I Never Got A Chance

MY U.S. NAVY TICKET read “Miami, Florida, to Oakland, California. For Further Transfer: Seventh Fleet.” To an 18-year-old sailor/railfan’s sense of justice, it seemed like a pretty fair return for the months of diligent work I had just devoted to mastering (?) the fine art of naval anti-aircraft fire control and gunnery. The time had come to put my knowledge to use aboard a Destroyer Escort in the Philippines in these final years of World War II.

Bands played as hundreds of white uniforms marched along the platforms of Florida East Coast’s Miami passenger depot. Clusters peeled from the ranks to enter various of the vintage Pullman cars that seemed to stretch to the horizon; mine was near the rear. A 4-8-2 type locomotive simmered at the head end. Soon, under a cloud of black smoke and the roar of slipping drivers, the odyssey began that would take me to the coast of Mindinao and the decks of DE 345.

It’s hard to explain why, all these years later, I still revere that cross-country journey as one of the most memorable train trips I ever experienced. So many vignettes are almost as alive today as the moment they burned into my memory.

I recall the gentle sincerity in the faces of the Red Cross ladies who met the train in a small Southern crew-change town, as they passed out little grooming kits and wished us a safe return.

Who can ever forget his first look at the Rocky Mountains at sunrise? It’s the stuff that patriots are made of. Why, you could almost hear the choir singing of “purple mountain majesties” as the low sun rays turned the misty car sides to a bright, shimmering orange and highlighted the flashing rods of the pair of 4-8-4’s leaning into a long left-hand curve. “God shed his grace on thee.”

I remember an old crossing watchman who held a salute until the whole train passed by. Cornball? Maybe, but it was a different time. You had to be there.

You had to be there, too, on the banging vestibule deck with the top half of the Dutch door open to savor the fragrant smells of the land and the pungent blasts of coal smoke from up ahead. On troop trains, conductors were often lenient about the rules. And, oh, the glorious racket! The constant banging of the diaphragms and the deck plates and the hundred variations of the tempo of the wheels on the rails. Whistles high and low, screaming and moaning. A brakeman tells me there’s a hotshot on our tail. “Hang on, kid!” That was railroading!

Through America’s backyards. A fleeting view of a trackside home and a family at dinner. An instant in time with the power to generate an incredible wave of melancholy. What were my folks at home doing now? A little loneliness was part of the bargain in any big adventure. It’s what makes kindness loom large.

One event in particular stays with me.

Weary from train-watching, I slumped in my seat. It was twilight, and a light drizzle was spreading across the flat Missouri farmland beyond my reflection in the window. A pickup truck paced the train on the parallel two-lane road, slowly falling behind as we picked up speed. His headlights glistened on the wet pavement.

We were rolling again, having made what Navy passengers learned to consider the most important stop of the day: tacking the dining car onto the rear of our lengthy train. This was the ritual as our “MAIN” (lingo for military or troop train) crossed the continent, passing from one railroad to another. With each line came the best the carrier could provide. Some cars were old and creaky, some sleek and polished, fresh off the streamliner. The food and the service fluctuated as well.

“All right now, chow down! Stay in your seat till I give you your meal ticket.” The salty Shore Patrolman, hat forward, billy club on his belt, swaggered down the aisle passing out the small blue sheets that had been counted to equal the available seats. He gestured with his clipboard, “Ya go two cars aft!” His use of shipboard lingo on a Pullman car struck me as funny but, considering our relative positions in the chain of command, I thought better of laughing out loud. There was still a lot of civilian in my soul. I fell in line and worked my way “aft.”

The dining-car steward reminded me of my textbook sketch of Ichabod Grant—lean and very tall. The cuffs of his blue jacket exposed a little too much white shirt sleeve when he gestured to a few empty spaces at the kitchen end of the car. His receding hairline lengthened his angular face. Awkward though he seemed, he moved with unexpected grace as the swaying became more pronounced and the silverware tapped Morse Code messages against ice water glasses.

Over the hubub of conversation, his surprisingly strong voice commanded silence. “Gentlemen, could I have your attention, please.”

“Now what?” someone mumbled.

“They forgot to load the damn food!” someone else down the aisle responded.

Derisive laughter.

If the steward heard it, he paid no attention. “You are now on the Chicago & Alton Railroad,” he continued. “Our management knows that troop trains mean extra long hours for dining-car crews. So, they have instituted a policy of additional compensation for the men who will be serving you. On this car, tips will not be accepted. Any money left on the table after the meal will be given to the Red Cross.”

This was a stunning contrast to some of our earlier experiences when our limited funds for gratuities determined the quality of service we saw.

There were no wisecracks now.

He had finished the official greeting and now spoke for himself. “I know it’s not much, fellas—but this is our way of expressing our thanks to you. We’re proud to have you on the Chicago &Alton.”

There came an awkward pause, as if none of us knew exactly what to say. The truth was, we didn’t—until someone up front yelled, “All right you guys, come on. Let’s hear it for the Chicago & Alton.” ‘I’hen the football cheers and applause filled the car and brought a broad, shy smile from our host.

