Transatlantic Railwayman

Undoubtedly, working the Enola Road Conductors List was the zenith of an entire American railroading career. It generated a tremendous feeling of self-worth. Crew dispatchers knew I was qualified on most routes and knew I was willing to work, even on weekends. USG coal train to York? Yes! I'm qualified to York. Hot cars to Baltimore Penn Mary Yard? Yes! I know Penn Mary Yard. TV2M to Morrisville? Yessir, that's my favourite! Coal hoppers to Camden? Good old Camden, I'll take it! Mail44 for Jersey? Delighted! Brakeman for WHLA80 in Lancaster? Brakeman for WHLA80? You are digging deep, yes, I can do it! In any Conrail position, not just on the Enola List, spirits ran highest at the beginning of each shift. Since most starting times were at night, I would usually arrive at the signing-on point bolstered with a large convenience-store coffee to ensure I was fully charged! The moment of departure was particularly exhilarating when on quick footboard relief service at Harrisburg Fuel Pad. When we were ready to go, the engineer would radio the Harrisburg Terminal Dispatcher, “PICA4 to the Harrisburg Terminal Dispatcher. Over.” “Terminal Dispatcher. Over,” came the reply. “Why, Sir, PICA4 ready to leave the Pad. Over.” “PICA okay down to Harris. Dispatcher out.” Some engineers embellished an initial radio message by prefixing it with the word “why”. Another facet of engineer and dispatcher exchanges was a propensity for each to address the other as Sir. It was a refreshing formality, one that reminded me of the shipping forecast (Cromarty, Forth, Tyne, Dogger, etcetera) that used to broadcast early morning on BBC radio where the announcer would conclude his report with “Good morning Gentlemen.” Once radio exchanges had been completed at Harrisburg Fuel Pad, there came the glorious moment of actually getting under way. The elation was like a cowboy on horseback bidding farewell by waving his hat in the air, his mount rising up on its hind legs, and the pair galloping off into the sunset! This elevated mood was also enjoyed on return journeys after emerging from a hotel. Again primed with strong coffee, with supreme confidence I would storm into the local yard office and demand to be told what our instructions were! Each yard had local arrangements concerning whom to contact before boarding the train, crucial information that I kept in a notebook with black cover that I called my black book. High spirits overflowed in one North Jersey crew room when I decided, mischievously, to employ a best British accent to make the preliminary enquiry, which in this case was by telephone. “Yes Sir, this is TV213, engineer J.J. Smith, conductor M.C. Deaver, with engines...” The enunciation turned a few heads. Whilst I was still on the telephone, a supervisor, presumably trainmaster, came from round a corner where he had evidently been listening. A broad grin splashed across his face. After conclusion of the telephone conversation, the man, still grinning, said to me, “Are you from Brooklyn?” Quick as a flash I came back, “South Side.” This exchange must have resonated around the terminal, for about eighteen months later a man in Harrisburg GI8, pointing to me, said to his colleague, “He's from Brooklyn.” His colleague added drily, “South Side.”