Author's Note:

Sorry it's taken so long, fellow readers. A couple summer camps came up and I, erm, kinda sorta reneged on the whole 'summer on' thing. I'm back on track now, though, so posting should be more regular from now on, even if (spoiler alert) it slows down a bit past the end of August.

Also, I've started posting this series on Tumblr too b'cuz why not. { }

So without further ado, on with the show!

-JustSomeHobo

HATT'S ARMY

Volume 1: Thomas, the Runaway Train

Chapter 5: The Yomp

6:20 AM, Greenwich Time

As quiet as it looked to be typically, the wharf that ran alongside the Harbor yard was still the busiest place I'd ever seen at such an early hour.

I was still smelling what I thought was the ruster gas all around me, and I was wondering how the people could manage to breathe that stuff constantly without dying. And why did neither Maxwell, nor Boris, nor anyone else in this harbor seem to notice it? I wondered. They're probably feeling the gas rusting them, too, but it's not strong enough for them to notice it. Wait a moment! Boris said the Germans weren't here yet. Maybe they're releasing it from just behind that sea fret, my fear beckoned me to imagine, but the gas breaks down in the air so it's not strong enough to be dangerous? To be fair, I didn't even know where Germany was on a map. Hitler may as well have been a devil from another planet. I was eager to know the truth about all this, but Maxwell had said there'd be enough time to answer all my questions when our little field trip was over.

All the while there were men shouting, whistles and horns from passing ships and, every so often, the beam of a lighthouse from atop a hill to the south. A large crane straddled the track running along the center of the wharf, lifting the last few cratefulls of fish out of the trawlers moored there. By the time each crate met the ground, a team of workmen were already preparing to lift it onto a flatbed trolley. They rolled each trolley to the two covered vans near the end of the train, where they heaved it on board before going back for the next crate.

Just behind me, Edward had explained, went a line open trucks full of coal and metal ores, followed by two tanks of diesel oil, the vans of fish from earlier, the brakevan, and then four vans full of supplies to be uncoupled in short order at the lumber mill. To cut a long story short, all the shunting went without much fuss. Even if the train was even heavier than I had expected, we were soon off and away down the line.

Once again, I found my eyes drawn to the shifting emerald forest around me. It would've broken my concentration, but the mild sting of ruster gas in the air kept me on my tyres.

Presently, a loud, sharp groan through the far side of the microphone in my cab caught my attention.

"What, Boris? What is it?"

"Do you smell a fart?"

"No."

With that, Maxwell returned his attention to the water gauge. Again, the only sounds were the rustling leaves in the wind, my own fierce puffing and the rails beneath my wheels; all fairly pleasant sensations soon rudely impeded by a strong stench of rotten eggs.

'-PPTHLEAFTH!-' I spat. "I think I smell it too!"

"Well, that's it, then. You just think you are. First the mustard gas, now this."

"But this one is different!" I jumped back in. "You know I've smelled farts before. Remember when one got in Henry's cab and we had to call the fire brigade?"

"That was a gas leak."

"Typical Liverpudlian," muttered Boris. "Always an excuse for everything."

"Well, nobody noticed the smell 'til you did. Must be yours."

"Wha-? No! You just… well, erm…"

"Just tell us the truth and move on, Boris. You're wasting our time."

"Oh, stuff your mother!"

I'd heard that expression enough times to know it meant nothing but trouble on the lips on men or jinni alike. So, hoping to break up their quarrel, I gave a long whistle blast for two straight seconds, ensuring that both crewmen squatted and covered their ears.

There was a long silence, and soon Max was back to the controls.

But just when it seemed that the matter had been broken up, Boris burst out again.

"Now look what you've done!"

"...I don't follow."

"You're- you're trying to act all busy and coy, twisting taps and pulling little levers, while you're really busy lining up your arse with my face like… like a pool cue!"

"Wha-a-?... NO!... Stop!"

"And now you've turned so many bloody dials and looking the other way, you're turning things on and off even our engine doesn't know about!"

"Look, Boris, SETTLE DOWN!"

"He's probably hemorrhaging steam right now-"

"I- I'm sorry, alright?"

"-and nobody knows it!"

"It was just a fart!"

"Not him, and CERTAINLY NOT YOU!"

"I DID NOT TRAIN FOR SIX MONTHS TO DRIVE A STEAM ENGINE SO I COULD BE SHOUTED IN MY FACE THAT I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT I WAS DOING!"

