Nazi Saboteurs had Big Plans for Pennsylvania’s Horseshoe Curve Train Track

Nazi saboteur Richard Quirin kicked off his shoes, sat back in his New York City hotel room, and lit up a Lucky Strike, one of the American cigarettes he had missed so much while he was in Germany. He intently studied his map of the Altoona, PA region and his target: the famous Horseshoe Curve on the Pennsylvania Railroad.

If all went well, he would soon retrieve the explosives that he and his fellow agents brought ashore from the submarine and buried in waterproof bags on a Long Island Beach. He would pack them into the extra large suitcases he bought in a shop in Brooklyn, and travel by rail to Altoona. There, he would strategically plant and detonate them destroying a unique and vital American transportation line that, since 1854, served as a key link for freight and passenger trains traversing the Allegheny Mountains.

Richard Quirin

Quirin was part of a 1942 German plan to destroy important American infrastructure and manufacturing sites like locks and dams on the Ohio River, hydro-electric facilities at Niagara Falls, Alcoa aluminum plants, and Horseshoe Curve. The mission was called Operation Pastorious.

His target, Horseshoe Curve, is an engineering marvel that has fascinated railroaders, passengers and tourists who journeyed to the region to see monster trains pass by ever since it was opened before the Civil War. East and westbound trains traverse the curve that bends around a dam, a lake, and two ravines. For every 100 feet, the tracks at the Horseshoe Curve bend nine degrees with the entire curve totaling 220 degrees. The curve is 2,375 feet long and, at its widest, about 1,300 feet across. People on a train rounding the curve can look out one side of their windows and see cars in the same train on a parallel course.

During World War II, troops, munitions, and war products from hundreds of manufacturers were transported on the Pittsburgh to Philadelphia line. More than 50 passenger trains a day passed over the curve with a similar number of freight trains.

Operation Pastorious planners targeted the curve for destruction to disrupt rail traffic and America’s East Coast war effort. But the best laid plans of secret Nazis often went awry. Quirin never got to finish his smoke or further study his attack map. Unbeknownst to the German, two of his co-conspirators turned themselves in and ratted out the other agents. Before Quirin could get started on his Horseshoe Curve attack, or even finish that cigarette, the FBI knocked on his door. Operation Pastorious was snuffed out like Quirin’s Lucky Strike once the G-Men burst in and took him into custody. He and seven other German agents were tried. All were convicted and six, including Quirin, were executed in the electric chair.

So Horseshoe Curve remained a vital artery in the nation’s wartime rail transportation network, safe from the saboteur’s explosives and Hitler’s grand plan to destroy America from the inside. The line survived the war, the switch from steam to diesel engines, and changes in the way Americans move their people and freight. Passenger trains dwindled with the advent of air travel and 18-wheelers took a chunk out of the freight business once interstate highways created quicker more direct connections.

View from the park at Horseshoe Curve

However, if you stand today in the clean well-groomed park that sits in the middle of Horseshoe Curve, you would have a difficult time believing that there could be even more rail traffic than there is today. Every 15 minutes or so, seven days a week, huge diesel engines pull massive trains in both directions around the rails that seem to encircle close-up observers.

Engineers blast their whistles and wave vigorously at the tourists who ride the short steep funicular from the parking area and museum below or take a set of long steps to the observation area/park. Instead of boxcars, coaches, and dining cars, today’s engines pull mostly flatcars loaded to capacity with aluminum containers that, not long before, sat on the decks of Trans-Atlantic ocean freighters. They are mostly Chicago bound from ports on the East coast.

According to Norfolk Southern Railroad, the current owners of the line, 111.8 million short tons of freight are moved over Horseshoe Curve every year. Amtrak’s Pennsylvanian between Pittsburgh and New York City rumbles by once a day every day. Freight trains roll around the curve at 30 miles per hour. Freight trains make it at 41 miles per hour.

