Kid Glove Smelter

kid glove smelter

Memoirs of steel making at

THE DARLINGTON FORGE

MALCOLM MOWBRAY

On leaving The Technical School as a young boy I was plunged into the hot and dangerous work of steel smelting at The Darlington Forge. This narrative depicts the struggles to come to terms with the dangers and the searing temperatures the punishing work entailed, the doubts, fears and wonderment at the self discipline the work entailed. I have recalled many of the memorable characters I encountered and the fun and pranks which were played on one another before life became the serious affair that it is today. These memoirs are true recollections of my time spent on all aspects of steel production in Siemens Department during the 1960’s as seen through the eyes of a naive 15 year old.

Hopefully these accounts may stir a few memories for those who were there during 1960-66, or for those who were not I hope they will prove enlightening as a factual insight into work and life for a inexperienced youngster setting out onto the difficult and arduous path of adulthood during those golden years half a century ago.

Copyright

Copyright © 2017 by Malcolm Mowbray. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First year of printing: 2017-12-01

ISBN 978-0-244-05131-0

Published by Lulu Press

Malcolm Mowbray, Bernier, Lignac France 36370

malcolm.mowbray@yahoo.co.uk

THE AUTHOR @1962

Plan of Siemens department,

The Darlington Forge in the 1960’s

Key

A---gas producing plant

B---scrap yard

C---the staging

D---furnaces

E---scrap tub trestles

F---ladle pit

G---top casting pit

H---middle casting pit

I---uphill casting pits

J---ingot mould stacks

K---head and top plate moulding

L---trough preparation

M---drying oven

N---sand beds

O---factory rail system

P---drop forging department

Q---foundry

R---fettling shop

The story

Into the unknown

The double decker corporation bus shook and throbbed alarmingly with the ensuing stampede of passengers all trying to alight at once, it was precariously wobbling  side to side as the internal equilibrium changed with the manic exit of bodies spewing from the rear corner as it stood blissfully unconcerned about the congestion being caused by blocking the traffic going up North Road. The idling engine was happily belching out blue smoke and obnoxious fumes over those vehicles which were unfortunate enough to be stuck behind it, making drivers and passengers execute the well practised rush hour emergency procedures of furiously winding up the windows before suffocation by carbon monoxide poisoning threatened to overcome them. The stationary traffic caused by the static blue and cream roadblock did however have an upside, it made it easier for us pedestrians to cross the rush hour road. The crunch of the gearbox and pall of oily smoke signalled the corporation transport’s lumbering departure and painful progress as it continued crawling slowly past the once red, but now blackened brickwork of North Road Shops, the windows, un-cleaned for years behind the wire mesh grills now completely obliterated by the build-up of road filth, old newspapers and leaves.

I walked away from the main road up Albert Road which was bordered by terraced houses, the inevitable cobbled lanes running along the back of every row. The last of the back lanes marked the end of the houses on the left, and on the far side of the final back lane a line of allotments with a wide assortment of sheds and pigeon lofts sloped gently downhill to a tall bed of reeds which marked the passage of a concealed watercourse. On the opposite side of the main road a haulage or scrap yard was partially concealed from view by a high fence of tin sheeting. 

The weed choked gulley and liquid of the watercourse, which seemed to hardly flow at all beneath the road bridge was  rather enthusiastically entitled ‘river,’ the overgrown banks of the Skerne being barely ten feet apart, although the invading weeds and rushes restricted the actual water course to a lot less than that. The ever narrowing channel now contained only a thick brown sludge of indefinable depth and composition, the surface was skimmed with fluorescent blues, purples and greens of oily contamination above which a crowd of hooligan flies were contentedly playing ‘chicken’ over the shiny reflective surface, unconcerned that they were dicing with death from the poisonous, stagnant water of their chosen playground.

On the opposite side of the river the high boundary fencing of the factory crowned the overgrown bank which rose almost sheer from the weedy river’s edge to the summit of the tall hill. The ancient, high chain mesh fencing defining the factory boundary was strained to its limits in various places where it fought to retain rows of huge, well weathered wooden fabrications, all sizes and odd shapes which were piled haphazardly as far as the eye could see along its length looking much like a hastily erected barricade. Should the bulging fence collapse under the enormous weight of the discarded wooden patterns which had been used to make castings, a wooden avalanche would crash down the bramble and nettle strewn bank of the mini-canyon into the sludge of the ‘river’ below.

Behind the fence and jumble of extraordinary wooden shapes the sombre silhouette of the high factory buildings appeared as a massive black cliff face dwarfing everything around, the total blackness of their sombre mass casting deep shade over the houses below, the allotments, the stagnant river, and me.

