Analy High School - Azalea Yearbook (Sebastopol, CA)

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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-

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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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toothed bayonet, held in the hands of a cowardly Prussian, who stabbed him without mercy nor warning, from behind!” The poor Scot, trained though he was to the ever-present beckonings of the death and the suddenness with which it had often taken his comrades, his friends, and even his boyhood playmates, made a faltering step forward, his face turning a ghastly white and his eyes opened with with a dazed horror- stricken glare and he crumpled limply down upon a meager bench. “Gard, mon, ye can’t mean it!” he cried, frantically claw¬ ing his matted hair, while great tears streamed down his weathered face. “They dinna murder th’ poor laddie? Gard, Carptain, it can’t be so!” “Yes, Tam, they did it; but that’s not the worst they’ve ever done. Your brother was a grand man, sir, and every one was proud of him. He died a soldier’s death in protection of his home. He met his end while listening for any danger from a fiendish, barbaric foe who recognizes no law of man except his own. Hardly could we ask for more, sir.” In a moment Tam had dried his eyes on his coat sleeve, attained a stern, hard and almost expressionless appearance, and stood up at stiff attention. In every vein of that Scottie’s body there burned that unquenchable fire of his ancestors, and from his wet eyes shown a light steelly in its sharpness, pierc¬ ing in directness, and beneath it smouldered a meaning which ranged far beyond all power of conception. “I thank ye, sir,” he said simply, his lips scarcely moving. “An’ if tlia’ be all, I guess I’ll be goin’, sir.” They parted with a silent salute, and Tam O’Bain walked rapidly along the trench back to his “hole.” When the shadow of night had thrown its inky cloak over the muck land, and while the stars—far, far away and ghostlike in their glimmer—twinkled warmly in a mystery sky, there crept three lonely forms quickly over the rim of a parapet. Under the barbed wires they glided stealthily and silently, almost like shadows, then lay suddenly still. A star shell burst on high and illuminated the shell-gutted field; a few sharp re¬ ports and then all was once more held in the vast and mysteri¬ ous power of night. The clock in Captain Wallingsford’s quarters had just pointed its rusty hour-hand to one-fifteen A. M. when the officer stepped over to a switchboard at the other end of his table and