OPENING ANNOUNCEMENT

  On the morning of September 3rd, a telephone was picked up in Whitehall, and one word was spoken into it.

  Two days previously, the Minister of Transport had taken control of the railways, and on receipt of that word British railways switched over from a peace basis to a highly complicated war-time footing. This they could do because they were prepared. Nearly two years before that, when most people in this country were burying their heads in sand, the controlling officers of the four main British railways had been asked to draw up plans. Behind these men were one hundred years of tradition and experience, one hundred years of planning and preparing against breakdowns, derailments, storms, landslides, against acts of God and acts of man. To look ahead was part of their job. And in 1938, they looked ahead and took a picture of what they saw to the Government.

  The Government listened. The four main systems began to work secretly - the L.M.S., the L.N.E.R., the G.W.R., and the Southern. The competition of peace-time was forgotten - resources were joined. So that on September 3rd, plans - detailed and thorough as far as man's foresight could make them - were ready to be lifted out of a safe.

  Since that day, British railways have laboured unceasingly - and, at times, desperately. For not all things could be foreseen - not Dunkirk, nor the gigantic North African Expedition.

  It is fitting, when the railways are dealing with their greatest task, that tribute should be paid to their work. To do so is not easy, for railways are immensely complicated. To crush them into a sixty minutes framework is impossible. In that time we can give only a glimpse of their efforts - a glimpse of the traffic, the labours, the difficulties that help to form the pattern of the war-time life of - Junction X.

      (The drums of the orchestra begin, softly beating out the V-rhythm of an express train. Gradually the other instruments join in until there is a mighty surge of sound. It suddenly sinks to an urgent background for-)

  SECOND ANNOUNCEMENT [loudly, strongly] : Junction X !

  A radio dramatisation of twelve hours in the life of an important railway centre, a vital cross-roads on the road to victory. The programme is written and produced by Cecil McGivern. With incidental music composed and conducted by George Walter . . .

J U N C T I O N     X !

      (The music swells to a thunderous climax and then begins gradually to fade away behind the speech.)

NARRATOR [simply and sincerely] : I should like all of you listening now to close your eyes, and in imagination to look for a few moments over the darkened surface of these Islands---

THE LISTENER [angrily interrupting] : Oh, for God's sake, man !

NARRATOR [gently] : Sir?

THE LISTENER : Yes. Your silly play-acting ! Close your eyes ! In imagination ! There's a blitz on down here. And my imagination's travelling only in one direction.

NARRATOR : I sympathise with you - I'm sorry if I irritated you. . . . There's a blitz on, is there? What can you hear?

THE LISTENER [tensely] : Guns - bombs - aircraft - fire-engines - ambulance-bells - a corner of hell.

(The music has gone. In its place is the frightening din of an air-raid. The Narrator and the Listener listen to it for a moment.)

NARRATOR : Yes, I sympathise. . . . Can you hear anything else?

THE LISTENER : Isn't that enough?

NARRATOR : There is something else. Let's take away some of the noise - take away the bombs and aircraft--

(They are taken away.)

Hear anything else now? . . . No? Then cut out the explosions and the bells and the crash of buildings.

(Only the sound of gunfire is left, splitting the air with noise. Then - suddenly - between two salvoes, is heard the distant familiar whistle of a shunting engine.)

THE LISTENER [softly] : A railway engine. . . .

NARRATOR : A railway engine. Concentrate on it. Forget the rest. . . .

(The blitz noises are gone. The Listener hears only the distant, perky toot-toot - and after a moment the clank-clank of shunted waggons. It is held for a few moments as a soft background.)

NARRATOR : A shunting-engine. Clanking trucks. . . . Comforting in a blitz, isn't it?

THE LISTENER [slowly] : Yes . . . it is.

NARRATOR : They won't stop because of a blitz. Unless a bomb hits them. And then others will take their place. . . .

(Again, for a moment, only the musical clank-clank-clank of the buffers is heard. It fades to silence.)

That noise hasn't stopped for nearly five years . . . not for one minute . . . it mustn't, you see. . . . Well, it's eased your nerves, hasn't it? Brought back a feeling of normality. Can you keep the blitz in the back of your minds? And join the rest of us in our - play-acting?

THE LISTENER [rather grudgingly] : I'll try.

(The music begins again - low, quiet, peaceful - painting in softly the night scene.)

NARRATOR : Darkness over Britain. . . .   But things to be seen in that darkness if you look widely and carefully enough. . . .   The glint of rails - dull silver. . . .   Hanging in the sky, coloured lights - the red and green and yellow of signals. . . .   A sudden gush of red-hot ash from an engine smoke-stack. . . .   a melting feather of pink tinged smoke . . . the soft pools of light from the tall light-standards of a marshalling yard . . . a pin-point of light, now red, now green, swinging in the hand of an invisible shunter . . . the sudden, startling flash from an electric train . . . the small jets of light as doors are opened and quickly shut, doors of signal boxes, of warehouses, of yardmen's huts . . . tiny hints in coloured light of the vast network that covers these Islands . . . tiny hints of immense, unceasing labour. . . .

(The music changes, ascending, as if lifting part of the darkness. There is a hint of a recurring rhythm in it. Night is giving place to dawn.)

Dawn . . . The points and flashes of coloured lights are vanishing . . . and out of the shadows emerge movement and solid shapes. . . . The dim outlines of passenger trains, moving from station to station. . . . Fast expresses, hurtling over the length and breadth of the land. . . . But there are squatter shapes, of slower movement . . . freight trains, line and line of them . . . no section empty of them . . . often no space between them . . . engine to guard's van, head to tail, four, five, six in a long, slowly moving column . . . waggons - in hundreds, in blocks . . . surging slowly on . . . stopping only when no room can be found for them, when sections are blocked and relief for them is for a time impossible to devise . . . waggons . . . one million of them loaded every week . . . filling marshallin gyards - waiting for space on already congested lines - spilling onto passenger lines - pouring loaded into docks - pouring loaded out of docks, running alongside ships, alongside factories, sheets pulled taut over guns and tanks, bombs and shells, over boots, machinery, food . . . waggons whose loads cannot be sheeted - tractors, landing-barges, lorries, crated aircraft . . . waggons carrying closely guarded secrets.
  And snaking in and out of them and alongside them, the priority specials, the troop trains. . . . And watching them, and tending them, many thousands of men and women, whose lips continuously mouth three words - "Keep them moving." . . . Keep them moving. . . . There is the problem, the never-ceasing headache.

(The music again changes - becoming brisker, more rhythmic. Over it, the voice of the Narrator is also louder and quicker. The quiet mood of night has disappeared.)

Full light now. . . . The movement becomes clearer, less haphazard. It concentrates round key points. . . . Each key point like a spider at the centre of an enormous, complicated web. . . . And below us is one of those points, where trains and trucks are thicker in numbers, where the lines fan out into a wider stretch, a crazy criss-cross, where signal-lamps hang in bewildering groups, where there are workshops and sheds and workers, platforms and porters, trains and travellers. . . . This is Junction X.

(The music ends, leaving the mixed din of a busy main-line station - the blowing of whistles, the hissing of steam, the rattle of barrows, instructions from a loudspeaker, the banging of doors.)

Junction X. 8.30 a.m. The morning rush hour. Recognise it, Mr. Listener? What does Junction X mean to you?

(Out of the background emerges music - satirical - playing a dance for puppets. It covers the station noises and is a rhythmic background for this example of early morning platform chat.)

FRIEND : Good morning, Mr. Smith.
THE LISTENER : Good morning, Mr. Brown.
FRIEND : Cold, Mr. Smith.
THE LISTENER : Very, Mr. Brown.
FRIEND : She's late, Mr. Smith.
THE LISTENER : Yes, she's late, Mr. Brown.
FRIEND : Getting worse, Mr. Smith.
THE LISTENER : Getting worse, Mr. Brown.
FRIEND : Here she is, Mr. Smith!
THE LISTENER : No - it's goods, Mr. Brown.
FRIEND : They don't care, Mr. Smith.
THE LISTENER : Not a dam', Mr. Brown.
FRIEND : Hear the news, Mr. Smith?
THE LISTENER : Nothing fresh, Mr. Brown.