Heading up the well trodden footpath of the short sharp incline onto Albert Hill nearly everybody around wore flat cloth ‘doggy’ caps on their heads and carried a backpack of some description slung over their shoulder. Hanging from the straps or in their hand most carried white enamel ‘billy cans’ in which to make their tea once at work inside the factories. The roadway was alive with scurrying circulation, much of which appeared to be push bikes all bustling to and fro in both directions, it could have been a day in Beijing.

The footpath was bordered on the left hand side by a high red brick wall, further indicating the factory boundary and surprisingly still full coloured and relatively untarnished by the years of accumulated filth which appeared to have adversely affected everything else around. At the summit of the hill and on a flat surface once more the wall continued for about one hundred and fifty yards, ending abruptly in a wide opening leading into the flat roofed security building. On the inside of the works yard the right hand part of the gatehouse contained a separate unit which housed the first aid room always manned twenty four hours a day.

Just past this security gate house the high factory boundary was further defined by a massively wide set of steel double gates, then railings running another twenty or so yards to the two story, red brick buildings of the main office block. This building continued alongside the main road for about another hundred yards, the latter part of which contained some of the heavy machine shop, until on reaching the North-South railway line and bridge it turned left and continued parallel to the rail tracks into the deep works yard.

From the opposite side of the main entrance rail tracks embedded into the tarmac surface of the road crossed from huge sidings and entered through the wide double gates into the well tended factory yard, there was not a single piece of paper or cigarette end anywhere to be seen. The shiny silver ribbons of the obviously frequently utilised internal rail system were set into shingle on the right hand side of the yard, splitting and multiplying then skirting in several directions round the outside of  the black corrugated factory buildings or disappearing altogether across the tarmac road sections of the works yard and beneath massive roller shutter doors in the end walls of the constructions, and on into the cavernous depths of the mysterious interiors beyond.

Sheep-like I followed the bustling crowd of men who presumably knew where they were going and entered the wide corridor into the low roofed gate house building. Fighting my way across the flow of the jostling crowd I made my way nervously up to the small open window to find out what to do next, as I had been briefed on my successful application of employment.

The bottom half of the gate house was solid brick, the top half comprising of large windows facing in every direction for hindrance free and maximum surveillance of the busy entrance, it resembled a ground level airport control tower. I stared dry mouthed at the two grim looking guards who were dressed in all black uniforms and gleaming peaked caps, however I couldn’t quite see their feet and trying not to appear too conspicuous I raised myself onto tiptoes to see if they were wearing jack boots to match the rest of the uniform which looked very much like Gestapo. One of the guards looked up from his morning paper, his head held well back as though staring at the single light bulb overhead, apparently the only way he could see from beneath the flat shiny peak of his black cap which hung down vertically so far that it totally covered his suspicious eyes.

YES?  he growled.

Errr....Errr...I’m a new starter, I blurted out.

Name lad? he barked, making me jump at the sharpness of the demand.

Errr.... errr....   Mowbray I stammered, ....errr....Malcolm Mowbray, I

was confused at being caught out by the suddenness of the interrogative type treatment, I had expected to be welcomed with open arms.

What department? demanded the guard without emotion still looking down his tilted back nose as though I was guilty of everything that blighted the world and others that he had not yet thought of.

Siemens...., Errr... Siemens department I replied knowledgably and with pride, but daring to only look at the floor in order to avoid his stare as it seemed that he considered me as being some sort of illegal infiltrator into his domain. Realising that he had some real work to do the guard took hold of an officially badged clipboard tracing a line down it with the end of his well chewed pencil. I held my breath in anguish. It was taking him too long.

‘Had I made a mistake with the name of the department’? ‘Had I mispronounced it’?

‘Was I even in the correct factory?

The guard nodded to himself. Got it, he said to no one in particular, his counterpart  officer currently being too involved reading ‘Mein Kampf’ or whatever it was in his hands to take much notice of what was passing by in their shady little world of quasi-officialdom.

Steel smelter, eh lad! Gestapo man snidely told me, rather than asked. I stared at him wide eyed. Had he got it wrong???

Junior Operative Steelmaking Technician I corrected him. His pencil end wobbled over his board as his face turned bright red, presumably because I had the sheer nerve to question his authority.

It says here steel smelter son! he corrected me.

I was told that I was to be a Junior Operative Steelmaking Technician I replied, trying to hide my nerves and sound sort of  matter of fact. Maybe they made a mistake in the office I bleated.

You may think that you are a Junior errr.....errr.... whatever it is that you profess to be, but in the end you’re just a steel smelter with a fancy name ‘cos that’s what’s on my list, just like being a toilet cleaner or dustbin man. Got it? I nodded disheartenedly. I didn’t say anything, I didn’t know what was going on anyway.

O.K. lad said the guard with a nonchalance which annoyed me intensely, him being so obviously highly un-impressed by the grandioseness of my given title.

