On Time

by Paul Kozerski

I WANNA RUN!

  Joe’s hand again started to cut back on his power. Yet again, its path was hindered. This time an entirely new sound joined in and engulfed the man. But to his relief, it was one thankfully heard by all present. A kind of humming rattle, it drew Vint’s immediate praise.

  “The old gal’s sure in her groove today.”

  Bernard scrutinized the engine cab and crew.

  “What? What did you say? What is that noise?”

  “You ever hear a cat purr?” Asked Vint.

  “Sure. So what?”

  “Well, this is the same thing. ‘Cept you’re privileged to be hearing it.”

  The auditor hissed.

  “That weird sound? Big deal.”

  Vint offered a grave nod.

  “To those who know, it is a very big deal. Out of every thousand runs on any thousand engines, most crews never hear that sound.”

  “Okay, already. So, what is it?”

  “They call it, drumming. It’s when a steamer’s burn rate’s in perfect balance with the power it’s making. No crew alive can take credit for it. An engine only does it on its own. And whenever it happens, it’s telling the whole world, it’d gladly run itself to death if the right man was to ask.”

  Vint went straight-faced to the locomotive’s deepening purr.

  LET ME GO!

  I WANNA RUN!

  A new cab silence intervened. But, it hung suspended only another moment, then shattering in ultimatum.

  “MISTER ENGINEER! I’M PUTTING YOU ON FORMAL NOTICE! UNLESS YOU WANT THIS ENTIRE RUN DISQUALIFIED, GET WITH THE PROGRAM AND POWER THIS LOCOMOTIVE BACK, IMMEDIATELY!”

  Joe’s old military conditioning kicked in and he finally complied. 2982 settled down. Her pleas diminished. Unfortunately, it was to be a star-crossed day for both man and machine, as a high-flying bit of aircraft chrome chose that precise instant to flash down in defiance.

  And soon, jets.

  Joe’s had been a life strictly lived of whistle posts and mile markers. One governed by the rulebook. The man never strayed from what was dictated, never asking for anything in the way of special consideration. He had worked all the double-tricks and endless days away from home ever asked of him. He’d endured horrid hours and dangerous weather; flagging more than his share of meals or proper rest without complaint, so the work got done.

  How many Thanksgiving dinners had he left before the bird was even cooked? How many Christmas gift openings had he missed, freezing, miles far away? And how very many late nights, in the middle of nowhere, had he’d felt more married to the Dutch oven of a locomotive boiler than he did to his own wife?

  Yet, no matter how sick or ailing, never in all the years of his employ, had the man marked-off a run. Never, had he missed a single day of work or earned a solitary demerit. Never had he so much as kept a company pencil that wasn’t his. And never, had he felt that the CC&S was obliged to him in any way. For while others were at home, having second helpings or snuggled about with family and friends, sipping holiday cordials, he was only doing what he was paid for. And it was because of that same commitment, that he wasn’t late for his runs, even on the days his daughter and son were buried.

  But, for the first time ever, rogue stirrings shuddered deep within Joe Graczyk. Maybe - maybe just this once, he deserved something other than a paycheck.

  Milepost 93 swept passed the cab window and with it, a flash of inspiration. Though only familiar to him by way of the company newsletter, Joe knew that an experimental type of mainline rail had recently been set down ahead. And it was rapidly coming this way.

  Running on for nearly fifty miles, the sample, high speed stretch was made of continuously welded, 155-pound, high alloy steel. Fitted with married and planed ends, matching plates, and joiners, the run sported oversized crossties of cast concrete and was dressed in ankle deep ballast of premium limestone.

  Its curves had been super-elevated, its straightaways leveled dead-true; all making for a running surface as smooth as a satin bed sheet and one primed for the same kind of passionate encounter. Best of all, it was on an isolated stretch of terrain, safely removed from any possible trespass.

  Joe considered giving the sample track a practical workout. But, he also knew the grim flip side of such antics. Considering a steamer’s huge rotating mass, even the best rail at 70 miles per hour wasn’t nearly as hospitable at 90. Beyond, its ride could turn downright ugly, if not perilous.

