I recently wrote about the Rødby to Puttgarden train ferry, linking southern Denmark to northern Germany. This route opened in May 1963 and slashed journey times for both rail and road transport between København and Hamburg. Yet it was also a lesser-known part of the Cold War story.
The two ferry terminals were built at the points of each country nearest each other, which both happened to be on islands in the Baltic. One of the consequences of this is that any journey from Denmark to Germany via this route not only necessitates a ride on a ferry – well, for the foreseeable future at least (construction of a fixed link will begin in 2018) – but leapfrogging a number of islands along the way.
Accordingly, the infrastructure that required constructing in 1963 was not confined to the ferry terminals and their associated roads and railways, but also two substantial bridges. On the Danish side, there was the Frederik IX Bridge linking the islands of Falster and Lolland; on the German side, there was the Fehmarnsundbrücke linking the island of Fehmarn, on which Puttgarden port stands, and the German mainland.
The Fehmarnsundbrücke carries a two-lane road, a single-track railway, and a pedestrian walkway. It is 963.4m long and is high enough for ships to pass under, and was built as a replacement for the little ferry that used to shuttle from the mainland to Fehmarn. It was formally opened on 30 April 1963, although when severe weather had caused the suspension of the Fehmarn ferry three months previously, people had been permitted to use it at their own risk. Its engineers were G. Fischer, T. Jahnke and P. Stein from the firm Gutehoffnungshutte Sterkrade AG based in Oberhausen, with architectural design overseen by Gerd Lohmer.
Lohmer (1909-1981) was a renowned West German architect who specialised in bridges. In the wake of World War 2, he found gainful employment in bridge design – either on the reconstruction and redesign of bridges damaged in the conflict (e.g. the Nibelungenbrücke in Worms), or on brand new ones (e.g. the Konrad-Adenuer-Brücke in then-capital city Bonn). In recent years, it has been granted the status of a protected national monument, and is well-loved by locals, who have nicknamed it the “Kleiderbügel” (clothes hanger) due to its distinctive shape, and adopted it as a local symbol.
The story would probably end here, were it not for the complicated and heated political environment which existed at the time of the bridge’s construction.
In 1963, the Cuban Missile Crisis had only just passed and the Cold War was still at very real risk of turning “hot”. The threat of a Soviet invasion of West Germany was one which was taken very seriously. The area to the east of Fulda – termed the “Fulda Gap” – was generally considered to be the route the Soviets would most likely take if they invaded – as there was little by way of natural barriers to a massive tank attack. However it was not the only possibility.
Denmark’s stance in the Cold War is a complex but interesting topic. Breaking a tradition of neutrality, it was a founding member of NATO in 1949, which meant it courted hostility from the Soviet Union who now treated it as an enemy. Denmark could well have held strategic importance for the Soviets – not least could it have constituted something of a stepping stone to Greenland, from where its nuclear warheads could have reached the USA – but also a way into neutral Sweden – from where Norway, and thence the North Atlantic, would have been feasible targets. Sweden boasted strong coastal fortifications, intended to defend it from a Soviet attack, therefore an “entrance” via Denmark would have been a clever way for Warsaw Pact forces to circumnavigate them.
Occupation of Denmark would have put West Germany – and from it the rest of Western Europe – within easy reach. The existence of the newly-constructed train ferry would have made the movement of rail based forces, armaments, supplies, and so on much easier. Equally, it could have formed a route for Soviet forces that had already conquered West Germany, into Denmark. In either event, the Fehmarnsundbrücke may have taken on an immense strategic importance.
As a result, the design of the bridge featured six “Sprengschächte” – or “explosive vaults” – beneath the tarmac of the road’s surface. In the event of an invasion, explosives could be placed into the vaults by soldiers and then detonated remotely (from a military location approximately a mile away), thereby causing significant disruption and delay to the advance. Fortunately, this was never required. However, the remnants of the Sprengschächte can still be seen today – in the form of six patches of darker tarmac on the surface of the road, at the mainland end of the bridge. You can actually see them in very brief passing on my video above – although here is a far more useful photo!
These were by no means the only Sprengschächte that were placed on German roads for this purpose. Indeed, whole hosts of them existed in the Fulda Gap and were officially maintained up until the early 1990s and the reunification of the two Germanies. However the fact that these existed within the design of such a famous structure makes them noteworthy indeed.
