In my steam-driven youth, it was assumed that all boys wanted to be engine drivers. I couldn’t see it myself. I’d looked into it and knew what it was like. You wore blue overalls and an old black cap, and you stood in an open-sided cab in the middle of the night, with your head outside, eyes screwed up against the driving snow at 60 miles an hour hoping not to miss any of those semaphore-arm signals that came and went in a flash (“Whoa! Jack, did you get that one?”).
No, that wasn’t for me. I was going to be a fighter pilot. I would wear wings on my chest and zoom around in one of the new jets.
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