I was here having no idea what I had agreed to, but the swaying factor had been the job title:- ‘JUNIOR OPERATIVE STEELMAKING TECHNICIAN’. Grandiose or what! I had informed all and sundry who would listen to me, and I was forever repeating it to myself:- ‘JUNIOR OPERATIVE STEELMAKING TECHNICIAN’. Wow!!!  I would never tire of the sound of it. However I did my best to avoid explaining exactly what I was going to be doing, as quite frankly I didn’t know.

Before leaving The Darlington Tech. I had wanted to be a pattern maker as I always excelled at woodwork but could find no vacancies for that particular apprenticeship. However during my interview with the personnel officer in the main offices of  The Darlington Forge I was offered this particular position as an alternative, the sketchy description of the work had passed straight through one ear and out of the other as I had no idea what she was talking about, but it did sound different so I took it. In hindsight I suppose that warning bells should have clanged a little as no guided tour or introduction to my future working environment was offered, ( I was soon to learn why) and so here I was on their doorstep, totally unprepared for anything which should befall me as I was about to step into the black abyss of what really was the unknown. There is one born every minute seemed to be adequate!!!

The black peaked cap wobbled  as the head nodded  towards the far end of the gate house in the direction of a group of other youngsters already gathered there, most of whom were fully occupied with gazing at the walls, sky, or their own feet in shy silence, awaiting their own impending fate, not one of them daring to look in the direction of the security post should they inadvertently make eye contact with one of the dreaded black clad guards.

Stand over there with that lot and ‘somebody’ will be over here for you shortly I was ordered by the security moron who was clutching the clipboard so hard that his fingers were turning white, (which actually contrasted quite well with his black uniform as though he was wearing dress gloves. I wondered if he had ever auditioned for The Black and White Minstrel Show.) Deciding to follow the ultimate authority of the waved clipboard I headed over to where the other lads were standing as he dashed to pick up the telephone, presumably calling for reinforcements.

Taking up a vacant spot against the wall, hoping desperately to hide amongst the other bods I chanced a quick glance in the direction of the Gestapo headquarters where both guards were now staring intently in our direction, their heads tilted backwards in order to see from beneath the shiny peaks of their caps to confirm that we were all obeying their instructions to the letter, they looked as if  they were competing in a spitting competition at the ceiling. It felt that along with the other lads we were all being lined up against the wall ready to face a firing squad. 

My heart thumped wildly inside my chest while my Adams apple did its best to dry up entirely inside my throat and choke me. I stood with the rest of the gangly brigade of youths, comparing zits and buck teeth, helping them to stare towards the huge expanse of black corrugated buildings from which fearsome noises permeated to where we all waited in silence, terror of the unknown striking into the hearts of every one of us.

At intervals ‘somebodies’ dressed in boiler suits, white or brown smocks or well worn civilian clothes emerged from secreted doors in all directions, arriving to collect their charges, reeling off names from large sheets, or small scraps of paper, and so gradually the group dwindled down to just one solitary, lonely and apprehensive person. ME! I felt totally abandoned and so, so, alone!!!

Finally a ‘somebody’ shambled around the right hand corner of the black mass of buildings and made his way across the wide tarmac section of the works yard towards me. He was a big man with broad shoulders, grey hair sticking out haphazardly from under his flat cap, the sheer sight of him making the doubts and fears threaten to turn me into a wreck on the spot as I realised that as it was my turn now. Watching his slow approach my knees trembled even more as I realised that there was no mistake and he was definitely my ‘somebody.’ My fate was now well and truly sealed!!!

As you’re the only one left, I assume that you are Mowbray said the ‘somebody’ in more of a statement rather than a question, I nodded in mute agreement.

Right lad, he said, smiling amiably, you’re with me, so off we go. Oh, and my name is Jack Barker by the way, and I’m charge hand on this shift. He turned to face the way from which he had just come, expecting me to automatically follow, which I duly did. He ambled slowly off with a heavily pronounced limp, which in my panic at seeing him coming for me I had not noticed before, and was obviously the reason for his lurching gait. His open leather waistcoat swayed side to side like a metronome keeping perfect time to his rolling steps. We left behind the world of my youth as we walked deeper and deeper into the factory complex. Goodbye childhood, hello future!!!

The North East of England was at its zenith in heavy industrial production, famous for railway works, steel manufacturing, wire mills, rolling mills and wool production. I was taking a great leap into the unknown, making the transition from school boy to working man.

It was August, 1960. I was fifteen years of age and about to start my very first day at work.

Stage fright

The open factory yard was crazily inset with criss-crossed railway lines and once around the corner of the massive black corrugated building we disappeared deeper amid the dark depths of the bleak looking complex which towered all around us. The left hand side of the road on which we walked was obviously the main thoroughfare as it was covered with smooth tarmac, shingle covering the other half through which the rail tracks threaded their way to who knows where. The huge buildings soaring on both sides of us gave a canyon effect, as yet un-penetrated by the sun and devoid of soul and warmth, the whole area smelled of coke and sulphur.  One hundred and fifty yards deeper into the dark rift a massive entrance in the left hand building gaped wide open, the black roller shutter being fully wound up. On the opposite side of the road a similar door gave a mirrored image and it was from within the blackness of this building that a heavy pounding sound emanated.