Today, trains from Hamburg and Lübeck to Puttgarden (most of which continue across to Denmark via the train ferry) as well as high volumes of road traffic, continue to thunder across the bridge, their passengers most likely unaware of what used to lie beneath.
There are only three remaining passenger train ferries in Europe: one between mainland Italy and the island of Sicily; one from Sassnitz in Germany to Trelleborg in Sweden; and one from Rødby in Denmark to Puttgarden in Germany.
The idea of putting a whole train on board a ferry to cross an expanse of water is one largely confined to the past, at least in Europe. This is predominantly due to the creation of numerous fixed links, such as the Channel Tunnel between the UK and France or the Øresund bridge between Denmark and Sweden, and also the proliferation of low-cost air travel making the rail routes themselves redundant in a number of cases.
Even the three survivors are under threat. That between Villa San Giovanni in Italy and Messina on the island of Sicily is mooted to be getting a bridge replacement (although this is a very much on/off affair, most recently being declared “off” for the time being); that between Sassnitz and Trelleborg is an overnight, summer-only operation which has been suggested for closure on a number of occasions; and that across the Fehmarnbelt between Rødby and Puttgarden is being replaced by a fixed link for which the construction contracts have already been signed.
The proposed fixed link across the Fehmarnbelt will take the form of an 18 kilometre long immersed tunnel encompassing a four lane motorway and a double track railway, and will be the world’s longest immersed tunnel upon completion. It will take 7 minutes to cross from one side of the Fehmarnbelt to the other by rail, and 10 minutes by road – whichever way you look at it, a significant saving on the current 45 minute crossing time by ferry for either mode of transport. In addition, it will be far less susceptible to weather-related disruption. The shortened travel time from Hamburg to København is expected to drastically increase traffic between the two cities.
It’s fairly clear that the pros of the fixed link far outweigh the cons, which are largely sentimental. However, the good news if you’ve yet to visit, is that the construction work has not yet started. It is due to begin in January 2018 and take 8½ years, so the train ferry would appear to have a good decade left.
I last took a journey on this train ferry in summer 2007, travelling from Denmark to Germany, and I found it very interesting indeed if, indeed, it felt like something of an anachronism even then.
As befitting the nature of Denmark, the journey from København to the port at Rødby is one of numerous islands linked by bridges. After travelling via Roskilde, Ringsted and Næstved to Vordingborg (all on Sjælland), the train crosses first to Masnedø, then to Falster, and finally to Lolland on whose coast Rødby is situated.
It must be said that the scenery en route is not necessarily fantastic – although I thought that the views of the water from the bridges – in particular the Storstrøm Bridge – were memorable. Lolland is also known by the nickname “Pancake Island” as a reflection of its flatness, and the railway is as good a way to appreciate this facet of its geography as any! It is therefore something of a surprise to finally reach Rødby Færge station, its pylons and floodlights reaching higher into the sky than even the turbines of the surrounding wind farms.
The ferry connection between Rødby and Puttgarden commenced operation on 14 May 1963 – completing a direct link between København and Hamburg. This was dubbed the “Vogelfluglinie”, or “bird flight line”, as it roughly follows a common migratory route used by birds. The route briefly took on international significance in late 2015 during the EU-wide refugee crisis. Large numbers of illegal immigrants, predominantly from Iraq and Syria, were trying to reach Sweden which was displaying a more welcoming attitude to them than most EU countries. As a result, the Rødby to Puttgarden ferry and associated railways and motorways ended up being closed on police orders. Reports described “chaotic scenes” where well over a thousand refugees disembarked from ferries arriving at Rødby, some “disappearing” to evade capture by the police, others attempting to walk up the E47 motorway in the vague direction of Sweden.
Both ports painted a sad picture of emptiness and desolation, and had certainly not only seen better days but had been constructed with the intention of handling much higher volumes of rail traffic than now pass through; indeed international railfreight via this route has ceased. Rows and rows of overgrown and rusty sidings lay empty in and around the terminal as we edged our way towards the ferry. Saying that, however, it is clear that the dearth of rail traffic must be more than compensated by the proliferation of lorries and cars, as the intensive ferry shuttle service is clearly supported by something!