Amid the noise of the trains and the playful yelling of visiting children who are fascinated by the appearances of the huge engines, it is difficult but not impossible to imagine the magnitude of the building project that made it all possible.

For three years, beginning in 1850, a 450-man work crew, made up almost entirely of Irishmen who fled the starvation caused by the potato blight in their home country, used only picks, shovels, and horses pulling flatbeds called drags to shape the mountainside to accommodate the railroad. The work had to be backbreaking, insufferably hot in the summers, and incredibly cold in the winter. They were paid about 25 cents an hour for a 12-hour day.

John Edgar Thompson

John Edgar Thomson, a civil engineer and industrialist, was the designer of Horseshoe Curve. He eventually presided over the Pennsylvania Railroad’s growth into the largest business enterprise in the world in his day and was famous for his technological and managerial innovation. Andrew Carnegie, who started his career as a clerk with the Pennsylvania Railroad, was such a fan of his old boss that he named his sprawling steel plant in Braddock, PA after him—the Edgar Thomson Steel Works.

The entire line between Altoona and Johnstown, including Horseshoe Curve, opened on February 15, 1854. The total cost for that 31.1 miles of track was $2.4 million or $80,000 per mile. Eventually, so many trains were using the line that three additional tracks were added by 1900.

The engineering and historical significance of Horseshoe Curve was recognized in 1966 when it was designated a National Historic Landmark and listed on the National Register of Historic Places. It was designated a National Historic Civil Engineering Landmark by the American Society of Civil Engineers in 2004.

Any trip to see the big trains at Horseshoe Curve should include a stop at the Railroaders Memorial Museum in Altoona, where, at one time, more than 1,600 people were employed at the Pennsylvania Railroad’s sprawling repair, maintenance and locomotive construction facilities.

As the museum makes clear, Altoona was a town built by railroaders for railroaders and its displays offer a rare glimpse into a transportation industry that has all but vanished. It disappeared partly because today’s diesel train engines do not require the frequent maintenance that the old steam engines needed. The museum does a great job of explaining how locomotives were refurbished by first dipping them in their entirety in a vat of lye; how 80-inch drive wheels for train engines were cast in maintenance shops; how crews called “gandy dancers” built and maintained 26,000 miles of track, tunnels and stations; and why wreck crews remained on alert for frequent accidents.

Visits to Horseshoe Curve and the museum at Altoona are worthwhile day trips for folks interested in trains past and present, transportation history, or a visit to a famous candy factory—

Altoona is home to Boyer Brothers Inc., makers of the famous Mallo Cup. They make more than 2 million Mallow Cups a Day. And yes, they operate a candy factory outlet.

Click on the video below to see what it is like when a big freight train comes through Horseshoe Curve.

The Illusionists: An Amazing Show Worthy of Praise

He was scruffy and scary, covered in tattoos with his head shaved on the sides but with long wild hair on the top. Earrings, odd makeup, chains and leather clothing rounded out the ensemble. He less called for a volunteer from the audience than he did demand one. He called himself The Anti-Conjuror.

Another wore a turn-of-the-century white linen suit and collar with geeky round glasses and sported a blond crew cut. He boasted of inventing unique feats of illusion and so called himself The Inventor.

A third was a well-dressed Korean man in his 20s who had an exotic “smarter than you” look on his wrinkleless face and fascinated the audience without speaking a word as he produced hundreds of ordinary playing cards from thin air and made them do whatever he wished. He was The Manpulator.

Then, there was the painfully thin young Italian who scoffed at locks and handcuffs, especially while locked upside down under water performing the Houdini-like water chamber escape. He called himself The Escapologist.

A long-haired head-banger repeatedly jeopardized the life of his assistant by shooting arrows at various targets she held aloft. Sometimes he faced the opposite direction and used a mirror to see his target. He was billed as The Weapon Master.

An ordinary looking young British man shocked the audience by being at one place one second and then disappearing and reappearing across the theater the next. His moniker was The Deceptionist.

