DISASTERS: A Lousy Way to Die

For one fleeting moment, driving from his home in Rumson, N.J. to the Jersey Central railroad station at Red Bank, New York Stockbroker Paul Land, 48, was tempted to turn around and spend the sunny day at home. But when Jersey Central’s No. 3314 rumbled in at 9:16. Paul Land was there as he had been nearly every working day for 15 years. As he had for 15 years, he climbed aboard the second ancient coach of five, took the second seat on the left-hand side, unfolded the New York Times, and settled back for the 57-minute run to Jersey City, where he would get the Manhattan-bound ferry across the Hudson.

Fate had likewise toyed with some of

Paul Land’s 100 fellow passengers. George (“Snuffy”) Stirnweiss, longtime speedy New York Yankee second baseman (1943-50) turned businessman, got on at Red Bank, bound for a lunch date in the city. At the Deal station Attorney Leonard Fisch, 50, climbed aboard; it was Rosh Hashana, a Jewish holy day, and Fisch was going into Manhattan to spend it with his father.

Unaccountably, It Rolled. Everything seemed normal as Engineer Lloyd F. Wilburn, 63, pulled out of Elizabethport at 9:57, right on schedule, with a wave to Towerman Joe Halliday, and headed east toward Newark Bay and the Jersey Central’s 1.4-mile, four-track trestle and drawbridge.

But everything was not normal. Unaccountably, at a speed of 30 m.p.h. or more, No. 3314 rolled on through three successive signal lights—three clear warnings that a 300-ft. drawbridge span was open. Then, just short of gaping space, the train was derailed by an automatic safety device, bumped along the ties and plunged 40 ft. down to the bay.

Great gaseous bubbles of oil and blood erupted, bringing up torn bodies and a ghastly debris. Two diesel engines and the first two coaches lay 35 ft. under water. The third coach, hooked on a bridge abutment, dangled crazily at 80°. Down in the second coach, Broker Land, a nonswimmer, drifted to a small air pocket at the top of the coach and filled his lungs. “What a lousy way to die.” he thought. Then he found a window, kicked it out, and surged suddenly up to the surface and a helicopter’s rescue line.

Where Was the Fireman? Some of the commuters were as lucky as Land. One arm and one foot broken. Trainman Joe McDonald struggled to the door of the first coach and, in a welter of lifeless bodies, floated up to sunlight. Lloyd Nelson, 33. of Little Silver, N.J.. a survivor of the Pennsylvania Railroad wreck at Woodbridge, N.J. in 1951 (84 dead), had got a window open before his coach splashed into the bay. From the dangling car some passengers crawled hand over hand up the luggage racks to take rescuing ropes and hands. But Snuffy Stirnweiss died at the bottom of the bay. So did Attorney Fisch. Dead, too, were Engineer Wilburn and Fireman Peter Andrew, 42.

What had happened to change a routine run into disaster? One answer came clear when an autopsy on Engineer Wilburn showed evidence of hypertensive heart disease—suggesting that he had died suddenly of a heart attack. But where was Fireman Andrew, whose duty it was to check his engineer past all three warning signals—and in an emergency take over himself?

By week’s end the toll had risen to 48 dead, some 50 injured. And the New Jersey Public Utilities Commission belatedly ordered ”dead man” devices—which automatically halt a train when the engineer relaxes control—installed on all passenger trains.