A couple of months later, as an an eastbound chain gang (Pool 4) brakeman, I was bringing a 30 car +- setout back into #1 track (now Mainline 1), when a boxcar picked the same darn switch. This was problematic, because the engineer couldn't see me, and this was in the days before trainmen carried handheld radios. The yardmaster was supposed to be passing my signs to the hoghead via the tower radio, but as soon as he saw that the move was lined and coming back, he returned to his paperwork.

After what seemed an eternity, he glanced up and noticed me frantically waving my wings, giving a washout sign like a giant seagull. He started, and no doubt noticed the dust beginning to engulf the tower as the cut of cars plowed through the dirt. The POP of the car's emergency vent valves came a few seconds later and the cars bumped to a stop. This time, though, the cars mostly scattered away from the tower, the nearest one missing the bull's eye by a good twenty feet. Yep, in the midst of it all, I was thinking "Oh oh! F-Troop..."

Later, as the crew and I stood around with our hands in our pockets wondering what to do, the terminal superintendent, Walt Chelonis, showed up, rolled his eyes and threw up his hands at the sight of the plugged yard throat. He came over to us, and after I explained what happened, he gave us a wink and asked where we wanted our last paychecks sent. Subsequently, he gave us cut-off and highball signs as he began to climb the tower stairs to enquire about the state of the yardmaster's underwear.

Newhall Tower kept that cocked leg until the day it was torn down.