On Time

by Paul Kozerski

  Vint swung a weary glance toward Joe.

  “You get the feeling we might be facin’ a stacked deck?”

  Joe didn’t answer, instead motioning to an even more incredulous sight. Ahead, DeLynne Leplak was sliding an overnight bag onto the platform of their train’s dyno car.

  The fireman choked.

  “You gotta be kidding. That little weasel’s going along? And on our train? You’d think he’d be suckin’ up to the diesel boys. This whole thing’s starting to really stink.”

  Aware of their scrutiny, DeLynne came erect and checked the sky. Like the diesel reps, his words issued galling and proper.

  “Good morning gentlemen. You both appear well rested and fit for our little excursion. Weather reports say it’s supposed to be a nice couple of days for the run. A little rain tonight maybe, downstate. But, all sunny and dry again, tomorrow. So, the test conditions should be perfect for both machines.”

  Dee swept a magnanimous hand beyond.

  “Have either of you ever seen the workings of a dynamometer car?”

  “No thanks,” answered Vint. “We’ve been bushwhacked once already.”

  “Oh, that little photo taking session? A harmless bit of company PR, I’m sure. Nothing personal. Just business.”

  Dee opened the car door, courteously insistent.

  “Please, come in. After all, you are the reason it’s here. Take a look at what you’ll be hauling with your own engine - if simply to prove that everything will be above board and on the level.”

  Only because they saw old friend and brakeman Spike, already there, did Joe and Vint oblige.

  Here again, the pair were confronted by something totally foreign. All of the car’s window glass was tinted against the sun and its interior lighting, subdued. Numerous indicator bulbs glowed dimly atop separate instrument consoles and assorted devices. Their hues of red, amber, blue, and green bathed the place in equal parts of Christmastide and science fiction. But the noble Westinghouse signet bolted to the forward bulkhead said otherwise. This was to be the real deal, proper and true.

  A fluid measuring system was set aboard the car. It governed a weighing head that gauged an engine’s drawbar pull. An arrangement of other hydraulic units and accompanying transmission lines paired their information with supplementary input from analog sensors mounted about the locomotive. All then entered a data analyzer for translation, display, and recording.

  Worktable stanchions supported a maze of related pressure and vacuum-reading glasses. Shiny brass tees and reducers channeled brown lengths of gum rubber laboratory hose to automatic pens. Glass ampoules full of blood red ink set ready in those pens, waiting to transform fresh sheets of corresponding cylindrical and pie chart graph paper into hard evidence.

  Categories to be mapped and analyzed included assorted titles:

  Inlet. Cutoff. Compression. Expansion. Exhaust. Back pressure.

  Beyond, additional gauges were on line to itemize steam and air consumption by 2982’s auxiliary workings; compressors to feed pumps, stoker to safety valves. Considerations as seemingly minuscule as the electric generator and even whistle usage had their place and were set to be documented.

  The dyno car’s aft end held unique workforce amenities. While the steam crew would be housed in a normal crummy at the train’s tail end for the night, here was a mini-dormitory. Unbelievable creature comforts included a refrigerator and electric stove for food storage and preparation. There was a fold-down cafeteria countertop, mealtime stools, bunks, a shower, and lavatory. Even now, the smell of fresh-brewed coffee filled the car from a generous percolator.

  Back outside, the pre-trip festivities ended with a last procession of new Cadillacs and Lincolns. Heedfully crunching their way up the dusty yard elevation, it was the final swarm of downtown brass hats coming to roost.

  Core executive cadre venturing outside their controlled office environment was fatally rare. But, for some obscure reason, the appearance of new locomotive power always seemed to bring their highest levels out in droves, giddy as schoolboys over a new skirt in class. And following that logic, here was their crème de la crème.

  Big salary faces familiar only from quarterly newsletters included the vice president, division superintendent, chief financial officer and senior corporate lawyer. Trailing along in their wake, came assorted accountants, purchasing agents, and the usual retinue of lesser attendants, including compulsory yes-men, and plain old, kiss-ass wannabes.

