The first inkling dropped in Jim Graczyk’s lap as a copy of his dad’s return cargo manifest for the day. Boots mumbled under his breath, glancing toward the manager’s closed office door and the man innocently assembling his belongings, within.
“What a rat-ass thing to do. Assigning a dead engine train to your dad.”
With all else going on in the yard, Jim was pragmatic.
“It is a turn-around run and his responsibility to bring in. We’ll be sure to see a lot more of the same. So, we might as well get used to it.”
“Still,” said Boots, “you know that jerk had his greasy little fingers in things, making it happen right now, before he leaves.”
Jim displayed a newly opened memo, in return.
“From the law department. Word came in, on the cars stuck at Rahl. The courts are finally done with things. Clean out time will be Sunday morning.”
“Long time coming,” said Boots. “Being a weekend, though, we’ll need to call downtown for an extra board crew.”
“That’s tricky turf,” Jim declared. “Think rookie outsiders can handle it?”
His question hung unanswered as an approach station whistle interrupted.
“Should be the batch of River Division cabooses, in for repair work.”
Catching site of the slowing locomotive, Boots stalled.
It was simply an older and commonplace, Pacific-styled engine. Yet, something about it seemed too familiar. The coy look on DeLynne’s face, spoke the rest.
“That little . . .”
Jim straightened to look outside.
“What?”
He then saw the cab number and realized what power had coincidentally rolled to a stop. It was engine 2105, his dad’s old-time baby killer. With it, everything about the upcoming weekend fell into place.
Jim looked into the yardmaster’s office and locked eyes with DeLynne.
Arrived at the their downstate transfer point, the mood of both turn-around crews was subdued. Hardly a word exchanged as the north and southbound trains traded men. Handing over his usual mix of merchandise cars, Joe’s return run awaited in a line of cold steel.
A hapless bunch of the company’s dead Pacific, Hudson, and Mikado locomotives set locked to each other, chain gang style. Eighteen, recently proud and mighty steam engines, now loitered shamefully, splashed in sloppy whitewash simply labeling every one as, SCRAP.
Joe stiffened at the indignity. Having been allowed to arrive under their own power would’ve at least afforded the loyal machines a final bit of respect. But heaped unceremoniously atop their empty tenders, each one’s stripped-off drive rods rested like so many severed limbs, removed for less rolling resistance during their upstate death march.
Back home, they’d be struck from the books and auctioned off. Most would ironically wind up not far from Mayhew, in the Gary mills, rendered into bloom steel for future I-beams, car fenders, or a few trillion razor blades. Some might get a stay of execution south of the border, beginning new careers with the nationalized Mexican railways. A very few others might find tentative salvation scattered about different regional town and city parks. Dedicated as vague monuments to their fading past, they’d be left to endure debilitating weather, demeaning birds, and simple-minded vandals.
Spike detected one distant jail mate standing out in shiny contrast from the rest. He tried subtly obstructing his friend’s view. But, Joe also noticed and shouldered around him.
The engineer found his beloved Baby midway in the procession. It shared the death warrant of its kin and was slathered in haphazard brush strokes like the rest; jagged tears of dried lime streaked indifferently down its sides.
Joe swiped his fingers at the callous graffiti as Spike arrived to pitch in. The brakeman made special note of the elegant scrollwork they uncovered.
“After all the time he put in it, it’s tough seeing Jimmy’s handiwork treated like this.”
Spike raised a shoulder to Joe’s questioning stare.
“Well, he didn’t want anything said at the time. But, I don’t s’pose it matters now. All that fancy lettering there is your kid’s doing. Did his share of wrenching, too. Bucked new firebox stay-bolts. Helped yank the superheaters. He was as much a part of getting this engine ready as anyone.”
Vint interrupted from behind.
“Hey guys, we might want to get started. Orders say we can’t go over twenty miles per hour, towing unpowered engines. So, it’ll be a long, slow ride home.”
Joe puffed his lips in irony.
“The right speed for a funeral, though.”
Heading back toward their power, Spike rubbed a shoulder and gazed skyward, hoping to spell the glum moment with some small talk.
“My old bursitis says we’re in for damp, cold weather this weekend. Old Man Winter’s on his way for sure.”
Vint glanced over.
“Speaking of weather, have you seen the night sky lately?”
“Uh-uh. Why?”
“Last couple nights the moon’s had a real strange look to it. Odd colors that come and go when the clouds move by. Kind of a gold-green tone. Something I don’t ever remember.”
Spike jiggled his arms in mock fright. “Invaders from Mars!”
“Maybe,” shrugged Vint. “Makes as much sense.”
Joe’s dreary parade arrived home at dusk. He brought his engine to a stop as Sunday approached for taking over. Parked in the open, recently arrived 2105 seemed an impossible mirage. Yet, Joe faced the prospect typically indifferent.
“Where’d that come from?”
“Downstate. Been doing low speed collier work.”
“Guess I shouldn’t be surprised the old hag is still around. But, why up here?”
“The plan is to scrap her.”
“Still steaming like it is?”