FRIEND : Here she is, Mr. Smith!			(The brass of the orchestra
THE LISTENER : No, it's not, Mr. Brown.			blares like a hundred bar-
WOMAN PORTER : Mind your backs!			row horns and the voices of
2ND WOMAN PORTER : Watch your corns!			the women porters are a
WOMAN PORTER : Make way!			strident ruffling of
2ND WOMAN PORTER : Look out!			morning nerves.)

FRIEND : Life is hell, Mr. Smith.
THE LISTENER : Life is hell, Mr. Brown.
(And the music finishes.)
NARRATOR : Well! Well!
THE LISTENER [defensively] : Well - the dam' train's always late.
NARRATOR : Junction X! One and a half miles of it! And all it means is a morning grumble. Look! See that staircase? Ever noticed it before?
THE LISTENER : No - can't say I have.
NARRATOR : Come on - we're going up.
  (Their footsteps echo as they climb wooden steps. The station noises are left behind. The Narrator is very pleasant - The Listener is still on his guard. He has always grumbled at railways and is not to be won over easily!)

NARRATOR : A rather drab staircase, isn't it?
THE LISTENER [viciously] : Drab and dirty and ugly - like most British stations.
NARRATOR : Yes, they've been up a long time. Built in a gloomy period, architecturally speaking. And the steam age isn't an easy one to keep clean. Did you notice the name on the door at the bottom, by the way?
THE LISTENER : No - can't say I did.
NARRATOR : Few people do. It reads "Offices of the Divisional Superintendent."

  (They reach the top of the staircase and their steps stop.)

Well, here we are. That surprises you, doesn't it? Very long corridor - office after office opening off it. Built against the outside wall of the station, hanging under the roof. Most big stations have them - but why should people look up in a station!
THE LISTENER : The roof's too dam' dirty to see anything even if you did.
NARRATOR [pleasantly] : Quite, quite. All right, let's walk - but not too quickly. I've one or two things to tell you before we reach the Superintendent's office, or you won't understand what's going on. You'll only understand it vaguely in any case.

  (The steps move on - echoing.)

You see, the railway system on which you travel is a little too big to be run easily from one central office. So it's carved up into divisions. Junction X is a divisional headquarters. And every morning, at 10 o'clock sharp, a phone rings in the Divisional Superintendent's office. And he picks up the phone. At that moment all the other divisional superintendents pick up their phones. And they hold a conference with their Chief at Headquarters near London. Every morning they do that - after coming in at 8.30 and studying very carefully papers which have been prepared for them during the night. Every morning - Sundays as well - every morning since September 3rd, 1939.
THE LISTENER : And as the result, every morning my train's late.
NARRATOR : As one of the results, every morning your train comes in. And that, believe me, is something. With luck, we'll hear a bit of the conference. Come in - quietly.

  (The door is open and shut gently.)

BOYLE [he is in London, so his voice comes to us thin and crackling through the phone] : Well, do your best, Mr. Foster, and - keep them moving. Now, Mr Fairbank?
DIVISIONAL SUPERINTENDENT [He is with us in the room] : Yes, Mr. Boyle.
BOYLE : What's your position upline?
DIV. SUP. : Still bad, sir. 12,642 upline waggons waiting to be cleared.
BOYLE : Worse than yesterday . . H'm . . What's your line position?
DIV. SUP. : Heavy. Fifty upline trains alive.
BOYLE : Moving freely?
DIV. SUP. : Rather slow at Stanley Junction. The position, in fact, is rather desperate all round. All the yards are heavy. We're waiting for engines at five depots. There's bound to be some late starts - likely to lead to more bunching on certain lines. I'm short of 15 drivers and firemen and 12 guards from one depot alone - reported sick. The labour problem's acute, sir.
NARRATOR [close, quietly] : Acute's the word. One hundred thousand railway men in the Forces, Mr. Listener.
BOYLE : What about cutting out some of those upline trains?
DIV. SUP. [smiling ruefully] : Which do you suggest, sir?
BOYLE : The 3.30.
DIV. SUP. : Impossible, sir. It's carrying locomotive coal. If we start cutting those, we'll have depots closing down.
BOYLE : Well, we've got to do something, Fairbank. What about the 4.40 - the 6.15 - and the 6.35?
DIV. SUP. : I'll try. But if I cancel many more, I'll need a load stop.
NARRATOR [quietly] : D'ye see his problem? Loaded waggons pouring out of docks and factories and goods yards onto lines already stiff with trains. If he could get a stop put on firms loading waggons---
DIV. SUP. : Is there any hope of that, sir? A three days' stop and I could get that 12,000 down by half - and we'd be easy.
BOYLE : We might. But we've got to try everything else first. Any passenger trains we can cut?
DIV. SUP. : And raise a howl, sir?
BOYLE [losing his temper somewhat] : Listen, Fairbank, we've got to get those waggons moving. And if a few more passengers are left standing about - well, we just can't help it, that's all.
NARRATOR [rather maliciously] : That's you, Mr. Listener, see?
DIV. SUP. : We'll do everything we can, sir. I'm hoping the position will be better tomorrow.
BOYLE : All right, Mr. Fairbank. In any case, you've got to clear your upline before tomorrow morning. All set for that convoy?
DIV. SUP. : Yes, sir. Everything covered there. 500 waggons wanted altogether. We've got 300 at Northbay already - 200 working their way in.
BOYLE : Troop trains?
DIV. SUP. : 4,000 men - 10 trains altogether. Six are already there, the other four working their way in.
2ND DIV. SUP. [also on the other end of the line] : May I butt in, Mr. Boyle? You'll be sure to get those troop trains through on time, Mr. Fairbank? If you hand them over to us late, we'll never get them through Whitegate Junction.
DIV. SUP. : I realise that, Mr. Turnbull. The first one's due through here at 6 a.m. They've got absolute priority, of course. We'll see you get them on time.
BOYLE : Anybody else anything to say? . . . All right. Thank you very much, gentlemen. To-morrow morning at ten sharp. And - keep them moving.

  (The receiver is replaced.)

DIV. SUP. : Phew!
NARRATOR : Things bad, sir?
DIV. SUP. [laughing] : Bad! They couldn't be much worse. The trouble's not so much that they're bad, but that they're always bad nowadays. . . . I get nightmares - wagons creep out of the corners of my bedroom and begin to run over my bed, over my face. I push them off. They come back - more and more of them. I run out - along the lines - the waggons after me. "All right," I shoult. "All right! I'll find space for you! Leave me alone! I'll find room!" But what's this? Look! Waggons popping out of holes in the ground, filling the space. And I've got to run on and on - waggons to the left of me - waggons to the right of me - by heavens, gentlemen, it's not funny.
NARRATOR : No, sir. What's the cause of it all?
DIV. SUP. : The cause! This war. And the type of war it is. It's a war of materials - and nobody realises that better than railwaymen. The stuff - it's amazing - staggering. Pouring out of factories, out of America and Canada - mountains of it - and we've got to handle it. . . . And who could have foreseen that these little islands were to become the advanced striking base for us, for Americans, for Canadians, for Poles, Free French, Czechs and all the rest of them? And they and their gear have got to be carted round on our railways. And labour - there's another headache. . . . Well, gentlemen, you must excuse me, I've the small matter of 12,000 waggons to look into---

  (The door is suddenly opened.)

Yes, Ransome?
RANSOME : Mr. Boyle coming through, sir - urgent.
DIV. SUP. : Thank you, Ransome. (The door is shut as Ransome goes out.) And that, if I know anything at all, means trouble. The only point is - big trouble or small trouble?

  (His phone bell rings : he picks up the receiver.)

