by Homer Hickam
Cable shrugged, tapped on his watch, and shook his head. Then, without further pantomime, he put on his hat and walked out, closing the door behind him. Song slowly picked up the song again and was ready when it was her turn to sing of the sleeping lion in the jungle, the mighty jungle. This time, however, her heart wasn’t as much into it.
Twenty-Two
On Monday morning, the red caps showed up at the tipple, their lunch buckets heavy with two sandwiches, an apple, a bag of cookies, a bag of chips, and a thermos of orange juice. Song had taken her bucket, a pink one Marla had said was perfect for her, to her changing room and taken out one of the sandwiches and the cookies and the bag of chips and stored them in her locker. She had to shake her head in exasperation while she did it. Rhonda had packed enough food for a man who weighed two hundred and fifty pounds, or a woman who wanted to be that heavy! Rhonda was never going to get it when it came to food.
In the men’s bathhouse, the practical jokes had begun and the red caps were the targets. When Gilberto placed his work clothes, helmet, and gloves on a bench to lower his basket, somebody took them while his back was turned. Then his red helmet came sailing in from nowhere, nearly hitting him. While he was picking up the helmet, his clothing was dumped on his back, and his gloves too. There was uproarious laughter, but when Gilberto stood up and looked around, all the veteran miners were innocently looking in different directions, minding their own business.
When Chevrolet pulled on his boots, he found one filled with soft soap. Ford discovered his helmet had a placard stuck to its front with chewing gum that said Baby on Board. A supposedly friendly miner distracted Justin with an article about West Virginia football. When he picked up his lunch bucket, Justin found it was filled to the brim with nuts and bolts.
When the red caps stood in line for their lamps and SCSRs, they were the brunt of a running barrage of comments by passing veterans. “Last time you’ll be clean again for a long time, boys!” “What’s that on your head, a strawberry? Naw, it’s a cherry!” “Look, fresh meat for the foremen!” “Child, what you got in that lunch bucket? Animal crackers?”
On the manlift, as soon as the sunlight of the surface dimmed, every black helmeted miner on it gleefully yelled at the red caps, “Turn your lights on, boys!”
Song and the others fumbled with their helmets to turn on their lights, then everything fell silent. There was something about descending down an eight-hundred-foot-deep shaft that tended to make everyone quiet, even those trying to have fun at the expense of the novices.
At the bottom, the red caps gawked at the crowd of milling miners. Some of them were standing around talking; some were sitting on equipment brought down to be taken into the recesses of the mine; others were busy filling out paperwork. Three white helmets came over. Justin went with Brown Mule Williams, who was the foreman at Three East. The Harper boys both went with Hunky Jones to Three West. Song was called over by Vietnam Petroski, foreman of Six West.
“Mrs. Jordan,” he greeted, touching his helmet. “I drew you but I don’t like it.”
“Because I’m a woman?” Song demanded. “You don’t have to worry. I’ll work as hard as any man.”
“It ain’t that, ma’am. It’s who you have to work with.”
About then there was a big shout, and Bum walked out of the crowd of miners. He had Justin by his shoulder, dragging him along toward a thick copper wire strung along the roof. “You ain’t gotta be afraid of no juice, boy! Look here!”
“What’s going on?” Petroski demanded.
“Aw, somebody told Justin to watch out for the trolley wire, it would kill him,” a black cap answered. “You know Bum. He’s gotta show off.”
“Now you watch, boy,” Bum said. “This can’t hurt you.” He stuck out his tongue and put it on the high voltage wire. As soon as he did, his eyes bugged out, he screamed, his knees shook, and his boots scrabbled a chaotic dance. Then he fell backward into the gob, his tongue lolling from his mouth, and his arms stretched out. He shuddered and jerked a couple of times, then went still.
Song couldn’t believe it. Her first hour on the job and she’d already seen a man killed! But Bum wasn’t killed. He got up and threw back his head and shrieked laughter. Petroski came up to him. “That was stupid, Bum!”
