HATT'S ARMY

Volume 1: Thomas, the Runaway Train

Chapter 2/1: Eric The Half-A-Chapter

Wednesday: June 19, 1940

The next morning, I was awakened by the warmth of the pilot light in my firebox, set alight by a cleaner who had swept the floor, polished all my controls, turned a small valve that looked as if it were built for a garden hose, checked to ensure my auraphone was rising from a low contralto at a healthy rate, and moved on to Edward on my immediate left. Simmering comfortably, I woke up slowly to see, through the crack in my shed door- for the windows were boarded up on account of blackout regulations- that the morning sky was already beginning to brighten. By the time most of our drivers had arrived on their bicycles, we were all still groggy but beginning to grow sharper.

"Good morning, old boy," greeted Boris as he boarded my cab.

He waited a while, but I didn't bother giving anything above a low groan. "Anybody home?" he joked, looking up and rapping at the glass of my fisheye.

"Stop it!" insisted Maxwell, and all-but-shoved him to the back of the cab. I gave a lazy 'tsk-tsk-tsk' in agreement.

"That's no way to start a morning," yawned Edward to whomever it may have concerned.

"Ah well," I responded, "just, erm... be thankful we're heating up in time for the Report."

Edward, who had heard the rumors of my earlier bank engine fiasco with the Wild Nor'Wester, stifled a chuckle. Henry, Gordon and James didn't bother to hold back.

"PFFFFAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH HA ha ha ha!"

"AAAW HA HA HO HO ho ho ho huh huh huh…!"

"Eh HAH ha ha ha hah hah heh heh heh heh...!"

Edward kept quiet because he knew better than to give them a rise. I kept quiet because I knew of no other option.

Soon enough it was six o'clock, and we were all gathered in time for the Morning Report. Yard Boss Havirty stood before us in his spruce-green uniform and Levi trousers, his goatee and thin, deer-like face standing in stark contrast to his naturally curly, unkempt hair that poked out from under his Zuckerman helmet.

"Good morning to you all, sirs," he shouted clearly after blowing his whistle, as he had done for years.

"Good morning, Foreman," we all answered almost instinctively.

"Today, I have some very important news for you all," Havirty heralded, "so please, pay close attention. I'm looking at you, James." James, who had been admiring a flock of crows against the sunrise, balefully glanced back at the Assistant Director.

"Now, we all heard Big Winnie's speech yesterday afternoon, and he said he would have some legal issues resolved so we could concentrate on the war effort. Among these issues was an ongoing labor lawsuit between a local union and the LMS's Faculty Commission. According to recent reports, the suit has been summarily arbited by royal action in favor of the Union. And as part of their demands, our local Commission representative office has been relocated, from Euston House in London to the Gallant Office Park in uptown Crovan's Gate. I expect you'll all be seeing him by my side quite often- especially you, Gordon. From Monday evening until Thursday morning each week, he'll be making his home in a seaside resort just south of here, and you'll be taking him to and from his office aboard the Nor'Wester. So without further ado, now would be as good a time as ever to get each other introduced. Wait here a moment, I'll call him out." And with that, he stepped into the turntable's control box to use the transceiver inside.

He directed our attention to a black Duesy pulling up nearby. Out from the left-hand front door stepped a man with a rather… heavy-set appearance. I have heard many call him 'pear-shaped', but personally his body reminds me more of a mango. He wore a freshly-ironed blue suit jacket and tie, with a yellow cardigan underneath, matching trousers, a pair of leather dress boots, in which he was almost tiptoeing over the ballast, and a top hat, which he was clutching tightly to avoid having it blown away. He walked over to the turntable with a security guard in uniform at his left, and a butler at his right; and both were keeping uncomfortably quiet, for (as we could all see) he was in the foulest of moods.

"It's a pleasure to have you with us this morning, sir," said Havirty as he shook the mogul's gloved hand. Then turning back our way, he announced, "I would like to introduce to you all to Sir Charles Topham Hatt, Faculty Commissioner and Chief Inventory Director of the North Western Division of the London, Midland and Scottish Railway."

"So theyse ah Units 1 through 5?" Sir Hatt almost muttered in a curious tone. "I had olways wondahd…"

"Sir," addressed Havirty as he led the stout gentleman down the turntable in my direction, "here is your own Unit One dock tank. Hereabouts we like to call him Thomas." And turning to me, he said, "Thomas, this is Sir Topham Hatt, my employer. I am, at least, technically speaking, his assistant."

"Hello, kind Sir," I stammered, feeling almost guilty of receiving his attention. He didn't reply, seeming too intent on looking me over. Perhaps he was admiring how my long, slim funnel and dome up above my smokebox and boiler contrasted with the boxy cab and bunker behind and water tanks to the left and right. Sharp-dressed, refined men are always going on about ergonomics and functional form and such.