Max and Boris, now red in the face from shouting, both sat back down to catch their breaths. Watching from my fisheye at the roof of the cab, I thought this couldn't go any further, and turned my undivided attention back to pulling the train.

-CLANG!-

The first thing I saw as my fisheye blinked back into frame was Boris planting the business end of his shovel in the floor and glaring down on my driver, who was lying face-up and bleeding from his mouth.

Except for their breaths, the cab was silent again.

"...Ah, shite!"

He dropped the shovel, got down on his hands and knees and straddled the body, his breath slowing as Max's face bruised.

"Oh, my days. Oh jakers. Oh- oh, thank God."

"How could you!?"

"I… I'm sorry, Thomas, but…"

He paused.

"But I've been waiting to do that to him forever."

"... Yeah," I recalled, remembering the big engines' teasing all last week. "I think I know how you feel."

Pug. Wazzock. Tosser. Bellend. Gormless little prat.

"Don't we all."

It's true we could drive ourselves if we wanted, with only the help of a fireman. But Edward had explained to me that our focus was better spent making sure that we made our deliveries as quickly and smoothly as possible- something our drivers could never do. Their jobs were to make sure our boilers didn't pop like toy balloons while we were at it.

"It's the big one, right?"

"Yeah, right in the middle."

"Alright, here I go. -hNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNG!-"

"When!"

"Alright, so what now?"

"I think Edward said this is when they close the live steam injector and open the exhaust injector. They should be up at the very top, right next to each other."

"Okay. Okay… here! Is that it?"

"No, those would be the cylinder drain cocks."

"Erm… what about this one to the left?"

"I don't know, but I think you're still looking at the drain cocks!"

"Well maybe I'd be able to remember what all your bloody cocks are for if they weren't all so tiny!"

"Just 'cos they're so small, it doesn't matter," I retorted. "It's that you have no idea how to use them!"

The trucks behind us had burst into laughter. Boris poked his head out the cab window and let fly a stream of words that, looking back, I should probably be thankful that my microphone was too far away to hear.

"How's about another song, boyos?" I shouted back to them.

The air was filled with short chirps of 'Yah!' 'Okeh!' 'Les go!' and 'Ah raht.'

"Which side is the exhaust one again?" called out Boris into my microphone.

"The right side," I responded irksomely. "Try to remember that while I go calm the mob out back!"

With that, I cleared my throat and took a deep breath.

"Hitler…" I began.

"...has only got one ball!" the trucks called back.

"Goring..."

"...has two but ve-ry small!"

Steadily and in short spurts, I felt one of my valves seize up. Almost immediately, there was an irritating dryness in my boiler tubes as their water level began to drop.

"Himmler-" -pant- "…he's something sim'lar..."

"...and poor old Goe-balls has no-balls at all!"

-gasp- "Hitler… "

"...has only got one ball!"

-wheeze- "The other…"

"...is in the Al-bert Hall!" called the trucks again, and waited for me to call back. But at that point, I had given up singing: it was becoming all I could do to move the heavy train.

After what felt like almost an hour, I could finally feel Boris's hand screw open my exhaust injector valve, releasing a blast of lukewarm steam into the water feed from my right tank into my boiler. The jet of steam was now blowing the water against the pressure of the scalding hot boiler ahead and into the tubes; then it escaped through a short gap in the slender vessel, up my blast pipe and into the open air.

"Ahhhh," I sighed pleasantly as the perturbing thirst in my core faded away. "Boris… what took you so long?"

"Sorry, old bloke. I just… can't keep my wits about me nowadays. Been losing sleep wondering if it's the night I go up in a German air raid."

"Save it for the stationmaster, Fireman," I roused. "At this speed, I reckon I can take us from here. You just keep shoveling 'till we reach the, erm, the next stop."

With that, I turned my attention back to my train.

"Hit-ler…" I started, and waited for the trucks behind me to reply.

"Daaaaaaaisy, Daaaaaaaisy, give me your answer, do…"

"...where troubles melt like lemon drops, high above the chimney tops…"

"...both mo-tha aaaaaand dawtah, workin' for the Yonkey dollah…"

"...gallons of the stuff, give them all that they can drink and it will never be enough…"

I gave a single, long whistle blast, and, recognizing their cue from Edward's old routine, the train lapsed into relative silence.

