Analy High School - Azalea Yearbook (Sebastopol, CA)

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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

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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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pressed a button. He had scarcely released his finger before the ground began to tremble; the skies without were no longer silent and shadowy; great flares of lightning, red bursts of flame, crash, roar and the hellish din of battle gained the world. Three days had passed since the engagement, and once more the Four-hundred-and-eighty-third Battalion of Royal Highlanders were enjoying a four days’ leave at the rest bil¬ lets. Captain Wallingsford was idly passing through the main thoroughfare on a casual tour of inspection, when an orderly bearing the ensigns of the Red Cross came to a halt before him. “A note, sir for Captain Wallingsford, Four-hundred-and- eighty-third Battalion, R| H.” The Britisher opened the sealed envelope and frowned as he scanned the contents: “Captain Wallingsford, “Four-hundrd-and-eighty-third Battalion, R. H.: “Dear Sir—We have in our midst a poor, unfortunate chap who has been for the last three days dangling on the brink of life and death. He was found in the newly captured Boche positions north of Cameron Way in the early hours of morning of the 28th instant last. He insists upon having an interview with you, sir, so hoping to receive a reply in person, I beg to remain, “Respectfully yours, “DR. J. L. WELCH, “Base Hospital, Rue des Rameaux, Paris.” Wallingsford took out his pen and thought a moment, then replaced it in his pocket. • Turning to the messenger he said: “I will be with you in a moment. Your orders are to direct me to Base Hospital No. 5, Rue des Rameaux, Paris.” An interval of five minutes or more passed before he re¬ turned to begin his journey. It had been drizzling and sleeting intermittently for the past two days, and the going was almost impossible. On the afternoon of the following day they reached their destination. The orderly brought Wallingsford to the head¬ quarters and reported to the commanding doctor. “I am Captain Wallingsford, of Four-hundred-and-eighty- third Royal Highlanders, sir,” the Britisher stated in a way of introduction. “You have, I believe, one of my men in your