"Now, Thomas," stated Havirty clearly, "here are your orders for today: after reporting to Tidmouth Station at 7:30 this morning, you must arrange the morning Limited for Edward at Platform 4 by a quarter to eight, and the express at Platform 1 on the hour. Then James's stopping goods is due out by 8:30 at Platform 3, and a scenic train is expected at Platform 1 at 10 o'clock. Then comes Elevenses, and between then and tea you shall report to the Tidmouth depot and cooled for an inspection, wash-down and a refill of coal and water. Then, once you are re-lighted, you are to report back to your post by tea to disassemble the scenic. A train of goods vans is expected in at that time, and when unloading is finished- which should be around 4 PM- you are to sort the vans evenly in the 3-spurs up yard. Processing for the Wester is expected to end at 6:45, and for the Limited at 7:15. When you have finished shunting those, you may report to the Depot for the Evening Report at nine."

"Yes sir," I registered.

Havirty went on to introduce him to Edward. Our Number Two wasn't the strongest or newest of us, he explained to Hatt; in fact, he was at least 60 and his boiler was smaller than mine. But his age meant that he was dependable, experienced and understanding, and so Hatt and Havirty had found a new niche for him here, equipping him so that he could move both backwards and forwards just as well. This made him great for more urgent deliveries, as he could assemble light trains without the help of a shunter.

Henry was our heavy mixed-traffic engine, impartial to trucks or coaches. He was always recognized everywhere he went both for his wide boiler size and his unique bright green Mid-Sodor livery. He was built here on Sodor in 1916, our manager then explained when his turn came, in response to increasing pressure on the old Mid-Sodor Railway by Parliament to increase wartime production. The story goes that the technicians at the Crovan's Gate Engine Works simply cobbled him together from the spare parts of other engines, and I've heard many a disgruntled yard worker call him 'Crovanstein' behind his back. Nonetheless, when the war had ended and work slowed down, the bean counters at Euston decided we were better off keeping him than replacing him. He was always willing to prove himself to Havirty, for better or worse, and that, we all supposed, was his saving grace.

While Henry was haphazardly designed but modest in his ways, our express engine Gordon was anything but. He was a Princess Coronation, purpose-born and bred to run heavy express lines, and the way he spoke of it, he may as well have had royal blood in his boiler tubes. In his emperor's cloak of Midland scarlet, he was given the job of pulling the island division's flagship express train, the Wild Nor'Wester, from Knapford to the seaside town of Brendam, then to Vicarstown just across the strait from the Greater Isle, each morning from 8 to 9, and back again to Brendam and Knapford from 6 to 7 each evening. On Saturdays, when the express didn't run, he was often given stopping or scenic passenger trains, or occasionally heavy freight (a job he considered unfitting of an engine of his stature). As you may guess, 'Prince Gordon' often seemed to forget whose railway it was and who was giving the orders.

James, who wasn't as scrappy as Henry or as purebred as Gordon, still wasn't sure just where he fit in here. A Class 28, he had done local freight work in Lancashire in his early days; but then war broke out, the Government took control, and the bean counters decided to transfer him here. That must've been two months ago, and Edward was still showing him the ropes. James would always go back to the Depot each evening with another rumor from the lips of a workman for him to evaluate. Though James still missed his friends back home, the rest of us- along with Havirty- were beginning to count him among us in our boilers and smokeboxes.

"How come I never get to pull trains like the rest of you?" I thought out loud, listening to the other engines' orders enviously as Havirty made his rounds. "All the brave young men are off on the beaches and landing-grounds, defending their King and country. Why is it that I should stay here?"

"Bah!" James was quick to answer. "It's out of your league. You're already slow enough now, just pushing coaches in and out of the station!"

"Besides," put in Henry, "you don't even have a tender. I bet that little bunker of yours can't hold enough coal for you to make it to Crosby, let alone the Channel!"

"Ah," added Gordon slickly. "We are in agreement, then. To everything there is a season, little Thomas, and a time to every purpose under Heaven: a time to sow and a time to reap, a time to mourn and a time to dance. My season is now, and my purpose is to help run the Northwestern line. It is what I was put on this Earth to do, and so I give this cause all I have to give. Your own time and purpose, Thomas, is not so different from ours. I suggest you give it the respect and dedication it is due."

I looked over to Edward in hopes he would be holding out for me, but all I saw was a glare of frustration mixed with a dash of regret. A glare from Edward, it was rumored, could speak volumes, and the lowered eyebrow and widened aperture and eyelid-angle of this one came together to read: "Proceed at your own risk."

"Fine, then," I taunted back. "You just wait! You'll be sorry! 'Cos when all the Shunting is gotten done, I shall run away to the Beaches myself! And when I come back, I'll make you all regret every last word you just said just now, 'cos I'll be pulling a whole ticker-tape parade, I will! With a big brass band and everything! You just wait and see!"

The other engines took no notice, for Thomas was a little engine with a long tongue.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Good news, everyone! I'm not dead!

Now, with all the formalities out o-

(gets crushed by falling piano)

Whose idea was this!?

(cutoff prevention)

Welp, still not dead. Still good news!*

To be honest, I'm sort of feeling unsatisfied with the amount I've been writing so far (dog darnit, Blizzard). And on top of that, I looked at my viewership today and discovered it's only just about wound down.

So here, guys. have half a chapter.

Enjoy!

*(Insert tasteless suicidal joke here har-de-har-har fun memes.)