Fairbank here, Mr. Boyle.
BOYLE [we hear his thin phone voice again] : Sorry, old chap. Trouble, I'm afraid. We've just had a message from the Diversion Room. Your part of that convoy's switched from Northbay to Southbay.
DIV. SUP. : Oh - Heavens, sir - WHAT!! Southbay! Fifty miles nearer! My God, sir, that doesn't mean---
BOYLE : It does, Fairbank. It means everything's to be brought forward eight hours.
DIV. SUP. : But that is impossible, sir. Can't they let us at least stick to the original times. It's going to be bad enough as it is---
BOYLE : I asked them that. Answer's a very definite no. They want men and stores out immediately. Probably been spotted by an odd aircraft and they're taking no risks. Fortunately it's still in your division.
DIV. SUP. : Fortunately for you, sir. Not for me.
BOYLE : So that means the first troop train's due through your place at ten to-night, not six to-morrow morning. Get the trains out at twenty-minute intervals - priority for the first three or four, then use your discretion after that.
DIV. SUP. : Will you warn Turnbull, sir?
BOYLE : I will. Well - it's all yours. Get through to me if you get in a bad jam. I said a bad jam, Mr. Fairbank.
DIV. SUP. [laughing a little] : I heard you, sir.

(He replaces his phone - thinks a moment - then picks it up again.)

Ransome, ask the Chief Controller to come in at once.

(There is a surge of quiet, shimmering music which is a soft, descriptive background to the Narrator's next speech.)

NARRATOR [quietly, close.] : Have you ever as a small boy, Mr. Listener, dropped a pebble in a pond and watched the ripples? Of course you have. Now take a large pond, and get four small boys each to drop a pebble into the four quarters of it at the same time. The ripples spread - and get in an awaful tangle. Now do that again - but this time, just as the poor little ripples are about to get in a dreadful mix-up, drop a bigger pebble right in the middle and start some more and bigger ripples. Well, this Division's the big pond - and there are a lot more than four pebbles dropped in already. And this convoy diversion's the big pebble in the middle. But - and here's the point, Mr. Listener - you've got to stop all those ripples from biffing into one another. . . . Nice little problem, isn't it?

 (As the music ends, a door is opened and shut.)

GORDON : You want me, Mr. Fairbank?
DIV. SUP. : I do, Gordon. Feeling strong?
GORDON [cautiously] : Not particularly, sir.
DIV. SUP. : That's a pity. Because that convoy's been diverted. It's coming in at Southbay, not Northbay. And what's more, Gordon, we've got to bring everything forward eight hours. The first train's due through here at ten to-night, not what seems now the comfortable hour of 6 a.m. to-morrow morning. Now how do you feel?
GORDON : Lovely, sir! No leg pull?
DIV. SUP. : Not even a tickle. Drop all work on those waggons - I'll take that over - and get down to this chaos. Keep me in touch. And, Gordon - that first train comes through here at 10 sharp.

 (The music begins again - a soft urgent background.)

NARRATOR [quicker] : The first act's over. . . . The pebbles are thrown into the pond. Use any metaphor you like - but one fact stands right out, Mr. Listener. A lot of people have got to do a lot of work in a very little time. Come on - two offices along. . . .

 (The music swells quickly - urgent - and quickly comes to a full close. The speeches are quicker and more urgent now.)

NARRATOR : The Control Office. What things strike you, Mr Listener?
THE LISTENER : Two things - telephones and maps.
NARRATOR : Yes - telephones. You've pictured railways as some fast trains, a lot of slower trains and a large number of still slower waggons. The whole thing very slow, in fact - especially when your train's late. But behind that network is another network - a network of telephone lines - independent of the Post Office - a vast telephone and teleprinter system belonging to the railways. They've got to work too fast to wait until you've finished phoning your wife to tell her you've been detained at the office. Remember those ripples? Well, the telephone's the weapon they use to keep them out of an impossible tangle.
THE LISTENER : What happens if the wires are blitzed?
NARRATOR : Beginning to take an interest, are you? What happens if your telephone lines are blitzed, Mr Gordon?
GORDON [pre-occupied] : We use radio transmitters. Some are mobile - on cars and waggons. But who the hell mentioned blitz? [Into phone] Get me Docks Department, Northbay, please - urgent.
NARRATOR : Ever used them, Mr. Gordon?
GORDON : Yes - when the heavy raids were on. Docks Department? Mr. Madden, please . . . Mr. Madden? Gordon here. You've heard about that convoy diversion to Southbay?
MADDEN [his Northern voice is brisk and businesslike] : Yes, I heard. You'll want the freight and passenger stock transferred to Southbay, I supppose? We're busy turning them round.
GORDON [his speeches are quick and terse] : Good man. How long do you want?
MADDEN : You can have the first ones out in about two hours. But, Mr. Gordon, haven't they any spare waggons at Southbay? Help us a lot if they had - and you, too, I should think.
GORDON : Dam' - ought to have thought of that myself. Hang on, Madden, will you? I'll get on to Dunne. [He picks up another phone]. Docks Department, Southbay. I want Mr. Dunne - urgent.
NARRATOR [quiet close] : And those maps you mentioned, Mr. Listener. Above each desk a map - each map a section of the Division. And each man knows his section like the back of his hand - can talk in an instant to any signal box, any station, any yard, any hut, in his section. Phones and maps - playing important parts in the game of keeping them moving.
GORDON : That you, Mr. Dunne? Gordon here. Heard about this diversion?
DUNNE [His dialect is different. Railwaymen are a rich cross-section of all the varied types and dialects of Britain.] : Aye - and it's causin' a right ruddy flap down here, I can tell you. I don't think we've got -
GORDON : Just a minute, Mr. Dunne, before we get down to your worries. I've got Madden on the other line. The point is this - if we can avoid transferring all his waggons to you, it'll help a lot. Any spares down there? Be generous - we're in a jam.
DUNNE : I daresay I could manage 200 waggons - but I don't think we've got -
GORDON : Just a minute, Mr. Dunne. Madden, Dunne can provide us with 200 waggons. That'll mean only 100 from you - and the six passenger stock of course.
MADDEN : Champion. I'll start moving them right away.
DUNNE : But, Mr. Gordon, I don't think we've got -
MADDEN : They should be out of the yard and up at the junction in two hours. Can you make way for them soon, d'ye think?
GORDON : Don't you worry about that. You get them up to Stanley Junction at 20-minute intervals and I'll have a road ready for them - somehow - for part of the way, anyway. O.K., Mr. Madden, get on with it. Now, Mr. Dunne, what's worrying you?
DUNNE : A hell of a lot. Waggons are no good without engines and crews, and I'm short of both.
GORDON : These trains have got priority. Can't you cancel something? You only need four engines. What about the 4.30 and 5 o'clock general goods? That'll give you two.
DUNNE : They've been standin' two days.
GORDON : Can't help that. Anything else you can cut out?
DUNNE : Not a ruddy thing.
GORDON : O.K. I'll get you two up from the sheds somehow. What about crews?
DUNNE : I'm short. We had a big day yesterday. I couldn't book the 8 p.m. men off till midnight. And I'm dangerously low with my relief staff.
GORDON : How many do you want? - the absolute minimum, mind you.
DUNNE : I'll have to check up. Let you know in half an hour. That do?
GORDON : As soon as you can. But get those 200 waggons marshalled immediately. [And he replaces his receiver.]
NARRATOR : Is the picture clear? Six empty passenger trains and one hundred empty waggons to be transferred from Northbay to Southbay. A fifty-mile road to be made clear for them. Trains to be held up - others to be cancelled. Four empty troop trains and two hundred waggons now headed for Northbay to be diverted to Southbay. Roads to be made for them. Trains to be held up. Others to be cancelled. . . . To-night, 10 troop trains and 10 freight trains to leave Southbay on their long journey south-east - eight hours earlier than was expected. A road to be made for them. More trains to be held up. More to be cancelled. . . . A big series of movements suddenly flung on to a network of lines already groaning under such a strain that 12,642 waggons on it are already jammed tight - a series of movements that will affect every Division, that will affect passengers standing on small platforms more than a hundred miles away. . . . The eyes in the Control Office never leave the maps. The phones are never silent. The ripples are spreading. Not slowly like those in a pond - but spreading at 30--40--50--60 miles an hour!

(There is a surge of music which goes to a background - a background of constantly changing pitches to suit the stream of voices - different in manner and accent. The music and voices rise in a steady crescendo.)

