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  © 2019 Paul Alan Kozerski. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other

  noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  ISBN: 978-1-54396-047-1 (print)

  ISBN: 978-1-54396-048-8 (ebook)

  For Karen

  And in celebration of Grampa Joe’s career at EMD

  They took John Henry to the buryin’ ground.

  And they buried him in the sand.

  And every locomotive that goes rollin’ by whispers,

  “There lies a steel drivin’ man,

  Lord, Lord.

  There lies a steel drivin’ man.”

  19th Century African-American

  section hand ballad.

  One version & verse.

  Author unknown.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  CHAPTER 1

  A new sun pried the lid off another blue-collar, Windy City, day. Rising in orbit over the smoky industrial wasteland, it scorched a dank veil from one more late summer dawn, revealing a dingy train yard and the lone man walking toward it.

  He was Joe Graczyk. Lifelong resident of the encompassing town named Mayhew, today was Joe’s 35th anniversary as a railroader. Any significance, though, was lost to him. He might not have remembered at all, if wife, Sarah, hadn’t proudly done so on his behalf, when rising.

  Joe mulled the numbers as he walked. Thirty-five years. Three and one-half decades. A decent run, yeah. But, should it add up to something more than just figures?

  Once upon a time, maybe it had. There’d been a quarter century milestone in an engraved watch. One that arrived aboard a hot load of wartime freight; freight Joe had then gone on to set a company speed record with, in its delivery to awaiting military cargo ships. The watch, he still carried today. Its spirit though, was gone, part of a lost world; a faded realm of deference and teamwork and purpose. Not this new place called home.

  The sturdy middle-ager gave his head a clearing snap and his pocketed silver dollar a lucky pat. You sorry peasant. Are you going sappy as well as superstitious? It’s 1955 Chicago, not make-believe Hollywood. Happily ever after stuff doesn’t happen in your worker bee world. Just whatever might drift ashore. Here, you do your job, tend your family, and pay your bills. Nothing more. So, get real.

  Simple as it was, that modest home front canon did still offer Joe a sense of pride. Though not much hope for any kind of legacy. Wife Sarah was as solid of a family foundation that any man could hope to build on; a rock through all the lean and tough times, including the long-ago loss of one child at birth and more recently, another torn to pieces on a godforsaken Korean battle field - leaving them with only Jim.

  Joe directed his attention up a steep run of weathered steps. They led to the town’s elevated freight yard - his workplace. Until now, an early edition, Chicago newspaper had ridden silently in his hip pocket. But, with Joe’s brisk ascent it came to life, whispering a quick-time cadence against the ancient and much dented lunch pail slung low in his grasp.

  The rhythm died with Joe’s arrival on the summit. And so did all his pointless conjecture. He was back amid the laborer’s universe of busted knuckles and demanding machines that he understood and it immediately grounded the man. This was the Mayhew freight classification yard. Part of the Chicago, Cahokia, and Southern Railroad, it was his anointed work arena, an elemental, sworn, personal trust.

  Joe followed daily protocol, firing a crisp military salute toward the yard’s control tower. Behind its array of grime streaked windows was longtime friend and yard master, Maynard Boots Conroy. The yard’s loyal scheduler, Boots hoisted his never-washed mug of sunrise coffee in return.

  Joe spared a moment’s consideration of the still vacant traffic manager office directly below Boots. He then thumbed the brim of his pleated work cap a notch higher and began a jealous survey of the snarled trackage spread before him. The work and precision required here was demanding and the man had no tolerance for any slackers who didn’t meet his exacting performance standards.

  Joe especially scrutinized the yard’s departure tracks. Setting packed with freight cars linked in outbound trains, they also contained the meager efforts of his night shift, switchman-son. Joe graded this result as passable.

  Mounting shop rumors of manpower cutbacks and rail yard consolidations to the contrary, postwar output of this railroad remained solid. Even the clutch of recent automotive and mining strikes had done it no visible harm.

  A slow moving coal-drag now punctuated that truth. Appearing as though on cue, it paraded regally before Joe, snaking its many hopper carloads of ebony stoker chunks through the yard and downtown.

  Here was another steam powered shipment of the thirty million bituminous tons dug yearly from his employer’s own, downstate mines. This batch was headed for the voracious Con-Ed power plants. Supplying electricity for Joe’s own neighborhood and a good chunk of the Great Lakes region, that ironically included power provided for the man’s personal enemy, the mammoth, Electric Engine, diesel locomotive shops of nearby Stafford.

  Though the congested yard blocked his further line of sight, Joe could tell by ear, that exactly five road steamers had weathered overnight at Mayhew’s roundhouse. He cataloged their waking medley as they were coaxed toward the awaiting ready track and heard nothing of concern among their distinct, throat clearing coughs. Still, the respirations of one particular machine did catch his attention.

