News crew stopped at nothing to ‘get the shot’
That’s the name of the game when stakes are high
ON JUNE 1, 2022, CSX purchased Pan Am Railways — that’s purchased, not merged with — formerly Guilford, Springfield Terminal, née Boston & Maine, née Maine Central, a combination that early on also included the Delaware & Hudson. The CSX acquisition of Timothy Mellon’s Pan Am marked an important occasion as far as New England railroading is concerned. For me, it recalled another event some 40 years earlier, when Mellon’s Guilford Transportation Industries purchased Maine Central, followed by his purchase of the Boston & Maine, then consolidated the two under a single management.
On that occasion, those of us in the managerial ranks held great hopes and anticipation that such a combination would lead to a rejuvenation of the two companies, now one. New England railroads were the last holdouts in an era when their connections had evolved into large systems and railroading in general was evolving following the passage of the Staggers Act that deregulated the industry.
Maine Central was an anomaly of sorts, being a relatively small regional operation and more importantly, remaining profitable. It became the banker of the new company as it had credit. Mellon’s purchase of the B&M brought that company out of bankruptcy.
Setting the scene
To celebrate the consolidation, (the late) David Fink, Sr., president at the time, felt there should be a special train to showcase the new company, slated to begin on July 1, 1983. The four-car train was led by two Maine Central GP7s (No. 470 and No. 573, Maine Central’s remaining steam generator-equipped unit), now painted dark gray and lettered for their new owner.
On the morning of June 29, the train would leave from the parking lot behind Maine Central’s general office building, back to Mountain Junction just behind the train, and proceed up Maine Central’s scenic Mountain Division, soon to become a fatality of the acquisition. It would proceed to Whitefield, N.H., where it would join Boston & Maine’s line from Berlin, N.H., and continue west to the main line parallel to the Connecticut River to Greenfield, Mass., then to Boston for a brief onboard celebration on the 30th before returning to Portland that evening. The acquirement by
Mellon was big news back then. Railroad mergers were still viewed as important financial events, and this one held the promise of transforming rail transportation in Massachusetts and northern New England.
To Fink and Mellon, the trip was of such importance that, in addition to state officials — from Maine, New Hampshire and Vermont — members of the press were invited to ride. David Fink would be available to conduct interviews.
“Why not Timothy Mellon?” a reporter asked. “I’m prettier,” Fink replied.
Each of us accompanying the train was given a specific assignment. Mine was to babysit a television crew from the Boston office of NBC Nightly News and make sure they didn’t get hurt trying something stupid. Fred Briggs, NBC’s New England correspondent, along with his three-member crew, would ride from Portland to Whitefield. They would ride back to Boston in a car dispatched for them by NBC.
I knew Fred Briggs by sight, having seen him on TV countless times. As he was talking with his crew, I introduced myself and told him that I was his liaison. My job, as I explained to him, was to make sure they could shoot what they wanted, safely, of course, and to answer any questions. As I expected, there was nothing pretentious about the man; he was friendly and down to earth.
Lights, camera, action!
Could the camera crew take shots from the locomotive? I thought if they wanted to do that, the best time would be upon departure, although I explained that the lead locomotive’s cab might be tight. We had our road foreman as engineer running the engine and a trainmaster. The regular engine crew, an engineer and fireman, were riding in one of the coaches as they were still being paid — union rules. They could be interviewed, I told Briggs.
What I hadn’t realized was a classic cameraman’s tenet: Anything for the shot.
As it turned out, I took only the cameraman into the cab and returned just before departure. I was relieved. That was my first challenge, and it went well. But they “needed” more.
As the train departed, I found seats for the camera crew in the Champlain. This car, along with the business car 100, was traded with the D&H through a curious arrangement. The D&H was on its knees, financially, in debt to the State of New York and others, no doubt. The State had taken as collateral about everything of value belonging to the company in exchange for tax and financial assistance.
With the potential buyout of the D&H in Mellon’s plan, the D&H would become the westernmost component of the “system.” Maine Central, being the one of the three that had any money, bought D&H equipment so the bankrupt railroad could buy fuel for its fleet of locomotives, just one part of the deal.
David Fink, confident that New York would approve the sale to Guilford, told us that the D&H needed our help, so Maine Central purchased and exchanged some locomotives and rolling stock, i.e., the Champlain and the 100, but lettered for Guilford. Thus, both cars became part of the Guilford business train along with Maine Central’s quartet of cars (the business car No. 333, two former Penn Central stainless steel passenger coaches, and No. 322, a standard baggage coach with an electric generator).
Mission impossible
As the train gained speed, Briggs wanted to do interviews for background. While he was doing that, the camera crew asked if they could open one of the vestibule doors to shoot video. That seemed reasonable enough, I thought. They were Dutch doors that opened halfway, and the crew could shoot without difficulty. I was naïve. They wanted more than that.
Not satisfied with leaning out the door, the lead cameraman wanted me to open the trap so he could take a shot from close to the track. At any speed this was dangerous, and I apologized saying such a request was out of the question.
What I hadn’t realized was a classic cameraman’s tenet: Anything for the shot. They will do anything to get a good shot.
I told them it was too risky. If he were to fall out there would be Hell to pay, and I would never forgive myself.
With straight faces they protested that this was important and hailed, “We have insurance!” He said I could hold onto his belt while he sat on the lower vestibule step holding the camera down and out far enough to get the shot. “It’ll be very safe,” he exclaimed.
All this time, the train was moving along. His assistant even joined in and said, “I’ll hold you while you hold him.” Against my better judgment, I gave in. “BUT… for 10 seconds and you’re done!” I said.
They agreed. I sprung the trap, grabbed onto his belt at his back while the other guy grabbed my belt, and the three of us slowly and carefully got into position. The camera was rolling.
I realized in that time frame that if anyone walked by and saw what we were doing, my career was over. I still cringe after all these years. What was I thinking? I suppose at the time I justified it as doing what was good for the company as it was good publicity.
“Anything for the shot.” When 10 seconds were up, I yelled, “CUT!” He said it was good enough and retracted the camera. Somehow, we all got back into the vestibule without any problems. I closed the trap, shut the door, and swore both men to secrecy about what we had done. Nobody was to be told, not even Briggs.
We arrived at Whitefield after a great ride. Briggs, happy that he had an interview and great video, was assured. They thanked me for my assistance, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
Two nights later my father called me and said he saw the footage on the Nightly News. He asked me how they managed to get the down-at-track-level shots. I told him he didn’t want to know.