“Aw, boss, I was just having some fun,” Bum replied, then strolled past the foreman and elbowed his way through the gathered miners.
“What just happened?” Song asked Petroski.
Petroski shrugged. “Ma’am, I got no choice but to work you with Bum. I can’t trust him to run machinery, so he gets the odd jobs. That’s what you’ll be doing too. You watch your step with him, you hear? He gives you any trouble, you come find me.” He stared angrily at the trolley wire. “That wire’s been dead for three years. We need to take it out. Cable left it on the bottom just so we could remember what one looked like. These days we use diesel motors or batteries for our mantrips.”
“I guess Cable’s a bit sentimental, at least about mine equipment,” Song replied ironically.
Petroski grinned at her. “I admire you for being down here, ma’am.”
“Please call me Song,” she said. “Why do they call you Vietnam?”
“Oh, I got some medals over there. Guys like to kid me about them.”
“Thank you for what you did in Vietnam,” Song said.
Petroski touched his white helmet. “I think that’s the first time anybody ever thanked me. You’re welcome.” He flashed his light around the assembly of miners. “We’re all sort of like soldiers in the mine, you know. We go off every day to a dangerous place, and sometimes we don’t make it home. Most of the fellows down here are brave and honorable, even though they don’t think of themselves that way. It’s good to be here with them.” His light sought out Bum. “Except him. You be careful around him, ma’am, that’s all I can tell you.”
“I will,” Song promised.
After pointing her toward her mantrip, Petroski was pulled away by an engineer and Song crawled inside the steel box. She was glad to see she hadn’t picked the compartment that contained Bum. Three black cap miners stared at her as she crawled over their legs. One of them said, “Hey, buddy. Appreciate it if you’d turn your light off on the ride in. We like to snooze a bit.”
Song turned her light off and settled back on the steel bench. Before long, the mantrip lurched and started moving. The miners let their heads drop, and soon they were asleep. Feeling alone and nervous, Song thought back to choir practice, how much fun that had been. She’d sung in the choir the very next day and that had been fun too. Preacher had beamed at her from the pulpit. She only wished Cable had been there. Though she scanned the congregation for him, he never appeared.
Afterward in the choir dressing room, Rhonda said, “Cable went off to New York. Be up there for the next week. Lots of meetings.”
“Whatever,” Song said, shrugging.
“That’s what I thought you’d say,” Rhonda replied, not even trying to hide her smirk.
The mantrip trundled on, its wheels squealing and grinding at every curve, its headlight providing an arc of light that revealed posts and ribs sliding by, then disappearing beneath the black cloak that the car seemed to be dragging along behind it. When the mantrip stopped to let men off, the three in her compartment kept sleeping. Song hoped she wasn’t supposed to get off too. The mantrip started up again, taking a sharp turn that caused the man beside her to slump against her shoulder. He dozed on while she shifted to get his weight off her, with only marginal success. His dirty work clothes stunk of sweat and tobacco juice, and Song’s nose wrinkled with disdain. The mantrip gathered speed. At any moment, Song expected it to jump the track and roll over and smash them all. She didn’t see how anybody could sleep through all the noise and lurching, but the three miners never stirred. After a while, she couldn’t smell the man leaning against her. She could get used to anything, she supposed, even stinky miners.
Thirty minutes later, the ma
ntrip slowed, then stopped. The men in the compartment raised their heads and turned on their lights, then silently crawled through the openings on both sides. Song slithered out while Petroski, somewhere up ahead, yelled, “Everybody pick up some roof bolts.”
Song followed her fellow passengers to a wooden pallet laden with stacks of bundled roof bolts, each about four feet long. There were also several stacks of base plates. The miners picked up as many bolts and plates as they could carry and stuck them under their arms, then trudged on in a crouch beneath the low roof. Song picked up three of the bolts, but they were too hard to handle while also carrying her lunch bucket. She settled for two.
