Best Australian Yarns

by Haynes, Jim

  New South Wales had been granted responsible government in 1855, and the new government needed an engineer-in-chief, someone with a practical knowledge of railway planning, costing and construction; someone who could deal with inexperienced colonial politicians. They needed ‘a thoroughly practical engineer of considerable professional attainments’ and ‘a gentleman of unquestioned principle and integrity’. That was exactly how the powerful British railway magnate Sir Morgan Peto described John Whitton in his recommendation to Lord Stanley.

  Whitton, a Yorkshireman, was engineer on the Manchester, Sheffield and Lincoln Railway when he was just twenty-eight and, at the age of thirty-three, he was chosen to replace the greatest engineer of them all, Isambard Brunel, as resident engineer on the Oxford, Worcester and Wolverhampton Railway.

  So, in 1856, John Whitton was offered, and accepted, the commission to become Engineer-in-Chief of the New South Wales Government Railways at an annual salary of £1500.

  Sir William Denison was the new governor of New South Wales. He was a professional soldier with a background in engineering. John Whitton would need to display considerable amounts of his Yorkshire stubbornness in the months and years to come.

  There were two early battles that Whitton needed to win. Firstly, Denison had suggested a horse-drawn rail system for the more remote areas of the colony. Not long after his arrival, in fact the day after his appointment was officially confirmed by the Railway Board, Whitton stated:

  I would not recommend any line to be made to be worked by horsepower. Any gradient which is bad for locomotives will be bad for horses also. You must take into consideration the immense amount of horse labour you have to employ to execute the same amount of work you would get done by a locomotive engine. I think it would not be by any means a saving but a great additional expense.

  Whitton also showed he was a man who was willing to speak his mind, whether Governor Denison liked it or not, on the issue of surveys. Until that time, railway surveys had been conducted by military personnel under the charge of the Surveyor-General, in the same way that land surveys were conducted. In spite of the Governor’s military–engineering background, Whitton was blunt in his opinion of the surveys conducted thus far:

  I think they are being carried out in a very objectionable manner so far as the railway is concerned. I think decidedly that they should be under the charge of the Engineer of Railways. I do not see what the Surveyor-General can have to do with them. [You can almost hear the Yorkshire accent.]

  Whitton went on to construct a wonderful railway system for New South Wales, but his greatest achievement was the great zig-zag system which took the railway across the Great Dividing Range. It was the first mountain railroad in the world.

  JH

  THE GREAT ZIG ZAG

  The Zig Zag Railway was one of the greatest engineering and construction feats of the Victorian age. John Whitton began by designing the first zig zag, which raised the line 160 metres to the summit of Lapstone Hill. He had to design and build a three-span bridge over the Nepean River and a massive stone viaduct across Knapsack Gully.

  The bridge, named the Victoria Bridge, naturally, had three spans of 61 metres and the viaduct required seven arches and rose 38.4 metres at its centre. The steepest gradient here was one in thirty.

  The construction of this zig zag was, however, mere child’s play compared to the building of the one which was necessary on the western side of the Great Dividing Range.

  The Lithgow Valley zig zag, the Great Zig Zag, carried the line from the Clarence Tunnel down a descent of 209.4 metres to the valley floor in three great sweeps across the mountain sides. The gradient was one in forty-two.

  Construction lasted three years, from 1866 to 1869, and the project was a source of fascination in the colony. In January 1867, part of the mountain blocking the line near the first reversing station of the Great Zig Zag needed to be removed by blasting. This was to be the most massive explosion ever seen in Australia. Using the new process of electrical detonation, 40,000 tons of rock was to be cleared in one huge explosion. Twenty-five holes were drilled 9 metres into the mountain face and over three tons of blasting powder was inserted.

  In the building of this railway, the colony truly came of age. No longer a quaint colonial backwater, the colony of New South Wales now had an engineering marvel to impress the world, along with all the strange plants, animals and natural wonders.

  From 1869 until 1910, every train across the mountains in either direction used John Whitton’s zig zags. By 1910, however, traffic was so heavy that a new line was designed to replace it, using what became known as the ‘ten-tunnel deviation’.

  In 1972, a group of railway enthusiasts started to rebuild the zig zag track and then formed a cooperative and purchased rolling stock. Trains first ran again on part of the track in 1975. The track was extended all the way to Clarence in 1988 with the aid of a bicentennial grant. The railway operates on weekends and in school holidays using steam engines and vintage diesel rail motors.

  There is a delightful irony in the Great Zig Zag’s rebirth. John Whitton’s ghost, I suspect, might express his blunt Yorkshire disapproval at the fact that the line now runs on the narrow 3-foot gauge he so detested, and uses vintage Queensland rolling stock.

  The Great Zig Zag was regarded as one of the engineering wonders of the Victorian age. John Whitton has been called ‘the father of the New South Wales railways’. When he arrived in 1856, there were just 32 kilometres of railway. When he retired in 1890, there were 3500 kilometres of railways in New South Wales.

  Whitton died in February 1898, aged eighty, at his house in St Leonards and was buried in St Thomas’ Cemetery, North Sydney.