  But here and now, they were vastly outnumbered by their soon-to-be-unemployed rank and file and moved about in a comically protective phalanx. They spoke in muted tones as they tried looking confident amid their unnatural surroundings, avoiding direct eye contact with any of the subordinate field hands.

  To a man, the top execs were bedecked in full management regalia - three piece, navy blue, business suits. Dress shirt collars were heavily starched. The flash of 18 karat gold clasps abounded, securing expensive silk ties in place. Most vests and suit coats strained against their buttons, working to confine generous paunches subsidized by too much soft, salaried living.

  Dark fedoras rode stately atop each new visitor’s head, proclaiming his rank within the flock. Among them, a couple expensive, Italian velours stuck out. Prestigious tufts of iridescent ostrich plume peeked out from satin hatbands, indicating those of highest rank. The rest were relegated to simple, up-and-coming, felt variety hats; their commoner grosgrain bands going unadorned. And, although they wouldn’t remain that way for long in this working man’s environment, the black oxfords of all herd members mirrored the same, high gloss shine.

  Their dress code translated to a simple language:

  Management and labor.

  Diesel and steam.

  Us and them.

  Observing the arrived herd, Jim Graczyk felt his mouth sour. He was turning away to join the yard guys, when a hand fell heavily on his shoulder.

  “And this young man plays a dual role in today’s epic.”

  A grinning DeLynne Leplak spoke. With him, was a group of company photographers.

  “This here is Jim Graczyk, the yard’s able-bodied clerk.”

  One shutterbug perked up.

  “Hey, are you any relation to the steam engineer on today’s run?”

  The question sounded more like an allegation. Though before Jim could reply, Dee vigorously corroborated.

  “Why, heck yes! This here’s his boy!”

  The photographers were immediately inflamed with award-winning press shot prospects. Clutching their cameras, they hurriedly craned about.

  “Where? Where’s his dad? We could shoot them shaking hands!”

  “Yeah! Like the faces of old and new railroading, wishing each other good luck!”

  Beyond and out of range, Joe scouted the big dollar clique. He hoped to find and thank the only one among them worth his salt. But Chester Phinnesey wasn’t to be seen and Joe reasoned that it made good sense. Not showing up might work best to keep appearances on the straight and level; make certain that no cries of foul or favoritism tainted the steam agenda.

  Vint nudged Joe, pointing to Jim and some Mayhew Bugle reporters.

  “Hey, there’s your boy! Looks real natural talking to that newspaper bunch, don’t he?”

  Joe gazed through a hole in the crowd. Spike’s analogous comment from those few weeks prior, again filled his ears.

  “Yeah,” he mumbled. “I guess.”

  Their exchange was overheard by an executive drone, who dared to leave his covey and wander by. Stopping before Joe, he spoke without introduction.

  “You, Joe Grow-check?”

  Joe offered the rude stranger an equally boorish reply.

  “Who’s asking?”

  Vint smothered a chuckle. But, like those of his kind, this drone too, seemed impervious. He tediously withdrew a stiff busi
ness envelope from his coat pocket.

  “For you.”

  Joe found it labeled as official correspondence from Chester Phinnesey’s office.

  “Gotta sign for it,” declared the drone, also offering a receipt and pen.

  Joe did so.

  “By the way,” he said while signing. “It’s pronounced, GRAWS-YECK. Not Growcheck.”

  The drone didn’t care to reply, vanishing instead, back among his shielding flock.

  Vint eagerly stretched for a better peek.

  “Wow. Fancy, fancy. What’s that all about?”

  Joe tucked the sealed message in a vest pocket.

  “Who knows? We’re busy now. I’ll worry about it later.”

  Still, the engineer’s moment of petty fame was not quite over. A zealous cub reporter followed in the steps of the last man.

  “Did I hear that guy say that you were Joe Graczyk? If so, we’d like to interview you with your son. You know, a friendly labor - management comparison for the company newsletter.”

  Though gorged on enough tasteless celebrity, Joe raised an arm, pointing the other way.

