FISHING

It's late evening, dusk, twilight perhaps. It's fall in East Lansing, Michigan, and it's quite pleasant outside. Manuel and his cousin, Ades, are sitting on the front porch. They live three houses apart. Manuel, at 18 years of age the older of the two, is speaking. "So, Ades, tomorrow we try the bridge again and this time we'll be lucky. Garcia says they have caught fish there many times. Tomorrow we will too!"

At about the same time the two boys are relaxing I too am taking my ease. Fiber optics installers have chopped through a signal cable at Chesterton, Indiana, which resulted in 15 miles of signal outages and a 60 minutes tardy arrival in Chicago. But, all that is behind us now as I relax over a game of pool with my good friend and Amtrak engineer, Dave Saint. We are discussing the probability that the signals will be repaired by the time we head back tomorrow morning. Dave and I go way back so the conversation and the game flow easily. Dave is beating me pretty consistently at pool this evening. As it turns out the signals are not repaired and on the return leg we are again delayed an hour. It turns out to be the least of our worries.

"So, Ades, I have borrowed my brother Garcia's fishing pole. I am sure he will not mind. You have the bait, yes?"

"I have the bait, amigo, and you - you have the wine?"

By the time train number 364, the International, is pulling into East Lansing we have made up a few minutes here and there and lost it right back again and we're still running about an hour late. East Lansing is going to be a heavy stop with about 75 passengers detraining. My partner, Sean Will, and I have our passengers ready to detrain from two separate cars. In fact, I'm in the lower level of an Amtrak superliner with the door already opened when the train goes into emergency. Immediately several thoughts race through my mind, the first of which is thanks, because I know that we have not just gone over a road crossing. Perhaps we have just struck some debris and an air hose has parted. The second is dismay as the engineer's words sink into my mind, "Emergency, emergency, emergency. We have just struck two kids on the bridge at mile post 221.3 just west of the East Lansing station." The third is frustration that the passengers standing behind me have overheard the radio transmission.

I politely ask them to return to their seats, saying there is bound to be a slight delay. This is a major under statement and they know it. The train has finally screeched and ground to a stop. I am in the third of four cars. Everything I need is in the fourth car. Namely, my Amtrak cell phone, my emergency CPR pack and a couple blankets from the cafe located on the lower level. And a copy of the train manifest, which has a passenger list.

As I bail out of the last car I see my assistant conductor Sean already running back up the tracks towards the bridge. This is surprising in a way. I had only come to realize yesterday on the trip down who Sean actually was, this being the first time I had ever worked with him. Sean is the guy that was working with Mike Wire last year on the Lake Shore Ltd. when a crazed criminal went berserk and attacked them with a knife, cutting them both severely. Mike is still off work with his injuries, he nearly died. Sean, although cut about the face and stabbed in the back has been returned to work a few months, but only recently moved to Detroit. After that kind of trauma I was surprised that Sean bailed off the train and was racing back to the accident site when it wasn't his job and he didn't have to get off the train.

It also isn't the engineer's (or fireman's) job to get off the train when there has been a trespasser incident. However, running just ahead of Sean is our fireman, Jerry Mac. He got off the engine and ran back because he knew were to look in the tangled underbrush next to the tracks for the young man that was struck as he was trying to beat the train off the bridge.

Manuel and Ades had brought their fishing tackle to the bridge an hour or so before we got there. They walked to the middle and sat down, baited their hooks and began a lazy afternoons fishing. It is straight track approaching the railroad bridge. The train had just gone through a thirty mile an hour crossover and was accelerating back to track speed for the three mile or so run to the East Lansing Station when Dave and Jerry both spotted the kids at the same time. Dave went immediately to full service, the maximum brake reduction possible without going into emergency, and began blowing the train horn like crazy. Dave didn’t immediately dump the air because he instinctively realized, and Jerry agreed, that the boys had plenty of time to get off the bridge.