"Now!" I instructed, "Let's take it from the top, everyone. A-ONE, and-a-TWO, and-a-ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR!"

"Irene's her name, she's one of the best!" Boris called out.

"Irene's her name, she's one of the best!" the trucks answered.

"So ev-a-ry night I-a give 'er tha test!"

"So ev-a-ry night I-a give 'er tha test!"

"I've-a seen her stripped, I've seen her bare!"

"I've-a seen her stripped, I've seen her bare!"

"I've felt her o-vah ev-a-ry-where!"

"I've felt her o-vah ev-a-ry-where!"

"I rode her gen-teel as I could…"

"I rode her gen-teel as I could…"

"...an' when I got in 'er I knew she was good!"

"...an' when I got in 'er I knew she was good!"

"Irene's her name, she's one of the best!"

"Irene's her name, she's one of the best!"

"She's a Black Class Five on the L!-M!-S!"

"She's a Black Class Five on the L!-M!-S!"

"YEAH!"

There was a brief but ecstatic cheer from the trucks and vans behind us, with many a "go middies!" and other such spiritual exclamations here and there.

Wellsworth Station's platforms suddenly appeared through the forest on either side of me, shooting past me as quickly as they had appeared. Now, I was passing into truly unfamiliar territory.

I was easily having too much of an adventure anyway to pay it much mind, though. Well, that and the fly smeared on my right lens... that was certainly a contributor.

Eat your injector out, Princess! I thought to myself. Oh, if only they could see me now!

Soon, though, I began to feel the train behind me grow heavier as the line curved upward.

This was the hardest part by far, Edward had taught me, because trains aren't meant to go up hills. But if that's so, I had refuted, then how do you manage? It's a matter of gathering as much speed as you can before the slope, he had answered, and if you can't get enough, then puff your hardest and hope you don't lose your grip and slide back down.

"Another shovel?" I asked Boris.

"This is your third one in ten minutes," slurred the fireman as he scraped his shovel across the floor like a lawnmower in order to heave an overly sized pile of coal. "I told you we shouldn't have passed the sawmill; now we've got four extra vanfulls of spare parts weighing us down!"

"But enough about the Jinty!" taunted one of the covered vans, as the rest of the train burst into laughter.

This too shall pass, I told myself. Already the trees were sparse, and I could see the dried-out grasses that covered the hilltop. It seemed my investment in speed had paid off after all, but my wheels were still beginning to slip. So, with the last of my strength, I gave one great heave against the gradient.

"Show some consideration for two minutes, why don't ya!" demanded Boris, leaning out of the cab door. "He's never done this before!"

"That's what she said!" another truck waffled.

My valve gears were warped, my cylinders ached, and air bubbles pressed uncomfortably behind the crack in my left lens.

"Yeah, well… you're a COON! Yeah! That's what you are! All bastards! Why, that one- You there! Yes, you! You've even got a big Jew nose!"

The temptation to simply let go was almost unlivable, but I knew I had not come this far to give up now.

"Oh, is that so? YOU'VE got a sailor's MOUTH!"

There could be no rest until I reached the fulcrum.

"And YOU look like you're HIGH!"

Just as my strength was exhausted, the land on the far side of the hill finally came into view.

Under a cloudless blue sky, the landscape before me was carpeted with a patchwork of commons and orchards and pastures, seamed with hedgerows and pockmarked with little towns, as if for variety. Not far to my right was a busy airfield, presently only a gated-off clearing for a runway, a row of vaulted metal huts near the edge, several timber-and-canvas hangar sheds and ten T-shaped fighters, lined wingtip-to-wingtip. Further ahead, I could see the rumples chasing each other across the giant's bedsheet, and beyond that were four colossal mountains- mostly green with grass, with barren peaks that revealed the ruddy-gray stone beneath.

It was a more spectacular view than I could have dreamed.

So this was it, then. This was the moment for which I'd waited.

This was what I'd caught a glimpse of chained to the Express so long ago.

These were the beaches and the landing grounds, the fields and the streets in which we would fight.

This was the world.

And I had it back again!

The rest of the train lunged into me with a splintering SLAM. Boris was jarred off the footplate and fell into the dead grass. Weary and off-guard, I could only hear his curses soften behind me as the trucks shouted and jeered and his post began to gather speed down the far side of the hill.

The world had me.