured as 10 pound batteries, handles on top, and an ordinary telephone receiver as the interface to the user.

When I was in high school, Shelby White and I used to go regularly to visit the Southern Railway dispatcher’s office in a four-story brick building on Morris Avenue in Birmingham. We got to know the dispatchers, and they were more than willing to have us stand behind them and watch them set up meets and explain how the board worked. I told them how I frequently visited Fleming, but omitted any mention of my wiretapping of the dispatcher’s line.