Ten90 Solutions LLC

And I did, hold on tightly, that is.  

The east end yard office, a concrete block building, had been blown off its foundations and now sat askew from its previous east-west alignment, looking to me like a giant compass needle that some jokester had placed a big ass magnet next to, pulling it 30 degrees east of true north. 

All the windows were blown in, and all three doors to the structure were off their hinges, scattered among the debris field that now occupied the east end of the yard. 

The Selkirk road crew had been inside the building when the explosion occurred and had  received multiple cuts from the flying glass, but none, fortunately, to the eyes.  The fire department ambulance crew whisked them away before I could even talk to them. 

Nothing was on fire in the yard itself, not even the papers blown about by the force of the explosion, but the fire from the gasoline tank simultaneously lit up and darkened the night sky with a curtain of orange flame, and plumes of black smoke.

The car foremen were sitting on the hoods of their cars outside the yard office, dazed.  They were probably fifty feet from the berm that surrounded the tank farm when they saw the first flame.  They immediately hurled themselves to the ground, crawling under one of the freight cars which shielded them from the flame, if not the shock.  From there, they watched sheet after sheet of flame ride over the tops of the car.  They were unhurt, more or less, except for their eardrums which had been blown out...and the images they would always carry of the explosion and just how close they came to being vaporized. 

The lone yard crew that worked from the east end of the yard was okay having been working on tracks furthest away from the tank farm, and protected  by the picket fences of freight cars between them and the blast.

The fire chief surveyed the scene and focused on the tall, thin cylindrical tank standing next to the flaming gasoline tank.   "Kerosene," he said, "jet fuel. Can't let that cook off."  He radioed the equipment that was now positioned on the Doremus Avenue bridge that passed over the east end of the yard and directed them to "keep that goddam jet fuel cool."  A water cannon was already focused on the cylinder.  Two more targeted it after the radio communication. 

"Is everyone who was here accounted for?" he asked me.  I checked with the car foremen.  All their inspectors were accounted for.  The road crew was accounted for.  So was the yard crew.  There was no yardmaster scheduled to work third trick. 

"All accounted for," I told him. 

"Not much we can do here," he said.  "We'll leave one truck hooked up here, in case the gasoline starts to overflow the berm, but I doubt that.  The rest we'll move out." 

The Selkirk train's locomotives took the hardest blow, with their engine blocks being blown off their mounts and in one case, being blown completely out of the locomotive body.  The massive unit was on the ground looking like something uncovered by an archeological dig that had discovered evidence of a visit from an interplanetary space expedition. 

We lost four GP 40 locomotives to the explosion; truly great locomotives, 3000 horsepower, 4 axle beauties.  I heard a rumor that people in the Blue Room in Philadelphia broke down in tears when they heard the news. 

The fire trucks, all but one, did their slow 3 point pirouettes and pulled out.  I decided to walk the east end of the yard with pencil and paper, noting the condition of each track; the numbers and numbers of cars damaged; securing the damaged cars, and where possible, butting the knuckles between the damaged cars and the OKs, so we could pull the OKs back over the hump and out of the class yard. 

My radio crackled.  It was the assistant superintendent calling me from the top of the hump.  I told him where I was and what I was doing and I'd be back at the hump in about 40 minutes with some information. 

It was after 230 AM when I did get back to the hump. The assistant superintendent was there, the master mechanic was there, the division road foreman was there, his staff was there, six trainmasters were there, the yardmaster was there, the retarder operator was there,  and my closest colleague, the AM hump trainmaster was there.  Staffed like midnights had never been before, there was only one thing to do: put everyone to work.

I took the yardmaster's track-by-track yard sheet and laid out the conditions at the east end.  We decided to not risk any movement in the departure yard, adjacent to the tank farm; to clear and remove from service for the duration of the fire tracks 6-24 in the class yard, leaving us 26-64 for classification and train make-up if necessary.  For the work on tracks 6-24 we would only use supervisory personnel, pulling the cars back over the hump where the clerks could rerecord every car number and keep our inventory straight. We would line the cars up on 1 main west. 

Meanwhile back in the east yard, on tracks 3 and 4, we had made up and inspected the midnight transfer train that delivered, and picked up, cars to and from the industries located along what we called the "chemical coast" from Bayway, NJ to Parlin, NJ.  The transfer was known, appropriately enough, as CC4, Chemical Coast 4.  

CC4 ran seven days a week, delivering about 130 cars  (mostly loads, and mostly chemicals), representing about $1 million in revenue each night.   The return trip brought the yard about 150 cars (mostly empties being routed home)  on 6 of 7 nights. On Sunday nights, actually Monday mornings, after delivering the loads, CC4 came back "light," without cars. The plants didn't work on Sundays, mostly, and we didn't work our yard jobs to spot and pull the plants on Sundays.

