Viewing page 58 of 113

This transcription has been completed. Contact us with corrections.

3.
[[clipped article pasted to ruled paper]]
[[two column text]]
[[start column one]]
with Paddy, who despite his apparent efforts to pit insurmountable M's against the young and gullible ohms, was a likable old boy. In the midst of a scorching argument with our conductor, Paddy would throw us a wink which seemed to say, "I know she can do it." Such cajolery kept us going for a while against our better judgment. As we would accelerate laboriously up the 0.6 per cent grade toward the tunnel, the equipment smelled hot and the cast-iron accelerating grids glowed cherry red. Ultimately, as Paddy continued his tactics, the acrid odor of hot insulation was accompanied by smoke emerging from the motors with the ventilating air. At this point, we said uncle to Paddy, who still had inexhaustible M's in reserve.

Occasionally we'd get a nerve-restoring break running out of Secaucus. We'd take a few cars 7 miles to Harrison, over the unelectrified Harrison cutoff, which crossed the meadows. The crew often would make this a hunting trip by bringing along a .22 rifle to shoot rabbits racing the locomotive, which was usually in second place. This helped to pass the time in addition to diverting our thoughts from the imminent prospect of switching the Harrison slaughterhouse, always a significant threat to gastric stability.

Our first few weeks were relatively trouble free. Then an incident occurred which seemed an ill omen in the light of later events. The KK's were maintained in the electrically oriented commuter-car inspection building at Hoboken. One morning, at the end of a six-car-capacity track in this building, we were amazed to see in the brick wall a hole so neat it might almost have been a commuter-car clearance template. During the night, a hostler crew, thinking they had a six-car string when they had eight, had shoved the leading car clean through the wall. The incident had its humorous aspects--to those not involved. Had we been less amused and more thoughtful, we might have pondered that something unpleasant conceivably could happen to us.

At any rate, our first debacle soon followed. KK3501 had a road failure,
gave up her train, and limped into the shop for diagnosis. The trouble
was a grounded traction-motor armature, a major failure and a painful
black eye. Could our dalliance with
[[end column]]

[[start column two]]
Paddy Murray have caused this? Although the idea was a disturbing one, I persuaded myself that it was improbable. Even in 1930, a modern traction motor could take a brutal beating for a while without serious damage. More likely, the problem was a defective armature winding job which finally had failed. But we were shaken and embarrassed. KK3501 was taken ignominiously to the Kingsland back shop for installation of a spare motor.

A mysterious malfunction in the accelerating circuits afflicted KK3502. Under certain infrequent conditions during a heavy acceleration, inexplicably the main breaker would open with a cannonlike spark-showering blast, jolting 3502 violently onto her hunkers as her power was cut off. The experience was traumatic, triggering from the more vocal engineers a torrent of oaths that would singe the Hackensack swamp. Chris Vitengruber, the electrician assigned to the KK's, and I sleuthed this for days between shifts, sweating miserably among the still-hot apparatus as we traced circuits. Finally we found an incorrectly connected bus bar responsible--a disconcerting factory error. Normally, though, it was pleasant to work with Chris, who possessed one unusual advantage for an electrician--his wooden leg allowed him to insulate himself conveniently from ground while working on hot circuits.

And then there were the pantograph trolleys, which the crews referred to as "pants." They are reliable while sliding along a wire but not when waving around in the air. When entering J.C. yard, certain engineers occasionally left the end of the catenary with the pantograph still raised. "Pants down" was forgotten. The pantograph would rise to its full height, and in seconds would be fouled by an overhead obstruction. Some were retracted in time; others were mutilated. I criticized myself for not having included an automatic retraction arrangement to avoid this. But experience and threatened layoffs eliminated the problem.

The man who most effectively restored my spirits when we were in trouble was Eric Ericson, the traveling engineer who had coined the "ohms and M's" expression. Eric was middle-aged and solidly built, and had humorous eyes. With little electrical background but an agile mind,
[[end column]]