1ST VOICE : Hullo, B box. Empty passenger stock coming on to your section to be diverted to Southbay line. Urgent priority. Start a box-to-box message.
2ND VOICE : Hullo, Engine Control. Two freight engines needed at Southbay - urgent.
3RD VOICE : Hullo, Loco Shed. Four drivers and four firemen urgently wanted for Southbay.
PORTER : Sorry, sir. Can't tell you how late it'll be.
4TH VOICE : Hullo, C Box. Passenger stock due on your line in five minutes. Special diversion for Southbay.
5TH VOICE : Hullo, Control Office. If I take those special freight trains it means holding up the branch local for 15 minutes.
6TH VOICE : Hullo, Missus. Is Sam in? He's wanted up at the sheds immediately.
PORTER : Sorry, Madam, can't tell you when she'll come in.
7TH VOICE : Hullo, Yardmaster. Cancel the 5.15 and 6.15 freight trains.
8TH VOICE : Hullo, Stationmaster's Office. Better get out a loud-speaker message that the 3.40, 4.50 and 5.10 will be 20 minutes late.
9TH VOICE : Hullo, Charlie. Hold back all locals until the Southbay specials are through.
PORTER [with finality] : Sorry, sir, can't tell you when she'll depart.

(The music swells and ends full, but leaving the atmosphere quicker and more vibrant.)

DIV. SUP. : How's it going, Gordon?
GORDON : Well, we're still in the thick of it. The trouble is it's hitting both the early evening and late evening rush hours. It's a hell of a tangle, sir.
DIV. SUP. : Mm. . . . When can you let me have a list of starting and passing times?
GORDON : Well, if nothing else turns up I can begin to let you have stuff about 5 o'clock, I should think, sir.

(The door opens suddenly.)

BRIGGS : Sorry to interrupt, sir, but what about that special 9.30 freight?
DIV. SUP. [slowly] : What special 9.30 freight?
GORDON [softly] : Hell's bells! It's a special fast freight - 30 waggons of bombs - four thousand pounders - and 20 waggons of cannon shells. We had to route it part of the way on the passenger line. It's due at its destination at nine to-morrow morning.

(The DIv. Sup. picks up his phone. He is in rather a hurry.)

DIV. SUP. : Get me Mr. Boyle. Is she marshalled, Briggs?
BRIGGS : No, sir. We're waiting for the 20 waggons of shells - been a hold-up at the factory.
DIV. SUP. : Good afternoon, Mr. Boyle. Fairbank here. Got a problem I'd like your decision on. We've got that special freight train due out at 9.30 to-night.
BOYLE : Yes, I know it - bombs and shells, urgent priority.
DIV. SUP. : Well, it'll be right in the teeth of the specials. Can we put it back?
BOYLE : How long?
DIV. SUP. : We'd need six hours to keep it out of the way of the convoy stuff.
BOYLE : Just a minute. Hang on, will you?
GORDON : Briggs, we'd better tell the men who are handling this job they'll have to stay on to-night - until the first one or two trains are through here, anyway.
BOYLE : Sorry, Fairbank. You're out of luck. That freight's due for Westbay, isn't it? There's an outbound convoy waiting for it - sailing on to-morrow night's tide evidently. The train must be there at 9 a.m. or it'll delay the convoy. You'll have to get her off sooner, not later, old man. Can you manage?
DIV. SUP. [brightly] : What's one train among so many, sir? We specialise in magic up here. I can now produce 200 waggons and a guard out of an empty hat while balancing two apoplectic yardmasters on my toes.
BOYLE : Don't get hysterical, Fairbank. Keep me in touch. Good afternoon. [And the phone conversation is ended.]
DIV. SUP. : Hysterical! Well, I'll be-- [He picks up his phone again.] Get me the yardmaster, please. Hysterical. Mr. Briggs - er, Bloggs - sorry, Briggs. Bloggs, that 9.30 special. We've got to get her out sooner - probably 8.30. What's the position?
BLOGGS [very "weathered" voice] : Well, sir, we're waitin' for them there shells. As soon as they come in, we can get her marshalled. But seein' she wasn't movin' until to-night, I've moved two trains in front of her.
DIV. SUP. : Well, clear them out again immediately, Bloggs, and keep the road clear.
BLOGGS : It'll mean takin' men off other jobs, guv'ner.
DIV. SUP. : Doesn't matter. Start at once. We'll get on to the factory about the other waggons.

(Phone down again.)

Cheerful guy, Bloggs. Well, watch this one specially, Gordon. Get Jackson on to the factory. Get her on the road at 8.30 at the latest. Make way for her on the passenger line for the first 30 miles. That'll give her a good start. Keep her movements flexible - watch her right down the line - but - keep her moving, Gordon.

(The music begins - a quiet but urgent background.)

NARRATOR : Well, tired of offices, Mr. Listener? Tired of phone calls and complications? That's the railways - planning, altering, re-planning. . . . Your carriage is just one tiny part of one thread in a wide web - and you never see the spinners in the centre. You've seen only the beginning, the fringe of the complications. But all right - out of the offices - into the fresh air. That convoy's close inshore!

(The music swells - faster and more urgent and finishes on a brass chord. This is cross-faded with ships' sirens. Added is a background of dock noises - cranes, railway-engines, seagulls and what you will. . . and we are with the Narrator and the Listener watching the convoy arrive.)

NARRATOR : And another convoy arrives, Mr. Listener. . . . Safely. . . . Week after week they arrive - intact, thank God. . . Another victory . . . and the railways have to pay the price of that victory . . . and your cold feet on Junction X platform are part of the price, too. . . . [Suddenly, very stirringly] This isn't just a dock. These engines and waggons are more than engines and waggons. Those drivers and firemen, shunters and gangers and guards and inspectors, are more than railwaymen. They are part of the Second Front. . . .

  (The sirens shriek. Now the soldiers can be heard singing "The eyes of Texas are on you." The railway engines whistle as if in answer.)

[Calling out, cheerfully] : Good afternoon, Mr. Dunne. Ready for them?
DUNNE : Ready? Aye, the first three troop trains. Three from Northbay are still workin' through. The other ruddy four'll have to grow wings to get here. A right ruddy flap it's caused down here, I can tell you.
NARRATOR : So we heard. But you'll manage.
DUNNE : Oh, we'll manage. Gawd knows how.
NARRATOR : Well, you're giving them a good railway welcome, Mr. Dunne. Trains ready waiting for them. Not a bad thing to see for their first glimpse of England.
DUNNE : Doesn't look much like England, does it? Looks more like America to me. American trucks chargin' about all over the place. American drivers and loaders. I can hardly understand what me own dockers are saying, they've picked up so much Yank slang. And the stuff - look, man, as far as ye can see - rows of lorries, tractors, jeeps, tanks, guns, crates, barges. Every warehouse filled with boxes of ammunition, guns, machinery, rations, cigarettes. I fell over a pile of ruddy anvils this morning. Anvils! . . . I've been in the dockin' business for forty years, but I've never imagined anything like this.
NARRATOR : It's thrilling.
DUNNE : Thrillin' . . . Aye, I suppose it is . . . . But it's not so thrillin' when you've got to find waggons and engines and train crews to take it all away. As fast as we get it out, more comes in. Excuse me. Er . . . sir . . . you the officer in charge of the landin'?
OFFICER : Yes, that's right.
DUNNE : I'm Dunne, Docks Manager. We'd like them on to the trains as quick as you can, sir. I'll show you the first train to be filled. . . .

  (And their fading voices are covered by the approaching "Eyes of Texas.")

