Edgewood School - Bridge Yearbook (Greenwich, CT)

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O C Com poslhon E WAS a soldier, young, lean and tough, but he didn't look like one as he stood in the pale moonlight waiting for the sargeant to give the word to move up. He looked more like a high school boy waiting in nervous expectation for a football or basketball game to begin. His lips were dry and cracked and every few minutes he would moisten them with his tongue. The sides of his lips twitched nervously everytime he heard firing of artillery in the rear. His eyes were blankg they showed nothing. He could be thinking of home, or maybe of the girl named Susan who lived next door, or maybe he wasn't thinking at all. Maybe those eyes that had seen death and destruction didn't want to see anymore. This boy may have come from Indiana, California or New England. He had fine, but strong looking hands, the hands of a musician, or maybe an artist. With those hands he was now gently rub- bing an M-1 which was cradled in his arms. The M-l was his round trip ticket- that's why he hugged it so tightly. If he didn't use it properly, he would never make the return trip. An hour had passed and the artillery fire in the West had become stronger and louder. It was so loud that his ears began to click and pound. The bursting shells illuminated the sky and caused great dazzling colors to shoot up and then fall slowly to the ground. The ground began to shake in rolling waves. Now the shells were dropping closer to the front lines and the blasts of air became stronger and thinner. The soldiers experienced a stifling sensation. Men covered their heads and crouched to escape the tremendous concussion which carne from the exploding shells. This was a part of war that all dough-boys dreaded, when they had to stand and wait while all hell broke out around them. A glimmer showed in the young soldier's eyes as the firing began to die down. He had sweated it out, he had crouched in the filthy mud waiting, but now the wait- ing was over. Sounds of other voices started to penetrate the boy's clouded and con- fused mind. He wasn't a boy anymore. Now was the time for killing! All thoughts of home, girls, of friends, were behind him. His hands were steady as he tightened his cartridge belt, adjusted his helmet and checked his rifle. He was thinking of the Krauts who were out there waiting for him and his buddies. Now they were moving forward-strong, healthy men. As the young soldier followed blindly, thoughts raced through his mind, Maybe this is it-I've been lucky for a long time-l'm not afraid to die, but-I hope it's fast. Now he was running, zig zagging around the shell holes, the torn bodies, the wrecked tools of war. He was running into the teeth of death with all its ugly features, all its horrible pictures of misery and desolation. He was running, swinging and slashing his bay- onet at black shadows which rose up in front of him. The screams and cries of agony around him only excited him and drove him on to more killing. Then something crashed against his chest and cut off his cries, something that sent hot shots of pain tearing through his body. He sank to the ground and his blood began to mix with the small puddles of dirty brown water. He clawed at the wound. His face had an expression of surprise, which in turn, became the pallor of death. His lingers ceased

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The clock chimed the hour and struck eight. John yawned and rose from his position on the floor with the comics. His parents were an hour late, They had gone to a cocktail party at a friend's. Probably they were just talking. But in spite of this common sense explanation, others presented themselves. He ceased to see the street outside and the house opposite-he saw instead a dark highway and his parents driving home. Suddenly from the opposite direction, at top speed comes a car-there is a screech of brakes, the cars skid-a scream-a terrifying crash crumples both vehicles and shatters glass. In the hush that follows, a siren rises, ambulance, police arrive- they reach the victims- Too late for a doctor here. Johnny-we're home! Familiar voices coming in the door, beloved faces smiling at him through the light--the tears dried in john's eyes. We're a little late, said his mother. I hope you didn't mind being alone so long. She reached out to hug him, but the boy eluded her. Of course I didn't mind! he said huflily. His mother's hair shone with an un- believable brightness and his father smelled of tobacco. Afterward, when he was in bed Che had refused to allow his mother to tuck him ink, the murmur of voices drifting up from below brought him peace and security. The tenseness left himg he turned over and went to sleep. Manoa BARTON, '48

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to move and his eyes stared unknowingly at the dark sky. He was now just a mass of bloody flesh slowly mingling with the good earth. THOMAS CHUTE, '48 Perhaps a Vision YES OFTEN play strange tricks on their owners, but somehow I feel that the man I saw on my way home was real. True, I have searched every house and street in this town trying to find him and have spent hours before the house from which I saw him emerge, with no results. Yet to me he was real, and as long as I live I shall search the face of every stranger, look into the eyes of every man I see, with the hope of finding him. He was a tall man, dressed shabbily, his shoes worn, his clothes hanging from his rather stooped shoulders, his face unshaven-oh, that face! The mouth was slightly cruel-no, not cruel, only bitter, the lips twisted into a half smile, as though to say, You do not, cannot, know the futility, the hopelessness, until you have lived as I have. And the eyes, they were sharp and sardonic, but not laughing. I wanted to move away, but the eyes held me, and as I looked into their depths, I found not cynicism, but sadness speaking of such untold suffering that I felt my heart twist, and tears came to my eyes. V There were two deep lines chiseled on either side of his face, seeming to con- nect his mouth with his short, sharp nose. Above all the qualities of the face, I found strength, so intense that it frightened me. To say I was fascinated would be a great understatement. I could not turn away from this man, his dark eyes filled with sad- ness, and his bitter, pitying mouth. Suddenly he lifted his hand, and it did not seem a hand, but looked like a piece of rugged sculpture-, a hand perhaps by Rodin, representing in its every line strength-the strength which had frightened me only a few moments ago. When he looked up, I realized I had been staring. The pity in his expression was harder to bear than the sharpest reprimand and the sadness in his eyes was more punishment than I deserved. Unknowingly, I had put out my hand to see whether he was real. I turned and ran, my heart pounding in my throat, my eyes seeing nothing but the smile, and over the noise of the traffic I heard a soft mocking laugh, following, following, until it caught a heartstring and broke it. ANITA MAXIMILIAN, '49