On Time

by Paul Kozerski

  “I recognize the work.” Said Joe. “You tell Carmelita thanks for me. She did a great job.”

  “I will. But you remember. They might be white. But them’s battle flags, not surrender ones.”

  Joe halted, keying on a final irregularity, set high atop the engine. Bolted to the whistle stanchion was a familiar, though abnormal, clump of pipes.

  “And just what is that?”

  Sunday’s grin was one of a schoolboy prank.

  “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice, ‘til you were out, on the mainline.”

  “Not my old, fast mail pipes,” sighed Joe. “I didn’t even know they were still around.”

  “Yeah. Could never bring myself to scrap them. I didn’t think it’d hurt to hook ‘em up for something special like this. Thought maybe you might feel like playing an old tune out on the road.”

  Joe shook his head.

  “After all the years, I doubt I’d remember how. Besides, these days, it might not be kosher.”

  “No different than riding a bike.” Sunday declared. “You want it back; it’ll come. Bottom line, screw the rules.”

  The roundhouse man gave both his friend and the locomotive, a brotherly regard.

  “You know Joe, that old saying of my people, que será, será. It kinda means that the future might already be decided and all we can do is live with it. So, maybe nothing here today will really matter. But just working on this engine made us yard guys feel part of something proud to finish out our time on. And whatever comes, we can walk away knowing we always did our best around here.

  “So, don’t you worry about it, neither. Just get in the cab and finish things your way.”

  The hostler nodded curtly.

  “Via con Dios!”

  Behind, DeLynne’s voice boomed from a megaphone

  “Attention, engine crews! You may now climb aboard your machines!”

  A last batch of well-wishing handshakes and back pats filed passed as Joe and Vint started up, into 2982. But just short of entering, Joe stalled.

  Before him, snaking out from the engine’s vitals, was a staggering array of bundled cables and wiring. Perfectly stenciled witness marks adorned the steamer’s valves and gaudy tamper seals dangled from all its back head controls, their foil bits shimmering with a cheerless flicker of discarded holiday tinsel.

  “What the hell’s all this?”

  Vint squeezed around for a peek as a new voice snarled.

  “PLEASE! DO NOT TOUCH ANYTHING!”

  The warning came from a baby-faced young man, struggling aboard on the locomotive’s other side. In his hand was a clipboard with attached timekeeping accoutrements. The pocket protector of his already-sweated white dress shirt was amply stuffed with a supply of brand new and perfectly sharpened pencils. He bore a bookish, self-important attitude, which, along with the hefty curl of tummy fat oozing over his belt, immediately labeled him unfavorably to the crew.

  Vint looked around Joe.

  “Who’re you?”

  “You heard them say that an appointed observer would ride in the cab? Well, that’s me, Bernard Dooley.”

  The young stranger’s tone was an indignant mix of petty superiority and general disdain, immediately reminiscent of DeLynne. His gaze about the steam engine cab was likewise, one of distaste.

  “As the appointed auditor for this run, it’s my job to observe you in action and to be sure that an impartial air is maintained during the engine’s operation. For right now, that means do not touch anything, until I say so.”

  Neither engineman offered any pleasantries as Bernard huffed his way inside and wedged his plump backside into Spike’s normal jump seat. He addressed his new wards with a continued tone of supremacy, while adjusting an airman’s style of headset and microphone.

  “The tamper seals will all fall away with your first movements. Do not concern yourselves with any of the witness marks set about. When you are permitted to proceed, simply operate the engine in your normal manner. But, again, do not touch anything until instructed. Do you understand?”

  Joe and Vint exchanged a frayed glance.

  “Yeah, we know English.”

  “Good.”

  Pressing fingers to his throat microphone, the auditor proudly announced his readiness to those in the dyno car.

  “This is Station Number One! Radio check! One, two TH-REEE. TH-REEE, two, one. Do you read me, over?”

  Vint smirked at the ornate rehearsal. Offering up his travel orders, he nicknamed the young interloper at the same time.

