The ascent began gently, tracks winding through coastal meadows where sheep scattered like dropped cotton balls. My pistons settled into a steady rhythm, each *chuff* echoing my Midwestern thoughts: *Just haul. Just prove useful.* Behind me, the goods wagons groaned contentedly—for now. Then the gradient steepened near Killdane quarry, and my wheels slipped momentarily on dew-slicked rails. "Ease off, Matthew!" my Somerset driver cautioned, his burr softening the urgency. Below, Robert's distant sneer seemed to vibrate up the tracks: "Toldja 'e'd struggle!"
My fireman shoveled furiously, Devon accent cheerful but strained: "More steam, Matthew! Show 'em!" Coal roared in my firebox, pistons pounding harder as I gripped the rails. Behind, the wagons' groans shifted subtly—less complaint, more conspiratorial creaking. Then, as we rounded a curve overlooking a beautiful valley, they struck. The coupling nearest me suddenly slackened, then jerked violently taut—a brutal *CLANG* reverberating through my frame. My wheels slipped again, sparks flying. "Blast!" my Somerset driver hissed, wrestling the brake. "Wagons actin' daft!"
"Break away, break away!" a shrill voice sang from the wagons—not just words, but metallic *clangs* mimicking speech. Another wagon joined, deliberately bouncing its buffers against its neighbor, creating a cascading wave of slack-taut-slack along the entire train. My frame shuddered violently with each jarring impact, wheels scrabbling for purchase on the incline. "Properly troublesome, these wagons!" my Somerset driver growled, wrestling the brake lever while my fireman shoveled desperately. Robert's distant laughter echoed up the valley like jagged scrap iron. The wagons weren't merely misbehaving; they were orchestrating chaos, exploiting my unfamiliarity with Sodor's gradients and my jarringly alien whistle. Their rattling chorus became a taunt: "*Yankee doodle, slippin' down!*"
Sir Topham Hatt's crisp observation from the docks flashed in my smokebox: *Prove yourself useful.* Failure wasn't an option. My Midwestern pragmatism kicked in—ignore the mockery, solve the physics. I felt the precise moment the lead wagon deliberately eased its coupling tension again, anticipating another violent jerk. Instead, I slammed my brakes *hard* just as it lunged forward. The sudden deceleration whipped the wagons forward with a thunderous *CRUNCH* of buffer springs compressing. "Oy! Me chassis!" the lead wagon wailed, genuine shock replacing malice. "Very few tricks pay off on me twice," I stated flatly, my Transatlantic drawl cutting through the metallic groans.
Silence fell over the wagons, broken only by the hiss of my steam and the distant bleat of sheep. My abrupt halt had shocked them into stillness—their buffers pressed tight, springs groaning under the strain. "Right then," my Somerset driver murmured, easing the regulator open cautiously. We resumed climbing, the wagons now unnervingly compliant. Arthur's Cornish reassurance echoed faintly in my smokebox: *You'll manage splendidly.* Yet Robert's mocking laughter lingered like coal dust in my gears.
The summit revealed Sodor unfolding below—patchwork fields, slate-roofed villages, and the glittering Irish Sea beyond, ah this was the life, being a train was weird yet this was weirdly one of the best worlds to be reborn in, getting to see such views, without worrying that the whole world was going to suddenly decide to blow up. It seemed to be early spring, and this was a peaceful island railway, freshly laid tracks and others being prepared to gleaming like new scars across the landscape, with only a handful of cars and trucks visible far below. My Somerset driver eased the regulator back slightly as we began the descent towards Maron Station. "Fine hauling, Matthew," he murmured approvingly. "Those wagons won't try that nonsense again soon."
But when I got a better look at the cars and trucks I noticed something odd. They all seemed old, not rusted or anything mind you, but old design wise, yet they all seemed relatively new? How strange. My Somerset driver leaned out the cab, squinting. "Blimey," he muttered, his burr thick as clotted cream. "Dem new Ford Model T's are moving quite fast ain't they?" The wiry foreman with the Belfast brogue shouted from the brake van: "Aye, what will the Americans think of next?"
My smokebox tightened slightly. Ford? They both talked about these cars as if they were the newest thing, had I gone back in time? Before I could ponder further, the descent steepened sharply—a sudden corkscrew bend revealing Maron Station nestled below, its freshly painted platform gleaming floral white against spring grass. Workers scrambled to finish roofing tiles; the scent of pine tar and wet mortar hung thickly. Sir Topham Hatt stood imperiously near the stationmaster's office, bowler hat immaculate, observing our approach with folded arms.
