There certainly wasn’t any love evident at the hands of the bitter, storm trooper nuns running Saint Hedwig’s grade school. The ones who’d cuff kids like him for the slightest infraction - real or imagined - until a fed up young Joe finally planted a left hook on the plump chin of the meanest one, dropping her like a sack of spuds and forever ending his scholastic career while still only in the fourth grade.
It wasn’t apparent in a drunken and abusive stepfather, who an adolescent Joe finally took to task, himself. Nor, the wholesale butchery he’d witnessed in the Belleau Wood. And what of the grieving families who’d lost their children to his mail train that one horrible night?
He didn’t recall anyone stepping from a cloud, ordering a stop to either world war, or a halt to the Spanish Flu epidemic that killed so many in between. Certainly not in the death of a helpless and innocent infant daughter, struggling for breath, but not meant to witness her first dawn. Or, the grown son, brutally taken in trade for a purple hunk of ribbon with its bleak cameo of General Washington. No, that kind of religion, he would never understand.
From his formative world of economic ruin, Joe Graczyk saw churchgoing in the common man’s big city context of simply paying gangland protection. Life was the Boss Man’s racket and He could run it as He damn well pleased. So, religious worship to Joe was reasoned in plain terms of mob rule.
Simply put, Sunday was your day to show up at the celestial union hall. If the election was rigged or not, you just followed along, because there was no changing it. The collection basket and your presence were anted-up as tribute to and respect of the Big Boss’s power and any notions of divine forgiveness, salvation, or love, simply never figured in.
Miracles? What were they? The only miracles likely to be seen by Joe’s kind were in the rare, street corner handouts of fins and sawbucks to a lucky few souls, by Big Al or other long gone hoodlums, feeling a lordly touch awaiting a traffic light, back on some forgotten, Depression era, Christmas Eve.
In Joe Graczyk’s world God wasn’t a good-natured buddy, ready to keep you from stumbling off some curb during a spiritual bender. He was the ultimate precinct captain - the boss of bosses. And it was all His turf. So you paid your dues, showed respect in His house, and kept your mouth shut. You didn’t expect anything beneficial to ever come from your meager efforts. But hopefully, they might work to keep supernatural enforcers away from your door.
Yet, none of that callus rationale was to say that Joe Graczyk was not a spiritual man. For just set him out on the open road during the silent wonder of a late night meteor shower or give him the privilege of blazing the dawn’s first path through a new blanket of freshly fallen snow and this simple immigrant son understood the bounds of creation as well as any robed theologian could ever hope to.
A steam locomotive was Joe’s true church; the engine cab, his sanctuary. Its firebox was his brazier and the mingled bouquets of hot steel, viscous oil, and thick steam, his sacred incense. But now, a faceless mob of no-neck heathen were about to desecrate it all.
A gust of scalding rage flamed to quick life deep inside the man. With it, the pleasant scent of all that cooking breakfast soured into the cloying stink of a prisoner’s last meal. He gazed ahead and drank in the pointless glow of his locomotive’s shimmering firebox.
For the first time in his life, Joe considered throwing in the towel. His career performance and record spoke for themselves. What more did he have to prove to anyone? He could climb down proudly from this old Berk and mark off his entire run; declare a no contest here and now and allow someone else to chauffeur him back home. Yeah, screw it all.
But, again regarding the tiny red pennant, Joe knew better. It simply wasn’t his style. Good, bad, or indifferent, he’d always shouldered his load. And damn it all, he’d do the same again, here, today.
Joe tucked the streamer back in his empty vest pocket, playing gentle fingers along the slick paint of his engine windowsill. Any joy in the bright new red was gone.
“Who were we kidding, girl? We’re both a couple of old players way passed our prime. What say we just head home and get this over with?”
His crew approached. Gorged by the company buffet, they were unaware of any treachery and their mood was one of good cheer.
Spike called ahead.
“No breakfast, Joe? Still got a ton of flapjacks, eggs, and bacon back there. Company’s paying the tab, so you might as well fill up.”
Ziggy proudly patted his bulging coat pocket.
“Yeah! Got me a nice, thick, fried egg, bacon, and sausage sandwich for later!”
Graczyk forced a smile.
“That’s good, Ziggy. But nah, I’m okay, guys.”
The men compared watches and fanned out.
Vint offered up Joe’s Thermos bottle before starting into the cab.
“You left this in the crummy, boss. So, I got it filled for you at the mess hall.”
Graczyk took the jug with a nod of thanks. Yet, still below, Vint made a quick appraisal of the man.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah.”
Something in Joe’s tone still said otherwise, though Vint let it pass.
“Got your walk around done?”
“Yep.”
“I’ll give things a quick double-check”
“No point. It’s fine.”
Vint twitched at Joe’s open disregard of standard practice.
“No?”
“Nope. Running gear is okay. Fire’s got a good heel and half-glass of boiler water. So, don’t bother. Come on up and get your stoker warmed. Let’s go home.”
Vint climbed aboard tentatively. Addressing his workstation, he continued in some small talk.