  “Hey Slim, are we headed out on a bombing run today? ‘Cause if we’re not just running a train down ‘round Danville, I’ll need another set of orders.”

  The auditor ignored the jab. From the ground below though, a fresh voice took up sides.

  “Y’all be careful with these here boys, Bernard. ‘Specially the right-seater. Man 5728, there, has got friends in high places, he does. That’s how this whole shebang got started.”

  It was DeLynne, conducting his own, final walk-around.

  “And just what uncle is it, you have, working back home?” Challenged Vint.

  Dee tensed at the man’s unusual and daring tone. He then countered, leaning over to broadly assess the engine’s new cosmetics.

  “You know, the appearance of this locomotive is not in keeping with strictly defined company paint schemes. I also noticed some other personalized equipment that hasn’t been allowed for years. The perpetrators could be subject to severe disciplinary action for vandalism.”

  Vint theatrically eyed engine’s new grandeur.

  “You mean stuff like that paint, there?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And that?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you could write us all up for that?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  DeLynne and Bernard shared a lordly simper. But theirs was a short victory.

  Cupping his hands, Vint called loud enough for the gathered officials to hear.

  “Hey Sunday!”

  “Yeah?”

  “The boss man here says that your paint ain’t regulation! It’s gotta come off before we can make this run!”

  “That so?”

  “Yep!”

  Guzmán threw his hands wide in mock surrender and motioned toward his men.

  “Okay boys! You heard the man! Drag her ass back to the roundhouse and start scraping!”

  The front office clique rustled like a clutch of nervous hens and DeLynne seemed caught in his own snare.

  “Let it go,” he said coolly.

  Vint leaned forward, a conspicuous hand set to his ear.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You heard me.”

  Dee walked off without further comment, leaving Joe to gawk at his fireman.

  “Hey, Mister Ballsy, when’d you get to town?”

  Vint shrugged.

  “Just fed up with all his crap, that’s all.”

  Joe followed Dee’s retreat, grinning. Still, he couldn’t help but feel that he was watching a man with aces tucked up his sleeve.

  Departure time came. Hospitality dictated that Mayhew’s guests hold the honors of leaving first. Accordingly, their Special Service diesel spooled up under the confident whine of its mighty Roots superchargers. 10,000 cubic inches of internal combustion started Train 1955 moving with almost obscene ease. The visitor engine gave a customary, whistle-off, leaving the yard. But, in passing 2982, the garish double BLATT! of its air horns came away as derisive and challenging.

  Minutes later, the yardmaster gave Joe his own highball.

  “Okay.” Allowed Bernard. “Your turn.”

  Under the auditor’s hawkish gaze, Joe and Vint set hands to their controls. The tamper seals broke and dropped away as power alterations replaced the lo
comotive’s idle settings. Whistling off with a pair of sharp steam blasts, Joe obeyed the restrictive yard signal. He trudged out at a dead-slow pace, toward a beckoning Spike Jackowniak and one of the few trip accommodations the man would be allowed to contribute to his crew.

  The brakeman swung his arm in the same, casual, summoning arc that Joe had obeyed for years, across an aligned array of outbound switches directing the locomotive away. But today, not permitted in its cab, Spike remained momentarily behind, flipping a defiant thumbs-up to his engineer, before reaching for the dyno car’s grab irons.

  Vint twisted backward in his window. Watching the parade of precisely weighted freight cars, he called out.

  “All through the crossover!”

  “All through the crossover!” Joe verified.

  Graczyk then fed 2982 mainline throttle. Immediately, he felt a sweet, new smoothness in his machine. Right out of the yard it had good wind. Its drivers rolled in perfect balance and the locomotive took eagerly to the high iron.

  Joe began hooking up the machine’s reverse gear. His purposeful shortening of the valve stroke allowed less steam into the cylinders for each new piston cycle, economically making most use of its natural expansion. This action also saved on both fuel and component strain for the data being recorded.

  Beneath his fingers, Joe could feel Sunday’s power reserve aching for a test. He dared a quick check and the engine wheels broke loose in a brief, clawing spin. Joe grinned privately at the auditor’s cautionary throat clearing and powered back in a whisper.