THE LISTENER : I don't get this quite. Dunne's a docks man, isn't he? What's he got to do with trains?
NARRATOR : Yes, he's a docker. But he's also a railwayman. These docks belong to the railways. These floating cranes, the grain elevators, the roller conveyors, refrigerating plants, the coal-conveyors - they're part of the system which provides you with a seat on the 8.30. And they tell an important stroy. A lot of this stuff is new. The war took a nasty course, Mr. Listener. The whole of the East Coast of Britain became an invasion coast, a coast crossed daily and bombed daily by enemy aircraft. East Coast convoys and harbours were attacked and mined. When that happened a great deal of the vast system of British communications had to be switched to the West Coast. The railways had to alter the whole of their traffic schedules to cope with that.
THE LISTENER : I see.
NARRATOR [gently] : You're beginning to see.
  (The convoy is now obviously alongside the quay. There are shouts and orders and the sound of men marching.)
The first troops are coming on to the dock-side. . . . Dusk. . . . picturesque and thrilling . . . for us . . . but it slows down the movement. . . . I wonder if the road's cleared for them yet. . . . I wonder if that special freight train is made up yet. . . . I wonder what you'll think the next time you are stamping cold feet on the platform of Junction X. . . . Come on, we'll see the first train out.

  (And, as they leave the dockside, the dock noises fade and their place is taken by the sound of a troop train filled with cheering, singing soldiers.)

NARRATOR : Well, Mr. Dunne. First one ready. Is the road ready for it?
DUNNE : Not yet - at least not beyond Stanley Junction. But there's time. They've got a meal arranged for them there. That's the start of their journey, really.
  (The guard whistles. The soldiers cheer. The train begins to move. Softly under it is music, rhythmic, urgent.)
Well, off they go. First lot, anyway. . . . Well, we've done our job at this end. But [he can't restrain himself] I bet they're still in a right ruddy flap up at the Division!

  (The laughter of the Narrator and the Listener - and the noise of the train - are covered by the music which swells to a climax, and then fades gradually into the distance. Then gradually the sounds of Junction X station begin to build up. But quieter, less bustling than in the morning. The voices of the Narrator and Listener are quiet, intimate.)

NARRATOR : Junction X. 8.30 p.m. Do you ever come up on to this bridge, Mr. Listener? And stand in the darkness and look down on to the platform?
THE LISTENER : No. It's out of the train and out of the gates and into the blackout and out of the blackout and into the light of my home as quick as I can.
NARRATOR : Lean against the rails and look down. . . . It's your turn to talk. . . . What do you see?
THE LISTENER : The main lines passing under this bridge, gleaming. . . . Pools of light on the platform, split by shadows. . . . Wisps of steam dissolving under the roof above us. . . . Mail bags - half in shadow, half in light. . . . Sacks and stacks and barrows of goods. . . . And people. . . . the platforms black with their numbers. . . . A group of sailors, laughing, their heads thrown back, pale yellow under the lamps. . . . Soldiers everywhere . . . quiet, stolid, British soldiers . . . and airmen . . . and silent civilians . . . the spurt of matches . . . the thin wisps of cigarette smoke . . . and women clinging to the arms of men. . . .

  (Out of the background emerges music - a tender love-theme. It is a sad background to the quiet voices of two people leaving one another.)

SOLDIER : She's going soon, darling.
WIFE : Going soon, dear.
SOLDIER : I'll get in, my darling.
WIFE : Yes, get in, my dear.
SOLDIER : Don't wait any longer - there's no more to say.
WIFE : Just good luck, and God bless you. God bless you, my dear.
SOLDIER : Write soon to me, darling.
WIFE : Soon and often, my dear.
SOLDIER : She's going now, darling.
WIFE : Going now, dear.
WOMAN PORTER : Stand back from the doors! Stand back from the edge!
SOLDIER : Life's hell, O my darling.
WIFE : This will pass, O my dear.
  (The music slowly and sadly slips behind the station noises.)
NARRATOR : Well done, Mr. Listener. You're beginning to feel it all.

  (For a moment, neither speaks. Then footsteps on the wooden bridge tell us someone is approaching.)

STATION MASTER : Good evening, gentlemen.
NARRATOR : Good evening, Mr. Stationmaster. We're enjoying the view of your station.
STATION MASTER [he speaks in a soft pleasant Welsh brogue, simply and sincerely] : Yes, it's a good place to stand. I often come up here. I never get tired of it. . . . Fascinating to look down on them all, going God knows where. . . . [Laughing a little] I think you'll find a few of us roaming about here to-night. It's been a bit of a day and we won't rest till we've got it all behind us. Ah - here she is.
  (A train whistle shrieks and a freight train begins to rumble through the station.]
Well, if she keeps moving, that's one bit of trouble out of the way. The Control Staff will be watching her like hawks all up the line. . . .
  (And the rumble disappears into the distance.)
NARRATOR : A big station, sir.
STATION MASTER : Aye, it gets a bit of stuff through it. It gets the war through it. Tell the story of this Junction and you tell the story of the war. . . . The kids first. . . . September 1st, 1939. . . . Aye, we did a good job there, tho' I say that myself. London alone handled 1½ million people - we had to find 4,349 trains for that little lot. We had 30 to 40 trains of them through here every day. [Laughs] You won't believe this little story, sir, but it's gospel truth.

  (The general station noises have been disappearing behind the singing and shouting of children. The place is bedlam - but a cheerful one. We have slipped back to 1939, and to the evacuation of the children.)

STATION MASTER : Ten minutes' halt for this train, Guard?
GUARD : Yessir. Sound happy enough, anyway.
STATION MASTER : They do that. . . . Hullo, Miss. You look worried. What's the matter? They sound fine.
HELPER [distracted] : It's not the older ones - it's the babies. Screaming their heads off. They're thirsty, poor mites.
STATION MASTER : Haven't you got any milk you can give them?
HELPER : Oh, we've got milk. But they can't drink out of cups.
STATION MASTER : Well - what you want is a few bottles.
HELPER : Bottles! Brilliant. Can we get any?
STATION MASTER [now excited] : There's a chemist's just outside. [He begins to hurry away.] Hold the train if I'm not back in time, Guard.
HELPER [a scream] : Stationmaster!
STATION MASTER [shouts from a distance] : Yes?
HELPER : Don't forget the teats!!

  (The sound of the children begins to fade behind the general station noise and we are back in the present.)

THE LISTENER : But couldn't the mothers---
STATIONMASTER : Now don't ask me, sir. All I know is that I became a wet nurse for what seemed half the babies in Britain, and in two days you couldn't find a single bottle - or a teat - in this town for love nor money. And that's my biggest memory of those days. Though we'd lots more to worry us. As those trains were going out one way, others were comin' in the other - packed with men called up. And there were Ministries to evacuate, and Government offices. And the freight traffic doubled and trebled. I used to come up here and wonder how in the name of God the Control Staffs managed to get so many trains on the line. And there wasn't a single accident - not one child lost or injured. . . . But we had at least time to prepare for that. . . . In one movement we got practically no warning at all. . . .

  (There is a quick swirl of music which covers the station noises and then ends full, leaving silence. . . . A telephone switchboard buzzer sounds.)

OPERATOR : Southern Railway.
WAR OFFICE [phone voice] : Mr. X, please.
OPERATOR : You're through.
WAR OFFICE : Is that X?
MR. X : Yes?
WAR OFFICE : Will you please be at the War Office at 2.15 this afternoon. A matter of the utmost urgency. I'll have someone to meet you in the entrance hall.

  (The music swirls up again and ends full. There is a knock on a door which opens.)

OFFICER : Mr. X of the Southern Railway.
WAR OFFICE : Thank you - and Phillips, we're not to be interrupted.
OFFICER : No, sir.

  (The door shuts.)

WAR OFFICE : Sir down, X. . . . To start with, I must tell you that the information I'm about to give you must not in any circumstances be divulged by you to any person whatsoever. I think you will see the reason for that.
MR. X [wonderingly] : Er - yes.

