In the late summer of 1944 a gang of seven or eight of us passed cleaners at Workington were sent “on loan” to Rugby, where there was an acute shortage of manpower. This was because the already heavy wartime traffic had increased tremendously in the aftermath of D-day. We were marked up in the special link, and usually had a different driver every day. With the odd exception they were a great bunch of guys, and here is a little tale from those far-off days. On New Year’s Eve 1944 I was called to book on at 11.30 a.m. and my mate that day was David Goode, a pleasant and easy-going bloke. He was waiting for me in the cabin and told me there was a job already lined up for us – “down the North End to relieve the Ellesmere Port empties.” This was a train of tank wagons, which had been loaded with high octane fuel from Ellesmere Port to Whittlesea, for distribution to Bomber Command’s airfields in East Anglia.
When we got to the North End we found the Peterborough men waiting for us on a Mold Junction ‘D’. All was in good order, the tank full, the tender well filled with coal and a nice clean, bright fire. We got the road about one o’clock and away we trundled with our long rake of empties. It seemed to be a good start, but it wasn’t long before the rot set in. From Nuneaton onward we were block to block all the way down the Trent valley. When we got to Stafford we were expecting relief, but there was nothing doing. We stood for a bit, then my mate got on the phone and had a lengthy altercation with Control. They maintained that there was nobody available at Stafford, but promised that if we carried on to Crewe there would be relief for us immediately on arrival. On this understanding, and as any hopes of a few pints in the “Seven Stars” had long since vanished, David decided to make the best of a bad job and keep going. A a few minutes later the peg came off, so on we plodded. After a bit more stop and go (more stop than go) we ground to a halt in Basford Hall Yard. It was about half past eleven by then – twelve hours in and a long way from home.
I wound the hand brake on, and we waited a bit, but there was no sign of life, so my mate went off to the cabin to get on the pipe to Control. He came back after about ten minutes with the bad news that it could be a long wait. Control, as usual, had reneged on their promise. It seemed that everybody in Crewe was out celebrating the arrival of 1945 and both the North and South Sheds were hand to mouth for men.
Not long after his return, David looked at his watch and said, “Well that’s it my old mate, it’s very nearly midnight.” We shook hands and wished each other the best, and then settled down to await events. It was a raw night with a cold, blustery wind. We hadn’t any grub left because, after five years or so of wartime food rationing, we didn’t have much to start with. Neither of us had any tea left to mash up, and worst of all we hadn’t a fag left between us.
We tried in vain to find a comfortable position and keep warm – as some of you might remember the footplate of a ‘D’ wasn’t designed for relaxation. The fire looked a bit dodgy, so I got the dart down and lifted and broke up a thin clinker on the bars. A few shovels of coal and a bit of jet soon brought it round again. Then David got up into the tender with the shovel and brought a fair bit of coal down into the well. After that we just sat there in a kind of limbo.
I had lost track of time, but it must have been three o’clock or after when we were finally relieved by a set of Crewe men. The driver, who seemed to be nursing a hangover, was not in the best of tempers. “We”ll be stuck here till daylight” he growled, “there’s no guards to relieve your man.” “I should worry,” my mate replied, “ I’ll bet he’s been a lot warmer than we have, and he’s probably snoring his bloody head off by now.” The fireman was as surly as his mate, so after a few more words we got our traps, baled out, and left them to it.
We started off to the station, both of us stiff as crutches, and chilled to the marrow. I must confess that from this point my memories have become blurred. I have a hazy recollection that we got back to Rugby in the brake van of a parcels train, but I can’t be sure. What I do remember is that it was past eight o’clock when we booked off. Twenty odd hours, and the longest shift I ever worked. Not by any means a record though – many loco men had worked far longer than that in the stress of wartime. It was my personal best, however, although one I never wanted to repeat.
Bill Barnes