“I guess there’s some holdup on the final papers. Late on a Friday, like this, we probably won’t see anything until Monday. So, we’re supposed to keep its fire banked and ready for work around here.”
Joe cocked an eye.
“Doing what? That’s no yard goat.”
“Orders from old Liplock. Word came down that the courts have just finished with the Rahl bankruptcy. Once we’re cleared, it’ll likely be the power for getting out our old freight cars; then join the scrap line, after.”
“When’s that?”
“First thing Sunday morning.”
Joe gave voice to the inevitable.
“Got it crewed yet?”
“Nope. Prob’ly fall to some bunch of downtown extra-boarders. Nobody here’s too thrilled about working her. Especially, on the Rahl siding.”
Joe considered the Faustian engine. If somehow a demon had been conjured, it belonged to no one but him.
“I know that spur better than anyone still around,” he said. “Get me an extra board fireman and brakeman. I’ll take it in.”
The roundhouse boss appraised his friend.
“You sure, compadre?”
Joe remained firm.
“Yeah. My job.”
Spike and Vint though, had other thoughts.
“Hey! What about us?”
“Yeah, we’re your crew.”
“You guys mark off this run,” said Joe. “That there’s a hard luck engine. Stay away.”
Spike was as adamant.
“And stick you with some rookie brakeman on that giddy hillside? No way.”
“Yeah,” added Vint. “What time do we start?”
CHAPTER 44
Jim Graczyk completed a straightening of his desk for the week. All day, he’d labored silently, enduring the continued smugness on DeLynne’s face. But since his father’s return, coping with the matter had swelled beyond him.
Jim now took a final look at his surroundings and got to his feet. His r
esolute pace across the office caught Boots’ attention.
“Jimmy? What’s up? You okay?”
But, the young man heard nothing as he shoved open DeLynne’s office door. Stepping inside uninvited, his words came with utter contempt.
“It’s all your work, isn’t it?”
Dee was surprised by the normally placid clerk. Yet, he spoke through a veil of practiced innocence.
“What?”
“You know damn well, what,” said Jim. “Having my dad haul those dead steamers back AND bringing that killer engine here, all in the same day, is quite the coincidence.”
Dee taped shut a last box.
“What if it is? His crew’s paid to run the weekday turn-around, no matter what the cargo. And, as far as that new engine, it’s just another scrapper, brought in for the junk line. But while its still got fire, it’s gonna work this yard. 5728’s got seniority enough to pass, on runnin’ it. He knows that.”
Jim’s voice tightened.
“First of all, he’s not just 5728. He’s my dad. And that’s not just another engine setting out there. You know it was his fast mail killer. And you also know that with Rahl’s tricky siding he’d be the sure bet for taking it in.”
The yard manager smiled comfortably.
“Am I twisting anyone’s arm? Things happen. Nature takes its course. Nothing personal, just business.”
“Business you’d do for free, you two-bit punk.”
DeLynne stiffened.
“What did you say?”
Belligerence now anchored in Jim’s voice.
“You heard me. Your kind move into places like this, wreck people’s lives, then move on, thinking nothing of it.”
The man set aside his packing and came around the desk. Standing face to face with Jim, his next words were not in anger, but utter loss.
“Yes, that’s it. Show your true colors and prove me right again. For a while I thought there might be a ray of hope for you. A chance for me to raise one pearl of value for the company, from all the dirty, little, no-account yards, like this.
“But, I was wrong. You’re just another jerkwater lowbrow, like all the rest of the knuckle-draggers.”
“And proud of it!” Jim growled.
The two matched stares for a bitter moment. Then, Jim launched into the other man. They connected with a jarring head-butt and both skimmed across DeLynne’s desk, landing hard on the other side, amid an avalanche of personal effects.
A flurry of random punches flew, while new voices invaded the room.
“JIMMY!”
Boots and Sunday burst into the fight. They parted the swinging combatants and dragged each aside.
Dee had taken the brunt of Jim’s head-butt straight on, mashing his nose in their contact. The front of his new broadcloth dress shirt was laced with stringers of thick blood and for the first time, his carefully ordered pompadour was in disarray; reduced to a splintered heap of comical, red spikes.
He shook off his oozing nose and shouted around Sunday’s bear hug.
“You’re fired! FIRED!”
Restrained by Boots, Jim thundered back.
“Don’t bother! I quit!”
DeLynne twisted for a look at the other men.
“You! Call the cops! He attacked me! You both saw it! I want him arrested!”
Sunday instead, pinned Leplak against the office wall. He pressed his mouth to the man’s ear, in a hot whisper.
“We saw nothing and we’ll swear that in a court of law.”
Across the office, Boots ushered Jim away.
“Go on, kid. Get some air. We’ll clean things up around here.”
With Jim on his way, Boots rejoined Sunday. He offered DeLynne some parting advice.
“Mister, I think it’d be a good idea for you to take your stuff and leave. Right now. Nothing business, just personal.”
CHAPTER 45
Joe was on the final leg of his weekly trip around the horn. Today, in walking the familiar ground, he was strangely melancholy and reflective. Except for indoor plumbing, electricity, and the slow march of some newer homes across its long empty lots, Mayhew remained unchanged since the prairie grass was first tamed.