  At extra high speed, something minor as a lingering span of rail crown dew, might be enough to forfeit an engine’s wheel adhesion. Its counterweights could be thrown grossly out of balance, launching the drivers into an instant redline that over-revved pistons and grenaded the locomotive’s mighty heart, even on the fly.

  But, in an absurd trade of his own heart and head, today’s affair was now slipping beyond rule or reason. Joe’s hand raised to settle on the boiler in a motion not lost to Vint.

  The fireman spoke low, with a hint of complicity.

  “She talkin’ to you, boss?”

  Joe hiked a loose shoulder.

  “Maybe.”

  “What’s she sayin’?”

  “Oh, that she feels pretty good and wouldn’t mind if we loosened up her bridle a bit.”

  Vint bobbed his chin in consideration.

  “That so? Hmmm.”

  A new fluttering of material in Joe’s vest pocket compounded the matter. He tugged out and again considered the tiny scrap of Marine red. Its faded Eagle, Globe, and Anchor stood out proudly in his hand. But, it was the accompanying motto that drove a last nail in the matter.

  Semper Fidelis.

  Joe rocked to a gathering nod. Maybe he couldn’t stop the construction of that new I-55, or ground those big Connies. There might be no way to keep the Chicago packing houses from leaving town, or changing the future of the Mayhew yard. But, he could sure as hell let them all know that today, an old school steam locomotive had passed this way.

  “No, Ches,” Joe said, clenching the ribbon. “I take that back. Leathernecks are never outgunned.”

  He lifted a length of stiff cleaning wire from atop the gauges and fashioned a tiny flagstaff. On it he slid the old pennant, then wedged the other end in a seam of his open window sill. It took up station, waving furiously in the engine’s slipstream.

  There, the floodgates of Joe Graczyk’s restrained universe gave way.

  “Fireman!” He called.

  “Yeah boss!”

  “What-say we hike up the old gal’s skirts a bit and show the boys a little ankle?”

  Vint’s face shattered in a web of glee.

  “Thought you’d never ask!”

  Behind, Bernard Dooley came erect. He got to his feet, swinging a baffled glance between the crew.

  “What? What’re you saying? What’s going on here!”

  But clutching its controls, Joe spoke only to his beloved locomotive.

  “All right, Baby. Show ‘em what you’ve got.”

  He rammed the motion lever to its limit. 2982 lurched on, comically staggering Bernard backward.

  “FOOLS!” He yelled. “What’re you doing! All the test data will be disqualified! Stop this now!”

  But wheeling huge adjustment cranks into his stoker and water feeds, Vint merely offered some kindly advice.

  “You might wanna sit tight and hang on there, Slim. ‘Cause this little filly’s gonna make a break for the barn!”

  Bernard, tore off his headset.

  “You people are crazy! I don’t have to take this! I do not have to risk injury to your shenanigans! I demand that you stop this train immediately and let me off!”

  Now Joe gazed back, speaking only once.

  “The exit’s at your right. I’d sure watch that first step, though.”

  CHAPTER 36

  In the ol
d days, an engineer’s whistle style was his acoustic calling card to the world. Veteran drivers could make their custom pipes warble like a lovesick whippoorwill or vent as regally as a cathedral organ. They could alert the countryside for miles around of their thundering approach or hardly disturb a sleeping hamlet, with a wee, after-hours, grade crossing lullaby.

  Joe’s signature melody was a favored song from his early years, Yes Sir, That’s My Baby! He’d worked at developing it in the wide open prairie lands with his tailor made flutes and had perfected it for approaching isolated towers when running the fast mail. But, like the gathering collection of so many other things in his life, the melody had been retired and the whistle packed away. Even set back in place today, Joe had only used it properly.

  Now though, Vint was primed to play the devil’s advocate. Leaning back from his stoker controls, he peered across a silently fuming Bernard Dooley, toward Joe.

  “About seven miles from the Rockton tower.” He announced.

