OUTWARD BOUND

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 236, 24 December 1927, Page 11

OUTWARD BOUND

HOW HARRIED OFFICIALS HANDLE TRAFFIC AUCKLAND’S BUSY STATION A bell clangs, followed by the scream of a whistle. Wheels begin to move slowly; there is a confused babble of “Good-byes” and “Good luck.” That is practically all the onlooker sees of a departing express at Christmas time. He is conscious of extra activity; perhaps, in looking backward, lie collides with a pile of luggage or a weeping child, but let him look behind the scenes where the officials have been preparing for the departure of that train. Here incidents happen which .almost make strong men weep. At the last minute more and more : passengers arrive. They must go. ! Extra carriages must be provided. The Limited is the only train which cannot be altered; carriages can be put on to all the others. EXTRA CARRIAGES

Where do those extra carriages come from? That is what sometimes wor-j-ies Mr. H. Lowe, coaching foreman. It is his duty to see that the trains are made up. This evening will be his busiest time. Carriages will be needed for this train and that; some for Rotorua, some for Whangarei; some for the South-bound expresses. He will take carriages from trains which have just come in or from the suburban trains. Wherever he can he will take a car, for people must travel at Christmas time —and he sees that they do. And all the time there are trains coming and going. The platforms swarm with people and luggage; porters trundle heavily-laden trucks, almost hidden behind hillocks of bags; attendants vainly try to shake off inquiring travellers as they hurry to their duties; the inquiry men politely explain where out-of-the-way villages are in Hawke’s Bay or the South Island, and what trains will go there; the red-cap porters, like miniature beasts of burden, break into a jog-trot, followed by the ambling owners of the parcels they are carrying. “Pillows, a shilling each,” yell two attendants as they do record business. Last evening they disposed of 200 before the second express left for Wellington. TOWERS OF LUGGAGE

Other attendants gradually dig into the towers of luggage and fill the vans to the ceiling. “Why do they travel so much luggage?” these men ask as they swing giant packages on board without waiting for a reply. That stern-looking man in the blue suit and spectacles is Mr. J. C. Duncan, Auckland’s busy stationmaster.

All day long he has walked the platforms, disappearing into his office whenever he can to attend to his correspondence. He consults with his officials over this train and that; he answers thousands of questions each day; a clerk floats up to him with a bundle of papers, obtains what information he requires, and floats off again. Mr. Duncan, behind those spectacles, has a pair of eagle eyes. Nothing escapes him. He sees that this wants attention and that might be done —and it is. Like a young whirlwind Mr. W. Harley dashes along the platform. He is chief clerk in the booking office, and knows to the last unit how many travellers are going by each train. There is a consultation with the other heads of departments and another passenger is satisfied. Now comes Mr. J. Madden to see that all is correct in the mail-van. It is, and he, too, is satisfied. It is after seven o’clock, but these men have still a great deal to do. ROUND THE BARRIERS Round the barriers to the platform is a surging crowd, growing larger every minute. Slowly, clutching their bags of fruit and books and parcels, their flowers and their hats, the passengers melt through the barrier gates. To the minute the Limited glides out, a full train, or at least it was last evening. The second express is backed in. Once more order from apparent con* fusion. Passengers, except the hardened ones, are a fussy lot, and ask interminable questions. Yet they are answered, very politely, and the railways have made another friend. Another clang of the bell, another screech of the whistle, and the second express departs to a sea of waving hands. The only discordant note is a crying child who buries its tears in a watery-looking banana. And still it goes on. Still another train departs, and comparative quiet reigns until the goods trains get busy and the late trains leave for the suburbs. But it will all happen again tomorrow, only the congestion and the bustle will be worse. Only those Who have been behind the scenes at the Railway Station realise the conditions under which the officials work. There are only two lines out of the station across Beach Road, and hundreds of trains pass backwards and forward over that crossing every day. In addition to this wretched handicap there is a shortage of rolilng stock. Every passenger car available will be in use to-morrow and even then, to relieve the strain, many, many more are required. No, the departure of a train does not begin and end with the ringing of a bell.