Iron on iron made a soul piercing screech followed by the tearing of sheet metal, the dripping of blood, and the final groans of a dying man as the train slammed to a stop several yards beyond the grade crossing. I didn’t witness the Poolville grade-crossing accident, but in my mind I could envision and hear it as I stood there observing the aftermath. “The inevitable,” I thought.

It was a cold, gray November afternoon in 1983 when I received the call on my pager: “Call dispatch…emergency.”

* * * * * * * *

That day, there was nothing that warned them of the approaching train. Just as the cab of the truck was centered over the tracks, the train barreled out from behind the Ogdon Farm Supply building and slammed into the passenger side of the small Datsun pickup, hurling it off to the side of the track in a crumpled heap, the broken and bleeding bodies of the three young men inside. They never saw it coming.

With a great thud, the twisted heap of metal hit the dirt and slid to a stop. Earl opened his eyes. There was blood and glass everywhere. Calvin and Tom were underneath him, flesh torn from their bodies and blood pulsing from the wounds. They gurgled as they tried to breathe, their lungs filling with blood. Earl writhed in pain from several broken ribs and other internal injuries as he tried to move. Shards of glass and torn metal were protruding from his legs and arms. Slowly, he pulled himself out of the mangled mess through the shattered windshield, staggering away from the carnage and screaming in agony. Charette approached him.

“I didn’t mean to hit you…the others are gone; they’re dead!” Charette blurted impassively, and then asked Earl if he wanted a cigarette.

In shock and overcome with pain and grief, Earl began sobbing uncontrollably. Someone led him to the fire truck, where he sat alone shivering and sobbing until the ambulance arrived. When the paramedics strapped him onto a backboard, his pain became unbearable and Earl begged for relief. The paramedics loaded him into the ambulance and, with sirens screaming, sped off for the hospital.

It had been headed north. Wheels and debris were strewn in a trail along the tracks behind the train.

I walked down the tracks to the intersection where Tybrinski and Charette were standing.

“Who was operating the train,” I asked Tybrinski.

“Charette,” he responded.

I looked at Charette.

“I gave a statement to the trooper,” Charette said, looking scared but acting cocky. “I was only going ten to fifteen miles per hour,” he added, and then asked, “Is Walter on the way?” I didn’t answer.

“This is an unguarded stop-and-flag crossing,” I thought as I stood there trying to estimate the distance from the crossing where the train collided with the vehicle to the spot where the train had finally stopped.

At a stop-and-flag crossing, railroad policy requires the engineer to signal by a series of long and short blasts of the train’s whistle when approaching the crossing and stop the train prior to entering the intersection to allow another crew member to get off and flag motorists down so the train could safely go through the intersection.

When the accident occurred, the Poolville crossing was a blind approach for cars traveling east on Willey Road , and there were no warning devices other than the white railroad crossbucks sign.

* * * * * * * *

Sure enough, in a matter of days, Walter was served with notice that the victims’ families had filed a wrongful death lawsuit against the railroad. The railroad was self-insured.

Walter came into my office, the notice of claim in hand, and shut the door. He looked nervous and upset and started talking about the accident and the lawsuit. He paused and then looked directly at me. “You’ll have to lie for us on this one,” he declared. Without saying another word, he turned and walked out.