That is, if they had not made two terrible mistakes. The first was to start picking up their tackle. As soon as Dave saw that he slammed us into emergency. Both he and Jerry were on their feet, yelling at the two boys, though of course neither boy could hear them. "Christ, don’t pick up the stuff, RUN RUN!" They still had time to make it if they would just GET GOING! That’s when they made the second and probably fatal mistake. They began running TOWARDS the train, heading back in the direction from which they had come. The older boy was in front and suddenly realized he wasn’t going to make the end of the bridge by the time the train got there. He turned, and nearly knocking his younger cousin off the bridge he began pushing and running towards the far end. Now Dave and Jerry were frantic. They were screaming, "JUMP! JUMP!" Just as the boys disappeared from view under the nose of the engine, right at the very edge of the bridge. Jerry thought he saw the younger boy throw himself off the bridge, but he couldn’t be sure. Then they heard the impact, a terrible dull heavy thunk that squeezes your guts. Dave assumed the train had hit them both and made his emergency radio broadcast. Jerry was looking back and thought he saw what might have been the younger boy getting to his feet, and running away. In fact, Ades did throw himself in the clear at the last second. When he did, Manuel looked over his shoulder to see how close the train was and the snowplow hit his forehead, killing him.

Jerry and Sean are a couple hundred feet ahead of me and I see them stop and look back and point down in the gully, yelling back to me, "Here's one." They spread out and continue looking into the thick tangle of weeds and scrub because they know that there were two young men fishing on the bridge. I find out later that Jerry is aware that one of the two may have gotten back to his feet and run off, but at the time Sean and I were unaware of this.

Everything else that is happening, Jerry yelling at passersby asking if they saw someone running, Sean crossing over to look on the far side of the tracks because no one has had a chance to tell him that both boys disappeared from the engineer's sight on the firemen's side of the engine, people calling up curiously from the joggers path going under the railroad tracks next to the small river - all these things fade away to an inconsequential background white noise - as I gaze upon what a few moments ago was an 18-year-old fishermen.

He's lying on his back about 15 feet down a fairly steep embankment. At first I think I am looking at both boys because of the way the lower torso appears to be lying across the stomach. My mind gradually sorts this into only one body whose lower half is now pretzelled at a right angle and lays across the stomach. The arms are thrown overhead, the right one folded almost casually across the boy's forehead. His eyes are opened halfway but I see only gray inside and no pupil showing. There is a large open gash in the forehead, unsightly, deep, and rude, but it is not bleeding.

As I start down the embankment, opening one of the blankets as I go, I am talking. "Hey, partner, it's going to be okay. Just hold still, help's on the way, you're going to be okay." I am saying these things for several reasons. We have been taught to be calm and reassuring. I've had severely injured people try to get up. His chest has given several twitches in the 30 seconds since I got there, and he has made a noise with his mouth. The noise reminded me of the sound a large catfish made one time years ago after I finally got it into the bottom of the row boat. A kind of gasping throaty noise. I spread the blanket over him, still talking, "There now, you're going to be okay. I'm just covering you up to keep you warm. Help's on the way." I felt for, but could not find, a pulse. The twitching stopped. So did the noises. No pulse no bleeding no sound. At this point I'm sure I'm looking at a corpse. I make the conscious decision not to begin CPR. It's been every bit of 10 minutes since the accident happened.

I see a gentleman running towards me carrying what appears to be a doctor's bag. He identifies himself as an off duty firemen. He says he heard our emergency call on his scanner, grabbed his bag, and can he be of help? I tell him what I know and show him the body. As he is opening his bag I tell him about the twitching and the sounds, and if as on cue I'll be damned if this corpse doesn't make two of those throaty breathing noises again. "Jesus! Like that!" The firemen shakes his head, and listening to the boys chest he says, "No, that's agonal breathing, brain stem signals. He's gone."

Another couple appears at the top of the gully, from the direction of the train this time. They announce themselves as being members of a 'first response' team. Again there is kind of a chest twitch, and the girl says, "My god, maybe he's still alive!" I give her my unopened CPR package. She rips it open and begins to descend the embankment while busily putting on the rubber gloves. The firemen is getting up and wrapping his stethoscope and he restrains her, shaking his head. He explains about the brain stem stuff.

From the other direction two young men come running. "That's him, that's the other guy." This is Jerry yelling. The younger of the two is bleeding from several small cuts on his face. The older, a man in his twenties wearing a fancy Fedora right out of the thirties is obviously very distraught and I move to meet him. "Where's my brother? Where's my brother?" I have my arms out now like a safety patrol boy. I point to the bleeding boy, "Did this boy come and get you?" "Yes." "Then you know your brother got hit by the train." "Yes."

I tell him that the emergency people are taking care of his brother. I ask him if he has any medical training, he says no. I suggest that the best thing he can do is to sit down over there and try to relax and let them work. But he continues to try and push past me to where he can see there are people in the gully. "I want to see my fucking brother." I side step along with him, still staying between him and the gully but finally over my shoulder he sees his brother. And apparently, that is enough. "My fucking brother." He drops his head and turns away slightly and the first of the police begin to arrive. It has been 15 or 20 minutes. EMS doesn't arrive for another 15 or 20. As usual, we are off the beaten track in a park where there are no roads.