The ferries themselves are operated by Scandlines and can carry both cars and trains. Ferries depart each port at broadly 30-minute intervals, 24 hours a day – however only three in each direction convey trains. There are four train ferries in the fleet, all dating from 1997 – two under the Danish flag (Prins Richard and Prinsesse Benedikte), and two under the German flag (Schleswig-Holstein and Deutschland). It was the latter onto which my train rolled.
It’s slightly unnerving to be on a full size train just feet away from lorries and cars, not least for it to cross from land onto a vessel! The train slowly drew to a stand on the ship’s single railway track within the car deck, and passengers were instructed to disembark and make their way up to the passenger area, mingling with the motorists who had just parked their own vehicles.
The crossing itself was admittedly something of an anti-climax. The Deutschland has all the amenities you would expect from a modern short-distance passenger ferry – shops, restaurants, etc – and the 45 minute journey passed quickly and without incident. Before long, an announcement was made for train passengers to make their way back to the train, and after docking, the engines were restarted and the train slowly emerged from the darkness of the ferry’s car deck, back onto terra firma and into Puttgarden railway station.
Puttgarden was broadly similar to Rødby, in that it featured relatively nondescript 1963-vintage architecture simultaneously being heavily used and being slowly reclaimed by nature, depending on whether you looked at the rail or road parts of the terminal. With a harsh wind blowing straight off the Baltic, seagull droppings everywhere (I have never seen so much in one place!), rust and foliage everywhere, it was not a place to remain in for long. Indeed, it’s kind of the point of Puttgarden that nobody every does stay there for long. The port complex (as distinct from the tiny village of Puttgarden, some distance to the west, from which it takes its name) exists solely to tranship people, goods and their vehicles from land to sea, and from sea to land, as efficiently as possible. When the Fehmarnbelt fixed link is finally commissioned, will likely disappear from the map, its purpose negated.
You can’t help but feel that although – again – it will undoubtedly be a step forward when the tape is cut on the Fehmarnbelt tunnel, that it will be sad to see the end of something which has been a thriving, now almost unique, operation which has quietly gone about its business for well over half a century. If you haven’t yet experienced the train ferry from Denmark to Germany, I would recommend building it into your travel plans before that day arrives.
Something a little different to my usual blog content this time. Why will all the trains in Hungary be sounding their horns at 14:30 tomorrow?
In a roundabout kind of way, we are lucky to live in a world where the deaths of rail staff and passengers are rare enough to warrant news coverage. Last year, the EU recorded that only 34 staff and 28 passengers died on the railways of its 26 rail-served countries. Compare that combined figure of 62 with the 27,996 road deaths recorded in the same area during the same time period (data from World Health Organisation statistics).
That rail as a mode of transport can boast such an enviable safety record is largely thanks to the existence of reliable safety systems and the universal professionalism and diligence of its staff. It is therefore all the more galling when a railwayman loses his life through an accident over which he had absolutely no control.
On Monday 28 November 2016, a heavy freight train consisting of oil tanks was heading south from the Hungarian city of Gyor, driven by Miklós Puskás. As it approached the level crossing at Nyul, a grain lorry drove into the path of the train, and the two collided at speed. A gallery of 25 photographs appeared quite quickly on the “kisalfold.hu” website, demonstrating the full extent of the damage that was caused to the locomotive in the collision – a warning though, they do make quite distressing viewing.
Disregarding his own situation, the train’s other driver, who had been travelling in the cab with Driver Puskás administered vital first aid. However, very sadly, Driver Puskás did later succumb to his serious injuries in hospital.
I shall note without further comment that the lorry driver escaped without injury.
Driver Puskás’s locomotive – no.659002 – belonged to Floyd ZRt, a Hungarian private freight operator. However, it was actually a British export – built in Doncaster in 1982 by and for British Rail – and along with a number other British locomotives, was only exported to Hungary for further use relatively recently. Anyway – this background info is for a reason! – in the latter days of its life in the UK, no.56115, as it was then known, carried the name “Barry Needham”.
Barry Needham was himself a dedicated railwayman, who died in the train crash at Great Heck in February 2001, when a Land Rover and trailer left the M62 motorway, landing on railway property in the path of a 125mph express. The express, on which Mr Needham was travelling, derailed, colliding with an oncoming coal train. 10 people died in the resulting devastation. There has not been a more serious railway accident in the British Isles since.