WAR OFFICE : This is Tuesday, May 21st, 1940 - a date, I think, which will figure largely in your memoirs if you should write them. . . . It is almost certain that within the next few days the British Expeditionary Force will be evacuated from France.
MR. X [after a pause; not quite taking it in] : You mean it's going to be switched to another theatre---
WAR OFFICE : No. The B.E.F. is at this moment facing the biggest disaster in the history of the British Army. . . . It will be a total evacuation. We are not planning an immediate return to the Continent.
MR. X [beginning see: softly] : My God. . . . My God. . . . When? How many?
WAR OFFICE : When? - at any moment. How many? - I wish to God I knew that. I can tell you the numbers there, that is all. But your job is to plan for the maximum number.
MR. X : Our job?
WAR OFFICE : Yes. Not to-morrow - not perhaps the next day, but in a very few days at the most - we will begin to extricate the B.E.F. They will, we expect, be disembarked at the following ports - Dover, Folkestone, Ramsgate, Margate, Hastings, Eastbourne, Newhaven, and Brighton. We want the railways to entrain them immediately, and disperse them over the country. You understand quick entraining is essential - for all we know hell might break loose over those ports.
MR. X : What about stores - their equipment -
WAR OFFICE [drily] : I think, Mr. X, that you need not concern yourself with freight. We will consider ourselves fortunate to hand you over men.
MR. X : My God, this is ghastly---
WAR OFFICE : Yes, I suggest we try not to think of that side of the - er - movement. What I want you to do is this. Call - for tomorrow afternoon at this time - a meeting of the traffic managers of the other three main lines.
MR. X : May I tell them the reason?
WAR OFFICE : No. I will be there myself - and I'll give them as much information as is necessary. It is essential that this information be shared by as few people as possible.

  (The music swirls up quickly again and takes us to the next day.)

WAR OFFICE : Good afternoon, gentlemen. I'm not going to thank you for coming. In a few days, perhaps, you will realise how necessary was your attendance---
MR. X : May I interrupt here, sir? I've thought a great deal since I saw you yesterday, and I must tell you that, in my opinion as a railwayman, it is essential for the meeting to be told the facts if we are to do any good this afternoon.
WAR OFFICE [after a pause] : Very well. . . . We are about to attempt to evacuate the B.E.F. from France, to extricate them from the possibility of annihilation.

  (There is a horrified mutter of voices from the railway officials.)

I realise, gentlemen, that you need time to see the full implication of this. But time, unfortunately, is short. I met X yesterday, as the Southern Railway will have the initial responsibility for the reception. X, I will be glad if you could give us your ideas.
MR. X : The B.E.F. will be disembarked at the following ports - Dover, Folkestone, Ramsgate, Margate, Hastings, Eastbourne, Newhaven, Brighton. Now will you please look at the maps in front of you. South-east of London is Greenbank. It is also within a short run of each of the ports mentioned. Railway lines from Greenbank run to the ports, like the spokes of a wheel from the hub. I'm going to make it a pivotal point for the movement. As the troops are entrained, the trains will proceed immediately to Greenbank. Also, the line from Greenbank to Brunton will be completely closed to other traffic. At Brunton the trains can be switched to any part of the country. I feel strongly the complete closing of the Greenbank-Brunton line is absolutely essential. . . . Nearer the ports is Garsfield. To feed the ports with trains, I suggest Garsfield be used as a stabling ground. They will be close-marshalled there as soon as possible - head-on to the ports, fully alive and complete with crews, running straight to the ports as they are needed. . . . And that bring me to the number of trains required for the movement. It is an extremely difficult problem, as we do not know how many - er - passengers we have to handle. But I feel we must detail 150 trains for this job. I realise, gentlemen, for any one system to provide 30 or 40 or 50 trains at the present time is a big problem. But I hope you can agree and arrange for that. . . . Well, that's my plan in broad. I suggest we now discuss it and get down to detail as soon as possible.
WAR OFFICE : And in your discussion, gentlemen, may I suggest that you bear in mind one aspect which may have escaped you. Your passengers will not be ordinary passengers. They will be exhausted, wounded, many of them. . . . They will be soldiers who have passed out of hell.

  (The music swells sadly up, then gradually disappears behind the sounds of Junction X.)

STATIONMASTER : That movement started at dawn on May 27th. It took 186 trains, not 150 - and they never stopped for nine and a half days; 323,000 men they took away from the ports. . . . And I saw drivers and firemen on trains coming into this station who were dazed with weariness. . . . It didn't make it any easier for us that the ports weren't quite the same as those planned. . . . Of course, we didn't know anything about it at first. The first train was in the station before we realised what was happening. . . . I'll never forget them - dirty, exhausted - a ghost army in a ghost train. . . .

  (A Dunkirk train clanks into the station, echoing eerily. It stops and doors bang.)

A TOMMY [exhausted] : Where are we, guv'nor?
STATIONMASTER : You're in Junction X, Tommy. . . .
A TOMMY [dully] : Junction X. . . . Junction X. . . .
STATIONMASTER : The middle of England.
A TOMMY [dully] : The middle of England . . . Christ . . . the middle of England. . . .

  (Station noises go to a soft background.)

STATIONMASTER [after a pause] : If you walk across to that ticket office, you'll see a booking clerk called Harrison. As the Dunkirk trains came in, I saw him hurrying from compartment to compartment.

  (Another Dunkirk train arrives and stops.)

: Hullo, Harrison, what are you doing out of your office?
HARRISON : It's all right, sir. Blake's looking after my window. My son was in France and I'm wonderin'---
STATIONMASTER : I see . . . that's all right, Harrison. . . . But it's a slim chance, man. Trains are going all over England.
HARRISON : I know, sir, but I cannot keep away.

  (Music begins to creep up, a sad background.)

STATIONMASTER : Day after day, train after train, he hurried along the platform. . . .

  (We hear Harrison, approaching, and passing on along the train.)

HARRISON : Jack Harrison in this compartment? . . . Anybody know a Jack Harrison? . . . Jack Harrison in this carriage? . . . Anybody heard of a Jack Harrison? . . .
STATIONMASTER : It was hopeless. But he just couldn't keep away from the trains. None of us could. I suppose we ought to have been cheering them up, but it was them who cheered us up.

  (Another Dunkirk train comes into the station. Doors bang and soldiers jump on to the platform.)

A JOCK : Any tea to spare for some thirsty lads, mate?
STATIONMASTER : Yes. The tea-waggon'll be along in a minute. You look as if you could do with a cup o' tea too. Pretty bad, wasn't it?
JOCK : At Dunkirk, ye mean? Oh, aye, pretty bad. But we were lucky, man. It rained like hell just after we left!

  (The soldiers standing about laugh heartily. As the laughs die down---)

HARRISON : Any of you boys know a Jack Harrison?
JOCK : Harrison. . . . no chum.
STATIONMASTER : It's hopeless, Harrison.
HARRISON : Yes - 'fraid so, sir. Still - (moving away). Is there a Jack Harrison in that compartment? . . . Anybody know a Jack Harrison?
JACK [There is a sudden shout - intensely moving] : Dad! Dad!
HARRISON : Jack! Jack! You're safe, son. You're safe.

  (The music begins to swell triumphantly.)

STATIONMASTER : I turned when I heard the shout. Harrison had his arms round a young soldier - huggin' him. . . .

  (The music climaxes and then gradually disappears behind the general station noises.)

DIV. SUP. : Hello, Evans. Romancing about your station, eh?
STATIONMASTER : Good evening, sir. Yes, I was looking back a bit.
DIV. SUP. : Did you tell them about the time you were running round the station with an armful of babies' bottles?
STATIONMASTER [laughing] : I did. . . . You got the wanders to-night, too, sir?
DIV. SUP. : Yes. I'll not feel happy till I see the tail-lights of that first special. After that it's not too bad.
NARRATOR : Is the line clear now, sir?
DIV. SUP. : Just about. It's affected nearly every train in the division since midday. Still, if that special freight can make the Linton loop before the first troop train comes through, we should be all right - provided nothing else happens - touch - [and he snaps off]. The lights have gone down!
STATIONMASTER [slowly] : That means an alert.
DIV. SUP. : No, Evans - can't be---
WOMAN STATION ANNOUNCER : This is Junction X calling. This is Junction X calling. An alert has just sounded. An alert has just sounded. Any travellers wishing to take shelter should proceed to the public shelters outside the entrance opposite Platform One. Any travellers wishing to take shelter [and her voice goes into the background].
DIV. SUP. [groaning] : To-night of all nights.
STATIONMASTER : Yes. . . . Well, I'd better get along to my office. You going down to the emergency control-room, sir?
DIV. SUP. : Yes. Give me a ring to check we're through to you.
[He is fading away.]
NARRATOR : Come on, Mr. Listener. We're going, too. But not underground. There's a signal box ten miles up the line and two signalmen in it. . . .

