The King and I – Leo Brown

A Pannier tank enters the south end of the 109yard Blue Rock Tunnel, encountering its right-hand curvature. (Photo: Bob Barnett)

cut in half under the wheels of our loco. Stay down!”

It occurred to me that I did not have much choice in the matter as Jim leaned across to hold me to the footplate. I had not enough air in my lungs to fight him and wondered where he had found enough to come across the cab and grab me. I now resigned myself to my fate. I was going to die on the footplate of this loco.

After what seemed to be an eternity, we emerged from the tunnel and the eerie yellow fog slid back over the side of the cab from where it had come. I felt as if I had just been woken from a nightmare.

Sticking my head over the side of the cab, I noticed that the silver metal of the handbrake had gone the characteristic yellow from the sulphur. As I looked back the smoke was swirling up off the wagons behind our loco as, one by one, they came into view. For the rest of the day and for the first time, I went without a cigarette.

Having travelled through these tunnels from the age of ten with my driver father, I had never experienced anything so bad before or since.

This article was written by Bob Barnett and is reproduced courtesy of Forgotten Relics

The King and I

Leo Brown

Before my father died, we had a session together and put this piece together for publication in "The King's Messenger" - published by the 6024 Society. It provides an account of a first trip from Plymouth to London as a 20-year old fireman on a King. It was many years ago, yes, way back in 1944, before the GWR was nationalised. I was a young fireman in the junior links at Laira depot, in Plymouth. With little experience of main line passenger work, I was finding everything a challenge, but not as big as the challenge on that summer's day in 1944. I was only 20 at the time, only just out of my teens and Britain was at war. I had hankered after the RAF and Spitfires, but a finger injury and the essential war effort contribution of the railways had prevented me leaving to join up.

That particular week, I had already done two trips Plymouth to Truro on local passenger trains. These trips had been firing to a top link driver by the name of Charlie Cuthbert - long since departed to that great roundhouse in the sky. On our second trip, he mentioned that he was booked to London the following day - no less a train than 'The Cornish Riviera Limited', though always fondly known as "The Limited" - Limited referring to the limited stops and timescale to complete the journey. It was the flagship Express of the GWR's west country arm! Charlie had asked me as his regular fireman was on leave. This in itself was an unusual request, as the roster clerk always booked the top-link spare-man to these turns. Nevertheless, with perhaps a bit of apprehension on both my part and the roster clerk's part, I was booked onto that turn of duty. Needless to say, there was a fair amount of trepidation on my part!

We booked on at 10:45am the following day. First task was to prepare the loco, which was 6020, 'King Henry IV', resplendent in her green livery and GWR crests, a real tribute to the cleaners at Laira. Wartime or no, the loco to haul 'The Limited' was at least going to look her best. Whether she was to perform at her best was going to be down ultimately to the two of us. We had a couple of extra tubs of coal piled high on the tender as it was to be Plymouth to Paddington (almost) non-stop. 6020 was still carrying her single chimney then, modifications to the double blastpipe being still some 12 years away. We rode tender first into Plymouth to pick up the three coaches making up the Plymouth portion. The Cornish portion duly arrived behind a Castle,

6020 King Henry IV on Saunderton Bank (now with double-chimney)

though I paid only scant attention to it, being preoccupied with getting a good fire set in for the start of our journey. The amalgamated train was some 365 tons, so we had an assist engine on the front of us, one of the old 34XX Bulldog type locos. Somehow now, the look of the can of tea, a couple of bottles of water and some sandwiches in my box didn't look enough to get me through to London.

With heart throbbing waiting for the right of way, a good clean fire, a full boiler and blowing off, we waited the “Right Away” from the guard. Then there was a minor explosion as the gauge glass had broken. This was not the first time I had experienced this happening but, as we left Plymouth on the stroke of 12:30pm, I had to set to and replace the offending glass - no problem except I do remember everything being always so hot to handle. The GWR motto that "nothing stops the Limited" had to be maintained! Leaving the fire to attend to the glass was absolutely necessary, but I do remember thinking I was already neglecting the fire and would we pay for it when we tackled Hemerdon bank in a few miles. Confidence returned as we mounted the summit of Hemerdon, though we had disturbed the wildlife in the woods towards the summit in doing so!