Two entirely avoidable accidents which resulted in innocent people losing their lives as a result of road vehicles entering railway property when they should not have done. The link between the two is admittedly a coincidence indeed. However, both serve to underline that even with the railways’ fantastic safety record, any interface with roads – and therefore motorists – presents a higher risk.
This is not the fault of level crossings – although, in truth, level crossing risk is pretty high in Hungary compared to elsewhere. It is worth noting that, last year (again, according to EU statistics), there were only three countries in Europe with more level crossing accident-related deaths, all of which – France, Germany and Poland – have considerably bigger networks. Level crossings are safe if used correctly. The Great Heck accident did not even involve one – the Land Rover left the road, broke through a fence and landed on the railway that way; its driver was convicted of causing death by dangerous driving.
I’ve included a video (above) which I recorded in Gyorszabadhegy, Hungary, on a freezing cold morning in January 2015. It features the locomotive involved in the Nyul accident, hauling the same type of wagons, and I believe the Driver Puskás might actually be the man at the controls. Coincidentally, Nyul is the next station line down the line, only 5 miles away. If those tanks are full, the train will weigh somewhere in the region of 2,000 tonnes, and would take some distance to stop. It certainly couldn’t swerve around an obstacle. Perhaps food for thought if you have ever been tempted to jump the barriers at a level crossing.
Driver Puskás’s funeral service will commence at 14:30 tomorrow, 23 December (13:30 in the UK) in Dunaújváros, south of Budapest. At exactly that time, the horns of locomotives all over Hungary will sound for one minute, in tribute to a man who died whilst simply doing his job. I invite you to take a moment or two of reflection tomorrow afternoon as well.
Standing at the erstwhile crossroads of the Yugoslavian railway network, Kosovo Polje – or Fushë Kosovë, to use its Albanian name – is a town approximately five miles west of Pristina, the capital of the disputed state of Kosovo. It has had a turbulent past riddled with conflict – not least in the last 20 years – but, on a breezy afternoon in September 2015, it cut a peaceful figure.
Fushë Kosovë remains a railway crossroads, but its services are much curtailed from the Yugoslavian heyday – ethnic and political tensions have severed hitherto-vital links and reduced former main lines to branch line status. As an example, our train was taken as far north as the divided and volatile town of Mitrovica, but the traincrew were not prepared to take it any further up the route towards Lesak, because “if the Serbs see the Albanian writing on the side of the locomotive, they will shoot at us!” However, more about that another time…
One thing that Fushë Kosovë does retain, however, is a large railway depot. It is where the entire fleet of the Kosovan railway is based and maintained.
However, the depot itself has another claim to fame. It has a padlocked compound at its southern end in which approximately 15 locomotives are parked – rusty, faded, battered and derelict. These actually hold the key to telling us a fair amount about the history of Kosovo since the war of 1998/99.
(Now, what I will say at this point is that, despite the tags, this is not urban exploration in its truest sense. It’s not especially urban, and I gained full permission to have a wander round with my camera).
Kosovo, as a former territory of the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, benefited from being a small cog in the big wheel of a relatively homogeneous Balkan railway network; Jugoslovenske Zeleznice (Yugoslavian Railways). Rolling stock procurement was done on a “Yugoslavian” scale and therefore you would not have expected to find different types of train in each republic/province. However, the break-up of the former Yugoslavia has changed this. It’s just one more way that each republic can cement its independence.
However, one thing that has all but disappeared elsewhere is any trace of the JZ logo, or indeed many reminders at all that the constituent parts used to be part of the federation with each other.
The Fushë Kosovë compound is an exception. Here, the locomotives sit rotting, Kosovan purely by dint of being unserviceable there when the federation collapsed. Nobody especially wants them, and in a cash-strapped environment, nobody really sees a need to spend any money on them, or more importantly, as their problem to do so. Some of these locomotives will have not seen use since Yugoslavian days, many have certainly not seen heavy maintenance since then, as the faded painted dates on their bodysides attest. The majority – if not all – will never pull a train again.
