Post by wildfire on Feb 15, 2005 8:35:39 GMT -5
Jack and Jim were the best of friends. Devoted. Inseparable.
So when Jim lost both his legs in a railroad accident, Jack did everything he could to help.
At first, Jim was certain his career with the railroad was finished. Then the company gave him another job . . . as a signalman. His outpost was to be a lonely little stop, more than two hundred miles from anywhere.
Jack went along to be whatever help he could be on the new job. Anything he could to help his crippled friend.
But the lengths of self-sacrifice to which Jack was willing to go are the rest of the story.
Jim had come out of the hospital with no legs. He’d barely recovered from the trauma of a double amputation when the railroad had given him the new assignment.
Jim would live in a little wooden shack about a hundred and fifty yards from the signal tower. It was going to be lonely out there. And there would be myriad difficulties and adjustments.
But Jack would help, for a while anyway. It was hoped, for long enough for Jim to overcome those initial difficulties and make those first adjustments.
In the beginning, Jack stuck around mostly for company. He swept out the shack and pumped water from the well, and tended the garden and made himself useful in all the ways legless Jim could not.
There was a little trolley, a single-seater that lead from the shack to the signal tower. Jack pushed Jim on the trolley several times a day and stood there while Jim operated the big levers in sequence. And, eventually, Jack got so familiar with Jim’s schedule that he began to walk out and operate the signal system himself.
Sure enough, pretty soon , in addition to house cleaning and the rest, Jack gradually began to take over all these duties for the railroad . . . though officially he was not an employee!
There was a lot to remember on that job, a lot to be done. If a “point” had to be adjusted farther up the line, Jack would have to listen for a passing engine, flag him down and give him a special key to make the adjustment.
Daily responsibilities at the signal tower included working the levers that set the signals, as well as the tower control that opened and closed siding switches.
There was a lot going on at the lonely little outpost, and soon Jack was doing all the work. But he never complained. After all, Jim was his friend. Jim had just gone through a terrible ordeal. It was the least Jack could do . . . For a while, anyway.
But a while turned to weeks, and weeks turned to months and months turned to years.
For more than nine years Jack kept house for Jim. Jack pumped water from the well, tended the garden, trudged out to the signal tower each day to operate the heavy equipment.
Until one day, after a bout with tuberculosis, Jack died.
But in those years, Jack, who had never before worked on the railroad . . . Jack, who had never before seen a signal tower in his life . . . never made a mistake.
In nine years, he never threw a switch incorrectly . . . he never sided a car in error. In nine years, there was not one accident or even a narrow miss on the Port Elizabeth main line . . . because of Jack.
Jack is buried in Cape Colony, South Africa not far from the outpost where he worked for almost a decade . . . for his love of his friend. His grave is a silent testimony to selflessness.
And I don’t think I mentioned that Jack . . . the friend who cleaned house and pumped water and tended garden and manned the switch tower that ran the railroad . . . was not a man at all.
He was . . . a baboon.
So when Jim lost both his legs in a railroad accident, Jack did everything he could to help.
At first, Jim was certain his career with the railroad was finished. Then the company gave him another job . . . as a signalman. His outpost was to be a lonely little stop, more than two hundred miles from anywhere.
Jack went along to be whatever help he could be on the new job. Anything he could to help his crippled friend.
But the lengths of self-sacrifice to which Jack was willing to go are the rest of the story.
Jim had come out of the hospital with no legs. He’d barely recovered from the trauma of a double amputation when the railroad had given him the new assignment.
Jim would live in a little wooden shack about a hundred and fifty yards from the signal tower. It was going to be lonely out there. And there would be myriad difficulties and adjustments.
But Jack would help, for a while anyway. It was hoped, for long enough for Jim to overcome those initial difficulties and make those first adjustments.
In the beginning, Jack stuck around mostly for company. He swept out the shack and pumped water from the well, and tended the garden and made himself useful in all the ways legless Jim could not.
There was a little trolley, a single-seater that lead from the shack to the signal tower. Jack pushed Jim on the trolley several times a day and stood there while Jim operated the big levers in sequence. And, eventually, Jack got so familiar with Jim’s schedule that he began to walk out and operate the signal system himself.
Sure enough, pretty soon , in addition to house cleaning and the rest, Jack gradually began to take over all these duties for the railroad . . . though officially he was not an employee!
There was a lot to remember on that job, a lot to be done. If a “point” had to be adjusted farther up the line, Jack would have to listen for a passing engine, flag him down and give him a special key to make the adjustment.
Daily responsibilities at the signal tower included working the levers that set the signals, as well as the tower control that opened and closed siding switches.
There was a lot going on at the lonely little outpost, and soon Jack was doing all the work. But he never complained. After all, Jim was his friend. Jim had just gone through a terrible ordeal. It was the least Jack could do . . . For a while, anyway.
But a while turned to weeks, and weeks turned to months and months turned to years.
For more than nine years Jack kept house for Jim. Jack pumped water from the well, tended the garden, trudged out to the signal tower each day to operate the heavy equipment.
Until one day, after a bout with tuberculosis, Jack died.
But in those years, Jack, who had never before worked on the railroad . . . Jack, who had never before seen a signal tower in his life . . . never made a mistake.
In nine years, he never threw a switch incorrectly . . . he never sided a car in error. In nine years, there was not one accident or even a narrow miss on the Port Elizabeth main line . . . because of Jack.
Jack is buried in Cape Colony, South Africa not far from the outpost where he worked for almost a decade . . . for his love of his friend. His grave is a silent testimony to selflessness.
And I don’t think I mentioned that Jack . . . the friend who cleaned house and pumped water and tended garden and manned the switch tower that ran the railroad . . . was not a man at all.
He was . . . a baboon.