(There is a flurry of alarm music which is held for a few moments before it fades out, leaving silence. Then a telephone bell rings. There is the sound of a few footsteps on a wooden floor. The voices are quiet and steady. The two men are good types.)

1ST SIGNALMAN : Hullo. . . . Thank you, sir.

    (The phone is replaced.)

  Alert, Tom. Raiders comin' this way.
2ND SIGNALMAN : Aye? . . . Better check the blackout.
1ST SIGNALMAN : It's all right. I had a walk round when I came on. . . .
2ND SIGNALMAN : Bad night for a raid.
1ST SIGNALMAN : The specials, ye mean? Aye. . . .
2ND SIGNALMAN : Probably know there's a convoy in. . . .
1ST SIGNALMAN : Likely . . . 9.35. Should have the first one offered any minute.
NARRATOR [quietly, close] : Not the perfect place to be in during a raid, Mr. Listener. . . . Lonely, it feels, eerie . . . and a railway's a likely target, especially to-night. . . . But they don't look worried, do they? . . . Take a good look at them. They're the men you trust your life to every morning and every night.
THE LISTENER [quietly also] : They're - old, aren't they?
NARRATOR : They retired in 1938. They came back to help out. But don't worry - they're not too old. Look at their quiet faces, their steady hands. . . . There are 40 years of disciplined service behind those eyes and fingers. . . .
1ST SIGNALMAN : I thought I heard a plane.

    (There is the faint sound of an aircraft.)

2ND SIGNALMAN : Aye - mightn't be a Jerry, though. . . .

    (A crash of distant ack-ack.)

1ST SIGNALMAN : Jerry all right.

    (Gunfire is nearer now.)

  Gettin' closer.

    (The aircraft is much louder now.)

2ND SIGNALMAN : Divin', isn't he?

    (He is diving. There is the scream of a bomb and a heavy explosion - vrey close.)

1ST SIGNALMAN [shaken] : Nasty, by God, nasty.
2ND SIGNALMAN : That's on the line, Alec, or I'll eat my hat. On the upside.
1ST SIGNALMAN : Run up the line and have a look, Tom. Take the detonators with you. I'll get the messages out.
2ND SIGNALMAN : O.K.

    (The door opens and slams shut as Tom rushes out.)

NARRATOR : Watch him - his first job is to send out the obstruction signal to the signal-box on either side.

    (Alec taps out six rapid beats on his sending key.)

One box answers.

    (The six beats are answered on the bell block.)

The other box.

    (Again the six rapid taps.)

The second box answers.

    (Again the six bell strokes.)

The box on either side is warned of danger. Now to test the phone.

    (The signalman picks up the phone.)

1ST SIGNALMAN : Stationmaster, please. Urgent call. . . . Hello, sir. Graham, Middleton box. We suspect bomb damager on the line. My mate's gone out to look. . . . Yes, sir. Both boxes warned. . . . On the upside, we think. . . . Yes, sir, as soon as he comes back.

    (He replaces the phone.)

2ND SIGNALMAN [shouting from outside the box] : Alec!
1ST SIGNALMAN [answering shout] : Aye.
2ND SIGNALMAN [panting] : Obstruction all right - quarter mile away on the upside. . . . Bomb missed the track, but there's a hell of a heap of debris right across the lines . . . lines probably gone underneath. . . . Tried the phones?
1ST SIGNALMAN : Aye. They're workin'. Set your detonators, Tom. I'll phone again.

    (He walks across floor and picks up the phone.)

Hello. . . . Hello, sir. Obstruction all right - about quarter mile away on the upside. . . . Yes, both up and down lines covered with stuff . . . no, sir, you can't tell for the debris. . . . Yes, I'll tell the other boxes.

    (All this time there has been intermittent gunfire. Music begins to creep up, urgent and rhythmic like a fast train. It is held as a background.)

NARRATOR : Lines covered with soil and rock - and fifteen miles away, racing towards it, the first of the troop specials. Come on, Mr. Listener. Ready for a footplate journey?

    (The music swells up, rhythmic and exciting. As it begins to fade, the first of the troop trains is heard approaching, rushing up to its maximum of noise. There is a scream of its whistle before the noise of the train sinks down below the music, which now acts as a background.)

NARRATOR : The footplate of Engine 2574 rocks and sways and jerks. . . . Here is the true sensation of speed - more than in a car, more than in a plane . . . the 50 miles an hour seem like one hundred and fifty . . . rock, sway, jerk . . . nothing to be seen outside . . . blackness ahead, blackness round . . . no lines to be seen . . . frightening to see no lines . . . rock, sway, jerk . . . how can it hold the lines? . . . No springs like those of a carriage to take the shock. . . . Icy air streams in past the fluttering, flapping anti-glare side curtains - air that strikes and chills back and legs . . . rock - sway - jerk . . . if only the lines were visible . . . if only there was something to be seen . . . rushing from blackness into deeper blackness . . . signals - red, yellow, and green - leap out of the darkness and whip past . . . bewildering in their speed . . . but the driver has picked out his green and his hand lies quiet on the brake. . . .

    (The music swells for a moment, then sinks again to a background.)

The noise changes . . . on one side of the cab the gleaming wall of the tunnel seems dangerously close - the cab jerking as if to touch it. . . . Smoke billows in through the side windows . . . stinging the eyes . . . and dust fills the pores . . . out of the tunnel again . . . and the whistle screeches a greeting to an invisible signal box. . . .

    (The music swells, covering the screech of the whistle and again goes to a background.)

The fireman knocks open the round door of the firebox . . . flames lick out and the cab is filled with welcome heat and lit with a red glow . . . lighting up the grey hair of the driver - his head half out of the window, gazing up the line, watching for the leaping signal, his hands slowly rollng a cigarette . . . lighting up the neat shoes of the fireman, shining surprisingly in this coal-dusty cab . . . lighting up the beads of sweat trickling down under the peak of his cap. . . . His shovel swings and coal tumbling down the tender chute is hurled into the red circle, turning red heat to white . . . every three minutes his shovel swings . . . 10--12--15 times in every three minutes his shovel sweeps coal into the red circle . . . then the door clangs shut and shadows fill the cab again. . . .

    (Again the music rises and fades.)

They shout unintelligible words above the din . . . one word - or two . . . the whistle cord is pulled . . . a lever moved . . . and the air is filled with the sound of fierce hissing steam. . . . Every change of sound - every sway of the cab - is a message to them and they know to a yard at any moment exactly where the train is on the line. . . . This is indeed knowing the road. . . . The fireman seizes a hose and sprays the coal in the chute, the dusty floor and the sides of the cab - the water turning to steam as it hits hot metal . . . he seizes a brush and brushes up slithering pieces of coal and thick dust . . . carpet brush in hand he becomes a strange housewife . . . now his face is streaked with dust and his shining shoes are covered with a dusty grey film . . . he swigs cold tea . . . and the driver slowly rolls another cigarette. . . .

    (The music rises and falls again.)

Away ahead, a searchlight suddenly sweeps the sky . . . the driver shouts and points . . . the fireman leans out of the opposite window . . . the buildings of a darkened station rush out of the blackness. . . .
FIREMAN [shouts] : Lights out. Alert.
DRIVER [shout] : Aye.
NARRATOR : The driver's hand grips the brake and the speed drops to thirty miles an hour . . .
DRIVER [shout] : Guns.
FIREMAN [shout] : Aye.
NARRATOR : Ahead, the searchlights focus and red flickers appear high in the sky . . . the train runs on . . . even at this speed it seems to rush headlong . . . the driver and fireman calmly watch the sky ahead . . . as they and their mates watched - their eyes and hands steady - as they took their trains into and through the fires and bombs of London, of Coventry, of Birmingham, of all the blitzes of Britain . . . and, as they watch, unseen to them, a bomb falls, hurling rocks and soil into the line at Middleton Box. . . .