Kosovo will be most well-known – certainly to people of my generation – as being the scene of deep-set tension between ethnic Albanians and ethnic Serbs, and most notably, the attempt of Slobodan Milosevic’s government to brutally suppress the Kosovo Liberation Army’s campaign for independence which erupted into civil war in 1998/99. Between March and June 1999, our TV screens were full of images of the 78-day NATO bombing campaign – “Operation Allied Force” – carried out with the intention of removing Milosevic’s forces from Kosovo. Milosevic accepted the terms of an international peace plan, and the UN deployed a security presence in Kosovo, the “United Nations Interim Administration Mission in Kosovo” (UNMIK); NATO also deployed peacekeepers – the Kosovo Force (KFOR). KFOR supported UNMIK’s work, but, as befitted their parentage, there was no chain of command between the two.
KFOR were up against a difficult task and it became clear that, dilapidated as they may be, the Kosovan railways would be integral to their operations. Initially, the British Army (79 Railway Squadron of the Royal Logistic Corps) was in charge of railway operations for KFOR.
79 Railway Squadron had been present in West Germany during the Cold War which, had it turned “hot” and escalated into conflict between East and West, would have seen the squadron operate a support network of railway services using Class 216 diesel-hydraulic locomotives (on which the crews had been fully trained). Sadly, the British Army no longer maintains a railway operating capability – if required in the future, these duties will be carried out by civilians instead.
The Italian Railway Regiment took over in the September, providing 120 specially-trained railwaymen and women, who were veterans of the Bosnian railway rebuilding earlier in the decade and therefore more than able to carry out what was required of them. They brought their own train, the Rapid Reaction Train, in order to assist, which arrived in the October.
As an aside, this wasn’t the first train to run all the way through to Kosovo. A remarkable train had operated in September 1999 in connection with the KFOR operations, all the more special as it was a charity endeavour. What was called the “Train for Life” took three ex-British Rail Class 20 diesel locomotives and their train from London all the way through to Kosovo, arriving in Fushë Kosovë – not without some resistance en route! – on 27 September. It was conveying 15 carriages of donated clothes, food and medical supplies, as well as educational material and other items to assist with the rebuilding of Kosovo. Key to this was the train itself. The three British locomotives then remained in Kosovo for a while, operating trains for KFOR, eventually returning to Britain where they re-entered service on less prestigious duties.
The reconstruction and recommissioning of the railway network in Kosovo continued. At this point, it’s important to point out that not all the work was done by soldiers – at all points they were assisted by railwaymen who had previously worked for the JZ and gave their labour for free. In the same way that railwaymen have in divided communities the world over, ethnic Albanian railwaymen worked alongside ethnic Serb railwaymen – the common bond of the railway proving strong.
Piece by piece, the damaged and severed railway lines were brought back into use, predominantly for the transportation of supplies (both of a construction and a humanitarian nature). As well as assisting in the general rebuilding of Kosovo, this proved great for morale. A NATO article in 1999 quoted Pejë stationmaster, Muharrem Ukaj, as saying on the event of the first train back to his station after the reopening of the line: “This is a big day. I am full of feeling, almost about to cry”. The recommencement of trains was one very forceful sign that life might be returning to normal (whatever “normal” was).
In December 1999, the railways were opened up for the use of civilian passengers – for free; 20,000 people travelled in the first three months.
UNMIK’s mandate was, and is, “to help ensure conditions for a peaceful and normal life for all inhabitants of Kosovo and advance regional stability in the Western Balkans”. This included the eventual transition of the management of the railways (along with other services) back to civilians. The operation of the trains remained under the control of KFOR, until it was handed over to UNMIK in March 2001, and then to local civilian management.
One notable thing about Fushë Kosovë, and the Kosovan railways in general, is the remarkable variety of trains that can now be found there. This can largely be attributed to KFOR. Only three ex-JZ locomotives were fit to be used for KFOR’s post-war railway operations. All of the others – which remain in the compound – were simply no prospect for renovation, having stood neglected for too long, or suffered severe mechanical failure or damage in the past (or both!).