  JH

  HOW WE GOT A NATIONAL PARK

  Australia has the second oldest national park in the world (Yellowstone in the USA is the oldest). The Royal National Park, south of Sydney, was proclaimed in 1879 and it can be argued that it is, in a strange way, a legacy of John Whitton’s honesty. Not that he had any interest in national parks; he was just interested in building railway lines well and efficiently.

  Owning land through which a railway line would pass could be lucrative because the government had to resume the land and pay compensation. When the line was being surveyed south of Sydney in the early 1870s, speculation was rife and many politicians and their cronies, thinking the line would go through the Hacking River valley, bought the land that now makes up the Royal National Park.

  Whitton, however, selected the Bottle Forest route along the ridges to the west and the speculators were left holding worthless land. It seems that they had enough ‘friends’ in the government to stop construction of the line for some months when it reached Sutherland, hoping that Whitton could be convinced to change his mind. Whitton’s decision prevailed, as it usually did, and the line continued down through the Bottle Forest.

  Strange to say, the ‘kindly’ government purchased the land anyway and saved the speculators from financial loss. Apparently it was decided that what the colony needed was something unheard of at the time—a national park.

  JH

  THE FLYING GANG

  A.B. (BANJO) PATERSON

  The ‘ flying gang’ were the railway’s emergency crew. They sped down the line in a special train equipped with cranes and equipment to repair lines and remove damaged rolling stock and repair engines. Their expertise kept the railway running efficiently in spite of mishaps.

  I served my time, in the days gone by,

  In the railway’s clash and clang,

  And I worked my way to the end, and I

  Was the head of the ‘flying gang’.

  ’Twas a chosen band that was kept at hand

  In case of an urgent need;

  Was it south or north, we were started forth

  And away at our utmost speed.

  If word reached town that a bridge was down,

  The imperious summons rang—

  ‘Come out with the pilot engine
sharp,

  And away with the flying gang.’

  Then a piercing scream and a rush of steam

  As the engine moved ahead;

  With measured beat by the slum and street

  Of the busy town we fled,

  By the uplands bright and the homesteads white,

  With the rush of the western gale—

  And the pilot swayed with the pace we made

  As she rocked on the ringing rail.

  And the country children clapped their hands

  As the engine’s echoes rang,

  But their elders said: ‘There is work ahead

  When they send for the flying gang.’

  Then across the miles of the saltbush plain

  That gleamed with the morning dew,

  Where the grasses waved like the ripening grain

  The pilot engine flew—

  A fiery rush in the open bush

  Where the grade marks seemed to fly,

  And the order sped on the wires ahead,

  The pilot must go by.

  The Governor’s special must stand aside,

  And the fast express go hang;

  Let your orders be that the line is free

  For the boys in the flying gang.

  HOW SHELLHARBOUR BECAME DUNMORE

  RUSSELL HANNAH

  The railway station serving the south coast town of Shellharbour is known these days as Dunmore (Shellharbour). This has not always been the case, however; it was originally known simply as Shellharbour despite the fact that it is situated in the hamlet of Dunmore. Dunmore is made up of a dozen or so cottages that struggle up one side of Shellharbour Road, with a rural fire station tucked in between them. Dunmore’s chief claim to fame is that all the houses in the village back onto the municipal tip.

  On the other hand, the much more substantial ‘village’ of Shellharbour, situated 4 kilometres up the road and well out of sight of the station, is a thriving township and tourist resort. It has a pub, several clubs, restaurants, al fresco dining establishments, takeaways, schools and shops, and it attracts many tourists and travellers of all kinds.

  This is the story of how the name change from Shellharbour to Dunmore (Shellharbour) supposedly came about. It concerns David Hill, one-time general manager of the ABC and, for a time, chief executive of New South Wales State Rail.

  One day, David Hill had a strange notion for a state government chief executive officer: he decided it would be beneficial to his understanding of his job if he actually went out and experienced the joys of train travel from the point of view of an ordinary paying passenger. So, rather than travelling well-heralded in the pampered luxury of the commissioner’s special car, he would, once a month or so, select a destination from the list of stations and travel incognito, making notes and checking on staff, service and comfort as he went.

  Inevitably, one day his selection was Shellharbour and, thinking this would be a pleasant trip to a seaside resort, he boarded the train at Sydney’s Central Station and enjoyed the scenic trip down the coast.

  When he reached Shellharbour Station, however, he alighted from the train and found himself surrounded by cow paddocks. Now, David Hill was no dill. He noticed the straggle of houses on the other side of the road and realised immediately that this couldn’t possibly be the famous seaside resort town of Shellharbour, even though the station signs were telling him so. After all, he couldn’t even see the sea.

  This was back in the days when the railways actually employed a few people to man even the smaller stations. Sure enough, there, clad in an ill-fitting uniform and waiting to collect Hill’s ticket was a sixteen-year-old junior station assistant.

  ‘Well,’ said David Hill to the kid, ‘this clearly isn’t Shellharbour township.’

  ‘No, mate,’ replied the kid, who had no idea who he was talking to. ‘This is Dunmore.’

  ‘Ah, I see,’ said Hill. ‘Well, where’s Shellharbour?’

