Schreiber Vignettes
by Pam McKeever , Board Member
Schreiber Public Library
This vignette from Schreiber’s past was adapted from a newspaper article in the library archives as part of a series celebrating 125 years of Schreiber history.
Fatal Caboose Crash – 1938 Newspaper article by Unknown
Lying in bed, propped up with pillows in a sunroom of McKellar hospital, Ed Gerow, conductor, and Walter “Wally” Simons, brakeman, were thanking their lucky stars to be alive. They were the only survivors of a train crew of five during a brutal and fatal train crash in May of 1938.
Gerow was quoted as saying, “That was the toughest ride I ever had.” On the hospital bed as he was interviewed, it was evident that he was trying to hide the pain that undoubtedly coursed through his racked and bruised body.
The brakeman, Simons, had his faced swathed in bandages as he and the conductor related the tragic story. As they told the story, Simons revealed that he had played a heroic part in the disaster, but dismissed any praised with a casual, “Any one of the boys would have done the same.”
The accident occurred eight miles west of Schreiber during the early evening of mid-May, 1938. The reporter at the time had to stitch together the pieces of the tale to discover the full story, as the two survivors were both determined to stick to the unspoken code that “Railway men never talk.” However, as they told their story, the tragic events were pulled together to form the history of the mishap.
The train had been running with a light load after picking up a caboose in Fort William, and another caboose in Nipigon. The 2304 was making good time, with Ben Turner at the throttle, and getting close to home.
As they raced on, Lake Superior was a grey expanse to their right, and on the left were rocky hills of the north shore. They began climbing the hill at Selim, only eight miles from Schreiber, and had passed the east switch of Selim siding when the cab lurched crazily. In a split second, the train shot like a bullet down the embankment.
For the crew members in the cab, the world seemed to become a whirling maelstrom. Conductor Gerow was thrown violently from one end of the caboose to the other. Brakeman Simons clutched a leg of a table to steady himself and was thrown with terrific force against the stove and hung grimly on. He watched in terror as he saw Gerow shoot clean over his head out
the roof of the caboose, and land on the brush-clad slope of the embankment, forty feet below the level of the tracks.
The locomotive plowed into the side of the embankment, landing battered and crushed on its side. The two cabs were smashed and ripped apart as they landed on the further side of the huge passenger engine.
Instinctively, blindly, Simons gathered himself up. Stunned by the terrific impact with the ground, his left knee paining him cruelly and his head streaming blood from a dozen different cuts and gashes, the brakeman groped his way among the wreckage until he found a fuse.
With the fuse in his hand, Simons then began one of the most heroic deeds in railway annals. The time of the accident it was between 5:30 and six o’clock in the evening. Simons knew that in less than an hour the fast freight in Fort William was due to come racing towards the very spot they had crashed. Simons knew he was the only man who could stop it. Putting the crippling pain aside, he thought only of stopping the other train from tearing down the hill westbound at breakneck speed. The brakeman realized he would have to set the fuse one mile east of the wreck to be sure of averting a further tragedy. Simon’s left leg was badly crushed. His knee shot through needles of pain. He could not put the weight of his body on his foot. So the brakeman set out, crawling at time on all fours, dragging that injured leg after him.
A painful arduous journey was what followed. Many times he had to stop, as there was a noticeable upgrade and he was sick with pain, loss of blood and shock. It took him more than half an hour crawling until he was far enough away from the wreck to set his fuse in the correct way.
It took considerable effort in his weakened condition for Simons to set the fuse properly, but when it was firmly set, he struck a match and lit the signal. The flame sputtered and shot upward, a rose-coloured flame, the warning sign for a fast approaching train.
The trip back to the wreck for Simons was a nightmare. When he finally reached the disaster area he found conductor Gerow conscious and able to walk. Mr. Gerow made his brakeman lie down and rest on the bank. Both men were very weak.
In a matter of minutes the low rumble of an approaching train could be heard from the east. The screeching of the brakes on steel wheels showed the survivors that their signal had been seen, not a moment too soon.
After the freight train came to a stop the conductor immediately set up the emergency phone and put in a call to Schreiber where first word of the tragic wreck reached the railroad town.
Immediately Dr. H. S. Crowe and Dr. D. P. Byers, coroner for Schreiber district, rushed to the scene by automobile along with other residents of Schreiber who commandeered all available autos.
First aid was given to the injured men, and Nurses Mrs. J. Elliot and Mrs. Perry Hueston, who was the daughter of Conductor Gerow, rushed to the scene in the wrecking train which was called from Schreiber to clear the tracks to allow both freight and passenger trains to pass.
Mattresses were procured from the wreckage of the caboose for the dead and injured and the nurses and doctors cared for them until the arrival of the passenger train at 8:15. After the dead and injured had been placed aboard, the passenger train got underway for the Lakehead at 8:35.
It was a few days after the wreck before Simons and Gerow were feeling well enough for an interview. The arrival of a telegram for Simons left him greatly pleased and just as surprised. The telegram was from Rt. H. W. L. Mackenzie King, congratulating him for such a heroic deed. Simons was determined not to accept any of the fuss that was going on about his actions that night of the wreck. “I did nothing unusual,” he said modestly. “On our job we are trained to do the other fellow’s job if he isn’t able to do it himself. When the other trainmen couldn’t flag that train, it was just up to me, that was all.”
Both men recovered from the wreck but were in considerable pain for weeks afterwards.
Yet I’m sure he would say that the pain of his own injuries were nothing compared to the feeling of knowing he saved the lives of half a dozen men. Simons put the risk to himself behind; his actions were truly heroic as he thought only of saving the other men from another even more tragic train wreck.