  “Nah. He was wrong. But, I thought I just saw the guy over there. Wearing a brand new green jumper. Can’t miss ‘em.”

  The zealot journalist hustled off and Joe looked to Vint.

  “Let’s get out of here before I gag. And just where the heck is our power?”

  CHAPTER 32

  At nine-thirty, DeLynne Leplak strutted rooster-like, through the assembly. Basking in his favorite role of self-appointed moderator, he motioned to all present with a broad, gathering arc of arms. His tone was a crowing style that mixed equal parts of carnival pitchman and traveling salvation show preacher.

  “Okay gentlemen! Gather ‘round! Gather ‘round! I believe we’re ready to begin!

  “We all know why we’re here today. But, before we commence, I have a short message supplied by the head offices of the Chicago, Cahokia, and Southern Railroad, formally defining our presence.”

  DeLynne graphically swung open his premium suit coat, purposely exhibiting its hand-stitched silk lining. Withdrawing a folded paper within, he cleared his throat and dramatically shook open the message.

  “Dated twenty-six, October, in the year of our Lord, 1955, it authorizes the purpose of us all being gathered. That is, to compare the merits of diesel-electric versus steam power on the Prairie Division, of the Chicago, Cahokia, and Southern Railroad.

  “On the one hand, will be machine, one, nine, five, five; a Special Service, Model SS-styled locomotive, as graciously supplied by the good folks of the Electric Engine Company.”

  The road’s purchasing agents and manufacturer reps flowered with self-absorbed smiles.

  “And, on the other - insofar as a Berkshire wheel arrangement from the existing CC&S locomotive stable, can be tendered as being the most representative and fitting steam road engine counterpart - Berkshire, two, nine, eight, two.

  “Per the rules herein, both trains will be made up of 20 specially loaded cars, including a dynamometer unit, weighing in at a total of 1500 tons each. Running the same course, both trains will negotiate outbound and inbound legs of 100 miles; this distance being slightly under the normal traveling interval of a steam locomotive and a concession allowed, so as to not necessitate intermediate stops for coal or water refueling.

  “If, as a result of the final data compiling, steam proves itself the equal of or superior to, the diesel-electric engine, the CC&S has agreed to investigate a feasibility study of consolidating existing steam road engines in this locale, for the foreseeable future.

  “Regarding the test itself, all parameters and data collection will be done in the strictest accord demanded by both, the American Society of Mechanical Engineers and the American Association of Railroads. Duly appointed observers, both in the dyno cars and aboard each locomotive, will record and tally all starts, stops, passing points of stations, mile markers, terrain characteristics, and so on, which might relate to either locomotive’s performance.

  “Now, if our participating crews will officially sign the roster log, we can begin.”

  Spectators pressed forward, even more cameras flashing. Worming between, Joe and Vint formally marked off of their normal drag run and were assigned to what was termed a special.

  Among those gathered, Jim Graczyk acted as both an official witness and appointed deputy, governing possession of the formal documents relating to the event. Taking up the completed roster, he proudly viewed the drying ink of his father’s signature. But, in closing its cover, something irregular struck Jim. He reopened the book and briefly scanned a simple, but key line of its wording.

  CC&S Train, Special 2982 begin at Mayhew. Train, Special 2982 run Mayhew to Carbon.

  As with everything about it, the instructions appeared perfectly arranged. Yet, thinking back to his recent trainman’s test, something set there did not seem proper.

  Ahead, the steam crew stood beside their engine-less train. Not seeing his locomotive or Spike Jackowniak, Joe motioned to a nearby suit, pointing at the diesel.

  “Those guys are all set. But where’s my engine? Or head brakeman?”

  “Your brakeman won’t be needed today and will stay aboard the dyno car,” came a curt reply. “An appointed official will take his place to make certain that all procedures are followed. And your engine will be brought to you.”

  “Why the curb service?” Joe asked. “Can’t we just go and get it?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “To prevent any pre-trip tampering.”

  Joe repeated.

  “Tampering.”

