PETE CORDIC was having trouble with his politics. All his life he had espoused the cause of the Democratic Party. Now, in the post-World War II years, President Harry S Truman threatened to take over the American railroads as a nationwide strike loomed. In our home in Pittsburgh, dark clouds of disillusion erupted into a storm of indignation. Pete knew where he stood from Day One.

As a callboy, fireman, engineer, road foreman of engines, and now supervisor of locomotive operation on the Central Region of the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad, to Pete, his boys on the engines came first. He knew their life. He lived it. And even though they called him “management” these days, his heart still rode in the cab of a Big Six 2-10-2 slugging its way up the mountain to Sand Patch. So much for party fidelity.

It came to pass that Mr. Truman was returning to Washington toward the end of his history-making re-election campaign. And, in those glorious days before Air Force One, like many of his predecessors he had chosen the B&O. As always, this was high-priority stuff on the railroad: get everything else out of the way, polish up a brand new set of EMD diesels, and station a brass hat in the cab to assure premier handling of the Chief Executive and his entourage. Between New Castle, Pa., and Cumberland, Md., that extra man up front would be P. R. Cordic, former Truman loyalist.

“Gotta ride ‘Five’ to New Castle to pick up the special,” he barked at me. “Wanna give me a ride down to the Lake Erie station?” Pete eschewed the automobile all his life, and as the son of the family who had just acquired his first “tin can” (his term), I had been selected to do my small part in the return of the president to Pennsylvania Avenue. The su­per would deadhead on the Capitol Limited to New Castle to await the arrival of Harry & Co. from the west.

Around midnight, after a hearty “breakfast,” he was ready to go, decked out in his black hat, black “B&O business suit” bulging at the coat pocket with a fistful of fresh Marsh Wheeling stogies, the ever-present grip at his side. On the drive to the venerable Pittsburgh & Lake Erie depot, I couldn’t resist the impulse for a little gentle needling. I speculated on the possibility that the Ferdinand Magellan and its occupant might be in for a little rough handling on this leg of the trip. Maybe someone was going to turn the tables and give Harry a little hell. Make him wish he had chosen the dreaded Pennsy.

I knew the response I would get. “Don’t you worry about that damned Truman. He’ll get the best ride of his trip on the B&O. And, he’ll be in Cumberland right on the mark!” A real Company man.

The story has been told so many times among the fam­ily and his cronies that, from this distance, fact and embel­lishment are not too easily separated. Nevertheless, this is the essence of the events that followed.

Shortly after winding out of the New Castle yards, the eastbound POTUS Special established itself on the Pitts­burgh & Lake Erie main via the trackage-rights arrange­ment that avoided much of the B&O’s hilly entrance into Pittsburgh. About that time, another visitor made his way to the cab of the locomotive: a representative of the U.S. Secret Service. Determining that the portly gent in the black suit chewing on the stogie was in charge, he took him aside and officially informed him that the President of the United States would shortly be visiting these premises and he was here to check it out. In short, Harry wanted a ride on the engine. That was that. No questions. No discussion.

Fate had selected P. R. Cordic to represent the nation’s senior railroad company in this intimate contact with Big Government. Would there be a collision on the P&LE that fine fall morning—a head-on between two strong wills?

Shortly after sunrise, word came forward that the early-rising Mr. Truman was ready to check out B&O’s finest, and the presence of the company representative was required aft. Since the power was in an A-B-B-A configuration, the diesel nose at the rear represented a hazardous gap between the locomotive and the train. And, as Pete swung open the small door beneath the headlight, there in the swaying lead car stood the diminutive Leader of the Free World, hanging onto his hat, bracing himself against the pitching and rolling.

“I’m Harry Truman. What’s your name, sir?” he shouted across the gap.

“I’m Pete Cordic, Mr. President,” came the booming response.

“Well, Pete, you’d better get me across here in one piece or we’ll both be in trouble.” They laughed.

There were a few concerned looks from the protectors behind him, but with a hefty arm for support, the President landed lightly on the A unit’s deck. The pair of Secret Servicemen were left to fend for themselves as Harry and Pete met eye to eye for the first time. A strong handshake. “Pete, let’s see what you’ve got here.”

Through the roar of the engines and generators and pumps, the party made its way toward the lead unit, pausing along the way for bellowed questions and answers on the finer points of diesel locomotion.

The insulated cab was a little more conducive to conversation. After crew introductions were made, Harry allowed as how he always felt at home with railroad people: the fellows on the Missouri Pacific helped mightily in his early days in politics. A split second of eye contact was broken as Pete suggested that the Chief Executive might like to get the feel of the throttle.

With a grin that reminded my father of me taking the controls of my first Lionel train, he said, “You aren’t gonna let me run us all into the ditch, are you, Pete?” Laughter all around as the engineer eased out of his seat, guided the President’s foot onto the deadman’s pedal, and settled him into position. The final touch was the replacement of the fedora with the familiar engineer’s cap.

“Now, Mr. President, you’ve got a couple crossings to whistle for.”

“Tell me when, Pete.”

Harry leaned on the horn through Coraopolis and West End as the miles clicked by along the misty Ohio River. Mysteriously, word got out along the line that there might be a photo opportunity for early-bird newsmen, and, sure enough, flashbulbs were popping as that familiar grin greeted partisans on the platforms. “See that shadow behind him? That’s me,” Pete would later claim.

“He really didn’t do much running. We kept a pretty good eye on things,” he would also explain. “But he looked like he was havin’ a helluva good time.”

Then it was time for farewells and thanks. “Pete, you run a fine railroad. Keep it up.” Another hefty handshake. “If you’re ever in Washington, stop by the house.” A smile and he returned to the world of politics. Or, had he ever left it?

“He’s a helluva fine little guy,” Pete would tell anyone who would listen in the weeks ahead. “Got a lot on his mind. A lot of tough decisions to make. I wouldn’t want the job.”

On election day, the super left the roundhouse early to get home to vote. Later, as we laughed at Mr. Truman’s impression of the newscaster H. V. Kaltenborn predicting his defeat on the radio, a grin of satisfaction appeared behind the cloud of cigar smoke across the living room.

“He called me Pete, y’know.”

It was a phrase we would hear many times in the years that followed. - REGE CORDIC.