It was therefore up to KFOR (and, it transpired, its successors) to source alternative rolling stock to use. Some of the nations working as part of KFOR came up trumps here. Locomotives and railcars were donated or borrowed from service in the UK, France, Italy and Germany; although it followed that as these were the ones most easily spared from their “day jobs”, they were generally near to the end of their service lives or already surplus to requirements. The British and German rolling stock was repatriated for further use, whereas the French and Italian rolling stock is still at Fushë Kosovë – depressingly, it was used until it broke down and then was unceremoniously parked up amidst the weeds, its purpose served.
Four Norwegian diesel locomotives were donated to Kosovo as “start-up aid” in 2001. These, too, are all now out of service. In addition, a fairly extensive amount of Swedish rolling stock was acquired towards the middle of the decade. The network appears to go through cycles of acquiring another country’s cast-offs, using it until it breaks, then repeat ad nauseam. This may seem wasteful on the face of it, but it makes commercial sense for such a small, cash-strapped organisation to operate in this manner – especially if it can negotiate to acquire the replacement stock as an economic donation.
Kosovo declared their independence from Serbia in February 2008, and although this has not been universally recognised, it certainly did mark a watershed in the evolution of the former Yugoslavia. “The youngest country in Europe” certainly feels as if it is developing, and although parts of it seem crushingly down-at-heel, its people are on the whole positive, the younger generations multi-lingual and technology-literate with a clear yearning to better both themselves and their environment.
It would be misleading to intimate that Kosovo has been a calm place since the end of the civil war, over 17 years ago. Violent clashes are frequently seen in response to what might be seen by outsiders as relatively innocuous stimuli. Some claim that Kosovo is a hotbed of Islamic extremism and recruitment for Isis; although it is considered as one of the most pro-American societies in the world, its citizens still grateful for NATO’s efforts to remove the Serbian oppressors in 1999. One thing is for certain, Kosovo has changed much for the better since Pristina was a daily fixture on the TV news, but it will continue to develop, and the manner in which it does so remains to be seen.
The majority of these locomotives have remained largely untouched in their compound through numerous conflicts and changes of ideology. Ultimately, I suspect that they will stay there until such a time as the price of scrap metal picks up. However, until that time, a small snapshot of both the former Yugoslavia, and the collective effort to help rebuild Kosovo after the civil war, will continue to decay in a padlocked compound in Fushë Kosovë.
For people of my generation, Belgrade (Beograd) was notable from school textbooks as the capital of Yugoslavia, and its burning buildings were sadly a regular sight on the TV news as it was pounded by NATO aerial bombardment.
Nowadays, Beograd is the capital of modern-day Serbia, and its post-war incarnation is beginning to thrive once again. This brief article is about something lurking within a shed in one of its southern suburbs…
The socialist federation of Yugoslavia was born out of the Second World War under the direction of Marshal Josip Broz Tito (1892-1980), a key figure of the wartime resistance.
From 1947, he used the Blue Train to both travel around and entertain and impress guests; in much the same vein as the British Royal Family’s own private train. The Blue Train was the epitome of luxury, being essentially a hotel on wheels – it included bathrooms, suites, and copious amounts of leather and wood panelling. As a feather in the cap and a demonstration of Yugoslavia’s increasing prosperity, virtually every material that went into it was locally sourced.
This special train was greeted rapturously by the locals wherever it passed through. It was routinely hauled by three dedicated steam locomotives, one of which is now plinthed and on display at the side of Beograd’s main railway station. As part of the ongoing modernisation of Yugoslavia, these were replaced in 1957 by three West German-built Class 761 diesel-hydraulics, named “Dinara”, “Kozara” and “Sutjeska” in honour of important Second World War battles fought in the Balkans.
The provenance of these showcase locomotives is interesting and reflects the complex political history of mid-20th century Yugoslavia. Tito’s Communist and (particularly) anti-Nazi pedigree and is established fact; therefore it is entirely natural that a Yugoslavia under his leadership would emerge from the war aligned with Soviet Russia. However, Tito was less loyal to Stalin than the leaders of the Communist states in Eastern Europe. He had less reason to be; the Red Army had played a considerably lesser role in the liberation of Yugoslavia from the Nazis than, say, Czechoslovakia or (East) Germany – in fact, much of the credit for it might well be laid at the door of Tito’s own partisans. Tito’s insistence on pursuing what he saw as Yugoslavia’s own path – whether or not Stalin approved – angered the Soviet leader greatly and resulted in Yugoslavia being expelled from Cominform in June 1948. Despite relations thawing after Stalin’s death amid Khrushchev’s general policy of “de-Stalinisation”, the rift was never fully healed.
