Factory Tales 2
28/06/2005

As I mentioned in the first of these Factory Tales, most of my time at Morris Engines was spent in the con rod section. A con rod (connecting rod) is that part of an engine that connects the piston to the crankshaft and it is basically just a steel shaft with a small hole at one end and a large one at the other. They are forged as one piece but, at a certain point in manufacture, they are cut into two parts at the large hole, creating the rod and the cap. The machine that cut the con rod was known as a broach.

We had four broaches on the section, all grouped together and doing different operations, and the rods would progress through each one in turn. It was the third broach that actually carried out the splitting process.

A broach is a large but very simple machine, impressive in its sheer bulk but really rather primitive in its approach to the task. It is essentially a block of metal as long and as tall as a limo but a bit narrower. There is a tunnel through this block and two massive bicycle chains run through the tunnel and around great gear wheels at both ends. Between the chains are slung jigs that hold the con rods in place as they go through the tunnel. There are blades inserted all the way through the tunnel and these are set to narrow gradually so that metal is shaved off the con rods in stages as they pass through.

All this cutting of metal causes a great deal of heat and the job is kept cool by the application of what we called suds (oil and water mixed by the addition of a detergent). The suds were stored in long tubs running the length of the broach and this was forced up through holes in the body of the machine to spray on to the cutters in the tunnel.

Operating a broach was one of the simplest and most boring tasks on the section; all one had to do was feed con rods into the jigs as they came around on the chain. Each jig would clamp on to the job as it entered the tunnel and open again at the other end. The con rod would drop out on to a conveyor belt as the chains dragged the jig into an upside down position for its return to the operator. Occasionally the conveyor would jam and cause a pile up at the end of the broach but, otherwise, the broaches were reliable until a cutter broke.

It was easy to tell when a cutter had broken. Because the broken cutter had not done its job, the next cutter in line would find itself with too much to do and it would break in its turn. And the power of the machine was such that it would drag the job through the remaining cutters, breaking each one and making the floor vibrate with the strain of forcing the rods through. That was the moment to hit the big red stop button on the control panel.

At that point it was necessary to call in the fitters from the machine shop. They were the only ones with the equipment to lift off the top of the broach which contained the cutters. Once removed, the top would be carted off to have its cutters replaced and the broach would remain, silent and forlorn, until the top was returned. In theory, this should not be too long a time as each broach had two tops, the idea being that, when one needed to be refurbished, the other could be brought out and clamped on.

Sometimes, however, the theory broke down. Quite often it seemed that the fitters had not finished supplying the previous top with new cutters and so the broach would be out of commission for a day or two.

Mention of the fitters brings me to the social strata that existed within the factory. We, the machinists, were the most numerous but not quite at the bottom of the social order. That place was reserved for the cleaners. Their job was to remove the swarf from the machines and place it in huge bins for re-smelting at the foundry. We looked down on them as the lowest of the low and it is certainly true that they were not the brightest bulbs in the box. I shall never forget the sign I saw on one of the swarf bins one day:

Do not use this bin. If you can't read this, ask a foreman.

The fitters were one step above us in theory but were also regarded with disdain. When a machine broke down it was supposed to be the fitters that repaired it but we had become so used to their slow pace that, wherever we could, we fixed the thing ourselves. This was supposed to be against the rules but we knew our machines inside out and were only interested in achieving that magic quota so that we could do nothing again. So we ended up doing most of the fitters' work for them and speaking of them with contempt. They, of course, regarded us as mere semi-skilled labor and beneath their notice therefore.

The next step up in the hierarchy was the foreman. Each section had a foreman and his job was to oversee production, to make sure we achieved the quotas and to solve any problems that arose. From a social point of view, their position was the most unenviable of all. All of them had been "promoted from the ranks" and were seen as traitors to the cause of the working man as a result. Yet, to management, they were merely the trained dogs set to make sure we did as expected. They were caught between the two forces, under pressure from above to produce more and faster, and resisted by those beneath at every turn.

Foremen varied in style, some becoming hard and unforgiving in the attempt to get their section working, others trying to rule through persuasion and reason. Our foreman on the con rods, Tommy, was a nice enough fellow and we got on with him fairly well. But this was not enough to allow him into our society; we were duty bound to exclude him from real friendship and he was often the butt of practical jokes.

Many of us understood how difficult was the position of the foremen. We knew that the real enemy was management, those rarely seen monkeys in suits who would hand down their orders to the foreman and cared less how difficult it was for him to get our compliance. But understanding was not sufficient for us to break the rules of the game; we did not indulge in the "Who does he think he is? He's no better than me" silliness, but we would not extend the hand of friendship either.

I'll give Tommy his due - he took the practical jokes in good part and we worked well for him as a result. But the best joke on him that I saw was entirely unplanned and had the added benefit of getting some of the management too.

It was a broach that proved Tommy's undoing. I was working the third broach at the time, feeding in the rods, counting, thinking of other things, when Tommy appeared with a group of management idiots in their pristine suits and power ties. Tommy was giving them a tour of the section, although why they should wish to know defeats me. They stood around and watched me feed the monster for a while and then moved on with Tommy to the last broach in the line.

This fourth broach was not working at the time, its top having been removed and in the machine shop for refitting. This meant that periodically I would have to stop my broach and walk to the other end to move the full bin and replace it with an empty one. Very shortly after the suited gang had moved on, I had occasion to do this and so had a perfect view of what ensued.

Tommy was standing by the fourth broach, explaining the operations it performed to the suits gathered around him. One of them must have asked to see it working for Tommy reached for the power button. I had a split second in which to decide whether to warn him but, even as I debated my choices, his hand hit the button.

With a roar, the machine came to life and, like some mighty geyser, the suds were forced into a hundred fountains that went up, up into the air and then slowly, in slow motion it seemed, cascaded down upon the watching group. In a moment they were soaked through. Oh, they scattered like rabbits from the gun, but it was too late, they were drenched in the evil-smelling stuff.

As he jammed his hand upon the stop button, Tommy turned to look at me. I could not stop my amusement from showing but I shrugged and said, "I thought you knew."

It was the right answer; there was no way he could blame me. As the foreman, he should have known a topless broach when he saw one. Without another word he turned and led the cursing, sodden bunch of suits towards the washrooms.

It was one of the best laughs I had at the Morris. But the thought occurs to me now: in a way, it was apt revenge for Tommy's suffering at the hands of management - it's not possible he knew full well what he was doing, is it?

Clive

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