    (The music rises up and fades, leaving the train noise which also disappears into the distance. There is a moment of silence. The following speeches are quick and urgent, but not excited.)

GORDON : . . . Evans says it will be a 6-8 hours' job, sir.
DIV. SUP. : Hopeless. Where's the first one now?
GORDON : About five miles yon side of the Middleton box. Take her about ten minutes to reach the distant signal.
DIV. SUP. : There's just one way out - divert her into the Middleton loop. What's the loop position?
GORDON [lifting his voice] : What's the loop position, Briggs?
BRIGGS : One local on the up line and two trains coming into it from Hilton, one in five, the other in fifteen minutes' time.
DIV. SUP. : That's the answer, Gordon. Briggs - get the Hilton trains held up. Switch the local on to the independent line and hold him there.
BRIGGS : Yes, sir.
GORDON : Allowing for a five to ten minutes' wait at Middleton Box, it will make her about thirty minutes late in the Junction, sir. That's going to affect---
DIV. SUP. : She's got a ten minutes' stop here - we can send her straight through and save that.
GORDON : Yes, sir. . . . Through here at 10.20. That'll mean holding up about four trains between 10.10 and 10.30. . . .
DIV. SUP. : How will it affect the up-line position?
GORDON : I'll look into that now sir. [Suddenly feeling the strain.] My God, sir, after sloggin' a whole day and gettin' everything nicely set, to think that--that---
DIV. SUP. : Never mind. The first five years are the worst. You carry on with that, Gordon. Briggs - settled those loop alterations?
BRIGGS : Just finished that, sir.
DIV. SUP. : Good. Now get through to the Middleton box and tell them to divert the first special on the loop when they get the signal the line's clear. Start a box-to-box message. That'll give us time to look into the position for the others.
BRIGGS : Get me the Middleton box, quick. . . .

    (The music rises up: then begins to fade. The troop train is heard approaching. There are four detonations and the train pulls to a standstill.)

DRIVER [rather distant shout] : Hullo, there! What the hell's the matter?
1ST SIGNALMAN [close shout] : Obstruction on the line - bomb damage. We're putting you on to the loop as soon as it's clear.
DRIVER : Likely to be long?
1ST SIGNALMAN : No - any minute. And there's no stop for you at Junction X. You've got to go straight through - to make up time.
2ND SIGNALMAN [quiet, close] : Loop's clear, Alec. I'll set the boards.
1ST SIGNALMAN [shout] : O.K. driver. Loop's clear. So long.
DRIVER : So long.

    (The train whistles and starts - and fades away as it gathers speed.)

NARRATOR [quietly] : A little flat, isn't it, Mr. Listener? Not quite enough excitement in that, is there? Well - this isn't a thriller. Railway practice doesn't include desperate rescues in the nick of time. No signalman standing at the side of a bomb crater frantically waving a red lamp, while the train screams to a standstill, the engine's front wheels hanging over the crater-edge. No - the excitement's of a different kind. Ready for the last scene? - the bridge over the main line in Junction X.

STATION ANNOUNCER : This is Junction X. This is Junction X. The Raiders Passed has just sounded. The Raiders Passed has just sounded. All clear.
NARRATOR : Is all clear, sir?
DIV. SUP. : Almost, thank the Lord. There are still one or two alterations to make up the line - more trains to hold back, I'm afraid. Gordon's clearing that up now. I don't think, though, I don't think we'll have any more trouble. What do you think, Evans?
STATIONMASTER : No, should be all right now, sir. I'm afraid the people down there will have to wait a little longer, though.
DIV. SUP. : Yes. . . .
STATION ANNOUNCER : This is Junction X. The 10.10 train for Applemere will not leave until 10.45. The 10.20 train for Battleton, Clifton and Dalesby will not leave until 10.30 and will depart from Platform 6 instead of from Platform 2. The 10.25 train---

    (And her voice goes into the background.)

DIV. SUP. [laughing a little] : I should stay up here, Evans. You'll not be very popular down there.
STATIONMASTER [seriously] : No - but I wonder if I'd be any more popular if I put out this announcement. . . .
STATION ANNOUNCER : This is Junction X. . . . The 10.15 train for Applemere will leave dead on time. The 10.20 train for Battleton, Clifton and Dalesby will leave dead on time and from the usual platform. All freight and troop trains will therefore be delayed and the Second Front has been postponed indefinitely. . . .
DIV. SUP. : Mm. That'd give 'em a shock. Hullo, Gordon.
GORDON : Hullo, sir. Thought I'd find you up here.
DIV. SUP. : How is it?
GORDON [but weariness prevents him sounding pleased] : All right now, sir. Up line position cleaned up. And the special freight has just reached the Linton loop. The road's clear now, sir.
DIV. SUP. : Good man . . . Gordon . . . [and he pays the biggest possible compliment very sincerely] . . . Gordon, you're a good railwayman.
GORDON [moved] : Thank you, sir.

    (The station noises fill a pause.)

STATIONMASTER [suddenly] : She's got the road.
NARRATOR [quietly, close] : She's got the road. . . . Yes, there goes the signal, Mr. Listener. . . . A small disc of red light at the end of the platform turns to green. . . . That's all . . . and the hundreds of people waiting down there probably never even noticed it. . . . There goes the signal. . . . You may come through, it says to a train. . . . You may come through. . . . But no hint at all of the work, the worry, the ingenuity, the complications. . . . The road is clear, it says. . . . But no sign of the effort of the many men who have cleared that road. . . Click ! and red is green . . and their sighs of relief are drowned in the thunder of wheels. . . .
GORDON : Here she comes !

    (The first troop train roars into the station and under the bridge and out of the station with a triumphant shriek of its whistle.)

DIV. SUP. : And there she goes ! . . . Nice to see those tail lights, gentlemen. . . .

    (But they make no answer as the train rackets into the distance.)

  Well, Gordon, may we go home?
GORDON : I think so, sir. You never know, of course, but I think it's safe to go to bed.
DIV. SUP. : Well, I'll say good night. It's been a long day. And on to-morrow morning's breakfast plate will be those twelve thousand waggons. . . . Happy days. . . . Good night, Gordon. Good night, Evans.
GORDON--EVANS : Good night, sir.

    (And they casually leave each other. The station noises are quieter now.)

NARRATOR : Waggons. . . . We finish where we started. . . . Can you remember the picture I painted for you? Waggons - in blocks, in hundreds, in thousands . . . no section empty of them . . . and snaking in and out of them the priority specials, the troop trains. . . . That train speeding up the line is not running only through darkness . . . it is running past line after line of loaded waggons . . . carrying the munitions of war for those soldiers to use. . . .
To-day you watched a few ripples in one pond - one pond out of many. . . . There are hundreds of such ripples in hundreds of such ponds . . . every day, every week. . . . and it's going to get worse, Mr. Listener.
THE LISTENER : Worse?
NARRATOR : Oh yes. . . . One day there might be no trains at all for you - no milk - no morning paper. . . . If that happens and when that happens, close your eyes and think of soldiers running up the beaches of occupied Europe. . . .

    (There is a fierce upward rush of music - which goes to an urgent background.)

[Strongly] : Think big, Mr. Listener. Think big. Think beyond your tiny 8.30 train. Think of the convoys pouring munitions into this country. Think of the factories of Britain pouring out the weapons for our soldiers to use. Think of the soldiers pouring into these islands. Think of the tens upons tens of thousands of soldiers already here - waiting, waiting for the signal. Think of grim Nazi soldiers staring, day in, day out, across the beaches, searching the horizon beyond which lie these islands. . . . The preparation for the movement towards those beaches has already started. . . . The road is being made clear for it . . . clear for the Battle Trains of Britain. . . .

(The music surges up again. There is a strong brass chord which is held.)

SOLDIER'S WIFE : She's going now, darling !
SOLDIER [stirringly] : She is going, my dear !
NARRATOR [strongly] : Stand back from the platform ! Stand back from the trains !
SOLDIER'S WIFE : God speed you and guard you !
SOLDIER : God speed us, my dear !

(The music rises, full and urgent - and rhythmic like the thunder of a train. It finishes, full, triumphant, and ends the programme.)