[January 5, 2025] There was smoke and fire, and people were running to this small town’s railroad station to look for the station keeper. Only a few hours earlier, a freight train had derailed in this small village, one without a traffic signal or a RR-crossing sign. The train crash was an epic tragedy for the townsfolk.
It was sometime in the early 1960s, maybe 1961 or 62, and the train crash had occurred in Morehouse Parish, northeast Louisiana. My dad took me with him to see what he could see. He worked a few miles from the wreck, in the next town to the north. He had no responsibilities there but had been called by his railroad boss to “see what you can see.”
My dad was a railroad man, and he had been since before I was born. I was born near the bayou just east of Monticello, north of the Arkansas-Louisiana line. Our family moved to Louisiana, where I would grow up and learn the ways of rural living; hunting with my dog, lake fishing, camping along the riverbanks, catching rattlesnakes, riding horses, and attending church every Wednesday and Sunday.
The day began like any other. It was summer, so it was hot and humid, and walking felt like taking a shower. My dad’s 1948 green two-door Chevy coupe had bug splatters all over the windshield by the time we arrived. The fires from an overturned tanker made this sunny day feel like a blast furnace, with a smell of oil and grease. My senses were overloaded. I hate to admit it, but I cried from the shock.
My dad, whom I still called “daddy” at that time, wanted me to begin learning the ways of a man by first exposing me to this scene of wreckage. Large iron wheels, boxcar sidings, baled cotton and other cargo, and the splintered railroad station lay all about, crisscrossing what looked like Main Street. I could hear the crackle of fires.
I stood and stared. Daddy told me that two men in the Engine cab had died, and we prayed for their souls right there, among a few of the town people who had gathered to stare. We all shared what would become the talk of the town to this day.
Train wrecks are not a simple matter. The loss of life and the cost to the railroad could be immense, and the railroad company higher-ups wanted to know the cause. My dad had been chosen because he was nearby, that is true, but also because he had the experience and a logical, investigative mind to get to the heart of the tragedy. He promised me he would tell no one that he disliked the duty.
Our time there went by in a flash. At least, that is how I remember that day. We were on our way home, and it was so unusual that my dad did not talk. Normally, he would chatter away, but not this time. Looking back, I think it must have been the death of the two railroad men. Daddy must have known them. They passed by his station often.
The smoke and fire were long gone by the next day, but the railroad had hired several construction crews to remove the wreckage. The railroad company had also sent its own specialists and heavy equipment. There were men from the company’s insurance company, auditors, trainwreck experts, civil engineers, and a host of lookers-on who would go over the wreck site in the greatest of detail.
Running a railroad is hard and dangerous work. Sometimes men died. The men who worked on it were hard men. They were close to one another. No one got left behind. The railroad’s rules are written in blood, drawn from the lessons of those who did not survive. You did not disobey the rules. Period.
I didn’t know it at the time, but this would be the first test of manhood for me. Did I pass my daddy’s standards? I do not know. The trainwreck I saw that day, the one that shocked me to my core, would forever remain with me and with the small town where a large train derailed and killed two men.
Fifteen years later, I would join the U.S. Army where rules were also written in the blood of those who died before. Life mattered, and that lesson of seeing tragedy would stay with me.
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Sir I am new to your channel and thank you.
Welcome The Turk and thanks for being on board.
Gen. Satterfield, sir, I just want to tell you how much I do appreciate you sharing some of your youngest childhood in the state of Louisiana and growing up very much unlike what we see today. In those days when you were growing up and up until recently, it was the DUTY of the father to bring his sons into the real world. Thank you!!!! I am enjoying this tremendously. Please keep them coming our way.
❤️ Always appreciate these stories of you being a kid. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. ❤️
Winston, you and I know already that Gen. Satterfield is willing to expose his weaknesses as a kid, and to show us how it affected him. He talks too of bullies and crazies in his life. Overcoming these problems is the real epitome of being a “good” person and a great leader. Let’s encourage him to keep writing about his childhood. This one story is special because it is when Gen. S. was very young, maybe 10 or so years old. I know that it is hard to remember that far back with any detail. What he did, and we too can do, is talk with older relatives who saw us then, and remembered. Others have said it too, but I will… keep writing these articles about the child Gen. Satterfield. 🙏 God Bless you sir.
Cool wreck ,.,,. I mean Hot wreck … I mean ..,. You know what I mean.
A tragic story of a time when Gen. Satterfield was a small child. His dad taking him there surely had an impact. What that impact was, is what we do not know. Maybe a little follow-up to delve into that.
Good one, Gen. S. Every time you write about your time as a little kid, it reminds me of my time too. Not many folks today were raised in the 50s and 60s. We are starting to see articles and books out on being raised during that time. They tell the stories, much like you have done, of the fun times and the craziness too that went on for those who are now in their 60s and 70s. Keep ‘em coming.
Mainer, right! We are seeing more about those times. I wonder why. Maybe it’s because these folks are retiring in greater numbers and looking to writing as a hobby. Plus, we look back on those times as nostalgic. 🤡
Ahhhhh, more events from the childhood of Gen. Doug Satterfield. What we want to know is how that affected his thinking and resilience. It appears his “daddy” was wanting to make sure his son was ready for the world. That is what good fathers do. And, in this case, it looks like his dad was successful. And, that points to a big problem in America, boys without fathers. Especially without biological fathers. I know that is extremely common in the black families and explains alot about the high crime rate, broken relationships, violence, education dropout rates, etc. Too bad everyone is so sensitive about ‘race’ in that they don’t even talk about this malignant problem. Great article, Gen. Satterfield. Roger and thannks.