  Joe nodded.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Old Murph’ll probably be working it. Won’t he?”

  “Yeah, I guess. Why?”

  Vint’s eyes strayed to the swaying length of whistle pull cord.

  “What?”

  “Just thought that a good friend like him might appreciate hearing a special tune on a special run, like this. You know, something from the old days.”

  Joe regarded the lanyard. It had been a long time. The notes would probably come out stale, or flat and hideous. Still, his eyes lingered. After all, it sure was stacking up to be a day of broken rules.

  Gloved fingers slowly reached out to touch on the fresh length of braided hemp. They wove their way familiarly among the stout fiber, placing it atop the little and ring fingers, snugly under the middle one and up, over the index; thumb clamping all the cord in place. Joe drew out the rope’s slack, then pulled; forward, back, down right and up left, bobbing, rocking, and twisting.

  Out poured a sequence of sharp, individual notes. At first a bit unsure, they quickly warmed and gathered strength. Soon, the custom flutes were belting out a ragtime ditty that hadn’t scorched the mainline in years.

  Yes sir! That’s my baby! No sir, I don’t mean maybe! Yes sir, she’s my ba-by, nooooooooow!

  Some miles beyond, old head Nelson Murph Murphy was in his Rockton tower perch. Between reviewing traffic reports, he’d been mulling over his upcoming retirement. Seated at a nearby ledger desk, dispatcher trainee Tom Logan finished hanging up from another call.

  Their eyes happened to meet and Murph stopped.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Starting to hear some strange reports,” said Logan, “on that dyno train coming through here.”

  “What kind of strange?” Asked Murph.

  Logan shrugged.

  “Well, like a train that’s really moving. And getting faster.”

  Murph came about.

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. That was the Stronghurst operator and he said 2982 just went by like, ‘a scalded cat.’”

  Murph motioned for the man’s clipboard.

  “Lem’me see your copies.”

  The tower king took them and dug out a pencil. He gave its lead a moistening lick and began laboring through a string of toilsome long division problems.

  Comparing time against mile markers, the man’s smile grew brighter with each new quotient.

  Murphy finally plunked his pencil down, snorting in approval.

  Behind, the rookie tower man stood at a loss.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Went by East Birch at 86,” said Murph. “Cypress Flats at 92. Lordsville at 97. That old dog’s going to do it. That’s what’s so funny. He’s gonna crack the whip.”

  His apprentice blinked at the old time slang.

  “You mean break a hundred? Through here?”

  “Oh yeah. And if I know Joe Graczyk, he won’t stop ‘til he’s got that S-2 aired clear out.

  Murph looked at the big wall clock.

  “Should be by in just a few minutes.”

  But, even as he spoke, a nearing locomotive whistled off its station approach call. Seconds later a lead engine truck banged through the outer yard switch points

  Murph folded his arms in witness.

  “And just like old Joe - he’s not only on time, he’s early!”

  A second whistle tune then reached out to the man.

  He came erect, in a slow kind of attention, absorbing its familiar old notes, from across both miles and years. A quick blush of gooseflesh tickled over his spine.

  “I haven’t heard that since . . .”

  Murphy rifled through some stacked gear. Coming away with a green-lensed lantern, he gave its lamp, switch, and battery, a quick check.

  The normally sedate man’s hectic actions brought a frown to his understudy.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Think I might just flash him a highball when he goes by.”

  “What for? He knows he’s got the right-of-way.”

  “To show that we’re behind him. That’s what for.”

  Murph started down the tower steps as the speaker phone rang with a distant dispatcher.

  “Coming North, Special Two-Nine-Eight-Two. Special Two-Nine-Eight-Two, okay as-is.”

  The tower man flipped on his lantern and twisted the doorknob. Sparing a look behind, he addressed the still confused, Logan.

  “Well? You heard the man. Pass Joe on!”

  Lantern in hand, Murph was then outside, vigorously hoisting it up and down at a quickly growing plume of smoke.

