Tunnels
Non-Fiction
Doug was tall and
strong for a young boy, with red hair and a rugged face, always looking for
adventure in the small unexciting town. Tim was much smaller and thinner with
brown hair, and a curiosity that sometimes got him into trouble. They were both
twelve years old, and loved to walk out to the mine after school to play until
their fathers, at the end of the day, showered off the accumulation of coal
dust, before going home.
They had to be
careful, not to climb on the belt line, which ran from the mine and down to the
river, with its ever turning rollers, and screaming bearings, loaded with coal,
bouncing up and down as it went over each roller, worse yet the belt could
break, dropping the coal on them
Throwing rocks and
playing on the mound of dirt seemed safe enough except when the miners would
set off a blast in the new shaft, sending rocks and boulders flying through the
air. Tim and Doug would stop and look upward watching for the rocks that came
crashing down through the trees, dogging left and right like a strange game of
war with the enemy bombarding them from a ship on the river.
Tim suggested,
“Let’s dig a tunnel where we can hide from shelling.”
Doug added, “Yea,
we could dig us a path around the side of the dirt pile and when the rocks
start falling we could run up and jump in.”
“We’ve got a short
handle shovel at home that would work just fine in a small tunnel.”
“Climbing that hill
is not easy, with the dirt sliding down and filling our shoes. With a trail
going around it we can run up the hill and slide down the other side.”
“Sounds like fun
Doug, I’ll go get the shovel, let’s do it.”
Doug made fast work
of the path, meandering back and forth up the side of the steep bank in the
soft dirt, packing it down hard, building a bank to hold back the loose dirt.
The first two tunnels were small and side by side, where they could jump in
feet first, lying down with a good view out toward to river. The next tunnel
was much deeper, making a circle at the end, then turning around and
reconnecting back near the entrance.
When the tug boat came to pick up the loaded
coal barges, they would head down to the river and watch the skillful tug boat
captain line up a string of barges for the ride down to the Mississippi River,
out into the Gulf of Mexico and across to Tampa Bay. The tug boat crew would
tie the barges together three wide and up to four or five deep, then the tug
boat would gently push them into the current for the long ride south.
Doug and Tim
enjoyed watching the tug boats and dreamed of taking the round trip to Tampa
where the barges would be unloaded at the power plant and then reloaded with
phosphate from the Bone Valley region of central Florida for the long ocean
trip back to New Orleans, followed by the push up river to Ohio. The mining
company owned the coal mine and the barges, making money selling the coal to
Tampa Power and Light, then hauling phosphate back up river instead of pushing
empty barges.
Tim’s father ran
the underground mining operation and arranged for Tim and his friend Doug to
take a short ride on the tug boat. The boys were spell bound, the tug boat
larger and faster than they imagined, cutting through the water and turning on
a dime. The captain showed them how he used the boat’s radar, with its green
sweeping line, leaving a trail of dots, to mark the sand bars and other boats
on the river. The sonar caught Tim’s eye, tracing the bottom, making low
beeping, as they cruised along.
“What is that?” As
Tim, pointed to a blurry image on the round screen.
“That’s a school of
fish twenty feet below the bottom of the boat.”
He explained how
they would park the barges at the dams, that were located, every six to twenty
miles, depending on the fall of the river, and push them through the locks a
few at a time, tying them back together on the other side. The mile long belt
line ran loaded high with coal from the mine day and night, filling the coal
barges, upon their return.
Near quitting time
and a shift change at the mine the boys would head for the showers to meet
their dads. Rows of clothes hung from chains, like bodies in a horror movie,
hosted up above their heads in the large shower room. The miners would discard
their work overalls, to be washed overnight and hung on the chains to dry, with
matching numbers, overalls to chain, then showering off and lowering their
clean clothes and baskets with belongings before heading home.
The boys started a
new tunnel near the bottom of the dirt mound, the digging was easy and Doug was
soon in more than a full body length, when the ground shook from a stronger
than usual blast in the mine shaft. Doug started backing out to watch for rocks
when the dirt pile started to slide down toward the opening. Tim watched
helplessly as he saw Doug’s feet being covered with dirt, and before he could
reach him he was completely buried, head first in the hole.
Tim tried to dig
Doug out, but the faster he dug, the faster the dirt slid down. Giving up he
ran toward the shower house hopping that someone would be there who could help.
Doug could not move
his legs, dirt closed in around his chest; in reflex he raised his arms over
his head in an effort to hold back the dirt. Each time he exhaled, the dirt
slid in tighter, under and around his chest, until he could only take in small
amounts of air.
Tim found a few
workers out side of the mine. “I need Help! Doug is buried in a hole we dug.”
“Show me where
Tim.” Grabbing a shovel, “Sound the mine alarm!” He ordered a co-worker,
running toward the dirt pile. As fast he shoveled the dirt away more dirt slid
down. “We have to hold back the dirt, get some boards,” He yelled to the
approaching miners,” “and shove them into the bank.”
Several workers
shoveled the dirt out, as fast as they could, with sweat pouring off their
bodies, in a desperate effort to find Doug. At last his shoes appeared; the
miners slowed down for fear of injuring him, then digging with their hands they
reached his waist, grabbing his belt, legs and feet, the men pulled him from
his fresh grave.
A respirator on his
face, forcing air back into his lungs, his vital signs checked, Tim and the
miners stood over his dirt covered, limp body, waiting for any sign of life.
Doug’s eyes open slowly, the blinding sun light causing him to squint, the men
shouted, “Praise God, he is still alive!”
His father, just
exiting the mine, black except for his eyes, running to his son, with tears
streaking the coal dust down his face, “Thank God he’s OK. How long was he
buried?”
“It could not have
been more than thirty minutes; a pocket of air near his head saved him. If he
had been facing the other way he would not have made it.”
That evening Doug
and his father showered together at the mine, and Tim learned his first hard
lesson about digging tunnels.
Copyright © 2015 Hubert Clark Crowell
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