  The kid pointed up the Shellharbour Road and said, ‘It’s up the road there a bit, just over the hill—it’s about 4 kilometres away.’

  ‘That’s a bit strange, isn’t it?’ mused the boss of the railways. ‘Wouldn’t you think that they’d have built the station a bit closer to the town than this? Shellharbour Station would be much better closer to Shellharbour, wouldn’t it?’

  The junior station assistant looked at David Hill like he was a bit simple and said, ‘No, mate, it’s much better to have it down here, near the railway line.’

  Within weeks of the supremo’s visit the station got a name change to Dunmore (Shellharbour).

  THIN ICE

  RUSSELL HANNAH/JIM HAYNES (TOLD TO RUSSELL HANNAH BY A MATE)

  ‘Many years ago, in my youth, I was a painter for the Public Works Department, and one of our jobs was to travel the state painting small bush schools. We worked in gangs of two and, in general, it was a good job. The pay wasn’t great, but we received a pretty good living away from home allowance, most of which we were able to save, as the headmaster would generally let us camp in the weather shed. Of course, we got to see the inside of many country pubs, where we happily contributed our living expenses to the Publican’s Retirement Fund.

  ‘Now, one time we had to paint the school at a little place called Bardalungra. Bardalungra consisted of a few houses, a pub, a garage and general store combined and the obligatory one-teacher school. Bardalungra was a place destined for oblivion.

  ‘There was, of course, one more building, and that was the railway station. The station was small. A weatherboard waiting room attached to a signal box that contained all those mysterious levers that enable trains to pass when there’s a single line. Not that trains ever passed much at Bardalungra. It was a branch line that was serviced by a “mixed”—a goods train with a passenger carriage attached. The carriage was for those travellers who either had plenty of time for their journey or, like us, had a government rail warrant.

  ‘The old trundler was not noted for speed. It was also one of those trains that, for reasons I could never understand, would stop at irregular intervals. It would stop at sidings that barely existed, or even in what seemed to be open paddocks, and just stay there for a while.

  ‘The train only ran four times a week, except in harvest time, when a few trains were used to cart barley and wheat. That was the only time there was any other traffic on the line.

  ‘Well, my mate and myself caught the train to Bardalungra one stinking hot day. It was one of those days when you dream of swimming pools and cold beer. The only “air-conditioning” available was to open the windows, but the air outside was hotter than inside: that dry heat of summer in western New South Wales.

  ‘The irony of it all was that we had six bottles of beer with us that we’d bought the night before at a pub in Moree. We’d bought a dozen and for some reason still had six left when we finally hit the sack. Unfortunately, they were at least as hot as the air in the carriage, so we’d put off drinking them till we could find some suitable refrigeration.

  ‘Not surprisingly, we were the only people in the carriage. We soon struck up a conversation with the guard, as you always did on country trains back then. He was a large friendly character with a florid face, the kind of bloke who looked like he might like a cold drink on a hot day, or any other day for that matter. He soon left the guard’s van and joined us. It seemed he liked a bit of company—there being very few people travelling on the line—and it wasn’t long before he knew all there was to know about us and we knew all about him.

  ‘It also wasn’t long before he noticed our six large bottles of beer sitting on the seat. “I see you boys have got a bit of the good liquid refreshment there,” he said. “Are you going teetotal today?”

  ‘Now, our throats were pretty dry and our heads were a bit heavy from the previous night. We explained that, as much as we’d love a beer, we couldn’t bring ourselves to drink beer that was quite so hot.

  ‘“I can fix you up, lads,” he said. “I’ve g
ot some ice in the van—next stop I’ll pop back and bring some up.”

  ‘The guard’s van was separated from our carriage by several goods wagons and, as luck would have it, the next stop wasn’t far away. He soon disappeared back to his van and returned with a billy can half full of ice. Before too long we had the water glasses down from the carriage wall and were happily into our first bottle of cold beer. Naturally, the guard joined us. After all, it was a hot day.

  ‘It seemed that our new mate the guard had an endless supply of ice. At every stop he’d go back to his van and return with more ice in the billy. He wasn’t a bad drinker either. He certainly managed to put away his fair share of our beer.

  ‘After a while, we were on our last bottle and feeling quite affectionate towards our new mate, the railways, and the world in general. We were also regretting that we didn’t have another six bottles left over from the night before. When we expressed this opinion to the guard, he remarked that it was probably a good thing—as he was about to run out of ice.

  ‘Perhaps it was about then that I really began to wonder where this seemingly endless supply of ice had come from. It didn’t take long to find out.

  ‘The train soon made another of its interminable stops, at a small siding which had a name that thankfully I forget. The guard had left us to do “a bit of work” in his van.

  ‘As I leaned idly out the window, my belly full of cold beer, I noticed a black panel van and two well-dressed blokes standing by the siding. That’s funny, I thought to myself. That van looks like a hearse. I soon realised what “bit of work” the guard had returned to his van to do. As I watched, the doors of the guard’s van opened. Then, the two well-dressed blokes and the guard lifted a coffin out of the train and into the back of the black panel van.