As we rolled into the station, brakes hissing softly, his keen eyes swept my crimson flanks. "Prompt arrival, Matthew," he acknowledged crisply. "I sas you handle those troublesome wagons from afar." Relief washed over me, "Thank you very much sir," I managed, Midwestern vowels stark against his clipped syllables. He nodded curtly. "Operational trials continue tomorrow. You'll assist with track-laying beyond Crosby." Then, he paused, brow furrowing slightly as he gestured towards the horizon where distant steam plumes marked other engines. "You'll find Sodor sparse yet, lad. Few engines, fewer still of your caliber. Prove reliable, and you'll become indispensable." The weight of that expectation settled on my coupling rods—I was one of the only modern engines on this fledgling railway.
My fireman chuckled, wiping sweat with a Devon-accented sigh. "Right cozy, innit? Just us an' a handful o' narrow gauge veterans clankin' about." He patted my cab wall affectionately. The simplicity felt jarring after bustling mainland yards—no crowded sheds, just open sky and the scent of hawthorn blossoms. Sir Topham Hatt's words echoed: *indispensable*. Optimism flickered; perhaps this quiet island needed my strength.
The next dawn brought track-laying duty beyond Crosby. Pine sleepers stacked like cordwood awaited placement beside freshly dug ballast. My driver eyed the terrain skeptically. "Steep grade ahead, Matthew," he warned, Somerset burr thickening. "Tender'll sway like a drunkard if we ain't cautious." Sure enough, as we pushed heavy flatcars laden with rails uphill, my wheels slipped on loose gravel. Behind me, the narrow gauge engine Rheneas, if his nameplate was to be believed—a tiny veteran puffing valiantly—takled to in his high Welsh lilt: "Hello there ! You must be Matthew! I heard you're quite strong!" His cheerful greeting warmed my boiler despite the strain.
Suddenly, a sharp whistle echoed from behind—not Rheneas's cheerful piping, but a deeper, impatient blast. A stout tank engine painted workmanlike black clattered onto the siding, his boiler steaming aggressively. "Outta the way, tin can!" he barked in a broad Yorkshire accent, glaring at me with beady eyes. "Some of us got actual work to do 'fore breakfast!" His nameplate read "Jinty," and his entire demeanor radiated contempt for my gleaming crimson flanks. Before I could respond, Rheneas piped up: "Now now, Jinty! Matthew's helping lay tracks!" Jinty just snorted steam derisively. "Track-layin'? With that fancy paint? Looks more like a bleedin' parlour ornament!"
My driver leaned out, his Somerset burr calm but firm. "Steady on, Jinty. We're shiftin' these rails for Sir Topham Hatt." Jinty's eyes narrowed. "Sir Topham Hatt? Fussy new feller in the bowler hat? Thinks 'e owns the island 'cause 'e bought a few miles o' rusty track!" He spat a plume of sooty exhaust. "Mark my buffers—this railway lark won't last. Proper engines work in mines an' quarries, not poncin' about with passenger coaches!" His words struck me oddly—Sir Topham Hatt was new? The railway itself felt barely established, like fresh paint on weathered wood.
Rheneas whistled indignantly, his Welsh lilt sharpening. "Mind your buffers, Jinty! Matthew's helping build Sodor's future!" But Jinty just snorted another cloud of soot, his Yorkshire growl thick with disdain. "Future? This fancy lad's built for speed, not graft. Wait 'til 'e meets a real incline—or a proper Nor'westerly gale!" He clanked away towards the quarry, leaving his contempt hanging like coal dust in the crisp morning air. My smokebox tightened; Sir Topham Hatt's railway felt fragile, contested territory, and I was its emerald standard-bearer.
Later, hauling ballast near Cronk, my driver pointed towards a farmer ploughing with sturdy horses. "See them beasts? Proper horsepower," he chuckled, his Somerset burr warm. "Reckon motorcars'll replace 'em someday?" The farmer waved cheerfully, his cap pulled low. I noted his horse-drawn plough—simple, timeless. No tractors rumbled nearby; the newest vehicle I'd glimpsed remained that distant Ford Model T. Optimism flickered—perhaps Sodor existed outside time, a haven untouched by mainland frenzy. Arthur's Cornish reassurance echoed: *You'll manage splendidly.*
At Maron Station that evening, Sir Topham Hatt consulted a pocket watch, its brass casing gleaming. "Well done today again, Matthew," he acknowledged crisply. "Track-laying progresses ahead of schedule." His gaze drifted towards the harbour, where fishing boats bobbed gently. "Sodor needs modern engines like yours," he added, almost to himself. "Especially now." My fireman leaned out, wiping his brow with a Devon-accented sigh. "Quiet island, sir? Feels like we're buildin' somethin' proper 'ere." Sir Topham Hatt nodded, a smile forming on his face.