However, far from hamstringing Yugoslavia, it arguably was the making of it. Yugoslavia was able to pursue a more nationalistic approach to socialism, which led to a notable economic boom, and the fact that it was not aligned with either “East” or “West” meant that it was able to establish trade relations with both sides. Therefore, whilst its Eastern European neighbours were sourcing locomotives from behind the Iron Curtain, Yugoslavia was able to look further afield. This middle ground was not, however, always a blessing: it meant that as well as embracing both sides, Yugoslavia needed to maintain defence plans against them both too. It did, however, mean that the Blue Train saw a wide range of guests, from Gaddafi, Ceaucescu and Brezhnev to Arafat, Mitterand and our very own Queen!
If buying locos manufactured in the Munich suburbs would’ve annoyed Moscow as the Cold War reached its tensest period (and the Hungarian Railways’ purchase of a small fleet of Swedish-built diesels in the early 1960s certainly did; further orders were forbidden and less reliable Soviet-built locomotives “recommended” instead), then the direction of Yugoslavian locomotive procurement through the 1960s would have enraged them. Almost all of the mainline diesel locomotives bought for use in Yugoslavia were products of the American giant General Motors; built either in North America or under licence in Yugoslavia. As in their homeland, these proved themselves incredibly reliable over the challenging and often mountainous terrain of many of the Balkan routes, and many are still in service today.
It is also from this source that the next generation of Blue Train locomotives were obtained. In 1978, the three German locomotives were withdrawn from their special duties. They now stand rusting away in sidings in Topcider, a southern suburb of Beograd.
They were replaced by four brand-new General Motors Class 666 diesel-electric locomotives; the first three inheriting the previous battle-inspired names and the fourth having the title “Neretva” bestowed upon it, on the same theme.
However, the GMs’ most notable duty was to be Tito’s final journey. After a protracted illness, the dictator died on 4 May 1980 in a Ljubljana hospital. The Blue Train – hauled by 666.003 “Sutjeska” and 666.004 “Neretva” – conveyed his remains, departing Ljubljana at 08:20 the next day and, after a break in Zagreb, arrived in Beograd approximately six hours later. Tito was buried in the “House of Flowers” there three days later.
Although the Blue Train is seen as “Tito’s”, it continued to operate after his death, conveying the new order of Yugoslavian top brass. An example of its use was to take Slobodan Milosevic to Kosovo Polje in order for him to give the infamous speech to over a million people at the Gazimestan memorial on 28 June 1989. This was one of the train’s last uses; its carriages were retired that year.
Quite clearly, this private train would never have been one that the likes of you or I could have travelled on. However, parallel to the rise of “Ostalgia” in the former East Germany – i.e. a renewed interest and nostalgia for the days of old, both by people who were and were not there – we have seen the emergence of “Yugonostalgia”. Perhaps it is not surprising that people should hanker after the “good old days” of Tito’s reign. History has tended to routinely bestow the title of “benevolent dictator” upon him; what is undeniable is that he ensured that the six republics and two provinces that made up Yugoslavia both thrived economically and co-existed reasonably peacefully for the duration of his tenure, whereas the decline and conflict that occurred there in the two decades following his death has left an indelible mark both literally and metaphorically.
To feed on the renewed interest in pre-1980 Yugoslavia, some of the carriages have been retained in working order for private charters and, from 2013, conveyed tourists along the stunningly scenic 300-mile route from Beograd to the Montenegrin sea port of Bar. Interestingly, this route passes through that country’s capital Podgorica, which was named Titograd for a number of decades when in Yugoslavia (its airport code is still “TGD”, to act as just a small reminder of the pre-1992 world!). Perhaps surprisingly, given the palatial surroundings of the train and the associated prestige of sharing environs with the ghosts of the world leaders of the past, tickets were available on board this special train from the equivalent of just £129. It appeared popular, however the severe flooding that affected much of the Balkans in May 2014 severed the railway, and although it reopened fully a year later, it is unclear as to whether the Blue Train has resumed operation. The excellent “Man in Seat 61” website advises that it has not; Serbian Railways (Železnice Srbije; ZS) do still however advertise it on their website.
