Train Ride

The strangest train in the U.S. rattled out of Sacramento one steamy afternoon last week on a dolorous journey across the country. As it headed south through California, the nine old cars (mostly Pullmans) grew to 14, and the passengers swelled to 220. For each passenger, there was a special packet of tranquilizer drugs; the train also carried a converter to supply current for electric shock treatment. It was the twice-yearly scheduled trip of California's mental-patient deportation train, run to rid the state of those unlucky enough to be committed during their first year of residence before they can qualify for care in California's own hospitals.

Most states have similar residence laws, but they usually have only a handful of mental patients to be shipped home--rarely a full carload. California is different: as the mecca of the sunshine seekers and the dispossessed, it regularly piles up a four-to-one "credit balance" of patients from other states.

Good & Bad. Says Mental Hygiene Director Marshall Porter: "We don't deport patients who are seriously ill, or those who might be adversely affected. This isn't a dumping operation. I'd say it's good medical practice if it rejoins a family, and bad if it separates a family."

By Dr. Porter's definition both good and bad practices were evident aboard last week's train. Most patients felt that return to their home states would carry them closer to freedom from state hospitals. But at Stockton a trembling, grey-haired man, hustled aboard by white-coated attendants, was querulous: "What's going on? Where you taking me? I don't want to go any place." Replied an attendant: "You're going for a train ride, Mr. Adams." As the train bumped along toward Phoenix, where the Arizona car was uncoupled, a man of 26 mused bitterly: "My whole family is back in Ontario [Calif.]. I don't have anybody in Omaha any more. I was getting three-day passes in California, and getting used to living on the outside again. Now what am I going to do?"

Strong Lure. Each car of the train was locked at both ends. Attendants kept women patients at one end, men at the other. In car F, Train-Doctor William Hollingsworth unlocked the handcuffs on a crew-cut youth, said gently: "All right, Albert, we'll take these off. The car is locked. Just don't try to get away." But at St. Louis, where the train had dwindled to four cars, a grey-haired, distinguished-looking man tried to escape. Guards grabbed him before he could get off the platform, put him into handcuffs for the rest of the long journey to Massachusetts' Foxboro State Hospital. There were no other incidents to upset the well-laid plans of Deportation Officer Truman Schoenberger, who rode the dwindling train until it lost its identity, then stayed with the Boston car to the end of the line.

It looked as if the deportation trains would keep running; the lure of California still runs strong even among the deportees. Said a Negro drummer, 24: "I've been a fighter. When I get discharged, I'm going to Hollywood to see if I can get the part of Sugar Ray Robinson in a movie. Course, I'll need a few breaks to do it."

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