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TRAMPS

Doctor: Now, do exactly as I told you, and don't forget to take a bath before retiring.

Patient: But, doctor, I don't retire for another ten years yet.

 

Courtesy of S.A.R. & H Magazine March 1964

 
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Copyright © 2001 South African Railway Scene
Last modified: February 09, 2002

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team locomotives is like any other job, you have your good days and you have your bad days. Fortunately the majority are good. So many incidents take place most of them are never forgotten. Especially when being alone your mind always tends to wander and take you back to those bygone days, many times with mixed emotions as you think back about an accident which claimed the lives of people you worked with, and then again bringing a few smiles when some of the other incidents come floating back.

During 1955/56 I was a Fireman at Noupoort, on the main line between Bloemfontein and Port Elizabeth. It was still the old line with heavy gradients between Rosmead and Noupoort, which necessitated the use of a helper engine. An engine would wait at Carlton and when a train arrived, couple on the back and bank it to Sherborne where it would uncouple and run back to Carlton and wait for the next train.

Carlton was a small station with only a large camp, which accommodated the permanent way gang who were stationed there. The gang used to be out working in the section every day and the Cook would remain in camp to look after it and also have a meal ready when the gang returned to camp.

On a certain day I fired to a Driver who was not only one of the naughtiest blokes around, also an expert marksman when it came to shooting with a catapult. Arriving at Carlton he stopped right opposite the old Cook who was busy stirring a large pot of porridge. There was a large rooster walking around the pot, eating the porridge that spilled over the side of the pot now and again. We sat watching this lot and as the rooster moved behind the Cook the Driver took his catapult and let go. Whether it was expertise or just luck I do not know but that rooster went down without making a sound. Eventually the Cook who was still continuously stirring the porridge caught a glimpse of the rooster and the stirring came to an abrupt halt. He stood there as if dazed, repeatedly looking at the pot, the rooster, the pot, as if he could not believe it. The next thing the Cook left and returned with a wheelbarrow, onto which he then loaded that big pot. Sensing things were taking an unexpected turn we got off the engine and went over to the Cook. He was very upset and told us it was a fresh shipment of maize meal they received but he was sure it was poisoned as the rooster died after eating the spilt porridge. He was going to dump it before it killed somebody.

After a lengthy struggle by the Driver to convince the Cook that the rooster showed signs of dying from a heart attack he eventually convinced him when he scooped up some of the porridge and ate it.

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During the years I was at Glencoe there was one person, Ken Godley, who will never be forgotten by any one who knew him. He was definitely not 100% normal and many of the things he did were unbelievable. He took nothing seriously and even took it as a joke when scolded by the officials. To mention all his capers would fill a book. Like one day while pulling into the goods yard he hooked a bag of oranges from a truck on the adjacent line. The bag fell to the ground and after stopping he went back, picked it up and walked back to the locomotive. The next thing the railway policeman comes walking around the truck, sees the oranges and asked him where he got those lovely oranges I stole them from a truck back there Ken replied. The policeman just laughed and off he went..

While repairing his fence at home a railway policeman walks past and saw the 16-pound hammer marked S.A.R. (South African Railways) He stopped and wanted to know why Ken had railway property at home as it was strictly against the rules. It did not take Ken long to convince the policeman that the hammer belonged to his father in law who’s initials were also S.A.R. Case closed.

The caper that always comes to mind happened on a day when he was fireman on a train to Vryheid. Ken had picked up a small two prong fork with sharpened points, somebody had made from a piece of wire While standing at Malonjeni station waiting for an opposing train, the driver decided to go to the toilet. The toilet was a small tin shelter fitted with a seat and bucket. The back of the shelter had an opening at the bottom for changing the buckets. Ken gave the driver sufficient time to settle in the toilet and then ran to the back of the toilet, gave the driver a jab in the buttock with this fork and made a speedy retreat back to the engine. The driver appeared a couple seconds later and very worried asked Ken to have a look, as he was under the impression a snake had bitten him. Ken had jabbed him harder than intended and there were two droplets of blood. Ken wiped the blood with his finger, showed it to the driver and confirmed that it definitely looked like snakebite. The driver rushed off to the Station Master who after having seen the marks phoned for an ambulance to be sent out from Dundee some twenty miles away. The Station Master, very sympathetically then got down to sucking the wounds so as to get some of the poison out. The ambulance arrived and immediately rushed the driver to hospital where he was treated and kept under observation for three days before being dismissed.

It was about six or seven months later that Ken fired to the same driver once again to Vryheid. I was on shunting duties when they returned. We stood clear to let them pull into the yard. As they pulled in there was Ken sitting in front of the smoke box. Coming past slowly he told us that he had told the driver about the snake that actually bit him and the driver vowed to kill him with the hammer if he came close to the cab.

Ken was declared mentally unstable and put on early pension.

WE'LL MAKE YOU KING!

I have a soft spot for hoboes ever since that day two of their representatives made me that wonderful offer.

Many years ago I was working as a probationer clerk at Ermelo station, boarding with the station foreman. One very cold, frosty morning there was a timid knock on-the kitchen door. I opened and there was a shivering tramp who in a plaintive, wheezy voice begged a cup of coffee. This I promptly handed him, piping hot.

That evening I was working late. There was a sound of merry-making coming from the waiting room and I peeped through the ticket-window. A fat tramp was lying on his back playing a mouth organ. His head was pillowed on a small battered cardboard suit case and through the holes in his socks grimy toes peeked. My coffee friend of the morning was doing a lively fox trot with the station broom and singing rather lustily.

I went into the waiting-room where a nice fire was burning in the grate and warned them that the station foreman, who was then busy in the yard, would take a dim view if they did not dim the jocundity a note or two.

They begged me for some coal as their stock was running low and there was a cold night ahead. From the driver of a shunting engine I borrowed a bucket of coal. They nearly kissed me and the fat one then made a speech: "Sir, join us and we'll make -you King of the Hoboes." The "Sir" flattered me immensely because I was only nineteen. However, as there was a strong aroma of the juice associated with Bacchus about the place I did not accept the honor.

But ever since that day I have a soft spot for the Gentlemen of the Road who beg cups of coffee in the morning and offer kingdoms in the evening.

LONG WAIT

All day long they sit and smoke and watch as the trains go by;
Dirty bearded and ragamuffin under a sweltering sky.
The yellow grass leaps up to the rail and the rail runs up to the hill,
Where the smoke of the engine curdles and the whistle sounds far and shrill.
They ponder on the ways of the world without anger they draw their belts tight -
Somewhere along the road of sorrow is food and rest for the night.

 

UP AND AT 'EM

I cannot vouch for this story because I was not with a Guards Regiment in Italy during the last war.

In the thick of it the Colonel commanded: "Up and at 'em guards." From a slit trench came a loud voice: "We're not guards, we're shunters."

TRAMPS

Doctor: Now, do exactly as