In the winter of 1964/65, old Izzy brought me down from Wimco Steel to look after a new truck for his own use at Regent Battery. He had ordered a new INTERNATIONAL, D-2000, (day cab) for the job. This tractor had a 220 hp Cummins, and a 4X4 Spicer transmission. With 2 small backbreaking bucket seats, and with the engine halfway into the cab, the 2 gearshifts ended up between the seats. There was no place that you could lay down for a nap.
Regent Battery was his recycling business dealing in scrap batteries, lead, brass and copper. They would bring in scrap batteries from all over the country, break them down and separate the lead plates from the casing and ship them off to a local smelter. The same was done with the brass and copper. Once the metals were smelted down and poured into moulds, cooled, and separated, they were then called PIGS, or INGOTS. If you were telling another driver down the road, what you had on, such as a load of brass pigs, you had to take time out and explain what brass pigs were. Some had strange ideas as to what you were talking about.
The usual runs were into the Province of Quebec. Montreal and Quebec City, being the main drop and pick up points. The odd trip to Winnipeg, Manitoba, in the west, was thrown in to break up the routine.
One trip in particular, was in January, during a violent snow storm. As usual in the trucking industry, this load just had to go. Also as usual, they gave you a life and death reason why. Without this load, the whole world will collapse, and I was the only one who could save the day. (Sound familiar?)
It was a Tuesday night, and the storm warnings were on full alert. I was expected to be in Montreal, for 07:00am the next morning. It was a real trip getting there, with cars and trucks lining the ditches, or in one case, piled on top of each other. It took me all night to cover the 350 miles to Montreal. I had been sitting around till almost 09:30am, before anyone showed up, for this rush load. As it turned out, they didn't bother to even open up that day. The manager was pretty browned off that I demanded he get this load off, so I could go and make a pickup at another scrap yard. His excuse was that running a lift truck was not his job, and he didn't care. I explained to him, forcefully, that it would not be my job to call an ambulance to get him back up off the floor either, and that I wouldn't care less, if they never showed up. I guess that the threatening explanation, helped him to quickly remember how the lift truck operated, because I was unloaded and ready to leave in less than a half hour.
The streets were a total write off. Fortunately, I only had about a mile to go, along side of the old canal. The scrap yard was inside an old CAN-CAR building. They used to build railroad cars there. The building was shut down and space leased out to different business. After waiting another hour for the front end loaders to clear away the snow, I finally got to pull inside. The truck was totally caked with snow and ice. The building was really warm inside, and the snow only took a couple minutes to start melting off. I sat listening to the radio for a few minutes, before getting out. As I stepped out onto the fuel tank, the snow and ice were melting and running off, making my foot slip out from under me and I went down like a rock. A chunk of timber was sticking out from under the tractor a couple off inches. As I went down my heel caught on the timber, bending my foot forward as all my weight came down on it. The pain was so bad that I could not breathe, for what seemed an eternity. I was out of sight where I landed, no one knew what happened. Finally, one of the loaders came over to help pull the tarp, for loading and found me on the floor. He called the others to come and help. It took a good hour before I could move around on my own again. I turned down the offer to call an ambulance, figuring just a severe strain.
They finished loading the scrap batteries and tarped the load down for me, and I was on my way.
It was about 3:30pm and the rush hour was in full swing. Mostly snow ploughs and front end loaders trying to open the roads up. Just a few blocks away, in Upper Lachine were PEG'S Motel. It was a place where truckers and the local gangsters hung out. I made my way up there, and talked a front end loader driver into digging me out a parking spot, so as I could stay over night. He said OK, on the condition that I bought him a beer after work. I agreed and he promptly went to work on a spot for me.
Once I was settled in and cleaned up, I headed for the bar. After a few beers, and chatting with a couple of drivers, that had to lie over, the pain started coming on strong and heavy. I checked my left boot and couldn't even undo the leather laces. The swelling was really getting bad. I thought that I would have to get the boot cut off. Well the guys tried talking me into going to the hospital for a check up. When I was a kid I had a terrifying experience with a doctor, and there was no way in hell that I wanted to go to a hospital. Well a couple more beers did nothing to help the ever increasing pain. I finally let them call me a taxi. It took the cab another hour to get there, so in the meantime it wouldn't hurt anything to have a few more beers to kill the time, if not the pain. The cab finally showed up and I was on my way.
Eventually I made my way to the registration desk, filled out a bunch of papers and had to practically crawl over to a chair along a blank wall. There must have been at least 30 chairs in the row. If you had to crawl on your hands and knees, to get there, you were on your own. It seemed that if I had collapsed, or something, they would just step over my body and carry on. The fact that it was a French hospital, and I was English, made communication that much more scary. (I guess if you let out a loud painful scream, it would not matter what language it was, they would understand. They may leave you there, BUT THEY, WOULD UNDERSTAND.)
A couple hours past and finally someone showed up. He asked my name, then said follow me. He was halfway across the room before he noticed that I was not right with him. He turned and said hurry up, I haven't got all day. The statement that I returned, didn't matter what language he spoke, he knew EXACTLY, what I meant. Finally I made it to the elevator, and we were on our way up. We went down the hall and ended up in the X-ray room. I went through all the necessary positions and routines. I was then told to go back to the lobby on my own and wait till I was called again. I dragged my butt back down to the chair and again entered into the waiting game.
