This is, of course, a true story and a railroad story. It happened while I was working out of Chicago on a train called the Cardinal. This train (as does The Lake Shore Limited) also goes to New York, via a more Southern route. I had been working the road as an Amtrak conductor for about five years (after 15 years as a freight conductor) when this happened~

The incident occurred on the return leg, or the Indianapolis to Chicago portion of the round trip, on a Wednesday morning at 7:45 AM out of Indy. We got the train out of the station okay and had just sat down to coffee after a sweep. I hate sweeping the train so early in the morning, as at least half the 87 passengers were still asleep. A sweep means everyone has to show a ticket or their ticket receipt. Frequently, the crew that brings the train to us during the night is not too fussy about collecting all the tickets, so our morning sweep picks up the slack. The coffee was tasting pretty good. My partner, Al, was beginning to tell me a shaggy dog story.

Suddenly, up comes the field man from his post in the last coach - Maurice. He looks very troubled. He sits down and doesn't drink his coffee but just frets. Maurice is black, big, boisterous and decidedly mellow by nature, but at this particular moment, he is not happy.

"Get all the tickets, Mo?" I asked. He says, "Man, somebody's going to have to come sit with me ‘cause I got a couple weirdoes on the last car. Everybody has bolted the car but these two assholes and me. I ain't sitting back there with 'em, I just ain't! So you can decide who’s going to sit back there with me."

This is not like Maurice. However, he no sooner gets those words out of his mouth when into the car bursts a guy in fatigues, gesturing wildly and yelling nonsense at the top of his lungs. He's black, late 20s, slender, about six feet tall. Wild eyes. Crazed looking. He is either out of his tree, or on some pretty wild drugs. He flies right on past us into the diner. We sit there and count to 20. And over the P.A. comes:

'Conductor to the diner, Conductor to the diner, immediate assistance.' Immediate assistance, the code words for, We have a major problem.

So, Maurice and the head man, my other assistant conductor, Al Lindsay - who turned out to save the day no less - and I, get up and head for the diner. Lindsay is about 34, 6 feet three inches, and goes about 240 pounds. Maurice, as I mentioned, is no half pint either. About 6 feet 1 inch and a bit rotund, probably 280 pounds. As we enter the diner we are immediately greeted by a rather pissed off looking dining car Chief Steward who merely scowls and points in the direction this guy went - out the other end of the diner into the first-class sleepers.

Although at the time he went by us in the lounge he was loud and obnoxious, he wasn't vulgar, or we would have stopped him then - as we do get our fair share of early morning drunks. Instead, fate stepped in...
By the time we worked our way through the Boston sleepers and into the crew dorm car, this guy was going out the door at the other end and climbing into the back of the locomotive. I radio'd the engine crew to alert them that there is a guy coming through the engine room. You see, from my vantage point when we boarded the train at Indy (which is at the tail end by the New York sleepers) a third of a mile from the head end, I hadn't noticed that there were in fact two engines on this particular train. I thought the head end crew was in danger.

So I felt a little silly when my friend and pool shooting buddy Tim Sonic, the engineer, replied coolly, "I'm not too worried about it, we’re in a lead unit running elephant." Meaning, nose to tail. Or, two engines both facing the same way were pulling the train. It is not possible to get from one engine and into the other in this configuration. Somewhat chagrined that I, as the conductor, had failed to notice how many engines were pulling my own train, (that's as bad as forgetting your punch) - I took off my hat and coat and climbed into the engine room to follow our odd interloper. The fellows were right behind me.

I advised the engineer of the situation - 'there is an unauthorised indivigual going into the second unit' - as he has a more powerful radio on the engine. In a situation like this he is keeping the dispatcher in the loop. It is very loud in the engine room. A V16 Turbocharged diesel engine cranking out 3000 horsepower, producing enough power for a small city, makes a noise that fairly boggles the mind at close quarters. The service walkway alongside the engine itself is very narrow and can only accommodate one person at a time so we go single file. I see our guy at the far end, opening the door to the control cab and in he goes. All this time our train is rattling down the main line at 80 miles and hour.

Now we clamber into the control cab of the second unit from the small door behind the engineer's seat. Our fellow has plopped himself into the firemen's chair on the far side of the cab and is yelling, "This is my train - I have the power it needs to keep moving! I have it right here!" He is sweating profusely even though the temperature in the unheated locomotive cab is probably right around freezing. Steam is just pouring off this guy. He goes through the motions of searching in his pockets.