The police begin taking their statements. They take charge of Garcia. The ambulance people arrive with a stretcher. After attaching a cardiac unit to the boy in the gully they just as quickly detach it and decide to attend to the younger boy instead. Even after being informed that he has just run home and run back they elect to strap him to a backboard and immobilize his head just in case he broke his neck and doesn’t know it. Better safe than sorry. By now there are at least 30 uniformed officials on the scene. My boss has called and said he's on the way from Detroit. The usual debate begins about what city is going to have to handle this. ‘Well I believe this side of the river is Lansing proper.’ ‘Yes, but the train went into emergency back by the overhead, there, that would be East Lansing - you boys would take it... ‘

A tall man arrives in civilian clothes wearing a badge and identifies himself as the chief of the Lansing police. I shake his hand and ask, "Is this going to be yours?" "I guess so." Two lady cops come up and begin talking about taking the head end crew for a breath test. Fortunately a Canadian National trainmaster arrives about this time to explain why according to Federal Law we don't have to do that. So they start for the train. I slip ahead of them and ask if I may be of help? "We need to interview the passengers and see if they saw anything." I explain that the passengers not only are unable to see anything but have no idea what has occurred. I tell them that Amtrak's policy is to say only that there has been a problem on the tracks and that these folks won't find out about anything else until they read tomorrow's papers. I offer the passenger list that I had grabbed earlier for just this reason. They take it and leave. But reappear in a few moments with their Sergeant. At this point the engineer and the firemen are standing with me at the rear of the train. The Sergeant says, "Our protocol is to interview any potential witnesses." I mention to him that unfortunately these kind of trespasser incidents are not that uncommon and reiterate that our passengers are unable to see anything ahead of the train and that Amtrak prefers for obvious reasons not to stress them with talk of running over civilians. He says, "There has been a fatality here (perhaps he thinks I have overlooked this fact) and we must follow our procedures."

"With all due respect, Sergeant, I am aware that we just killed that kid. But the 150 people on this train are not, and do not have to be, aware of that particular fact for you to complete your investigation. The kids were trespassing on the bridge, fishing. Other witnesses saw them. Both our engineer and firemen saw them. What else could anyone add? Why unnecessarily involve these hundred and fifty people, that just want to get home tonight? What is to be gained by making them aware that the train they are riding just killed some one?"

"Conductor Smock, either let my officers on your train right now or I'm arresting you on the spot for obstructing justice and you're going to jail."

"Sergeant, my boss will be here in a few minutes, perhaps you could take this up with him?"

"Right now, Conductor, or you're going to jail." Reaching for his handcuffs.

"Sergeant, it's not my intention to impede your investigation or to get myself arrested. If you think it will get us out of here any sooner I'll let your officers walk the train."

I opened the coach door and let the officers into the train. The Sergeant said thank you, nodded his head, turned on his heel and retreated.

Dave Saint, my engineer and good friend said, "Jeez Dave, I don't know if I would have pushed that so far. I thought you were going to jail."

"Dave, that Sergeant was just determined to be more important than me. So I let him."

To their credit the two officers were off the train within about 20 minutes and admitted they had garnered no new information. I saw my boss arriving down near the bridge and headed back that way. As I arrived the Lansing police chief was explaining to him, and the trainmaster and several policemen including my Sergeant friend, that now they were just waiting for the accident investigation team and photographer to arrive. I couldn't seem to help shooting off my mouth, again.

"This is like that incident last spring, down by Ann Arbor, when that guy stepped in front of the train. It was late in the day then, too. And a holiday to boot. So it was hard to find everyone, just like today. Finally, someone with authority (and here I looked at the chief) had to take responsibility and say, 'Look, this train has been sitting here for over two hours - let's let these people go home.' "

Nobody said anything for a moment, and then the chief nodded slowly, saying, "Let me just talk to your engineer. I haven't done that yet and I've never been on one of your engines. Then I'll take what you've said into consideration."

Unfortunately, just about the time the chief was getting back off the engine, along came the remaining members of the investigation team. There was no stopping them now. It was another hour before we got back underway. Altogether we were delayed two and a half hours. It was still a pleasant evening, but now totally dark. And a much subdued traveling public was riding home on train number 364.