“Did you ever read that fancy letter from yesterday?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What’d it say?”
“Just an old friend wishing us good luck.”
“Can’t ask for more than that.”
“Guess not.”
Bernard lumbered aboard last. His shirt pocket clutch of freshly sharpened pencils jiggled as he maneuvered about, now looking for all the world, like a quiver of lethal arrows.
“Let’s get this show on the road.” He declared.
For their first time since meeting, Joe agreed with the rude outsider.
“Yeah. Let’s do that.”
CHAPTER 34
The yard signal flashed to clear. But, although 2982 was slated to leave first, a local yardman instead, beckoned the diesel out, again ahead of the Berkshire.
Vint protested the blatant breech of protocol.
“Hey! What’s this? They were first out yesterday. And from our own home yard. We should get the honors today!”
Joe offered a morose shrug.
“Who cares? Let ‘em have it.”
The fireman paused again, at his engineer’s odd demeanor.
“Sure you’re feelin’ alright, Joebie?”
“Why shouldn’t I?” Snapped Graczyk. “You a doctor now?”
“No,” Vint defended. “You just seem out of sorts. That’s all.”
“Okay, you asked. So, let’s do our jobs and cut the chatter.”
Vint gave a nod of apology and directed his bruised feelings back across the cab.
Their clearance arrived shortly after and Joe started the locomotive for home. He kept its pace at a respectful creep across the jumble of switch points, then onto the open track, easing in more power.
There, for no apparent reason, the drive wheels suddenly broke loose. Joe yanked back on his throttle, carefully feeding it again. But once more, 2982 rebelled, spinning furiously.
Joe choked the engine’s power entirely. When he reapplied it for a third time, he barely cracked the throttle, milking his sanders to help keep the engine’s footing.
“May I remind you
. . .” scolded Bernard from behind.
“Just chilled rails after that cold rain.” Joe defended. “Made ‘em a little slick, that’s all. Won’t happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t.”
His machine now under control, Joe checked the time and his gauges. He then settled in, watching the road beyond. Ahead, the diesel run had faded from view and that was okay with him.
Seated comfortably in the dyno car, however, DeLynne had other things in mind. He’d purposely allowed the diesel to start off first, violating custom in hopes it might help nudge along some bad blood. Gazing now at the car’s radio operator, Dee initiated the next phase of his plan.
“Say, how far up’s that other dyno train?”
“A few miles.”
“Where the dual main comes in?”
“Ah - yeah.”
“Ain’t a good-long lap siding right about there? A mile or so? High speed turnouts?”
The man checked his map.
“Yep, at Pollard.”
DeLynne considered the time. Although he already knew the answer, he motioned to the man’s handset.
“See if any southbound traffic is due. What kind and how many cars.”
The radioman made a call, then looked over.
“There is. A unit train; thirty reefers.”
“Have them divert to that Pollard siding. Then, bring the diesel over, onto that main.”
The radioman unwisely questioned Dee’s logic.
“Why do that? Both extras are running well clear of each other on the same main. It would also slow the diesel from its efficient cruising speed for no good reason.”
“The diesel will eventually run that side for its downtown return, anyway. I’m only sending it over a little early.”
“Yeah, in another ten or so miles. Things’re fine right now. Do we want to disrupt hot traffic if we don’t really need to?”
DeLynne pinned the man with a cold stare.
“As the officer in charge of this competition, it’s my call to route traffic any way I see fit. So, don’t tell me my business. And, do not get in the habit of challenging my decisions.”
The technician offered a weak counterpoint.
“I’m not trying to. But, if that happens, won’t the dyno crews at least need to stop and change orders?”
“No. This is no second-unit train. Both runs are singles and per standard Operating Rule 87, are superior to ALL traffic - including opposed. Now, you do as I say. Have dispatch get that reefer over at Pollard. Then radio the diesel dyno car of their early track change.”
“What of the steam train?”
“Let them be.”
Dee watched the chastened man begin sending messages. He was playing it close to the vest. But, with a bit of luck, his tweaking should put both trains parallel for a time; maybe just long enough to jiggle the bait and let nature take its course.
DeLynne settled back, glowing with a plotter’s smugness.
CHAPTER 35
The steam train followed its assigned route back toward Chicago. Even warmed by its firebox, the locomotive cab remained chilly. An engineer always set the mood of his crew and on this trip Joe was dour. Still, as the finely tuned team they were, he and Vint functioned wordlessly, so any trip performance did not suffer.
A curious sight then appeared. Not far ahead was the diesel demonstrator. It was running switched over on the southbound mainline and against the normal flow of traffic. Joe stepped toward Vint’s side of the cab for a better look and found his fireman equally perplexed.
He finally broke the ongoing silence.
“What’s that all about?”
“No idea,” answered Vint. “But I do know one thing. We’re gainin’ on ‘em.”
Sure enough. Still running well within course dictates, 2982 was closing on the diesel train.
“Hey, Mister Auditor,” asked Joe. “We might need a ruling on this. Why are they running against traffic, on the other main?”
