Being There - (Conclusion)
U-boats. You don't see that often, not on this Sub anyway. A solid quartet of U-boats, and U25's at that. Yessiree, no "Sub Sandwich" this time. A "Sub Sandwich" was what the power people at Springfield seemed to enjoy the most on the Frisco FS Sub Menu, such as a GP38, U25B, U25B, GP38. The lead unit was a low-nosed U25B, with a venerable old high-hood unit thrown in the mix for good measure. As the tatty looking foursome chugged past, I noticed they were slowing. This meant switching. Which also meant I was in the wrong place for that.
Hastily, I jumped in our car, and took off for a better vantage point, namely, at the north turnout to the Middle Track. If a typical move was going to be made, it would be to set out the "Mop's" for the next morning #731 train to pick up and to deliver along with it's own "Mop's". This way, #730 saved a rather involved run-around/set-out procedure consisting of a "down to the interlock, wait, get on the Mop, deliver, wait, return to our tracks, go back up the hill to VB, etc., etc."
I was right. That's what they were going to do, set off the "Mop's" that is. We parked by the Van Buren Library. This place, by virtue of the globe lamps lined up along the sidewalk, offered a hauntingly illuminated view of night railroading. For some reason, this time my wife got out and joined me to watch the switch moves. Likely, it was because it was one of the first crisp nights of the fall season, and to us, the first chills of autumn in the air is always invigorating.
All to soon, the move was complete, and the quartet of "boats" were sitting there idling in their own dialect, "cusha--cusha--cusha", all the while in the process of returning the brake line to a usable state. Then the sounds that a well "trained" railfan ear listens for: Those two short blasts of the whistle, followed immediately by the subdued hissing of air as the brakes are released. Their language changed slightly also, from the "cusha--cusha--cusha" of idle to "Cush-Cush-Cush-Cush" as the throttle was notched out a bit in order to get things rolling on the incline they were on.
Apparently, tonight there was a pretty hefty train of cars tagged to the hind end of those boats, for the engines were barely inching along.
I couldn't see who was engineer that night, but I'd be inclined to think it was "Highball" Hall (whose real first name will be omitted to protect the guilty, thus we use his fellow-employee given nickname). Now, we all know that a conscientious engineer will gradually work that throttle up as the speed slowly increases... right? Well, tonight was not one of those nights.
Though the train's progress could best be measured in inches, suddenly, thick black smoke began to belch out of all four engines, and the revolutions of their prime movers began to climb. I mean he cobbed those babies. In short order, the air was filled with a deafening staccato roar from the exhausts. Mufflers? Shoot, who needs mufflers? We're talking an unadulterated U-Boat symphony here. Now, be reminded, that north of the depot in Van Buren, the Frisco's mainline cuts a path through a very residential setting.
The tracks literally ran through the front yards of some homes, crossing sidewalks and the whole deal. Imagine a housing addition in your mind... now angle a set of rails across the road and cutting across your lawn in front of your porch... that's what I mean. I'm telling you, several blocks of windows in Van Buren were no doubt rattling from the raucous clamor those old boats were creating.
I stood there in awe. See it with me if you will...
By now, the train may be making three or four miles per hour, the old engines are roaring at the top of their lungs, heavy black smoke is boiling out of their stacks... whoa! As if this wasn't enough to make goose bumps on my back already, something I'd never seen before begins to happen. There, atop each engine, 5' tall orange balls of flame start popping from the stacks!!! Is was almost a stroboscopic effect, it would "pop" so fast. And as it would, the underside of the churning smoke would be momentarily illuminated by the orange halo. Each engine was offering such a display... first this one, then that, then another, all in a non-sequential random effect. It was akin to orange flash bulbs going off back and forth amid a row of excited photographers.
I literally stood there speechless, trying to absorb this impressive display of what a U-boat was really about.
"Wow..." I heard my wife say as she watched the spectacle before us. That's how moving the sight was. Never, ever, had she indicated any of my "encounters of the rail kind" were making an impact upon her. Yet, with the awesome display of raw power before us tonight, she too, had to acknowledge that this was indeed an emotional thing.
As we stood and watched the engines leaving us, the Leslie again broke into the night as the slow moving train renewed the job of crossing the seemingly innumerable grade crossings in Van Buren. The headlight piercing the darkness, the steel serpent eased toward it's appointment with The Mountain. As it passed under an overhanging tree, the branches rushed upward in response to the belabored exhales of the behemoths beneath it. The orange balls of flame were still popping atop struggling engines. The pungent, wonderful aroma of diesel exhaust filled my sense of smell as the trailing smoke began to settle upon us. We still stood silently as the cars rattled by. Soon, the lights of the caboose eased passed us, and the train slowly disappeared into the night.
There have been many "moving" experiences I have had the privilege to be a part of alongside twin ribbons of steel, and each one is unique to itself. Each reveals a different twist to the essence of railroading. Only after experiencing The Trip, could I really understand the impact, the drama, of The Mountain. And now, after this, and only after this, could I now understand what a U-boat was. I had now been there. I now knew. It was all a matter of being at the right place at the right time, with the right engineer in the right engines. Yes, it was all a matter of being there.
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