Passing Train Orders on the C&O at Man, WV

by Jonathan Spurlock

My late father is one of my heroes. Now, I’m sure many boys – and girls – might say this about their dads but there was one time where I don’t think I was ever more proud of my dad!

He had been hired by the C&O in the fall of 1969 and started as an “operator” in one of the “cabins” on the line not too far from our house. Sure, it took a time or two for his 11-year-old son (me) to finally catch a little of what he was talking about, but his explanation has lasted for nearly 50 years.

Dad’s job as an operator was threefold, sometimes more. First, he had to be ever alert for the dispatcher’s call. Dad never knew when the dispatcher would call to issue train orders, and I think he seldom could figure out in advance where the train was or was supposed to go. But when the dispatcher called, the first thing Dad did was copy, word for word, the dispatcher’s instructions and repeat them back so both parties had exactly the right thing.

While he was listening to and writing the dispatcher’s instructions on the train order, Dad had to make sure there were enough copies. Usually there were three, one each for the engineer and conductor, and an office copy to be held for a specified period of time. So, listening and copying were the first part of his job.

C&O GP7 5865 leads a short mine run at Man, WV on 18 May, 1979 -Stan Short

The second thing was to change the train order signal (or signals) and align the switches if need be. On C&O in those days, a green signal or vertical position (usually an upper-quadrant semaphore) meant “no orders, proceed”. A yellow signal, or a 45-degree angle (or in the neighborhood) meant “you have orders, prepare to receive them,” and the red signal or horizontal position meant “stop, you must sign the train orders before you receive them and before you go any further.” One such cabin (signal tower or depot) had a manual signal. Dad had to physically lower or raise the signal to its proper aspect or position. He took me along with him a few times, and I marveled, then and now, at how he was able to move those geared signals!

Dad’s next step, and to me the most dangerous, was to actually hand these orders to the engineer and conductor, without the train stopping, that is. Apparently he had learned how to do this quickly and accurately.

The first time I ever saw this, Dad was working the midnight shift at a rather remote location in West Virginia. The depot at Man, WV, sat in the middle of a “wye,” and about the only traffic on the lines was coal and more coal. Usually the trains were empty hoppers hauled by a pair of GP7’s or 9’s and they were LOUD approaching the station. Sure enough, Dad had a set of orders to hand up to the engineer, and I tagged along outside the depot. I knew enough to stay FAR away from the tracks themselves but not too far in case Dad needed help or anything.

Then came the train. Those Geeps could be heard a good ways away, and their whistles announced they were in the neighborhood. Dad walked out with the orders attached by twine or some kind of string to what looked like a glorified broomstick with some dowel rods forming a Y-shape. It was a cold morning, about 2:30 AM, if I recall correctly, and to me that train was bearing down on us at a million miles per hour. Actually it may have been closer to 15 (maybe??) but everything is bigger and faster in the dark!

As the lead engine came within almost touching distance, Dad raised one of those sticks up to the engineer. The engineer lowered his arm, snatched the orders, and went back to his business. Ditto when the caboose came by, only this time the crewman was standing on one of the steps or the rear platform and easily snagged the orders. Then Dad went back inside and reported the train passing by Man to the dispatcher at whatever time it was. Then he waited until the next set of orders would be needed—or the end of his shift, whichever came first.

What impressed me the most about all this wasn’t how massive those engines and cars were (even though they were massive to a lad of 11). I had never been that close to a full-size train in my life and standing even a few feet away almost scared me half to death! And the noise—well, after the engines and trains went their way, things quieted down except for the hum of the two-way radio (dial tone, I called it, and Dad laughed about that one!), so it was impressive but it faded away.

No, what impressed me the most, and I cherish that memory to this day, is how Dad stood there like the Statue of Liberty. Fearless—at least he didn’t show any at the time. Brave is how I thought of him, and my esteem for him grew by leaps and bounds.

Dad went on to put in 20 years or more with C&O and successors Chessie System and CSX, being promoted to dispatcher and chief dispatcher eventually. After a few years of service, he never had to write another copy or even issue them, as track warrants and the like made train orders basically obsolete. No matter, to me one of the greatest days and greatest events I ever experienced was that early, early morning when Dad handed up those train orders.

Dad, if you could see this, you would know that I would dedicate this story to you. Who knows: maybe you still can, after all!