As a footnote, one of the Blue Train locomotives from Tito’s funeral train – 666.003 “Sutjeska” – was returned to operation for ŽS in 2013 – which was an event deemed worthy of the national news! – and so ensured that at least one part of the legacy of a very famous train will continue to grace the iron road for some time to come.
Ironically, “Ostalgia” is big business. Over a quarter of a century since Communist East Germany ceased to exist, nostalgia for it has never been more popular. It seems that, with almost as much haste as the traces of the former country were wiped away following the fall of the Berlin Wall, people are now scrambling to experience what life was like behind it.
You can drive a Trabant car in convoy around East Berlin on an innovative sightseeing tour, then stay at painstakingly styled themed hotels. You can purchase clothes, food and all manner of other items of “reborn” Communist brands, recreated by popular demand. You can have your photo taken at Checkpoint Charlie in front of a replica border hut, with men dressed up as border guards.
Yet all of these experiences are in some way synthetic. This part of the world has experienced so many changes since the Berlin Wall fell in 1989, that it is nigh on impossible to recreate “everyday life” in any setting. After all, this was a country where you could realistically expect your intercity train to be powered by steam right up until the late 1980s. Today you can flash through the Sachsen-Anhalt countryside on some of the world’s most modern trains at speeds of up to 300 km/h.
Stepping off the modern electrified German commuter railway at Freital-Hainsberg station, though – a mere 12 minutes’ ride from the centre of Dresden – is like stepping back in time.
As the crowded electric trains zip in and out upstairs, an altogether slower pace of life exists at the station’s lower level. Every two hours or so, every day, a narrow-gauge steam train quietly slips away, often fairly empty – especially out of season. However, this is no tourist-orientated recreation of days gone by. This is an operation that has remained largely unchanged since it opened in 1882.
The former East Germany retains a number of these tiny steam railways – but most have only survived by switching their focus to catering for tourists; the sound of the steam engines being accompanied by the excited laughter of children and the snapping of the shutters of countless coach tour passengers’ cameras. Some others use modern diesel trains on some services as a more cost-effective method of operation. This, the “Weisseritztalbahn”, has largely escaped that, and thus retains that Holy Grail of “Ostalgics” – genuine authenticity.
The railway winds its way for 14 kilometres up the narrow, heavily forested valley into the scenic East Ore Mountains, criss-crossing the river as it goes. The train makes five intermediate stops along its way – largely wayside shacks at which nobody boards and nobody alights – before skirting the reservoir at Malter and pulling into the station at Dippoldiswalde. This village, of only 140 inhabitants, is an unlikely terminus, and serves mainly as a popular base for mountain walks. Indeed, the East German leadership placed a great deal of emphasis on encouraging outdoor leisure activities, and even in the technological age, this is something that many here still like to do.
The railway formerly continued for a further 12 kilometres from Dippoldiswalde to the one-time tourist resort of Kurort Kipsdorf – however this section still awaits reopening after it sustained severe damage during the catastrophic Central European floods of 2002.
The last round trip of the day departs from Freital-Hainsberg at 18:42, and although sacrificing some of the scenery, a trip on it as dusk gathers is very highly recommended indeed. The virtually empty, atmospherically illuminated train eases its way up the valley, the only sounds being the cacophonic echo of the engine’s roar, the gentle drum beat of the wheels on the rails, and the rushing water of the river. In that moment, it might not be 2016 at all; this is exactly the experience of everybody who has travelled this route by train before – not just during the years of German division, but indeed back though two world wars and as far as 1882. Suddenly, you are a world away from the bustling city centre of Dresden, in spite of it being still only a handful of kilometres away.
Ultimately, the hordes who hope to experience a slice of life from the time of the Berlin Wall will most likely spend far more than the €15 Weisseritztalbahn fare, for a far less authentic product. Yet everyday life for most East German citizens was not necessarily the clichés of Stasi persecution and political propaganda. For a small investment of time and money, here you are offered the sounds, sights and indeed smells of days gone by – and little could be more “East German” than a ride on some authentic public transport, through some idyllic countryside, in order to enjoy some relaxed outdoor pursuits in a tranquil and scenic environment.