“That all you gonna carry, girl?” Bum demanded, then laughed. He shined his light in her eyes. “Vietnam’s gonna be mad at you if that’s the best you can do.” He turned and crabbed off with a huge load of bolts and plates under his arms.
Chastened, Song picked up another bolt, shoved it under her arm, and hurried to catch up with the miners who were all moving in the same direction. Even though she was six inches shorter than most of them, she still had to bend over at her waist to keep her head from hitting the roof. Fearful of getting lost, Song scrambled to keep up. She kept craning her neck to catch sight of the lights up ahead and before long she had a painful crick in her neck. When she reached an opening with a higher roof, she was relieved to find the black cap miners were there. Petroski’s light flashed toward her.
“Looks like we’re all here, finally.” His light lingered on her for a long second, then dropped away. “Let’s have a prayer, boys.”
When the other miners turned their helmet lights off, Song reached up to turn hers off too, losing control of her load of roof bolts, plates, and her lunch bucket, which crashed noisily to the floor. Petroski’s light flashed toward her again, then he sighed, shook his head, and said, “Heavenly Father, you know why we’re here, to put food on the table of our families, and dig a little coal for the company and the country too. Help us all to stay safe while we do it. We have a red cap with us today, Lord. Look after her, and don’t let her do nothing too dumb that gets herself or somebody else hurt. You know we believe in You and Your Son and the Holy Ghost, just like it says in the Bible. It don’t matter what happens, that ain’t gonna change. Amen.”
There was a chorus of amens and the helmet lights were turned back on. Petroski said, “Y’all look after the red cap, all of y’all. No funny business, you hear? I won’t have no jokers on my section. Now, boys, let’s go mine us some good coal!”
The black caps headed off while Song picked up the roof bolts and plates and her lunch bucket. Clumsily, she waddled her way in the direction the miners had gone. By the time she caught up with them, the continuous mining machine had already started to grind into the seam, and the shuttle cars were moving into place, ready to catch the coal from the miner and carry it to the conveyor belt. The roof bolt crew watched with interest as she struggled by, but made no move to assist her. It was her first inkling that she was going to have prove herself worthy of help from the others.
Song swiveled her head until her spot of light landed on a stack of bolts and plates. Here, she judged, was where she could put down her load. With some relief, she dropped her bolts and plates on the pile, then took a moment for some quick yoga to stretch her back and legs. She sat down, took a deep, cleansing breath, and put her boot nearly behind her ear. The lights of the roof bolters swept in her direction, then she heard laughter. She ignored them, lying down in the gob on her back and stretching like a cat. When she stood up, she slammed her helmet into the overhead rock. Her knees buckled, and she would have fallen except for a hand that was thrust out of the darkness to catch her. It was Petroski’s.
“Go back and fetch the rest of the bolts and plates,” he ordered. “And try to keep your boots in the gob, not around your neck. You’re distracting my boys.” He moved away, his light flashing toward the continuous miner.
Song had no idea how to get back to where the bolts and plates were stacked. She chose a random direction that took her behind a shuttle car. She carefully stepped over its power cable just as the car shot forward, causing the cable to lift off the floor. It caught her in the crotch, picked her up, and slammed her against the roof. Her helmet went one way and she went another.
Petroski came over, picked her up, and handed her her helmet, now deeply scratched in several places. “Don’t never step over a power cable!” he yelled. “Didn’t Square tell you that? Always step on it. You just found out why. When are you going after those bolts and plates? Won’t be long before the roof bolt crew needs ’em. Get on now, and stop fooling around!”
“I don’t know where to go,” she confessed. Her legs had been bruised by the cable and her head hurt from being slammed against the roof, but she tried not to show it.
“Go the way you came in,” Petroski said, then pointed with his light. “Right over there. See the entry? When you’re done, come see me and we’ll get you going on the posts.”