The next morning we were fed and watered in the cavernous Union Station at Kansas City. When we departed, the Alton diner, of course, remained behind. I was sorry that I never got a chance to say thanks. - Rege Cordic


	I Never Got A Chance To Say To Say Thanks
	MY U.S. NAVY TICKET read “Miami, Florida, to Oakland, California. For Further Transfer: Seventh Fleet.” To an 18-year-old sailor/railfan’s sense of justice, it seemed like a pretty fair return for the months of diligent work I had just devoted to mastering (?) the fine art of naval anti-aircraft fire control and gunnery. The time had come to put my knowledge to use aboard a Destroyer Escort in the Philippines in these final years of World War II. Bands played as hundreds of white uniforms marched along the platforms of Florida East Coast’s Miami passenger depot. Clusters peeled from the ranks to enter various of the vintage Pullman cars that seemed to stretch to the horizon; mine was near the rear. A 4-8-2 type locomotive simmered at the head end. Soon, under a cloud of black smoke and the roar of slipping drivers, the odyssey began that would take me to the coast of Mindinao and the decks of DE 345. It’s hard to explain why, all these years later, I still revere that cross-country journey as one of the most memorable train trips I ever experienced. So many vignettes are almost as alive today as the moment they burned into my memory. I recall the gentle sincerity in the faces of the Red Cross ladies who met the train in a small Southern crew-change town, as they passed out little grooming kits and wished us a safe return. Who can ever forget his first look at the Rocky Mountains at sunrise? It’s the stuff that patriots are made of. Why, you could almost hear the choir singing of “purple mountain majesties” as the low sun rays turned the misty car sides to a bright, shimmering orange and highlighted the flashing rods of the pair of 4-8-4’s leaning into a long left-hand curve. “God shed his grace on thee.” I remember an old crossing watchman who held a salute until the whole train passed by. Cornball? Maybe, but it was a different time. You had to be there. You had to be there, too, on the banging vestibule deck with the top half of the Dutch door open to savor the fragrant smells of the land and the pungent blasts of coal smoke from up ahead. On troop trains, conductors were often lenient about the rules. And, oh, the glorious racket! The constant banging of the diaphragms and the deck plates and the hundred variations of the tempo of the wheels on the rails. Whistles high and low, screaming and moaning. A brakeman tells me there’s a hotshot on our tail. “Hang on, kid!” That was railroading! Through America’s backyards. A fleeting view of a trackside home and a family at dinner. An instant in time with the power to generate an incredible wave of melancholy. What were my folks at home doing now? A little loneliness was part of the bargain in any big adventure. It’s what makes kindness loom large. One event in particular stays with me. Weary from train-watching, I slumped in my seat. It was twilight, and a light drizzle was spreading across the flat Missouri farmland beyond my reflection in the window. A pickup truck paced the train on the parallel two-lane road, slowly falling behind as we picked up speed. His headlights glistened on the wet pavement. We were rolling again, having made what Navy passengers learned to consider the most important stop of the day: tacking the dining car onto the rear of our lengthy train. This was the ritual as our “MAIN” (lingo for military or troop train) crossed the continent, passing from one railroad to another. With each line came the best the carrier could provide. Some cars were old and creaky, some sleek and polished, fresh off the streamliner. The food and the service fluctuated as well. “All right now, chow down! Stay in your seat till I give you your meal ticket.” The salty Shore Patrolman, hat forward, billy club on his belt, swaggered down the aisle passing out the small blue sheets that had been counted to equal the available seats. He gestured with his clipboard, “Ya go two cars aft!” His use of shipboard lingo on a Pullman car struck me as funny but, considering our relative positions in the chain of command, I thought better of laughing out loud. There was still a lot of civilian in my soul. I fell in line and worked my way “aft.” The dining-car steward reminded me of my textbook sketch of Ichabod Grant—lean and very tall. The cuffs of his blue jacket exposed a little too much white shirt sleeve when he gestured to a few empty spaces at the kitchen end of the car. His receding hairline lengthened his angular face. Awkward though he seemed, he moved with unexpected grace as the swaying became more pronounced and the silverware tapped Morse Code messages against ice water glasses. Over the hubub of conversation, his surprisingly strong voice commanded silence. “Gentlemen, could I have your attention, please.” “Now what?” someone mumbled. “They forgot to load the damn food!” someone else down the aisle responded. Derisive laughter. If the steward heard it, he paid no attention. “You are now on the Chicago & Alton Railroad,” he continued. “Our management knows that troop trains mean extra long hours for dining-car crews. So, they have instituted a policy of additional compensation for the men who will be serving you. On this car, tips will not be accepted. Any money left on the table after the meal will be given to the Red Cross.” This was a stunning contrast to some of our earlier experiences when our limited funds for gratuities determined the quality of service we saw. There were no wisecracks now. He had finished the official greeting and now spoke for himself. “I know it’s not much, fellas—but this is our way of expressing our thanks to you. We’re proud to have you on the Chicago &Alton.” There came an awkward pause, as if none of us knew exactly what to say. The truth was, we didn’t—until someone up front yelled, “All right you guys, come on. Let’s hear it for the Chicago & Alton.” ‘I’hen the football cheers and applause filled the car and brought a broad, shy smile from our host. The next morning we were fed and watered in the cavernous Union Station at Kansas City. When we departed, the Alton diner, of course, remained behind. I was sorry that I never got a chance to say thanks. - Rege Cordic Copyright © 1994 Kalmbach Publishing Co. Reprinted with permission from the June, 1994 issue of TRAINS Magazine - per Cathy, TRAINS Magazine Editorial Assistant, Sept. 12, 2000

I Never Got A Chance To Say To Say Thanks