“They’ve been sent there early” said Bernard. “For heading to Chicago.”
“Early? Chicago? We’re not both going back to Mayhew?”
“You still are. So, just worry about yourself.”
The routing change merely supported his earlier suspicions. The favorites were headed to a separate, downtown welcome. The losers were just going home.
Joe returned to his seat and regarded his power. Moments later he clicked in a bit more.
Across the cab, Vint picked up on the minuscule change of exhaust. He swept a covert glance Joe’s way and nudged his stoker jets up in reply. Still within course parameters, the steam engine began a gain on its nemesis.
It wasn’t long before the fuel oil boys took notice. Unsettled looks drifted toward the steamer and Vint grinned at a trickle of heavier exhaust exiting the diesel. A rise in the tone of its superchargers confirmed things. They were taking up the gauntlet. Though both sides knew an out-and-out race was forbidden, something of a gentleman’s speed contest was evolving. Scant yards apart, steam and diesel power began squaring off.
Vint clicked up the feed rate of his stoker and Graczyk added more power. The smoke signatures of both machines darkened.
None of their antics were lost to auditor, though, who finally spoke up.
“Having a bit of fun, are we, gentlemen?”
Joe and Vint gazed innocently behind.
“Oh, are we going too fast?”
Bernard drew a patient breath.
“You know you’re not - at the moment, anyway. But even so, all of your power changes are being duly registered and could adversely affect the overall efficiency rating of your machine.”
“Like it matters,” muttered Joe.
“How’s that?”
“Ah - be sure to let us know when it happens.”
“Count on it.”
With the cat now out of the bag, Vint could no longer restrain himself. He funneled a hand to his mouth and began announcing, as if a horse race.
“Rounding the clubhouse turn, they’re headed into the final stretch.”
“Comin’ up on the outside, it’s Sweet Baby!”
“Sweet Baby, edging up on Big Ugly!”
“Sweet Baby closing the gap.”
“Sweet Baby, neck and neck with Big Ugly!”
“Three furlongs to go. It’s Sweet Baby, pulling ahead!”
“Sweet Baby, by a nod!”
“Sweet Baby, by a nose!”
“By a head! By a shoulder!”
“IT’S SWEET BABY, ALL THE WAY!”
Vint rocked back on his seat, clapping madly as 2982 shot by the diesel train.
“We got ‘em, Joebie! Nailed them SOBs, good!”
Fireman and engineer grinned, friends again.
Bernard, however, was less receptive.
“All right, gentlemen. You’ve had your little diversion. Now the fun’s over. Let’s get back with the program.”
“Yeah.” Joe said, ready to comply. “Okay.”
His gloved hand obediently moved to reduce their power. Though, he couldn’t help but dwell a moment, savoring the melody of his well-tuned machine doing what it did best - maybe for the last time.
Joe then became aware of an odd, secondary cadence rising about him. Wartime gunfire and a life of harsh railroading sounds had long ago taken the edge off his finer hearing. Still, a sensation beyond mere decibels was reaching out to him, as well.
It was something he couldn’t define. Not a true sound, but a voice-like notion born of wheel orbits and cycling crossheads. Some mental witchery, birthed from the simple congealing of rotary and linear motion, set to play in his subconscious. Whatever, there was no denying a mounting syncopation slowly wicking up from the locomotive’s vitals and burrowing through the very core of Joe Graczy
k.
Thrusting pistons and whirling drivers were rising in chant; loosing a plea from deep in the machine’s iron soul. One that plaintively reached out to the lone man who would know and understand.
Let me go.
I wanna run.
Joe gave his head a clearing snap. Yet, the plea remained, joined now by the confident grind of an engine stoker and humming dynamo.
Let me go.
I wanna run.
The engineer feigned a normal check of his gauges and swept his eyes casually around the cab. Was no one else hearing this? But both other men carried on, oblivious to the maddening tattoo set loose and growing inside his own head. On and on it went.
“Mister Engineer!”
Joe lurched.
“Huh?”
Turning about, he was surprised to see the auditor leaning forward in his jump seat, now looking as though he’d been speaking for some time. Across the cab, Vint quizzically studied him, as well.
Joe blinked free of the trance.
“Yeah?”
“Good to have you back, among us. Have you gone deaf? I’m still waiting for your controls to be reset.”
Joe gave an assenting nod, not sure of when he’d drifted off or how long he’d been gone, but grateful for even Bernard’s sarcastic interruption. Yet, his respite was to be brief. For only seconds more and the chant returned, a nagging throb, now gaining strength.
Let me go!
I wanna run!
Joe tried dismissing the sensation as self-generated, a fantasy feeding off his unconscious sense of loss and defeat. Regardless, its singsong kept on. Joining ranks with a ghostly refrain blended of Sarah’s parting words, Sunday’s advice, and Chester’s letter, it stirred the mix into a frothing war cry.
Them’s battle flags, not surrender ones.
Beware the Hun!
You show ‘em, Joe!
LET ME GO!
On Time Page 25