Across the road into this dark interior the polished silver strips of the rail lines continued until they disappeared amidst the murky depths and gloom of the huge workshop. The heavy pounding continued, vibrating the very ground on which we stood; the drop forging plant was in full process. In the dimness of the interior a huge ingot, glowing bright red was suspended horizontally and being rotated by a monstrous, multi-width bicycle type chain from which it was hanging, and through the internal gloom the hazy outlines of several men appeared to be hanging over the end of a long tubular bar which was acting as an extension to the bottle shaped ingot.

The porter bar, as the long tube was called, was used to hold and counterbalance the work, the thin head of the ingot was thrust into the open end of the bar gripping it horizontally under the huge hammer of the drop forge, the hammer head being about the size of a small car. The several men hanging prostrate on the very end of the bar like dead men over a saddle were constantly shuffling back and forth to act as fine adjustments to the equilibrium of the whole assembly as it was constantly being rotated and pounded into shape. Surely this wasn’t modern-day technology?  But it did look like fun and I wanted a go.

In later years, after  decommissioning following the end of the second world war, the giant gun barrels from H.M.S. Vanguard were returned to ‘The Forge,’ (where they apparently had been originally manufactured.) Supposedly these monstrous guns had never fired a shot in anger, but were now to be put to demeaning use as porter bars in the drop forge department. As a souvenir I chipped off a lump of the grey paint which covered the metalwork, it comprised of many multi-coloured layers and was of incredible thickness, good protection against the corrosive elements of the sea, but such a sad demise for a proud and monstrous piece of history.

The building on our left next to where we stood appeared to benefit from a little more light than the one opposite, highlighting the full length of the single rail line running through the doorway, making it still visible two hundred and fifty yards further on as it exited through yet another black roller shutter door in the distant obscurity of the long building. 

On the right hand side, just inside the wide roller shutter an almost vertical metal staircase gave access onto a twelve foot high steel staging supported on vertical

steel girder stilts, the open edge of the high staging was protected along its length by a simple tubular handrail with a middle bar to split the gap. At the far end of the staging, about one hundred yards away, a similar staircase offered another almost vertical means of access. Everything had a natural black and grey metal finish, nowhere had anything appeared to have experienced the luxurious caress of a paint brush. Set slightly back from the edge of the staging above us, three low, yellow brick constructions gave a focal point to the department because of their glowing lightness of colour in contrast to the dark sombreness of everything else around. The closest of the three structures was silent with an abandoned and neglected air. The second and third were vibrant; growling gently with luminous wispy tongues of flames licking out from gaps in the brickwork and around small doors. The three constructions continued below the level of the staging, the open steelwork leaving the mass of yellow brickwork clearly visible as it disappeared into a long, narrow pit. Even from where we stood outside the doorway the rising, shimmering heat distorted the shapes of the two working furnaces and could be felt on our faces as it wafted out into the summer atmosphere behind.

Taking a less vertical external staircase we arrived on the large steel staging, on the right hand side at the very end of which stood two small offices, one for the manager and general foreman, Horace Marshall and Harold Owens, and the other for shift charge hands, both looking as if they had been an afterthought as the small constructions looked totally out of place having been built from red brick.

However as the space beneath these offices was used as a storage shed to

house the tools of the bricklaying gangs this could have explained why the small annexe was not like everything else and in black tin sheeting.

In a line on the left hand side of the wide staging the one silent and two working furnaces appeared to resemble squat little bungalows, each with eight steel girder frames running up the rear, across the slightly convex roofs, and then down the front, much like goal posts and crossbars, each frame joined to the next at the top by more steel joists. The girder frames were an aid to help support the brick structures and the mechanisms of the elevating doors.

Yellow flames flashed out at irregular moments from around the two small and three larger doors in the front of the two working furnaces which in places were glowing red and orange from the vast heat being generated within. The air was hot and stifling, heavily laden with the smell of burnt gas. The furnaces continuously hissed and growled gently to themselves sounding like giant purring cats. Strangely though, despite the luminosity of the flames the working area still bore a dismal aura of darkness and gloomy depression, the few lamps high up in the roof area seemingly fighting a desperate and losing battle to penetrate the years of grime which coated them.

Two parallel steel railway lines flush with the flooring ran the full length of the staging, one a few feet away from the front of the furnaces and the other on the opposite side of the wide staging, the silver colour of their surfaces, polished from much usage forming two strips of brightness stretching into the distant gloom. At the far end of the staging, settled astride these two rails which were a full thirty feet