Fate
The other day I went to Porto by car. I choose my speed (keeping an eye open to avoid traps), which roads I take, and whether I pay tolls. Generally, from home I can be there in two and a half hours. There is an alternative. I could also drive to Vigo in forty-five minutes, pay to park the car, and pay a round-trip ticket on the train, which then takes a little over two hours to reach Porto. Despite some tolls that are unavoidable if I want to get there faster, and the gas tank I have to fill (though then I have gas for another week), I consider going by car the best option.
It's not the safest. As we are constantly being told, driving a car is one of the most dangerous transportation options. But, sometimes, the opposite is true. Yesterday morning, the train that leaves Vigo for Porto at nine in the morning had an accident just before reaching O Porriño, still in Spain. Four people died, the engineer, a conductor, a conductor-in-training, and an American tourist. It's not sure how it happened, but the train was being shunted onto another track, and it derailed before crashing into a post. Over forty injured people were taken to different hospitals in the Vigo area, and most were sent home already. The first images of the scene reminded me of the train accident in Santiago three years ago, when people who lived nearby went to the still smouldering train to try to help people in the wreckage.
Of course, there's never a way of knowing when an accident will happen. And they have happened. Even if an accident just takes one life, it's serious enough. But when the exact number will never be known, it becomes a tragedy beyond words. That's what happened in 1944, in Spain's unofficially largest train accident. At that time, during Franco's heyday, information was tightly controlled, and it would never do to bring to light the exact deplorable condition of Spain's infrastructure. The official number of dead was 78, one less than in the accident in Santiago three years ago. But the real death toll has been estimated to be around 250 people, though some estimates reach between 500 and 800 victims.
It was the third of January, 1944. Spain's Civil War had ended almost five years earlier. Political prisoners were being used to reconstruct what had been destroyed, including roads and railways. But there was a World War going on, and Franco had joined his buddies, Hitler and Mussolini. There wasn't enough raw material to rebuild and maintain infrastructure as it should be. Franco's buddies were finding it difficult to maintain their own troops, and could send him nothing. Argentina, neutral but unofficially allied with Germany, was sending shipments of food that were keeping off starvation in the largest cities. But that was all they could do without losing their neutrality.
It was around Christmas time. Christmas Day and New Year's had gone by, but Epiphany was still coming up. People have always traditionally travelled home at that time. 1944 was no exception. Many people piled on the train to A Coruña and Vigo in Madrid. Overbooking was not known at the time. You bought a ticket, and if no seats were available, you sat or stood in the corridors or on the platforms between the train cars. Being such a busy time of year, many people were squeezed onto the train, even in first class. When the train set out, there were problems with the brakes on the engine. Another engine was added, to help in the braking. As a consequence, the train was late. At that time, the track was a single track, with shuntings where an oncoming train would wait for another to go by before reincorporating onto the track.
It was late, and was made even later when they had to stop in Astorga to recheck the brakes, which were still not working correctly. But the engine with the working brakes had to be uncoupled a little distance later because a grease box was becoming too hot. Instead of waiting for another engine, the decision was made to continue with the faulty brakes. It must be understood that most of the railway workers before and during the Civil War had been unionized and had opposed Franco and fought for the Republic. Those that remained, and new ones that were hired, were very closely watched for any sign of sabotage or mud-slinging against something as important to the regime as the national railway system. That included finishing a journey on time, even with faulty material. Probably scared for their jobs and their freedom, the engineers decided to continue, trusting in God that nothing worse than arriving late would happen.
So they continued, and the inevitable occurred. They lost braking power completely, in the hills of El Bierzo. They signalled to the station at Torre del Bierzo that they were coming through without any brakes. There was a tunnel there, and there was an engine with three wagons still in the tunnel. The engineer of that train poured on the coal to hasten his speed so he could shunt the train onto side tracks outside the tunnel. But there was no time. The train from Madrid roared through into the tunnel, and hit the last wagon of the other train at full speed, derailing and catching fire. Inside the tunnel were two wagons with luggage and mail, and two first class carriages. A mixed first and second class carriage was half in, half out of the tunnel, lying on its side. Six third class carriages were outside the tunnel, and the ones that suffered the least damage.