  An explosion of beating wings shattered Joe’s audit. His eyes shot skyward with them, tracking a flurry of motion toward the brightening heavens.

  It was merely a flock of mongrel city pigeons. Known locally as commons, they were on early morning patrol, searching out any wheat or corn spills among a string of newly arrived grain cars; just one of a thousand such flocks spread between big city rail yards. Yet, moving in a unit, the birds cut military-precise arcs as they wheeled and turned. Their coordinated maneuvers lit the vulcanized flesh of Joe’s face with a rare, evocative smile and he paused to recall a bygone coop and beloved birds o
f his own.

  Joe continued for the nearby crew building. A grimy archway simply stenciled, TRAINMEN, led the engineer to a musty, old locker room. There, a single light bulb dangled, illuminating the typical earmarks of its all-male realm.

  The place was slathered in a hefty coat of decade-old, green enamel paint. It was dusted in soot and marred with the smudged palm prints of a million dirty work gloves braced about, while legions of workers had shaken down cinder filled, incoming pant cuffs or gave slack, outgoing boot laces a final tug.

  A liberal ration of cigarette butts, errant leaves, and brittle insect shells were scattered about the floor. Higher up, hung the usual wall adornments, with the holly-trimmed, December page of an old girlie calendar dominating the room’s disintegrating bulletin board.

  The tart’s holiday colors were long faded from their lengthy stay in the sooty environment. Still, her impish smile and sculpted bosom remained, brandished proudly. Remnants of even older, mostly decayed posters and notices hung about her in crumbling bits and pieces that no one cared to pluck away.

  Joe unlatched a familiar locker and plopped on the bench set at mid-room. Out came the set of stout coveralls hung within. A quick inspection marked this as their last ride. Then, his Sarah would need to again work her heavy-duty laundering magic on the sturdy gabardine. But, for the time being, he could only offer the work-stiffened fabric a couple limbering stretches as he climbed inside.

  Lunch pail again in hand, Joe headed back outdoors for his final stop, the engine house. His day’s power awaited there and the yard’s old locomotive shed greeted Joe with its normal bouquet of smoldering coal fumes. He stopped at the desk of shop boss and local union steward, Domingo Sunday Guzmán.

  The shorter man suppressed an eager grin as he addressed Joe in Spanish.

  “José! ¿Que tal? ¿Que tal?”

  Joe replied in turn, speaking for the first time, with a voice that was low and rich.

  “Sunday.”

  By virtue of their tough-hided work world, nicknames were a convenient, if sometimes, harsh reality for railroaders and handles like, Stinky, Lard Ass, Three Fingers, and Numb-Nuts, were callously branded on its members.

  Guzmán’s alias was harmless and practical, a Spanish translation for the Lord’s Day. But with seniority number 5728, a nom-de-rail had always been only some version of his proper name - Joe - hardworking, honest, reliable, Joe. Once upon a time, it’d been a more rakish, Smokin’ Joe. But that was long ago and best left in his forgotten, high speed past.

  The engineer dragged over a sign-in book. He moistened a pencil tip with his tongue and began entering the usual record keeping data. Date, time, and surname, Graczyk (Graws-yeck) filled the same lines as they had each day in the string of decades since Joe’d hired on.

  The pencil was lost in the mitt of his hand as Joe wrote. A hand that also scorned any hint of a wrist, welded instead, to a thickly corded forearm and its faded blue swirl of a Marine Corps tattoo.

  Done writing, Joe again considered the distant yard tower and its still vacant, first floor cubicle.

  “That empty bottom spot just ain’t the same without old Alex. He was one good man.”

  Sunday joined in the appraisal.

  “Sure was.”

  “I’d want it the same way, though. Drop over and be done. No lying around and suffering crap. Just get your ticket punched and check out.”

  “He left a big hole here.”

  “I’ll say.”

  Sunday reeled in his gaze

  “Maybe not for much longer. Boots heard something yesterday. Sounds like they’re sending a temporary guy up from the southern district.”

  “Awfully generous of them.”

  “Yeah. Supposed to get here soon.”

  Joe considered and dismissed the notion.

  “Southern district, huh? Well, don’t matter who they send from where. No outsider could ever fill Alex’s shoes.”

  “Not a chance.”

  Joe paused to study the other man.

  “Temporary?”

  Sunday blinked.

  “The word you used.”

  “Ah, yeah. Temporary. That’s what they said.”

  “So, why go temporary with an outsider? They could just give it full time to somebody local and solid, like Boots, right now. He’s pretty much been doing it all along anyway.”

  “Front office must not think much of us grade school flunkies anymore.”

  The pair went silent to a greater implication and one bit of rumor mill gossip that’d actually panned out.

