THE OPERATION NOBODY
MESSES WITH...
A former quality control chemist remembers;
By Larry Scott
This is my favorite operation,” the Superintendent remarked, as we crested the hill and entered the ravine. “I never have to argue about getting anything fixed here.”
I was impressed. In my limited experience, going to Management for new equipment was like Donald, Huey, Dewey, and Louie going to Uncle Scrooge to beg money for ice-cream sodas.
The Nitrator House was two stories tall, built into the side of a ravine, surrounded with massive dirt-filled barricades.
“You don’t have any matches on you, do you?”
This last question was asked casually enough, but he was giving me a look of cool, objective appraisal.
“No matches,” I said hastily. I knew anyone caught with matches had just ended his career at Apache;
We entered a large room, painted white, with a lower section and an elevated mezzanine. All lighting came from outside, shining in through windows. There were no electrical outlets or, indeed, anything electrical inside. I could see a large, domed circular tank on the upper level. A large shaft extended vertically from the top with a purple beveled gear at the top, which meshed with a similar gear on a horizontal shaft, which extended out through a hole in the wall. At the front of the tank I saw a large ceramic stopcock connected to a rubber hose. Two smaller, but sizable, tanks stood side-by-side on the lower floor.
The two operators were cordial enough, and said all the right things, but there was that same air of cool appraisal I had seen in their boss when he had asked me about matches.
“We just weighed in the glycerine,” the operator said. “The temperature is good.”
I climbed the steps and peered through a window at a kiddie-pool-sized expanse of light yellowish acid filling the tank to knee-level.
“Let’s go!” the operator called. The shafts began to turn, with a soft purring noise coming from the gears.
The acid was now swirling, with little waves running back and forth across the surface.
The operator looked up from a thermometer. “Here we go!” He pulled a handle, and glycerine entered the tank in a gushing stream. In a few minutes, the flow slackened, slowed to a drip and finally stopped.
“That’s it; we’re done.” The operator hit the control and the shafts stopped.
More than 1,300 pounds of nitroglycerine swirled to rest at my feet. There was a moment of breathlessness, then I mentally shrugged. If anything bad happened - I’d never know.
“Let’s check the gutter,” the Superintendent called.
Outside, a long wooden trough, or ‘gutterline’ extended down the ravine, into another barricaded building 100 yards away. Hinged wood covers stood open the entire length. We walked the line, studying the rubber lining. As each section was inspected, the operator closed the cover.
As we entered the building, the operator became more friendly. “We’re going to transfer the load we just made down here. Here, look in this tank.” “See the water in the bottom?” he asked. “It serves as a kind of cushion.”
Outside, I saw a red/green traffic next to an ancient crank telephone. The operator gave the phone a couple quick cranks, and the horn echoed across the ravine. He then flipped a switch, activating the green light. A few seconds later, the horn replied, the light switched to red, and back to green.
“Here it comes.” The operator led me back inside.
In a few seconds, we heard a gurgling noise and, suddenly, a four-inch wide stream of liquid was flowing between us, falling about six feet into the tank. I stood, stock-still, as a half-ton of “Nitro” splashed merrily away from a height that, surely, would have set it off in a movie.
A long, long time later, the flow slackened and stopped – and I could breathe again.
““I admire your guts,” said Karl, a professor at the University of Arizona, when I went back for a visit.
“You might not believe it,” I replied, Those guys at Apache are pros; nothing to worry about.”
It was true...
MESSES WITH...
A former quality control chemist remembers;
By Larry Scott
This is my favorite operation,” the Superintendent remarked, as we crested the hill and entered the ravine. “I never have to argue about getting anything fixed here.”
I was impressed. In my limited experience, going to Management for new equipment was like Donald, Huey, Dewey, and Louie going to Uncle Scrooge to beg money for ice-cream sodas.
The Nitrator House was two stories tall, built into the side of a ravine, surrounded with massive dirt-filled barricades.
“You don’t have any matches on you, do you?”
This last question was asked casually enough, but he was giving me a look of cool, objective appraisal.
“No matches,” I said hastily. I knew anyone caught with matches had just ended his career at Apache;
We entered a large room, painted white, with a lower section and an elevated mezzanine. All lighting came from outside, shining in through windows. There were no electrical outlets or, indeed, anything electrical inside. I could see a large, domed circular tank on the upper level. A large shaft extended vertically from the top with a purple beveled gear at the top, which meshed with a similar gear on a horizontal shaft, which extended out through a hole in the wall. At the front of the tank I saw a large ceramic stopcock connected to a rubber hose. Two smaller, but sizable, tanks stood side-by-side on the lower floor.
The two operators were cordial enough, and said all the right things, but there was that same air of cool appraisal I had seen in their boss when he had asked me about matches.
“We just weighed in the glycerine,” the operator said. “The temperature is good.”
I climbed the steps and peered through a window at a kiddie-pool-sized expanse of light yellowish acid filling the tank to knee-level.
“Let’s go!” the operator called. The shafts began to turn, with a soft purring noise coming from the gears.
The acid was now swirling, with little waves running back and forth across the surface.
The operator looked up from a thermometer. “Here we go!” He pulled a handle, and glycerine entered the tank in a gushing stream. In a few minutes, the flow slackened, slowed to a drip and finally stopped.
“That’s it; we’re done.” The operator hit the control and the shafts stopped.
More than 1,300 pounds of nitroglycerine swirled to rest at my feet. There was a moment of breathlessness, then I mentally shrugged. If anything bad happened - I’d never know.
“Let’s check the gutter,” the Superintendent called.
Outside, a long wooden trough, or ‘gutterline’ extended down the ravine, into another barricaded building 100 yards away. Hinged wood covers stood open the entire length. We walked the line, studying the rubber lining. As each section was inspected, the operator closed the cover.
As we entered the building, the operator became more friendly. “We’re going to transfer the load we just made down here. Here, look in this tank.” “See the water in the bottom?” he asked. “It serves as a kind of cushion.”
Outside, I saw a red/green traffic next to an ancient crank telephone. The operator gave the phone a couple quick cranks, and the horn echoed across the ravine. He then flipped a switch, activating the green light. A few seconds later, the horn replied, the light switched to red, and back to green.
“Here it comes.” The operator led me back inside.
In a few seconds, we heard a gurgling noise and, suddenly, a four-inch wide stream of liquid was flowing between us, falling about six feet into the tank. I stood, stock-still, as a half-ton of “Nitro” splashed merrily away from a height that, surely, would have set it off in a movie.
A long, long time later, the flow slackened and stopped – and I could breathe again.
““I admire your guts,” said Karl, a professor at the University of Arizona, when I went back for a visit.
“You might not believe it,” I replied, Those guys at Apache are pros; nothing to worry about.”
It was true...