  Joe spied the encouraging green dot and gave his whistle rope a hard tug of thanks. Moments later 2892 flashed by. Its brutal slipstream flattened the dispatcher against his tower. But, it couldn’t smother Murphy’s joyous yell.

  “YOU GO, BABY! GO!”

  A swirl of hot wind followed the jubilant man back inside, where he sagged, choking with laughter, at both his wide-eyed young associate and the still rattling window glass.

  “What the hell was that?!” Logan yipped.

  “THAT, was Smokin’ Joe,” Cawed Murphy. “Still this road’s hottest engineer! Did you hear the way he had her stack talking? Brother, that S-2 has got its ears back and tail down! Mark my word, kid, there’s going to be a speed record set on this line today.”

  The rookie stared at Murph’s lunacy.

  “You crazy? That clunker will never hold the rails!”

  But the old hand knew better.

  “Oh yeah, it will. That engine’ll do whatever Joe Graczyk wants it to. Now, you get on the horn and verify that every tower between here and Chicago knows he’s got a highball all the way back.

  Murphy thought a second.

  “And tell them I said some more green lanterns burning along the right of way won’t hurt things a bit.”

  CHAPTER 37

  2982 had her dander up and her sights set on home. What swept down the rails now was no longer a mere heap of plates and forgings, billets and bars. It was a living, breathing entity, kicking up its heels in joy. The Meltwater tower flashed by at 106 miles per hour. Medicine Wells at 109. Slate Bluffs was a blur at 111 and Fossil Lake fell away at 114.

  The locomotive’s northward rush was a defiant windsong; a mechanical sonata blended of diverse operating systems working at their level best. Its firebox growl became a hurricane just hitting shore and the torrid barks of its thundering stack, a mighty artillery barrage. The rails beneath melted away like ribbons of hot quicksilver, not as much gobbled up, as merely fleeing from it.

  Yet, no stately bearing was lost to the raging saber dance of this high-stepping beauty. For even at full gallop it remained the most graceful of sprinters, burning down the lane with muscles supple, elegant in its stride as it dra
nk deep from the sweet chalice of second wind.

  Behind the scenes, though, much was at play. Every ounce of performance wrung from a high-speed coal burner rested firmly on the shoulders of its handlers and the greater one’s pace, the greater the liability placed both upon it and its crew.

  Simply stated, the rule of thumb for firing a steamer was the same as Grandma’s old adage of making good toast - butter the corners and the center’ll take care of itself. At this pace, though, the inferno raging in 2982’s belly was sucking a near-gale.

  That kind of brutal draft might cut an engine’s fire, actually imparting life to the thick bed of white hot coals that made them come erect to twirl and spin, like legions of incandescent zombies. Paired with contributing road vibrations, the entire blaze could walk ahead on its grates, choke off whole portions of the firebox, and literally strangle the mighty beast at full gallop.

  A natural coking of even the best burning coal was another handicap. Thick, heat blocking carbon was liberated in combustion that blanketed soot through all the critical flame paths. High temperatures likewise, freed metallic impurities inherent in the fuel. Traces of silica and metal oxides were condensed by the blaze, becoming a molten, glassy dross that welded clinkers on firebox grates, additionally hampering both air flow and flame travel.

  Full-out running increased a machine’s thirst, as well. And there, an even more exacting balance came into play. One demanding that boiler pressure be held at the maximum working limit, yet not triggering any wasteful pop of its safety valves. Besides squandering precious steam, over-pressure venting also hurried a replacement water feed rate on the machine to make up the difference. That chilled its gut, slowing down critical heat transfer when needed the most.

  It was the simultaneous juggling of all those taxing variables that separated a master fireman from his lesser colleagues. But, hidden away in the shadows of a dim engine cab, the best man’s efforts could never find a true appreciation, beyond those who’d done it as well.

  Joe Graczyk, though, was a charter member of that guild and well understood the dilemma. He watched as Vint now jammed a scoop shovel inside the steamer’s open firebox. Twisting the shovel about diverted its air currents. That swept portions of the churning flames aside, allowing Vint a visual probe of its farthest corners, as Joe called out.