Rounding out the troupe was a glitter-wearing fast-talking gay joker who stole watches, performed parlor tricks and served as the comedic host of the overall event. He was called The Trickster.

Together, the seven performers are traveling America for a show called “The Illustionists” that began with a successful run on Broadway. We saw the show in Morgantown just before they moved on to Pittsburgh’s Heinz Hall for a four-show stand April 22 and 23.

Never having seen an illusionist show in person, I was captivated. On television, there’s always that grain of doubt and skepticism nurtured by the knowledge that editing and special effects just might play a part in the show. In person, those factors are absent and you can truly appreciate the sophistication that each performance requires to produce the desired befuddlement of the audience.

Several of the performers developed true humor-infused characters while others never uttered a word. The Anti-Conjuror (Dan Sperry) , did both. He did three separate sets throughout the evening. During the first two, he wordlessly amazed the audience with illusions involving birds and candy; yes, a piece of candy. Later, playing off his intimidating look, he played the dark impatient con man, shouting threatening yet funny instructions at his volunteer victim from the audience. He also did some gross-out tricks that involved some blood-letting.

The Escapologist (Andrew Basso) pelted the audience with effective braggadocio and dramatic showmanship in a thick Italian accent before attempting his Houdini-like escape from underwater bondage as a digital clock ticked off the time.

The Weapon Master (Ben Blaque) looked like he could have been in a heavy-metal band. He used a crossbow with a scope to hit a variety of odd sized objects from the grasp of a traditional female assistant. He spoke no words and let his weapon do the talking, culminating in a fairly intricate and impressive endeavor involving an apple like a high tech William Tell.

The Manipulator (Yu Ho-Jin), standing straight and elegant, never spoke a word as he worked with what seemed to be a never-ending supply of playing cards in a slight of hand display the audience never saw coming. He made quite a mess on stage that someone had to sweep up after the curtain closed.

The Deceptionist (James More) was another silent performer who did some remarkable “now you see him…now you don’t” illusions that had folks scratching their heads in amazement.

The Inventor (Kevin James), to me, was perhaps the least entertaining. He was obviously the senior member of the group and his illusions centered mostly around making a folded napkin levitate and dance around as if by…well…magic. He also did a mad scientist opening bit that seemed to be more flash than substance.

The Trickster (Jeff Hobson) was the ringmaster of all the mayhem. He was one-part comedian and one-part magician, pulling hapless volunteers from the audience for quip-laden bits that always ended up with a well-executed illusion. He got serious for his introduction of the Escapologist but kept the rest of the evening light and humorous.

The show was complimented by an overhead big screen that gave the audience a closer look at the goings on and an on-stage camera operator kept the action well framed.

Four of the seven performers in the traveling show were featured in the Broadway version which opened in November 2015 and closed in January, 2016. The original cast included Adam Trent as the Futurist, who has attained a great deal of exposure as a solo act both before and after the Broadway show; Raymond Crowe as the Unusualist; and Jonathan Goodwin as the Daredevil.  They were replaced by the Escapologist, the Inventor, and the Weapon Master for the road version. There is no explanation of why the lineup changed.

The entire show was only about 90 minutes long, as opposed to the two hours of the Broadway version. The show seemed to fly by--another sort of deception that comes from good entertainment. Tickets were not inexpensive, but if you have never seen top illusionists at work and you like to laugh and be entertained by some of the best in the business, this show is for you.

Bedlam, Torture, and the Sweet Outcomes of the 

Amateur Swim Meet

Pictures don't do justice to the bedlam of a swim meet

On fall and winter Saturdays when most Americans watch football, shop, relax, do yardwork or pursue other activities, thousands of young athletes, their parents, grandparents, and fans pack into swimming facilities all over the nation for day-long swim meets that are bee hives of athletic activity, centers of social interaction, and hot spots of retail commerce. Who knew? 

