Analy High School - Azalea Yearbook (Sebastopol, CA)

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By DON WALKER (Second Award.) IR WALLINGSFORD, attired in a service uniform of a British Army Captain, stood thoughtfully looking over the gray railings of the Prince Albert down into the boiling waters of the English Chan¬ nel; and, like himself, many others stood also sL lently thinking. Some looking back across the long narrow trail of white foam that had been stirred by the ship’s throbbing propellers, beheld a vision perhaps of a face, or heard a word; probably burning upon their lips and cheeks was that last hasty farewell which, at the thought, rekindled its heartfelt warmth and fired that pride within their bosoms which sped them onward. Beside the Captain, chewing an unlit fag, a burly Scot in his kilties, rapped the deck a thud with his beknotted walk¬ ing stick and made a disgusted comment upon things in gen- in general, and upon receiving no reply, took another pull at the fag and stated sullenly: “I been thinking, Carptain. ’tis a very ban’ o’ weaklings tliot we’re taking ’cross th 1 way. The laddies seem tae hev a bit a’ langin’ tae their haines.” And again he found no response. After a moment he turned and carefully eyed his companion. “Wot th’ duce, I’d nivir think ’twas ye tae hev the langin’ sir! ’Twill niver pay on Vimy tae be a wee lonesome; besides we’ve got ol’ Billie an’ ’s sons tae git afore we kin return tae ’ome. ” A Jock Highlander on the leaward side of the ship began to sing “AuId Lang Syne,” accompanied by the tuneful notes of a bagpiper. A few sea birds, perched upon the rigging, squawked and flapped their wings, then glided gracefully away. Finally Wallingsford turned and addressed the Scot in a stern, tired voice: “Sergeant Tam O’Bain, I want you to re¬ member, sir, that I’ll stand for no more of your foolhardiness on this trip. If l am lonesome that is none of your business. I am tired of your disgusting optimistic comments, and I want you to understand that you are to keep a closed mouth, sir, or I’ll have you court-martialed from our ranks.” I am sorry, sir,” the Scot said quietly, and then stated:

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in California to the Government, and finished by saying: “Since you need mules in this here war you must be needin’ some good mule skinners. I want to jine.” And when Gabe went on guard mount the first time the soldier on the neighboring watch understood when he heard a chorus of joyful hee-haws from the barns and saw the watch of the new recruit was not being covered. So, being a good sport, he covered both watches until the new recruit reap¬ peared, smiling and chuckling to himself. JVlj, jiljtp of tip piestern j§ba! Moon of the west wide-rolling sea, Swing softly low Where the weird winds blow And the billows blow; I await for thee! Oh, the surf grows cold and my feet are bare! Lay still thine oar Till thou reach the shore, And swoop me away to thy mystic air! Who ride with thee on thy wondrous flight? Who spies for the bow, Or guidest tliou? Who fish for stars in the waves of night? In tliine arms afar, can they be like me, Whose tatters flap From thy misty lap, As thou bearest them on to the sights that be? Let me join their crew, ere the night is gone, For I ever yearn To dream in thy stern Or peer from thy bow for the dews of dawn. Let me sail but once! Oh, I’d never tell Of thy magic lore Amd its secret store, Nor the darkling haunts where thine elfins dwell! Ah, hasten, ship! for I stay alone; All my toys forgot With their worldly lot, And the joys of their happy moments flown! —Laurence E. Dayton, ’18.

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“I guess I’ll be going, sir,” bringing liis heels together and giving his superior a brief salute. It was long after “taps” had sounded, long after all sounds had ceased, save the washing of the waters against the ship and the mysterious moaning of a haunted wind, that Cap¬ tain Wallingsford slunk silently away toward tbe inclosed afterparts to his awaiting bunk. Almost a year had passed since their arrival at Vimy, and Battalion 483 of the Royal Highlanders had just returned to their duties on the front line after a four-day sojourn at the rest billets. A drenching mist stretched its gloomy blankets across the bleak, dreary, lifeless and shell-shattered plain in No Man’s Land. An orderly stepped briskly down a commu¬ nication alley and made a flustrated entrance down tbe muddy, slimy steps of a dugout. He blinked his eyes in the clammy candle light, and wiping some of the terra firma from his face, came to stiff attention and called out in a rasping voice: ‘‘Sergeant Tam, Machine Gunners 88, R. Id., is ordered to report at once to Captain Wallingsford at headquarters, Clancing Place, Commune 9.” ‘‘At service!” replied someone sharply from a dingy cor¬ ner, and Sergeant Tam O’Bain stepped lightly to the orderly’s side. They saluted and quickly mounted the slick steps. Neither spoke a word until the orderly paused and read the sign banging over an underground entrance. ‘‘This way, sir,” he said, and both passed down into the darkness. When at last they stood before the officer in com¬ mand each came to a smart military salute. ‘‘Sergeant Tam, Machine Gunners 88, R. H., sir,” the orderly announced me¬ chanically, and the swarthy Scot stood under the stern focus of the superior’s eyes. ‘‘Tam,” began the latter, dismissing the orderly, “I’ve something very sad to tell you, sir.” Tam held his officer’s eyes in a steady, expectant gaze. Everything was still save that ceaseless roll of thunder from the distant batteries of pounding guns. A machine near at hand sputtered a few useless, complaining shots and then re¬ sumed its quietude. After a pause Wallingsford continued: “Your brother, Allen O’Bain, on the 26th instant last, was, at about half-past one in the morning, while doing duty as an observer on outpost 13, murdered by the means of a saw-