Brooklyn Technical High School - Blueprint Yearbook (Brooklyn, NY)

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An enemy, he observes. I must kill him. Painfully he draws forth his revol- ver. He lifts his unsteady arm, takes aim, summons all his remaining strength, pulls the trigger, and falls exhausted. A few weeks later, in a small tavern, a group of men surround a drunken soldier, proudly displaying a military medal. I have deserved this token of appreci- ation, he boasts. Single-handed and wounded, I captured a machine gun nest, and with their own gun I annihilated several score of the enemy. You are indeed a brave man, ex- claims one of the spectators, What is that you hold in your hand? Oh, this? It is a pardon granted me for my services by the chief of staff. What was the crime of which you were pardoned ? The soldier hoarsely whispered, I killed a man. After the Rain fConlinued from page 16l a fevered brow. A deep peace stole over him, quieting the riotous tumult that had raged within him. He smiled. He laughed! It was over. It was over! He turned down the road whence he had come, his mission uncompleted- thank God! The man he had set out to kill was to live. He must have been mad to think of killing anyone. As he walked down the road, he looked about him and saw the world through new eyes-as a man who had been blind all his life would see it-should he suddenly re- gain his sight. The mud no longer bogged him down, it buoyed him up, made the 20 road under his feet softer. He was changed. He felt it within himself. He was changed! He walked on. Beggars throughout the world may seem the same, but if you have ever travelled in southern England, through those typical pastoral villages that property speculators love to call quaint, you may have met a beggar who, at a second glance, seems greatly, greatly removed from the ordinary beggar. His clothes are ragged, or greatly patched, his face is unshaven, and in his hand is to be found the universal begging cup. There is nothing about his outward appearance, except his neatness, to distin- guish him from the common run of beg- gars, but still there is a difference-a difference you can actually feel. He is a very humble sort of a person. I don't mean the sniveling kind of humbleness usually associated with beggars, but something finer-something which makes you say to yourself, Here is a better man than I- despite his ragged clothes and unkempt beard. Home Port My ship has found her journey's end, Her keel's upon the ground, Each oaken timber squeezed of blood, Her breast the rats have found. Her towering masts and swinging spars That held her youthful life Have felt the mighty trade winds cut Them like a keen-edged knife. It's but a day from yesteryear, Her wheel was in my hand, The sea has laid her tender form Upon the foam beached sand. by PETER OAKLAND, 85

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Men Who Fight by SIDNEY DORROS, D52 Illustrated by John Sanchez, 810 The bullets are whistling and shells are screaming about him, but Gaspin Villard, huddled in his dugout, does not mind. He is quite satisfied with his situ- ation. A short time ago he was serving a life sentence of hard labor for a murder, one of the many he had committed. Wlien the war came he was paroled so that he could serve in the none-too-full ranks of the army. Now the fools were paying him to kill. How the tide had turned! Men were dying about him, but Gaspin did not mind. This was where he belonged: among death and destruction. A few hundred yards away, screened by a clump of bushes, is the enemy. Thin and pale, he appears even younger than his nineteen years. The war has changed his life also. Wliile Gaspin was cracking rocks at the prison, Peter was ambitiously studying at the university. His ambition, since childhood, had always been to be a doctor. He wanted to save lives, and to do his small part to ease the pain and suffering of humanity. Wlien the war broke out he was just about to enter med- ical school. Instead of embarking upon his much coveted career, Peter was forced to march off to battle leaving his poor wid- owed mother behind. Here he is now, at the side of a death-dealing machine gun. He does not belong there, nor does he want to be there. He has no desire to kill anyone, not even the enemy. His comrades have been shot dead, and he is left to carry on alone. Peter's meditations are suddenly inter- rupted by a bugle's call. He springs to attention at his gun and prepares for the oncoming atttack. In a few minutes thous- ands of men cover the held of battle. Peter huddles low, and he is not dis- covered. As a terrible battle rages about him, he sadly watches many men fall to their deaths. Presently he sees a slowly moving human figure, crawling toward him. Nearer and nearer it comes, until a wounded soldier drops exhausted at Pet- er's feet. Upon inspection Peter finds the man to be an enemy, with a bullet in his chest. I must remove the bullet immediately, he says. Peter opens his first aid kit, and prepares his crude instruments for the extraction. Meanwhile the eyes of the wounded man open 19

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Down But Not Out by AXELL PEDERSEN, 88 llluslraled by Arthur Berlin, 8l0 Ya feel as if ya'd like the woild la end, Yer pretty sure ya haven't got a friend, Ya say, Dis woild's bin pretty mean ta me, I betcha she'd be sorry if dey found me in da sea. Ya knock around the alleys, yer dog yer only pal, But no matter what ya do yer thinkin' of that gal, Ya sit around and kinda wish that ya was sorta dead, Cause all ya've had is trouble since ye met that df ---- rn red head. Was fer her ya bought dat locket, So she'd wear it--in her pocket. It was her ya tried to croon ta, Took for walks and showed da moon ta. Was to her ya tole dose lies, 'Cause a her ya sighed dem sighs. Den what did she go and do, Leave ya Hat so's ya'd feel blue. It breaks yer heart when foist ya find dat dames can he untroo, But don't worry 'bout it buddy---cases are that ya'll pull throo d t au can have fer free -- Now dere's a message to dis poem a y I writ dese lines to tell ya dat, Dere's more fish in da sea. K' 3 f ii? - g XNYQW Z 5 5 ki i i i . ' fi ix N 6 llllllll Q lm X 3 lily ry, lll NK k XXX li i