Song had no idea what “get you going on the posts” meant, but she headed into the darkness in the direction of the foreman’s point. She saw a light ahead, which coalesced out of the gloom and proved to be Bum with another armload of bolts and plates. He didn’t say anything, just pushed by her, breathing hard. Song kept going until she reached the pallet, loaded up as many bolts and plates as she could, then realized she had no idea what she’d done with her lunch bucket. While lurching bent over toward the face, she tried to recall exactly where she’d last seen it. She dropped her load with the other bolts and plates, then looked around and spied her pink bucket lying in the gob just seconds before a shuttle car ran over it. After the big steel vehicle rumbled on, she picked the crunched bucket up, then ran to get out of the way of another roaring shuttle. With some relief, she saw the bucket was just badly bent. She found a place in the gob where other buckets had been left and put hers down beside them. There was a flash of light across her, and when it flashed away, she saw it was Petroski again, watching her. He was talking to a miner and she saw both of them laugh. She was certain they were laughing at her.
Determinedly, Song made her way to the pallet, picked up as many bolts and plates as she could, and headed back toward the face. This time, she didn’t pass Bum or anyone else. He had disappeared. There was no other option, so she kept going back and forth until the pallet was empty. Gasping for breath, she knelt beside the stack of hardware and tried to straighten her back. Petroski’s light flashed over her again. While pushing her fist into the small of her back, she walked over to him.
“You done?” he demanded.
“Yes, sir,” she replied.
“Got them all, every bolt, every plate?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You put the plates on the bolts?”
“No, sir.”
“Well then, you ain’t done.” Petroski turned away.
Song started sliding a plate over each bolt. It wasn’t long before her fingers were bleeding. She pulled her gloves from her back pocket, put them on, and kept working. A man on the roof bolt crew hurried over, picked up an impossible armload of the bolts and plates, and headed back to the face. The continuous miner roared out of the cut and the roof bolters charged in, drilling, tamping, and bolting. It was all terribly loud, and dust filled the air. Some of the men wore paper masks, but most didn’t. Song put hers on, but when she felt like she wasn’t getting enough air through it, she took it off. She wished she had ear plugs. But then she realized ear plugs were probably not a good idea. In the darkness, the whine of an electric motor was sometimes the only way she could tell to get out of the way of something big that could crush her.
The roof bolters kept working until the roof was safely pinned, then clambered out so that the continuous miner could move back in. Its operator lunged it forward to knock down more coal, while its mechanical claws gathered up the spoil and transferred it via its conveyor to the shuttle cars. Then the mining machine backed out and the
roof bolters charged in again, laden with the hardware Song had provided them. It made her a little proud to see her work being used productively.
The shuttle cars kept howling in and out, their operators expertly guiding them behind the continuous miners to catch the spewing coal from their booms. As soon as they were full, they were off, their big headlights lighting up the nearly rectangular tunnel, revealing the ghostly gray posts that lined it, the rugged gray roof of rock, and the dusty gray floor. The working area of the face smelt of coal dust and electricity. It was energetic and dynamic. Song realized she kind of liked it. It made her feel, well, alive.
Just as Song put the last plate on the last roof bolt, the foreman’s light flashed over her again. She got up and went to him.
“See over there, that cross-cut?” Petroski demanded. “There’s a stack of posts there. I want you to move them down to where there’s a placard the engineers put up. Says Danger on it. If you look, you’ll see where they’ve marked the old posts with some chalk. You take them old posts out, put the new ones in. There’s shims in the pile.”
Song looked in the direction Petroski was pointing. “By myself?”
“Bum’s there already. Don’t let him give you any crap.”
Petroski abruptly moved off, and Song bowed her head beneath the rock and headed in the direction he had pointed. A shuttle car came howling out of the darkness and she ran from it, her helmet bouncing against the roof. Her headache deepened.
She found Bum sitting on a stack of wooden posts, each about five feet long and eight inches square. “Petroski sent me to put up posts with you,” she said.