Joe reckoned that the place had swapped hands three times - four - if you considered the eviction of its rightful, Native American owners. Algonquin, English, Irish, and now, East Europeans, all claimed this turf. Only the French hadn’t stayed after the ancient fur trade died out and maybe that made them the smartest. His own time here slowly ending, Joe wondered who might be next. What would anyone find in his place?
The man swept a casual glance down 53rd Street, in crossing. Its car traffic was slack. Beyond though, a stationary wall of dull green rested on the rail yard’s outer main. Standing out in bleak martial contrast to the town’s civilian colors, was a forty unit line of heavy-duty flatcars and chained aboard each, set a brand new, M46 Patton tank.
Paused en-route to some distant delivery point, Joe found himself drawn to the armored vehicles. The burly crawlers sported a familiar olive drab paint scheme prominent since the last world war. Subdued, yellow, USMC lettering additionally designated them as upcoming Leatherneck property.
Their lethal, 90 millimeter cannon barrels were peaceably lowered, locked, and capped. Yet, Joe marveled at how much more refined in stance and raw killing power these juggernauts had grown over their recent predecessors, in just the last few years.
They were layered in weather resistant paint so new that even their track cleats were yet unmarred and standing before them, Joe wondered when the line of idle, 48-ton killers might be called upon to fire their first shots in anger.
He recalled reading a small, back page newspaper article from not long ago. It reported that the US was considering sending financial aid and military advisors to some tiny Asian country called Vietnam, after the French had recently abandoned it. In the emerging global political climate, Joe could only hope that any such handouts didn’t escalate into the use of these very machines - or the men needed to run them.
“Dad, I thought you’d be proud.”
A line of ghostly dialog filled his ears as Joe stood - the words Mike had confronted him with just those couple of years prior, on his decision to join the Marines.
“I am proud.” Joe’d defended. “Of you and the Corps. But, this is all different.”
”How?”
“I wasn’t fresh-married when I went. And that was a world war. This Korea thing is supposed to be just a whatchamacallit.”
“A police action, Dad.”
“Yeah. That.”
“But, they still need volunteers ready to stop a million Commies that could come charging down from the north at any time.”
“They’ve got the bomb for that kind of big stuff now,” Joe had reasoned. “Don’t they?”
“Maybe. But, holding the line is still a Marine tradition.”
Because it was, Joe had tried an alternate tack.
“What about your wife? And the road? What do they say?”
Mike, though, had thoroughly done his homework.
“I’ve talked to them both. The road’ll hold my seniority. And Lorraine is behind my decision, all the way. She’d be moving back in with her folks, while I’m gone. When I get home we’ll use my separation pay to get a flat of our own and I’ll be signing up for engineer school. But right now, I’ve made up my mind. I’m joining the Corps.”
Joe couldn’t fault his son’s untested patriotism. Yet, he also knew the scathing dimensions of combat that no one could comprehend, until they personally, stood knee deep in its blown-out guts. Still, Joe said no more.
After boot camp Mike returned for a quick stateside leave. In truth, Joe could not have been prouder of the Eagle, Globe, and Anchor insignia adorning Mike’s pisscutter garrison cap, proudly proclai
ming to the world that this young man, his son, was a United States Marine.
Together, they’d made visits to the rail yard and Joe’s haunts about town, even showing up at Eddie’s saloon. Sharing in a rare moment of imbibing, both had gotten tipsy on rounds of congratulatory free drinks offered to father and son by longtime neighborhood patrons and especially the fraternal tavern owner. Even stumbling home later, in a slapstick farce of each man supporting the other, their wives could not find it in themselves to be angry.
When he boarded the train for Korea short days later, Mike’s final words were typically optimistic.
“Don’t worry guys. We’ll put this thing to bed in no time. Semper Fi!”
Then he was off, to the First Marine Division and Korea.
Joe struggled through lines added to Sarah’s letters. He included news on the weather, railroad, and their latest batch of pigeon hopefuls. Letters received in exchange were heavily wrinkled from the time spent in Mike’s pocket before mailing and often their paper was discolored with smudges of alien mud. Although the newspapers didn’t paint a rosy picture of the conflict, Mike’s words stayed always upbeat.
Then came that one walk home after work. Seeing Jim waiting with a couple of neighbor men outside the house immediately told Joe the story.
He decided it best to be the only family member present for Mike’s return. Standing in nearly the exact spot where he’d sent his boy off just scant months prior, Joe waited on a rainy night as the GI casket holding his dead son was slid from a CC&S baggage car, like some hunk of oversized lading. Only the professionalism of a lone honor guard escorting the body maintained a dignified perspective.
Because of his catastrophic wounds, Mike’s remains were labeled as non-viewable by the Department of Defense. Even his own mother would not be allowed to ever see his face again and accordingly, the government supplied bier was sealed. But, as is the case of esprit de corps between fellow Devil Dogs, an exception was made by the newer generation Leatherneck for his rifleman elder and in the dark recesses of the local funeral home basement, Joe got to see that no matter whose son, the impartial face of war never changed.
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