  “Sorry, girl. My fault. We’re not here to race.”

  But, the transformation of machine had a definite effect on the man. Wreathed in a heady cologne of its new scent, the present day was suspended and for the briefest of moments Joe Graczyk was no longer a middle-aged man seated aboard a mere railroad engine. He was transported back to a time when he was vital and dynamic and 2982 was his factory-fresh, Baby, coiled with heaps of untested muscle and anxious to please.

  So absorbed was Joe in the magical warmth of his reconnection that he passed right by a lone observer standing just outside the yard, a young man with a hand raised in pride and support, not seeing it, nor the hearing the gentle bid of, “Good luck, Pa,” spoken by his son.

  CHAPTER 33

  The dyno trains reached their downstate, Carbon terminal by early evening. A slight detour was made necessary by mainline re-ballasting work, which briefly rerouted both into another district. But, it didn’t affect either’s performance. On arrival, accumulated data was tallied and the competing locomotives, serviced. Crews were fed, then bedded down for the approach of that night’s predicted cold rains.

  As usual, Joe was awake early next morning; sooner than Vint, Ziggy, or even Spike, who had given up his prime dyno car berth for bunking in the caboose with his crew. Their return trip might still be hours away, yet for Joe, the night was over.

  He freshened up with splashes of cold soapy water and shaved at the dry sink washbasin. A quick change of clothes and the man was set. Joe stooped for a check of the midget stove on his way out. He stirred its nest of dim red embers to life, then added a hefty scoop of new coal to keep his still sleeping bunkmates warm.

  Joe’d been wary of the foul weather and had protectively removed his engine flags to spend the night with him. Now, he pulled the rolled banners from their dry storage and tucked underarm, stepped outside.

  A crisp morning awaited. The caboose still dripped from its chilled dousing, but looking about, the man saw that the worst was over. The grim heavens were thinning and silhouetted by mute throbs of distant lightning, a mushy heap of spent thunderheads sulked off to die.

  Across the sky, sunrise was just a rusty scratch, set low on the black iron of night. Yet, the makings of a bell-clear day were in the air and that hope was punctuated by the faint crowing of an area rooster.

  Joe took a long pull of the sharp breeze. It was zesty with that invigorating nip found only in the open prairie. Today though, an unusual scent of warming griddles added a choice leavening. A savory bouquet of cooking hotcakes, eggs, sausage, and stout coffee issued from some unseen caterer’s wagon as the trainmen’s complimentary breakfast. Blended with the crisp new day, its aroma flashed Joe back to long ago Marine bivouacs. Remembering that camaraderie brought him a valued nod.

  Early morning had always been the man’s special time and Joe liked to greet each dawn privately, partaking of a tiny, brief zone, that was his alone. Steeped in solitary thoughts of the day ahead, he now walked along, spying a nearby woods. From it, a sylvan benevolence reached out that touched deep in the man’s odd mix of big city and backwoods soul.

  From what Joe understood, that exact grove would soon be leveled for the yard’s giant diesel service center. But now, aromatic cedars, shaggy-barked hickory, and determined catalpa still shared in a rich anchorage that he gratefully inhaled and absorbed. Their sap, sod, and bark were all like an energizing serum to the man. And also like him, becoming another rarity in this changing world.

  Joe nodded a thanks to nature, for the shared moment. He then tugged his jacket collar up, lighting a first Pall Mall for the walk to his idling machine.

  A few third trick hostlers peopled the surrounding yard, finishing out their late-night duties. And placed in their care, Lima Berkshire 2982 stood tall on the ready track.

  Last night’s cleansing rain had left the Berk glistening with a deep, ebony gleam. But, instead of rested, the mighty thoroughbred seemed edgy at its master’s approach. Even setting still, its six foot drivers gave the appearance of a sprinter’s legs, hunkered down and coiled tight; dug in, on the starting blocks and nearly pawing the ground with impatience to be on the move.