But this was Friday's train from Thursday's arrivals and we needed the space in the eastbound yard as much if not more than we needed the $1 million revenue.

The crew came on duty at 1159 PM and we moved heaven and earth to dispatch the train by 130 AM.  My personal best at getting the train on the move out of the yard was 1247 AM. 

We had an ace crew on CC4, and if you've worked on a railroad you know what that means. That means you had  a crew who just couldn't work enough; never slacked off; would hustle every minute for 12 hours as long as they were guaranteed 12 hours on every assignment.  It also meant we protected that crew; we let it be known how displeased we might be if somebody displaced our ace engineer or our ace conductor from this assignment through the exercise of seniority.

After the blast passed the hump,  CC4's crew returned and climbed aboard their locomotives (four GP 15s) and waited for orders.  I walked down to the second floor, got the waybills for the train from the clerks office and walked over to the locomotives.  "Call yourself out to the hump," I said, "You double 3 to 4. I'll make the coupling, cut in the air and walk the brakes back to the rear car." 

The conductor took the waybills and the print out of the train consist, noting the car numbers designating the different blocks of cars to be set out enroute.   The engineer requested permission and a route to the train.  We got our route, west on the hump lead, double 3 to 4 out at Pike. 

We moved, watching the storage tank burn ever brighter as we got further away.  The intense heat of the fire was melting the sides of the storage tank, and flaming gasoline was flowing over the sides into the "pond" behind the berm.

"Where were you when it hit, Dave," asked the conductor. 

"Checking the clock," I said, "so I'd know what time I died." 

That brought a chuckle.

We made the coupling on 3, cut in the air, and waited to get some air in the train before we pulled down Pike connection to make the double.  Ten minutes later the engineer called himself out at Pike to the operator at Upper Bay, asking permission out Pike to Peak, to the N&E secondary.  He got the OK, and I dropped off the engine as he started to move, waiting for the first half of the train to clear so I could stop the train, throw the switch for track 4 and double back to pick up the rear end of the train. 

I made the double, released the handbrakes on the first five cars, coupled the air hoses, cut in the air and began walking back to the rear end of the now complete train. As I walked, the engineer started to pull and as the rear end approached, I gave him the car lengths to the stop:  "Conrail J-29 to CC4. Ten cars to the stop CC4." 

"Ten cars, roger CC4." 

"Five cars, CC 4."

"Roger, five on CC4." I heard the brakes begin to set up as the engineer began his brake application.

"Two cars, CC4."

"Roger, two cars CC4."

"On the stop, CC4, on the stop. Set your brakes."

"Roger, CC4 stopping.  Setting the brakes.  I checked the brake application on the last car, the high intensity marker, and called for the brake release. 

"Release," answered the engineer.  The brake cylinders released with a hiss, and the brake shoes on the last car pulled back from the wheels. 

"OK on the brakes CC4.  OK to go." 

This time the conductor answered, "OK Dave, watch yourself. Don't play with fire." 

"Right, Joe," I said.  See you when you get back. I'm sure I'll still be here." 

"No whimpering," said CC4's conductor.   

That was our motto at the hump; our secret handshake, so to speak, "No whimpering."  I looked at my watch.  It was 415AM.  We had dispatched our first train four hours after the explosion. 

I caught a ride back to the hump with a car inspector working another train in the yard.

I don't think I was back at the hump ten minutes when the "hot line" rang.  This was a dedicated inbound line.   We couldn't dial out. Others could dial in.  I picked up the phone.  "Schanoes," I said.   

"Who's this?" said the voice on the other end. 

"I already told you who I am.  You called me.  So who are you?" 

"My name's Hasselman...." 

meaning Richard Hasselman,  Senior VP of Operations.  I stuttered a bit. " Mr. Hasselman what can I do for you?" 

"Oh, I just want to know if you are all crazy on that division, or is it just a few of you?" 

"I don't understand sir." 

"I mean you  dispatched a train four hours after your yard is blown halfway to hell.  Are you all crazy?" 

"Lunatics, sir, " I said.  "Every single one of us.  Stark raving mad.  Certifiable to tell the truth.  That's why we're all here in the first place." 

"That's what I figured. Thank you." and he hung up. 

We went back to humping cars as scheduled, on schedule at 7 AM.  The fire burned through the entire weekend and Monday until 7 PM Monday night.  During those 90 hours, we received our "normal" number of trains.  No train was diverted from Oak Island. 

Lunatics.  Stark raving mad.  Certifiable, in fact.  And no whimpering.   

CORRECTION, 01/20/18 :  A close friend and colleague, who was present at the conflagration, has pointed out that in fact we did clear the cars out of the departure yard, directly adjacent to the tank farm.  We cleared the tracks and then decided to not use any of the departure yard for the duration of the fire.  Thank you, RJS.

David Schanoes

January 17, 2018  

Gosh, you've... really got some nice toys here   -Roy Batty, Blade Runner