The Colonial Collision

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"GET YOUR COAT and let's go," the mother told her young daughter.

It was good advice. Yes, amid the screams and the shouting of the worst accident in Amtrak history--last week's crash of the Boston-bound "Colonial"--people were actually elbowing one another to get to their luggage.

During the moments before the crash, which left 15 dead and more than 170 injured, I was sitting in the ninth car of the Colonial contemplating moving to a non-smoking car further ahead. It was in those cars, near the front of the train, that the 15 lost their lives. Earlier, I had moved from an uncomfortable car nearer the rear of the train.

I remember an amiable conductor collecting tickets right before the crash. I heared him say to one passenger anxious to get to his destination, "Don't look so worried, it's not that bad." His words to a young couple directly behind me were, "Move to one of the first three cars for Springfield." These were ominous words.

MINUTES LATER, IT happened. There was a sudden jolt and the shrill screech of breaking wheels amid screams and falling luggage. One encountered what can only be described as a violent roller coaster ride with intense vibration and heavy rumbling as metal grated on gravel.

I could see the cars ahead swaying uncontrollably off the track. Surely we had reached the bridge and were plummeting into the water far below.

I sighed with relief following the train's stop. By pushing myself away from the seat in front of me, I had kept myself free of injury during the brief and rugged ride. My fear of death subsided.

But a new fear arose at the sight of flames on the track. I decided to exit quickly, leaving coat and luggage behind. My car, tilted on an incline, was the scene of panic. Some passengers scrambled to leave while others searched for the belongings among the luggage which had been strewn through the aisle.

Jumping off at the entrance to my car, I landed in the bed of gravel on which the tracks rest. Sliding down the steep slope toward the soft mud below, I stepped over several cables. Fortunately, they were not carrying current.

Away from the wreckage, I was out of danger. I counted nine cars derailed. At the front of the train, in a horrifying scene, five cars had become a single heap of metal. Within minutes, fire trucks and helicopters arrived. Rescue workers kept passengers away from the train and began the gruesome task of rescue work.

As travellers marched through the mud to the Twin River Community Center, which doubled as an emergency shelter, others searched frantically for loved ones.

"Where's your father, Tommy?" one said. "Where's my son? Oh, God," said another.

Passengers occasionally interrupted rescue workers, who were looking for survivors trapped in the wreckage and trying to put out fires that had broken out in two locations. They wanted to know how they could get to their destination, how long they would have to wait or the details of what happened.

My last view of the wreckage occurred before boarding a bus that took me to the volunteer fire department. By this time, it was dark. Flood lights surrounding the wreckage highlighted the dented metal and the blood that was everywhere.

The road leading from the site of the wreck was lined with fire trucks, ambulances, police cars and other emergency vehicles for more than a mile. Traffic was tied up throughout the area. All I could see were flashing lights.

SURVIVORS WERE TOLD they would receive free transit to their final destination and had the option of leaving that night if they were bound for New York City. Other passengers were put up at the Sheraton Hotel in Baltimore's Inner Harbor. Most of the passengers were travelling by themselves and were given single rooms.

As the passengers sat and waited in a large auditorium for their room assignments, the officials asked if couples would like to share a double room. Several "yes" answers were greeted with a few snickers. When a group of middle-aged nuns asked if they could remain together, the passengers in the back of the auditorium laughed, and one made a rude comment.

I arrived at the Sheraton at about 12:15 a.m. I spent the rest of the night watching T.V. and listening to the radio, trying to find out exactly what had happened to Train 94. There was no briefing for the passengers. I didn't know for sure that the train I was riding in had hit three Conrail locomotives until I talked with my parents on the telephone later that night.

An Amtrak official was supposed to contact passengers during the night to discuss individual problems. But no one called me. I only found out from the local news that passengers would be transported by bus from the front of the hotel the following morning. Twenty-eight hours after I was to have arrived, I walked into my Quincy House dorm room.

I've taken the train between my home in D.C. and Boston close to a dozen times during the past two years, and I'll probably take it again. I really don't know.

Vernon A. Holmes '88 is a Biochemistry concentrator residing in Quincy House.