  Creamy threads of moist, sweet steam drifted over to embrace the arrived man. He in turn, set his hand to a burly cross rod, drinking in the machine’s magnificence. Though, placing a work boot on the first cab step, Joe found himself lingering a moment to voice caution, as though the locomotive might actually understand his words.

  “Like I said before, old girl. If you’ve got something in mind, you’d better just forget it. We’re here to follow orders.”

  The cab gauges met with Joe’s approval. His motions in checking them also brought a rustle of life to yesterday’s forgotten envelope, still inside his vest pocket. An elegant sheet of folded company stationery awaited, and among its creases another item; a faded length of ancient ribbon.

  The ribbon was red satin and inked in gold with the Marine Corps noble insignia. Joe remembered it as one of the tiny streamers twirled down in showers from city windows, upon him and his victorious, returned fellow Marines, when they paraded from Philadelphia harbor with the ended, First World War.

  He hadn’t seen one of the little pennants in the time since and its significance here was lost. Still, Joe set it across his knee, then straightened and took stock of the accompanying missive. Its formal letterhead was from the road’s Chicago headquarters. But, it held only a couple brief lines of freehand penmanship, scrawled in a simple and direct message.

  Joe,

  Beware the Hun!

  Give ‘em hell, Devil Dog!

  Ches.

  His hand settled and Joe Graczyk immediately understood what lengths true friendship could be extended, even if that effort were pointless. Chester’s few cryptic words said it all. His reference to their common, old time foe was now replaced by a new generation one - the company suits.

  Corporate minds were made up. Joe’s old friend had been overruled by the company’s board of directors. The death sentence of their beloved steamers was a foregone fact. Soon, a liquid fueled invasion force would rage across the entire CC&S and all the goodwill of even its most highly placed steam partisans was helpless against it.

  Joe Graczyk sat aboard a pointlessly refurbished engine, that, even fully coaled and watered, was ready only for a meaningless trip
back home; the victim of a perfectly orchestrated, PR stunt. And not long from now, in the confines of an arcane meeting place, the numbers generated from today’s excursion would be refined into a clinically sterile report bearing the lame truth. It’d be jammed with bar charts and bell curves; cross-referenced and overlaid in multicolored sinuous windings, splashed undeniably across transparent overlays.

  Drawbar horsepower and comparative mechanical ratings would be laid bare. The caloric values of fuel oil would be stacked against coal and water. Traction contrasts, adjusted tonnage ratings, and dynamic loadings would be wound into a briar-like snarl of harsh, objective mathematics. Economic life versus investment, amortization, and depreciation, would likewise, be broken down into four decimal places. Indisputable SAE and AAR sanctions would label today’s effort as a fool’s errand.

  The engineer sank back and made a rueful study of the locomotive. His beloved Berkshire had been doomed in this undertaking before ever turning a wheel. Now, for all of the science, engineering, and pure sweat, which had built it; for all of the flawless ton-miles it had proudly offered in service, 2982 and its loyal kin were marked for a hapless salvage yard demise, with a pitiful, three-cents-per-pound scrap iron bounty their butchered hulks would bring. And with them would go so very much of Joe.

  Regarding the letter a last moment, the man saw it as just another sad obituary of changing times.

  “Thanks, Ches,” he said, “for the truth. Guess they just had us outgunned from the start.”

  Joe replaced the note in its formal envelope and tripped open the engine’s firebox. A surge of draft eagerly pulled at his offering, ushering the message into a fitting end.

  Realizing the tiny Marine pennant still set across his knee, the engineer weighed it against the moment. He was no stranger to disappointment. But like it or not, over the years, this cab, this place, this very spot, had evolved into something of hallowed ground for Józef Graczyk. It was his faith, his - religion.

  Joe scoffed at the irony. His true spiritual upbringing had been cast in the traditional mold of old-world peasantry, where worship was something defined and dictated by android clerics. The rulebook said that you went to church on Sunday. So, you did. And although Joe had sat through his share of sermons referencing heaven’s love, he was never exactly sure what that might be.