To uninitiated casual observers like me who had no idea this kind of thing went on, amateur swim meets represent an almost invisible subculture. These confusing conglomerations consume the time and attention of entire families, support a surprising range of entrepreneurial endeavors, produce as many tears as smiles among young participants, and look like an incomprehensible mass of organized chaos. Until our granddaughter became involved with a swim team, I was clueless about how many products, terms, issues, dreams, and sheer numbers of people were involved in these events that occur in pools all over the nation.

Our granddaughter began her competitive swimming career in the pools of Pittsburgh in indoor events held in regional high schools. The first struggle involved with attending one of these marathons is finding a place to park. That’s when the enormity of the events first set in for me. The events attract hundreds of swimmers, their parents, friends, and other family members who gobble up limited parking spaces early in the morning. Late starters like me can look forward to a long cold walk.

Some meets charge a nominal fee for people to attend. Volunteers, usually moms, sit at tables to collect admission. Invariably, they have a child with them who insists on handing you your change and stamping the back of your hand with a glob of black ink thus branding you as okay to pass in and out. Too often, they perform those duties with their own candy coated sticky gooey hands imbuing your own hands with the same condition. Once inside, after washing your hands, the challenge is to secure a “heat sheet”—a thick collection of stapled pages containing a dense list of swimmers’ names, their best times in each of the four events they may be participating in, and a schedule of events, heats, and lanes in which they will swim throughout the meet. These heat sheets are, of course, for sale only.

Whoever arranges the heats and events is an evil diabolical genius to folks like me who are used to sports like football and basketball that get you in and out in a set amount of time. Somehow, it always turns out that your swimmer participates in one event at say 9 a.m., and then has nothing to do until their next event at like 2 p.m. Since I’m really only interested in my swimmer’s events, that means I have nothing to do for hours either and that’s the hardest part the whole endeavor.

The bare footed swimmers usually hang out with teammates at some designated location while wrapped in damp towels but families are condemned to fritter away the idle hours in the school cafeteria where snacks like hot dogs and pizzas are available along with something else I never encountered before swim meets entered my life—the “walking taco.” It’s a small bag of opened Frito corn chips in which a chili-like concoction has been poured. The eater of this treat then uses his or her fingers to fish out bits of the messy yet crunchy snack.

Cafeteria calm before the swim meet storm

The cafeterias are usually filled with parents patiently trying to fill the empty hours. One activity they reluctantly and often ineffectually pursue is placating the younger siblings of competing swimmers. Their patience with the whole affair is more seriously limited than geezers like me. For that challenge, parents look to their overstuffed book bags for games, toys or anything else they had the foresight to pack in defense against whiny children who just want to go home. As a result, the room is littered with unread Harry Potter books, board games, playing cards, I-Pads, and other weapons employed in the battle against slow moving clocks.

The admission charge, snack bar, and sale of heat sheets are just the beginnings of the mini-economy that exists at these events. A great deal of money changes hands at a traditional swim meet. There’s usually an area where parents and grandparents can shop for swim suits, goggles, caps and other accouterments for their swimmers at premium prices by a range of vendors. Then, there’s an area where tee shirt and sweatshirt entrepreneurs have set up shop. For a hefty fee, they will emboss any piece of overpriced clothing purchased from them with clever swim sayings or swim team logos. Then, there are candy sales people who will deliver the selected candy along with a personalized message of best wishes to individual swimmers, again for a fee. At some meets, photographers can be commissioned to snap specific swimmers in action. It’s a murder’s row of wallet drainers for hapless well-meaning grandparents.

At some meets, a busy volunteer will keep track of the events and occasionally update a white board in a corner of the cafeteria by writing out the number of the event under way so that parents and swimmers can keep track of their next appearance. Other events require parents to gather courage and poke their heads into the chaos of the pool area for a visual assessment every now and then.