  Official word had come down of the unthinkable. The first of longtime Windy City meat packers was pulling up stakes; leaving its perennial stockyards site for a more dispersed base of operations. The move was made possible by a combined advent of the new interstate highway system and the unveiling of self-cooling tractor-trailers - both of which held an ill omen for legions of dependent Chicago railroad men.

  Joe tapped his lucky coin pocket a second time that day.

  “Aw, probably don’t mean crap. My crew all signed in?”

  “Yep.”

  He motioned to an idle locomotive resting inside.

  “What’s with 1841? Thought I’d have it today.”

  Sunday’s earlier grin returned.

  “You would’ve. But it’s sidelined with a sticky throttle.”

  Joe tediously swung the power roster back about.

  “Okay. So, what leaky slop bucket did I draw, instead?”

  But scanning his assigned engine number, the man’s eyes tightened in disbelief.

  “2982 - my old Berk? No way! It’s still around?”

  Sunday’s smile widened, swinging a thumb at the door.

  “Only one way to find out, José. Go see for yourself; middle of the pack, by the turntable.”

  Joe rocked back in wonder.

  “No kidding. Some good news for a change. But, why this far north? And hauling a local, to boot?”

  “Came in last night,” said the hostler. “Part of a power shuffle meant for hydrostatic tests. In the meantime, I didn’t think you’d mind working with an old friend.”

  Joe shared the other man’s grin and started outside.

  “Not at all. Not at all.”

  He checked his Hamilton Railway Special against the master shop clock in leaving. As it’d been for decades, the open-faced timepiece was still, dead on. Its precision movement was an expensive investment needed by all trainmen of his day and one which’d set Joe, as a new worker, back nearly a month’s advanced pay. Though treated properly, they kept their owners on time and safe, reliably lasting an engineer his entire career. Most were then handed off in proud tradition to new generation road men within the same families - a custom Joe felt little prospect of continuing in his own.

  As the highest seniority man in the road’s subdivision, Joe had his choice of jobs and eight years ago had swapped his long haul service for the weekday turn-around. This amounted to trading loads among the trackside industries of a familiar, 100 mile round trip. It brought him home each night and generally gave him weekends off. Though today was no different than any other in that regard, the man felt a new spring in his step, which only comes when someone renews a favored acquaintance.

  And not far off, his waited.

  CHAPTER 2

  Its surname was Berkshire, its model designation, Series-S. From track to stack, those of its kind stood a statuesque 15 feet, 8 inches tall and were the consummate product of masterful design and practical application - elegance and power.

  Joe respected Mikado, Pacific, and Hudson-styled road engines and considered each handsome in their own right. But, whether screaming across the open prairie or merely setting still, to him, nothing did it with more splendor than the 2-8-4 wheel arrangement of a Berkshire locomotive.


  Engine 2982 had been born and bred at the Lima Locomotive Works in northwestern Ohio. It’d been broken to harness in the early days of World War II, its youth spent rushing wartime commodities along mainline trackage, slaving to halt the Axis Powers in their maniacal plan of world control.

  Traditionally, major hubs got all the new engines, with lowly satellite spots like Mayhew, perennially living on their hand-me-downs. So, a brand-new machine’s appearance here had been a rare one. 2982’s was even more so, considering that at that time, the federal War Production Board maintained priority approval for creation of all new power allotments. And, with the massive steel needs for warship building alone, only a trickle of new locomotive construction was being authorized.

  There’d been the brief, photographic ritual of newly arrived 2982, surrounded by a gaggle of no-name downtown dignitaries - PR silage meant for the headquarters’ scrapbook. So, it set draped in celebratory bunting, patiently waiting out the camera snapping and VIPs, who vanished as quickly as they’d arrived. Then, only in the company of its true handlers, off came the makeup and engine 2982 was just another working girl needing to earn her keep.

  But earn it, she did.

  Every military good imaginable was hauled by the locomotive. One trip might be a few million gallons of high-test aviation gas from the Whiting refineries. The next, an equal ration of coal for heating the ravenous blast furnaces of nearby Gary and East Chicago. With myriad armament, munitions, and personnel transported in between, 2982 lugged materiel by the metric ton and servicemen in the many thousands. Through blistering summer days and bone grating winter nights it faced high traffic demands and low maintenance miles without ever failing in its task.

  For Joe, the even-tempered steamer additionally held some personal elements. As the first brand new engine he’d ever manned, 2982 certainly claimed a special place in his heart. He’d referred to it as his best girl and early on, nicknamed it Baby, after a favored ragtime tune of years before.

  But, its timely appearance had also filled a greater role for the man, as something of a much-needed grief counselor. In that regard 2982 represented a clean slate and fresh start, helping Joe manage the searing pain of a tragic accident just the year prior and all those poor kids he’d left dead on that remote spot of lower state trackage.