But fate didn't stop there. In the opposite direction a cargo train was approaching. The crash inside the tunnel had cut off the wires, and no one could radio the engineer that he had to stop. As he came briefly out of a tunnel, just before entering the ill-fated tunnel, he saw the engineer of the first train trying to get him to stop. But it was too late; there wasn't enough braking space. The cargo train rammed into first train, and the carnage inside the tunnel became complete.
No one could help those trapped inside the tunnel. The coal engine burst into flames upon impact, and the wagons and carriages, made of wood, burned merrily. Those trapped in the unventilated tunnel had no chance of survival. The fire continued for three days, and the extraction of bodies, and body parts, continued for a week. Most could never be identified; they were reduced to bones, and their clothes and identity documents devoured in the fire. Immediately after the accident, soldiers and officials descended upon the scene and would not allow any reporter near the area. The next day the only thing in the newspapers was a small article saying 26 were dead, and some more bodies were being pulled from the rubble. Nothing more was made public. Renfe, the Spanish train company, officially declared 78 passengers and workers had died. But local people and survivors said many, many more had died. They had seen hundred of bodies being carried away from the area.
After the accident in Santiago three years ago, a reporter tracked down a survivor from Torre del Bierzo. His name is Federico Justo Mendez, and he lives in Verín, Ourense. He was on the train in 1944, along with his mother and his three sisters. At the time he was nine years old, and his family was living in Asturias, where his father worked in a coal mine. There was little food, so his father sent them back to Galicia, where the family farm could sustain them. Their wagon trains from Asturias were coupled to the ill-fated train in León. Consequently, they were at the end of the train and all five of them survived. But he saw scenes that would stay with him for the rest of his life. Being among the able-bodied, they tried to help those trapped in the tunnel, but could only be witnesses to the cries and the screams as the smoke grew thicker and the heat became unbearable. People on fire came stumbling out of the tunnel. Federico tried to help a boy his age, but the boy died in his arms.
The regime covered up the tragedy as well as it could. In consequence, there were people who never knew what had happened to their loved ones. Officially, they were not among the dead at Torre del Bierzo, and the families could not ask. At least the families of the four who died yesterday will know the reasons for their loss, and will be able to have those responsible, accountable.
It's not the safest. As we are constantly being told, driving a car is one of the most dangerous transportation options. But, sometimes, the opposite is true. Yesterday morning, the train that leaves Vigo for Porto at nine in the morning had an accident just before reaching O Porriño, still in Spain. Four people died, the engineer, a conductor, a conductor-in-training, and an American tourist. It's not sure how it happened, but the train was being shunted onto another track, and it derailed before crashing into a post. Over forty injured people were taken to different hospitals in the Vigo area, and most were sent home already. The first images of the scene reminded me of the train accident in Santiago three years ago, when people who lived nearby went to the still smouldering train to try to help people in the wreckage.
Of course, there's never a way of knowing when an accident will happen. And they have happened. Even if an accident just takes one life, it's serious enough. But when the exact number will never be known, it becomes a tragedy beyond words. That's what happened in 1944, in Spain's unofficially largest train accident. At that time, during Franco's heyday, information was tightly controlled, and it would never do to bring to light the exact deplorable condition of Spain's infrastructure. The official number of dead was 78, one less than in the accident in Santiago three years ago. But the real death toll has been estimated to be around 250 people, though some estimates reach between 500 and 800 victims.
It was the third of January, 1944. Spain's Civil War had ended almost five years earlier. Political prisoners were being used to reconstruct what had been destroyed, including roads and railways. But there was a World War going on, and Franco had joined his buddies, Hitler and Mussolini. There wasn't enough raw material to rebuild and maintain infrastructure as it should be. Franco's buddies were finding it difficult to maintain their own troops, and could send him nothing. Argentina, neutral but unofficially allied with Germany, was sending shipments of food that were keeping off starvation in the largest cities. But that was all they could do without losing their neutrality.