The pool area is where the greatest bedlam occurs. There is usually a bleacher section packed with discarded winter coats, swimmers’ equipment bags, glazed-over observers who are between events and are too zoned out from boredom to succumb to the cafeteria’s charms, and super-intense swim fans who are supercharged and glued to the action. It must be some sort of unofficial requirement that at least 90 percent of the people in the stands be engaged in loud conversation. The constant conversational buzzing that results, combined with the horns signaling race starts, the swimmers lined up to compete while chatting on the pool deck, a disembodied voice making incomprehensible announcements over loud and fuzzy-sounding PA systems, and coaches and parents shouting instructions and encouragement to their swimmers in the pool make for an overwhelming noise attack to sensitive ears. It also looks like no one really knows what is going on but, strangely, they really do.

Very serious swim meet officials

There’s a host of volunteer swim meet officials lining the pool. These are folks, many of whom are festooned with headset communication devices, stop watches, clipboards and ultra-serious looks on their faces, are trained to watch each swimmer in each event. They keep a close eye out for swimmers who pull or kick into the wall during the backstroke; use a flutter, dolphin or scissors stroke or kick during the breaststroke; or push their arms forward under instead of over the water surface in the butterfly; or any other number of other possible infractions. If they spot a violation, swimmers are disqualified or “DQed.” For my first few meets, I though DQ had something to do with frozen custard. 

There are timers for each lane. There’s also a long table at one end of the pool where more officials scribble something down on stacks of papers and some poor soul charged with entering all this information onto a computer program sits in focused silence.In all this noise and chaos, it is a miracle when the swimmers know it is their turn to swim. Swimmers usually write the numbers of their events, heats and assigned swim lanes on their arms in ink after consulting with coaches at the beginning of the day. Young swimmers like to also write clever sayings on their backs like “eat my bubbles.”

After each race, results are posted on the scoreboard—for about 15 seconds before the next race begins. Swimmers usually have to ask the timers for their results or wait till they are posted on some hallway with slippery wet floors in the vicinity of the pool after a computer prints them all out. Shaving time off each race is the ultimate goal of each swimmer so they can improve their seed in the next meet in which they participate. Some swimmers emerge from the water gleeful. Others squirt tears of disappointment. Coaches console and congratulate as needed. Then it’s off to the waiting area for a couple hours until the next event.

The long wait as done in California

California style - long jacket and Uggs

After our granddaughter moved to California and resumed her swimming career there, I got a taste of how it’s done in warmer environments. All swim meets out there are held outside. Sometimes, during the meet I observed, the temperature was in the 40s for the swimmers’ morning warm ups. There isn’t any school cafeteria to kill off the hours of waiting so instead, parents haul in camping chairs, sleeping bags to lay on, coolers, backpacks full of towels, snacks, and electronic devices and erect tailgate canopy shelters to spend the day under. At the Far West event in Pleasanton, CA, just outside San Francisco, there were acres of canopies in the grass area outside the pool. There were food vendors and retail sales areas with a swimming focus and the traditional lack of parking. The chaos was the same, it was just outdoors so the noise wasn’t quite as disorienting. There seemed to be a bit more fashion involved in California. Between swimming events, young swimmers there seemed to prefer wearing full-length coat-like garments accentuated by those winter boots called Uggs.

If you want to see your swimmer at a California meet,
you have to work your way through this.

But, there were no bleachers and if you wanted to see your swimmer in action, you had to do your best to gaze through the noisy and constantly moving lines of coaches, officials, fellow observers and swimmers waiting for their next event.

Happy relay swimmers (our granddaughter far right)

Whether it’s Pittsburgh, California, or even Iowa or Maine, these swim meets are grueling tests of endurance for the swimmers and their coaches who practice almost every day, and their supporters who battle the chaotic conditions and hours of inactivity that surround the events. 

But, when your swimmer emerges from the blue water made choppy by the splashes and strokes of non-stop competition and beams with satisfaction over a performance that erased a half-second off her previous time, your frustration  over the boredom, inactivity, parking woes, and irritations over obstructed views melts away and is replaced with a glow of love and pride. That makes it worth the bedlam, boredom and challenge.