About 1/2 hour passed and the medical genius returned, and in a surprised voice, asked me, do you know you have a broken foot? I could have killed him right there and left with a clear conscience.
Immediately a wheel chair showed up, and the civility began in earnest. I asked how come you are taking this serious now. He said that out of the 30 people in the row, there are probably 4 or 5 real problems. Most of them are just lonely and looking for attention, and they have to, one at a time be separated.
By the time I was finished, I had a cast from the tip of my toe up to my crotch, give or take a half inch. They also had plans to keep me in overnight till the plaster set. No way was that part of my game plan. It took a lot of talking, but I promised to stay overnight at the motel, to let the cast dry. They phoned to make sure that I had booked in for the night. They were reluctant, but finally agreed.
An hour and half later I was on my way. They had a hell of a time trying to find a pair of crutches to fit my 6' 4" body. There was one set eventually, that fit. Shortly thereafter, I was back in the bar, being showered with free drinks, for returning as a wounded, and patched up, conquering hero.
After all the celebrating, I finally hit the sack. The morning brought in a day of bright sunshine and clear, but cold skies. I knocked on the cast to make sure it solidified, it did and I was on my way. The truck had been dug out of the snow, like it was extra special. The front end loader cleared my path for me. He also left a note with the desk, thanking me for keeping my word for the free beer, and after seeing the cast on my leg, he said that he would come back in the morning, and made sure that I had no obstruction, getting out.
I couldn't do any thing without getting help from all the drivers. Even the local bad guys helped me to get out to the truck.
It was a little awkward in the beginning. I was in the seat, and had to lie on my back to get the left leg in the cab. (It was straight out, and in the cast.) When I swung around and sat up, the left leg was on the left side of the clutch. I was in neutral and got it started. Now this needed a little planning. I poked the left crutch down along side the cast, and let it lean against the driver's door. The right crutch, I poked down to the floor on the passenger side and leaned it on the passenger door.
Now here I am the brake and throttle are controlled by my right foot. The 2 gearshifts are controlled by my right hand. How about the steering and the clutch? Well, I took the left CRUTCH, holding it in my left hand, pushed in the clutch, then put the 2 sticks in gear, with my right hand, then letting out the clutch, with the CRUTCH, got it rolling. From there on, I used the throttle to power shift, without the clutch. I could do that till I had to stop. I would have to use the CRUTCH on the clutch, to stop, then again, to get rolling. At times, I would have to steady the steering with my right knee. A little awkward at times, as there was no power steering, it was the old manual type, you know, it was sometimes referred to as Armstrong steering. (Do you understand all this?)
Anyway I made it out of town, about 60 miles, to just before the Ontario-Quebec border, when the dreaded Quebec version of the D.O.T., (R.T. BOARD) stopped me. I sat there and talked to him with the window down. He demanded that I exit the truck. I explained why that would be a problem. No way, I must be another trucker shooting a load of bull to the government. OK, I'm on my way out. I opened the door, flopped back on the seat and swung the cast out the door, and was just going to drop to the ground, when he just about crapped himself. He yelled to stay in the truck, and I complied. Guess that he figured that if I dropped, he would have to pick me up and possibly be liable for a law suit. It was great, seeing a shocked and scared look on a government man. That doesn't come around but once in a lifetime. He wished me Bon Voyage, then told me in fluent English, to get the hell out of there. So, here I go again, clutching and crutching, my way down the road.
It was another 300 miles home. After 4 more hours, the strain was starting to get to me. I was at the second service centre from Toronto. They were an hour apart. I finally had to call for help. I was never so tired in my life. I called home and asked my wife to phone my friend Bob T. and see if he was in town. (He was another trucker and good friend.) She called back and said that he just got home, but would come out if required. My mother had a little Ford Falcon at that time and said that she would pick Bob up and bring him out to me. OK, great. I will meet with you at the next service centre, the last before Toronto. 60 miles down the road.
My mother drove my wife over to Bobs place to pick him up. It was 2 or 3 miles through the city in the opposite direction. She got there and picked him up, then headed back east to meet up with me at the service center.
I had run steady and never stopped. I got to the prearranged location, and figured on about an hour wait. No way, in about 10 minutes they showed up. I couldn't believe it. The car pulled in behind me and I saw in the mirror, Bob jumping out and practically run up to me. He said for me to get the hell out of the truck and let him get out of there. Apparently my mother scared the crap out of him. That little Ford was up and over 100 miles an hour at times on the expressway, and his knuckles were snow white from hanging on for dear life.
He warned me, that if Helen's little boy was ever hurt again, DEFINITELY, DO NOT CALL HIM. He said that, you can die first, because I'm not ready.
By the time I hobbled over and into the car, Bob was long gone with the truck and load, and I didn't see him again till the next day.
One good thing from this, is that when you terrify a friend, and he is STILL your friend, he's really worth keeping.
---------------- William (Diesel Gypsy) Weatherstone. RETURN TO STORY MENU