Central High School - Red and Black Yearbook (St Louis, MO)

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'Twenty-'four Hgreater Love Hath No Mani, T was raining, death was everywhere, men were killing. It was raining ceaselessly, and Albert Mueller was afraid. His was not a fear born of dread, but of confusion and demoralizing uncertainty. Near madness, lice, hunger, despair, mud-grey, slimy, depressing mud-were all here together in the shallow shell hole with him. Every explosion shattered more his wistful dreams of the world fif such a thing could be possiblej-dreams which he had just begun to form when he had been sucked into this awful maelstrom to fight for the Fatherland. Yet in his despairing soul there was still room for one sustaining thought, the desire to live, an emotion, which, though natural, was yet so powerful as to make all others seem weak by comparison. Because of it, Albert Mueller crouched shrinkingly in No Man's Land, trying des- perately-almost frenziedly-to reorganize his scattered thoughts. Like a trapped animal, his mind darted from possibility to possibility, seeking a way leading out of his maddening dilemma. A notfoverfexperienced recruit, new in the sector, he had been sent to recon' noitre the enemy position. Threading his way through No Man's Land, he had paid too much attention to shells hurtling close by. He had lost his bearings. So there he was, wishing he weren't between the two enemy lines, confused as to which territory was his. Knowing that his very life depended on his ability to guess the right direction, he could sense only one impression in his worried mind: he certainly didn't want to die, he couldn't die-he shouldn't-he wouldn't. Gradually he became calmer and considered his situation. He realized that he had only half a chance of guessing the right trench. That half chance was the balance between life and death. He cursed himself for his carelessness, he cursed the Fate which had sent him there, he cursed the whole rotten business. Unable for a moment to concentrate on his tragic situation, he let his mind wander back to an ethereal world, his peaceftime world: his best girl friend, his school, his first shave, his first pair of long pants, his chums, his unfinished novel-the greatest ever to be written, he had dreamt-his enlistment. All these images flitted across his mind in a pleasing panorama. He thought of home, of mother, and her delicate china-like hands. Albert vowed to himself- A shadowy figure had appeared out of nowhere and had poised watchfully on the rim of the shell hole. His heart leaped! His pulses pounded, and feverishly he eyed the spectre. To him, in that instant, life was forfeit! He accepted death as a certainty, not as a possibility. His imagination clearly discerned the Grim Reaper about to mow him down mercilessly. Albert was convinced that he had ended his journey in the valley of' life, and that he was now on the verge of the Great Beyond. All the things he had been ashamed of in his life stood out before him. Suddenly he had another realization almost as startling as the first. That watchful figure had not seen him! Although Albert was not aware that a sixth sense had caused that other life to pause on the brink of destruction, he did realize, however, that his own presence was unknown. He lay still, trying to muffle his very breathing. The shadow, as if against its better judgment, started to move into the shell hole, into Albert's own private world! He went from fear to madness again, for he knew one of them must die now. He leaped forward, knife in hand-whence and how he knew not-and stabbed again and again at the thing that was threatening his being. The thing proved to be a warm, pulsating creature, who sank back with a sigh. He had won! But had he? No sooner was the deed done than he was not sure whether it were better undone. Under his stress, he could see as plainly as if he were in daylight. He saw a tall,

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sturdy boy in drab olive American uniform. Chalky lines in his face already presaged death, unless instant and expert care could be obtained. The stranger's eyes were unforgettably magnetic. They had the indescribably patient look of those of a dog waiting to be let in out of the biting cold. Albert could not believe that the Hrst man he had engaged in single combat could look so gentle and peacefloving. The young man's face was a soothing poem. Mueller's former dread and terror metamorphosed itself into a nobler passion, more fitting to his for anyj age and training: that of brotherhood. Calmly, but with unsvverving deter' mination, he made up his mind that he was going to help this man. He knew not which were his own trenches, but he would go for the nearest one. As he bent over to pick up his newlyfadopted brother, he noted that his presence did not bring hate or distrust to the other's eyes-just a wistful but proud pleading for pity. Albert saw his face clearly. A comely face it was, with as much meanness as that of a guileless child, as honestflooking as that of the most conscientious German burgomaster. It could easily be the face of Albert's cousin, and it was not the face of a heartless monster, as he had been led to expect by patriotic propaganda. Gently he picked up his former adversary and started out. His very purpose lent him all the strength and courage he needed. He trudged on forcefully, disregarding all the shells, the pounding rain, the slippery mud. Not a word passed between the two, they instinctively trusted each other. Brotherhood was the motive power pushing him on. Again Fate took a hand. A flare shot up from his own lines, supposedly to aid him. In its glare, he stood revealed. An American sentry, twenty yards ahead of him, galvanized into actiong he raised his rifle and shot. Albert first put down his precious burden carefully and calmly, then he wheeled and ran, but to no avail. A wellfplaced shot sent Albert sprawling. Mercifully, he died instantly, his last resting place an everfreddening puddle. Who knows? He might have become the future winner of the Nobel Peace Prize. But he was satisfied to die. It was raining, death was everywhere, men were killing. It was raining ceaselessly, and Albert Mueller was not afraid. There he lay, peacefully, unknown and unseeing, perhaps, but what did it matter? The sun timidly dawning on this frenzy of nations, put its rose to one good use. It formed a glorious halo around him. There he lay in the everlasting quiet, enthronedg enthroned on the throne of love. For greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friend. -Louis Buoiuswicz, '37, llwe Men Are Slavesll HEN Edwin Markham said, L'Without Brotherhood we men are slaves, how truly he struck the keynote of life. Slaves? Of course we're slaves. We are slaves to customs, be they good or bad. We are slaves hampered by the chains that a few force upon us. We are shackled by the careless, who give neither care nor thought to the welfare of their fellowmen. The great nations are slaves to the petty politicians and dictators who force their way into power. The poor are slaves to the rich, who suppress them at every turn. We are slaves to our petty hatreds that we allow to seize our souls and squeeze out every bit of life blood that is in us. We are slaves to racial prejudices and religious fantacisms. Oh yes, we are slaves all rightg and we poor mortals have the solution well within our grasp and yet do not know enough to seize it. The solution is Brotherhood, and if we are to throw off our masques and breathe the air of true freedom, we must accept the challenge it makes with fortitude. -NORMA PFISTER, '38. Twentyaflve