With previous knowledge of the route as far as Taunton, I had no problems apart from the sheer hard work of it all. The assist driver was in too much of a hurry going down the bank from Dainton to Newton Abbot and the King gave rather a heavy lurch around the curve at Stonecombe, where Charlie fell off the seat

The Limited with it’s Bulldog Assist Engine

on to the footplate, none too pleased with the rock and roll. The assist engines crew had all the responsibility for braking - we were just left with delivering the power!

We came to a stop at Newton Abbot West, outside the station, where the Bulldog was uncoupled and moved off into the station. We went through the station on the up through road, now long since disappeared under a car park! After the banks of South Devon, the line to Exeter was relatively easy going with several speed restrictions along the coast owing to the severe curves. It was a chance to build the fire up with a steady rhythm - one to the left, one to the right, just inside the firebox doors. No point in wasting energy in throwing it down the box - the vibration of the King would do that for me. Even so, the sound of a shovelful hitting the tube plate in a fit of exertion is still a satisfying sound, occasionally!

Being a summer day, and warm as well, there was a fair bit of coal dust to keep at bay. South Wales steam coal was a good quality coal to have but was liable to being dusty under those conditions. After passing through Exeter the going got harder with the climb to the summit into Whiteball Tunnel. Through the tunnel, I left my beloved Devon behind, and burst out into the sunlight in Somerset. The toils of Whiteball had taken their inevitable toll on the boiler. Maybe this was due to my inexperience, but I hasten to add that Charlie was not renowned as one of the lightest of drivers. Maybe that had something to do with why nobody wanted to get me off this turn in the first place?

We had already picked up water at Powderham Troughs which I knew quite well, but I now headed into unfamiliar territory. At Creech Troughs and a speed of 70 mph, I needed a fair amount of strength to operate the water scoop. Time lost in taking water on meant extra effort to maintain a very demanding fire now. Firing rate had to be constant and consistent if I were to keep on top of the job.

Being in unfamiliar territory, I had to rely on Charlie to tell me what the road was in front of us. A further 40-minute climb followed to take us to the top of Brewham. The subsequent descent to Westbury gave some respite and allowed the opportunity to regain the boiler. Water taken on at Taunton earlier was lasting well but, once again, it was a wrestle with the scoop at Fairwood troughs. A chance to see a lineside post told me that we had completed half of the journey. The thought of another half to go, though, started raising doubts in my mind as to whether I was going to last out. The comment from Charlie that we had another 40 minutes "against the collar" could have been the end of it all, but it seemed to be just the spur I needed at that time. 6020 was steaming well - as most Kings did. The credit must be due in part to the Collet's design of the King, for an inexperienced fireman certainly would be unable to take all the credit. The best accolade came sometime later when, on reaching the top of Savernake, Charlie looked across and said, "Well done! Very seldom do you get to the top of Savernake with water up the top of the gauge!" It was many years after that when I was a regular at this type of turn that I realised why you don't have a boiler full at this point as the gradient all the way to Reading is more or less falling and you could keep the loco quiet and not waste steam. I do remember grabbing the sandwiches at that point and eating them with hands that were as black as the coal I was shovelling. The tea and water had long since disappeared! Continuous hard work on the shovel left no time to see much of what else was happening. Though our booked speeds were around the 80mph mark, I had little idea of actual speeds, the speedometer being tucked away over the reverser screw.

A last water pickup at Aldermaston Troughs and we were well on the way to the through road at Reading and then the last 36 miles due east to Paddington. I remember that it was still punishing along this stretch, even though the road is again, more or less, level. I was showing signs of exhaustion, not only from the physical work, but from the stress of maintaining the King at full steam, though we had not had to resort to using the blower. Indeed, we were not to use the blower for the whole trip.

After Slough, things became a little easier, as the fire had to be worked down to go into Paddington. This would allow the boiler to be kept quiet while standing in Paddington as passengers were detraining and passing us on their way to the exit. Nevertheless, the long poker had to be used to level the fire over the firebox. The last call for that bit of extra effort and the fire was levelled. The feeling of such satisfaction at being nearly there gave me that little bit of required extra strength. Watching the passengers detrain at Paddington, I felt somewhat sad that none of them really realised what had been going on at the footplate. In later trips, there was sometimes a comment from a passenger, but this time there was to be none.

We had arrived at number 8 Platform in Paddington, alas not on time, but 4 minutes late at 4:46pm. Speed restrictions and a couple