It was around Christmas time. Christmas Day and New Year's had gone by, but Epiphany was still coming up. People have always traditionally travelled home at that time. 1944 was no exception. Many people piled on the train to A Coruña and Vigo in Madrid. Overbooking was not known at the time. You bought a ticket, and if no seats were available, you sat or stood in the corridors or on the platforms between the train cars. Being such a busy time of year, many people were squeezed onto the train, even in first class. When the train set out, there were problems with the brakes on the engine. Another engine was added, to help in the braking. As a consequence, the train was late. At that time, the track was a single track, with shuntings where an oncoming train would wait for another to go by before reincorporating onto the track.
It was late, and was made even later when they had to stop in Astorga to recheck the brakes, which were still not working correctly. But the engine with the working brakes had to be uncoupled a little distance later because a grease box was becoming too hot. Instead of waiting for another engine, the decision was made to continue with the faulty brakes. It must be understood that most of the railway workers before and during the Civil War had been unionized and had opposed Franco and fought for the Republic. Those that remained, and new ones that were hired, were very closely watched for any sign of sabotage or mud-slinging against something as important to the regime as the national railway system. That included finishing a journey on time, even with faulty material. Probably scared for their jobs and their freedom, the engineers decided to continue, trusting in God that nothing worse than arriving late would happen.
So they continued, and the inevitable occurred. They lost braking power completely, in the hills of El Bierzo. They signalled to the station at Torre del Bierzo that they were coming through without any brakes. There was a tunnel there, and there was an engine with three wagons still in the tunnel. The engineer of that train poured on the coal to hasten his speed so he could shunt the train onto side tracks outside the tunnel. But there was no time. The train from Madrid roared through into the tunnel, and hit the last wagon of the other train at full speed, derailing and catching fire. Inside the tunnel were two wagons with luggage and mail, and two first class carriages. A mixed first and second class carriage was half in, half out of the tunnel, lying on its side. Six third class carriages were outside the tunnel, and the ones that suffered the least damage.
But fate didn't stop there. In the opposite direction a cargo train was approaching. The crash inside the tunnel had cut off the wires, and no one could radio the engineer that he had to stop. As he came briefly out of a tunnel, just before entering the ill-fated tunnel, he saw the engineer of the first train trying to get him to stop. But it was too late; there wasn't enough braking space. The cargo train rammed into first train, and the carnage inside the tunnel became complete.
No one could help those trapped inside the tunnel. The coal engine burst into flames upon impact, and the wagons and carriages, made of wood, burned merrily. Those trapped in the unventilated tunnel had no chance of survival. The fire continued for three days, and the extraction of bodies, and body parts, continued for a week. Most could never be identified; they were reduced to bones, and their clothes and identity documents devoured in the fire. Immediately after the accident, soldiers and officials descended upon the scene and would not allow any reporter near the area. The next day the only thing in the newspapers was a small article saying 26 were dead, and some more bodies were being pulled from the rubble. Nothing more was made public. Renfe, the Spanish train company, officially declared 78 passengers and workers had died. But local people and survivors said many, many more had died. They had seen hundred of bodies being carried away from the area.
After the accident in Santiago three years ago, a reporter tracked down a survivor from Torre del Bierzo. His name is Federico Justo Mendez, and he lives in Verín, Ourense. He was on the train in 1944, along with his mother and his three sisters. At the time he was nine years old, and his family was living in Asturias, where his father worked in a coal mine. There was little food, so his father sent them back to Galicia, where the family farm could sustain them. Their wagon trains from Asturias were coupled to the ill-fated train in León. Consequently, they were at the end of the train and all five of them survived. But he saw scenes that would stay with him for the rest of his life. Being among the able-bodied, they tried to help those trapped in the tunnel, but could only be witnesses to the cries and the screams as the smoke grew thicker and the heat became unbearable. People on fire came stumbling out of the tunnel. Federico tried to help a boy his age, but the boy died in his arms.
The regime covered up the tragedy as well as it could. In consequence, there were people who never knew what had happened to their loved ones. Officially, they were not among the dead at Torre del Bierzo, and the families could not ask. At least the families of the four who died yesterday will know the reasons for their loss, and will be able to have those responsible, accountable.
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| Soldiers stacking bodies on an auxiliary train. |
Sad sad sad.
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