"Indeed. A railway worthy of this century." His words felt weighted, hinting at unspoken urgency beyond pastoral peace. My driver eased my regulator gently as we prepared to shunt empty ballast wagons towards the dockside sidings. The rhythmic *clack-clack* of wheels over rail joints soothed my smokebox; purpose felt tangible here, unlike the anonymity and detachment I always felt a certain level of in my old life.
Suddenly, a thunderous *CRACK* echoed across the harbour, sharp as a snapped coupling pin. Instinctively, I braked hard, buffers groaning. Not a derailment—but a cannon salute from a Royal Navy cruiser anchored offshore, its grey hull stark against turquoise water. Flags snapped briskly in the breeze: Union Jacks everywhere, even fluttering above Maron Station's newly painted signal box. "Blimey," muttered my fireman, shielding his eyes against the afternoon glare. "King's birthday? Bit early for that." Sir Topham Hatt's expression tightened, gaze fixed on the warship. "Merely… precautions," he murmured, voice uncharacteristically clipped. "The Admiralty insists on coastal readiness drills." His words hung oddly, failing to mask the tension coiling beneath his bowler hat's brim.
Later, idling near Cronk water tower, I overheard two grizzled platelayers arguing. "Mark my words, Bill," hissed one, accent thick Glaswegian. "Them Kraut chaps ain't just buildin' dreadnoughts fer show! Saw it meself in Hamburg docks last month—whole fleets!" His companion, wiping sweat with a grimy kerchief, scoffed. "Ach, yer daft! All this fuss 'cause some Archduke got shot in Sarajevo? Foreign nonsense!" The all too familiar names—Kraut, dreadnoughts, Sarajevo—chimed ominously in my smokebox. That Ford Model T… the naval drills… Sir Topham Hatt's urgency. Fragments clicked into dreadful alignment: *1914*. Pre-war tension thickened Sodor's air like unburnt coal smoke.
Sir Topham Hatt summoned me urgently next dawn. "Matthew," he began, voice unusually grave, bowler hat shadowing his eyes. "Strategic materials require swift transport to Peel Godred munitions depot." His crisp syllables couldn't mask the strain. "You're among few engines here capable of such loads reliably." The weight settled heavy on my coupling rods—not just cargo, but island survival. My Midwestern pragmatism surfaced: *Haul. Endure. Survive.* Optimism felt thin again, I'd have to see World War One unfurl before my very eyes.
Peel Godred depot buzzed with frantic energy unfamiliar to Sodor's usual tranquility. Workers loaded crates marked with stark military stencils onto flatcars under foremen's barked commands. Nearby, a weary Manning Wardle tank engine shunted artillery shells, his paint dulled by coal dust and urgency. "Careful with those!" he hissed at clumsy dockhands, accent frayed Yorkshire. "One bump an' we're all scrap!" His fear was palpable; mine mirrored it silently. I focused on precision—coupling buffers gently, minimizing jolts. Sir Topham Hatt watched intently, mustache twitching. "Proceed directly, Matthew," he ordered. "No stops."
The route snaked inland, hugging mist-shrouded valleys where new trenches scarred hillsides like raw wounds. Distant, rhythmic *thumps* echoed—not quarry blasts, but artillery practice beyond the headland. My driver gripped the regulator tighter, Somerset burr reduced to terse murmurs: "Steady gradient ahead… loose ballast near bend…" Suddenly, a sharp whistle pierced the gloom. Jinty clattered onto a quarry siding, glaring as we passed. "Fancy paint haulin' death now?" he yelled, voice raw with contempt. "Yer mainland speed won't save ya when real war comes!" His words hung like shrapnel in the damp air. I blew steam defiantly, Transatlantic whistle slicing through fog—a sound of stubborn resolve amidst gathering storm.
"Don't worry Matthew, he doesn't know what he's talking about, those Krauts ain't that stupid." My driver muttered, Somerset vowels curling softly.
But if only broken clocks weren't right twice a day . . .