The Switchman

— J. Chr. de Vries

In late 1899, Gille Augruil was appointed as a switchman on what became later known as the ‘Ghost Line of the Tarn.’ The railway ran from the coal mines near Carmeaux towards Albi and Saint-Juéry, in the Massif Central. Augruil was 33 years old. He was a quiet, reclusive man, which made him highly suitable for this solitary job. He had amassed a sizable collection of books on everything related to railways, including locomotives, stations, types of switches, signal posts, railway and codes. He also crafted ingenious miniature stations and signal houses out of matchsticks, spending hours on his intricate constructions. He was content.


The switchman’s lodge stood next to the railway, he had to operate the only switch located there twice a day. In the morning, around quarter past eight, he had to set the switch to the right so that the train from Saint-Juéry would take the right track, and in the evening at ten minutes to six, he had to set the switch back when the train returned from Carmeaux. The train was a freight train but sometimes had an extra passenger carriage at the ‘tail’. The train followed a large, kilometer-long loop, eliminating the need to uncouple the locomotive. The switch had to be changed when the train returned via the other track to prevent derailment. His task was not extensive but nonetheless crucial.


Once a week, the train would slow down, and one of the doors of the freight cars would be slid open, dumping a package of supplies right next to his switchman’s cabin. He received very little mail and never sent anything himself.

Day after day, year after year, Augruil had carried out his task with great dedication. He had never once failed. That was also thanks to his clever approach: after the train had passed, he would secure the switch in place. If, by chance, he were to be late when the train came back around, there would be no problem because the switch would already be in the correct position. But over all those years, it had only happened once. He was suffering from severe digestive issues and was confined to the ‘smallest room’ next to his house, only able to hear the train passing by.
 At this day, being 66 years old, he had spent 33 years of his life performing his solitary duties, so for half of his life. Something had changed within him, although he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He hadn’t touched his matchstick constructions in quite some while now, the books had remained untouched on the shelf, and he also noticed that he took less pleasure in eating or drinking. Furthermore, he slept poorly, often waking up in the middle of the night, and sometimes it would take him hours before he could fall back asleep. His tactic of switching the track ahead of time however, meant that he didn’t have to worry about being late to the switch. The train was not in danger.


One day, it was early in the morning, he woke up abruptly from a strange dream. The dream troubled him, and it took a while for him to recall the details. He was no longer a switchman; he was a train driver.


He was sitting in the cabin of the locomotive, driving the train, and suddenly he realized with horror that the train had gone out of control. No matter what he was trying, he was not able to stop the train. He pulled the brakes, attempted to extinguish the fire in the engine room, but instead of slowing down, the train kept on accelerating. Just as he thought that the train would derail, he woke up. He felt his heart pounding and his hands trembling.


He stepped out of his bed, unable to eat a bite, and walked outside, still partly dazed, to wait for the train. The train passed by right on time. It was the first day of the week, so the new supplies would be thrown out of the train again. The train slowed down, and he saw the train driver waving at him, a brief greeting. The man who tossed out the package also nodded at him. Then the train picked up speed once more.
 He walked towards the switch to reset it, but he hesitated. He thought about the many years he had spent there and wondered what it all meant. What had been his role in this whole affair? He was overwhelmed by a sense of hopelessness and emptiness inside him. He couldn’t find the strength to change the switch, not that it was physically demanding; no, it was his mind that resisted. He grabbed the lever of the switch but immediately let go. He couldn’t muster his will. He sank to the ground next to the switch and stared for a long time at the railway track.

Suddenly, he made a decision, not understanding where it might have come from, but knowing what he had to do — or rather, what not to do: he would not set the switch back. Finally, he would give his life some real meaning, doing something that for one time truly mattered, that would have consequences, that would change the world, however small in the grand scale of history. It was infinitely more significant than all the over 24,000 times he had been switching the track.


He waited the whole day for the train to come back. He was frequently overcome by doubts — was this the right decision to make? He walked to the switch multiple times, contemplating on changing it or not, but each time he refrained.


Around ten minutes to six, he heard the train approaching from Carmeaux, and it was some five minutes away from the switch. Augruil’s heart was pounding like a maniac, his hands were trembling, his legs as well — he could barely keep himself upright. Once again, he approached the switch, he would still have enough time to set it in the correct position, but he couldn’t do it, or perhaps he didn’t want to. He wasn’t even certain about that. You must be brave, he told himself, it’s now or never. The train was now about a hundred meters away from the switch; the train driver sounded the steam whistle. Augruil grabbed the lever but was unable to move. He withdrew his hands from the lever and took a step back. The train thundered toward the switch at full speed. He saw the train driver waving at him.


Augruil waited for the tremendous impact that undoubtedly would follow in the coming seconds — the wreckage of the toppling locomotive, the fire from the engine room spreading around everywhere, the boiling water shooting out of the steam-boiler, the wagons toppling over like a house of cards, the screeching and creaking of metal and wood, the screams of the crew. The train rumbled over the switch, and he dared not look. Slowly, reality dawned on him — the train had passed without any problems, it hadn’t derailed; nothing had happened at all. He was left only with the aftermath. Suddenly, he collapsed right beside his switch.


After some moments of being completely lost, he suddenly was struck by a lucid sense of comprehension. The position of the switch appeared to be of no importance for the return journey; the switch tongue simply moved with the wheels. His entire half-life, he had switched the track for no reason at all. He trudged wearily and exhausted back into his house.


Exactly one week later a letter arrived, it was sent by the director of the railway company. The line would be closed down since it was no longer profitable. Augruil was thanked for his years of faithful service and subsequently promptly dismissed.


A month later the train passed by for the last time. It stopped at the lodge of the switchman, and a few men got out and entered Augruil’s empty and abandoned home in order to help him load his belongings onto the train. They marveled at the enormous collection of little buildings made out of matchsticks. But Augruil had vanished without a track.



— J. Chr. de Vries, Bonnemort, February 26, 2023