When he bends over and begins to search his socks, Al and Mo step up a little closer behind me. I am looking at this guy and saying pointless inane nonsense about, "Well, sir, you will have to go back your seat now, you can't stay up here, etc. etc..." when he begins to reach into a small satchel in his lap.

"Don't let him go in the bag, Dave!" Al and Maurice yell in unison.

"Right," says I, "Grab him." And step aside smartly as the two brothers are going past me like a big wave. Al gets there first and grabs his arm and pulls his hand out of the bag, as they proceed to otherwise immobilize him. Lo and behold, a knife with a ten inch blade he is clutching. This is not so gently removed from his tightly clenched fist and all the time he is yelling, "Throw the ball, I'll catch it, Doug!" (We later learned that he and a friend were on their way to the Super Bowl.)

Once disarmed this fellow quits yelling but continues to ramble on about how he has the power to make the train go. I find myself feeling quite pleased about my backup help. We have the engineer radio ahead for the local constabulary to meet us at the next street crossing, and the fellows begin to talk to this guy.

"Say Bro, you got anything you want to get rid of, now is the time and there's the window."

"The man is coming, and he's gonna take you away."
"Then you can tell him all about what you got to make this train go."

We stop on the main line at the next major road crossing and two large and one small local cops come aboard. Now it's definitely getting crowded in the cab of the second unit.

"What do we have here?" inquires the man in charge. We show them the knife and make a brief explanation of events up to now. As all eyes turned towards the cause of our problems, he stands up slowly, goes rigid, and begins a loud verbal tirade.

"I'm going to kill all you mother fuckers. I got an Uzi, and I'm gonna' kill you all. You suckers are dead."

Cop number two: "Well, we'll see about that, bub."

At this point they decide it's time to get this guy off the engine, except he is still doing the rigid thing.

"Well, shit, how’re we going to get him out the door and to the ground?" asks the smallest cop.

The two guys nearest the door look down as if judging the distance, and apparently decide it's not really a problem, only about ten feet or so - and gathering our friend by the arms, stiffness and all, slide him out the door. He gets unstiff in time to make a pretty decent landing.

The cops were in relatively good humor, all things considered, for a cold winter's morning. They joked back and forth about what to do with our friend - they had the matter of trespass to consider, and the 10 inch knife. Soon they had another thing to consider as our would be assassin proceeded to offer the local Sheriff a toke off a joint that he'd just produced from his cigarette pack.

Maurice reminded us that this joker was not traveling alone and it was decided that the friend should be brought to the scene. The friend (who turned out to be the afore mentioned Doug) seemed in better shape, and immediately began to stick up for his stricken mate.

"No sir, man - I ain't leaving my buddy here with no white cops in this hick town, no way. I'll just go get my stuff off this here damn train and stay right here with him. That's what friends are for. He's my buddy and we're going to the Super Bowl."

As he is pronouncing his faith he is also walking closer to the squad car where his erstwhile buddy has been placed in the back seat. Suddenly he notices that their stash - all the drugs and paraphernalia - was spread out on the front seat of the black and white. At this he stops in his tracks and throws up his hands. Leaning over, he looks in on his friend, then shaking his head he steps back and places his hands on his hips, saying, "Hey Bro, call your Ma." And continues to back away smartly.

Although the cops didn't want to, they let Doug ride on into Chicago. The knife wielder went to jail.

And we got back underway. When the dining car staff heard about the 10 inch knife the chief steward bought us all breakfast. I hope no one ever tries to pull a knife on me again unless Al and Mo are with me. They sure saved the day.

Oh yeah, I forgot to tell the story about poor dumb Harry, that Al was starting to tell me over coffee. It seems that poor dumb Harry was kind of a loser type who couldn't hold onto a job. His sister finally lands him work, with a bit part to play in a local theater production. Harry only has one line, "Hark! The cannon's roar." He practices his line night and day over weeks and months - "Hark! The cannon's roar." In the grocery, "Hark the cannon's roar." In the laundry mat, "Hark! The cannon's roar." The night of the play he waits in the wings prepared to deliver his well rehearsed line, saying it to himself, "Hark! The cannon's roar." He gets his cue, steps onto the stage and lifts his arm...the cannons roar...BOOM...and Harry says, "What in the sweet loving hell was THAT!"