  “Yes. Tampering”

  “So, you’re saying the diesel guys can be trusted. But we can’t?”

  A gush of mounting steam interrupted. With it emerged a show-stopping vision. From deep in the yard, being ushered by another engine, rolled refurbished locomotive, 2982.

  Sunlight skated along the mile-deep shine of fresh, gloss black paint covering it. The high alloy steel of its forged rods and cross heads was buffed to a velvety, silver sheen; its long-neglected belly looking trim after a laborious scraping and pressure-wash. Each spoke and crevice, nook and cranny of its drivers had been meticulously picked clean and brought to an equal brilliance.

  The locomotive’s new steel tires were outlined in a rich, white enamel piping. Cab numbers and tender lettering were redone in a lustrous coat of deep, mustard yellow lacquer. Higher up, windowsills, brass bell, and sand-cast builder’s plaque had been detailed in a gleaming, cherry red.

  Personalized monikers topped off the customized paintwork. A pair reading Baby, were discretely set on both sides of the steam dome, and another of, Smokin’ Joe, rested between the engineer’s windowsill and bold new cab numbers. All were accentuated with simple, yet elegant scrollwork.

  A feather of vestal white steam wiggled past the engine’s safety valves; a regal column of faint, gray-brown smoke straight from its stack. Even the fuel glistened. Every stoker chunk might’ve passed for hand-graded, all being of a singular ebony hue, uniform in size, and trimmed into a perfect pyramid.

  The demoted machine was no more. In nothing less than a full Cinderella transformation, a weary beast of burden had changed places with an exquisite quarter horse. One that drew a courtly hush, even from the diesel advocates.

  Sunday Guzmán halted the locomotive before its handler. He exited its cab with the glow of a proud father, transferring his daughter-bride to her waiting groom.

  “She’s all yours, compadre.”

  Joe was staggered by the vision placed in his care.

  “Sunday, she’s a work of art.”

  The other man shrugged. Sweeping his eyes about, he singled out Jim with a sly wink.

  “It wasn’t just me, José. All the guys pitched in. She wa
s really in a lot better shape than you’d think. We trued up her cross pins, changed some stay bolts, piston rings, and packings. New tires, a good bath, and coat of paint. That was it. She’s one tough old girl.”

  Joe nodded proudly.

  “That, she is.”

  Sunday lowered his voice.

  “Of course, we got her valves squared to the nines, and her timing set tight as a tick. But, we also tricked her up a little. There’s a Kiesel Star exhaust nozzle in her smoke box. I know a guy at the downtown Pennsy shops, who knew a guy, who knew somebody, who had one left over from their old K-5s at Altoona. They didn’t need it anymore and sent it down. With a little work, it fit right in.

  “It’ll draft a lot better than the stock Lima and should give you a hefty dose of extra drawbar pull - just in case you need to give the old gal a good smack on the ass. If you do, she won’t let you down.”

  Graczyk shared a wily grin with his longtime friend.

  “Thanks. But, I don’t think this is supposed to be a race.”

  Sunday conceded the point.

  “Oh, yeah. Sure. Sure. But, you know - just in case . . .”

  Joe motioned to a pair of dazzling white cloth flags bracketing the locomotive’s number boards. Engine flags of recent times were all made of durable sheet metal, painted green or white, according to a train’s particular mainline requirements. But here, barely stirring atop the machine’s smoke box, were a personalized set of thick and old fashioned, fabric pennants.

  The brilliant white panels were of coarse linen. Bold, black characters, X-2982 were embroidered on it, in the double reinforced fashion of a master seamstress’ hand. They proclaimed to the world that this engine was a full-fledged, frontrunner. There’d be no scurrying off the mainline for other trains today or tomorrow. The track belonged to it.

  Joe marveled even more.

  “Real, old time flags, too?”

  “My old lady made ‘em,” answered Sunday. “I figured if this old gal was gonna get all dressed up for a time on the town, she might as well be done right. So, it was either that or hoist up a couple pair of my old boxer shorts.”