Fairhaven High School - Huttlestonian Yearbook (Fairhaven, MA)

Page 15 text:

■ ■ -- THE HUTTLESTONIAN 13 Futility want to hear all about him, Dr. Rocheau.” ' ' Well sir, he is a remarkable student. In fact ; I don’t believe I have ever known a student his equal. ' And his nerves, Dr. Rocheau, his nerves? ' Dr. Attouni, his nerves even during the most grue¬ some operations are tempered with such coolness that it approaches the inhuman. Please don’t think I exag¬ gerate, Doctor.” Then he’ll be a good heart specialist?” One of the best in the world, sir.” Steady?” Very.” Umn. I’d say he was about perfect.” I, I wouldn’t say that. As a surgeon he is great, but as a man he is, he is—well, Doctor, he’s queer. That’s the only word by which I can describe him. He’s always aloof and withdrawn. Sort of makes a man hate him and pity him. At times he appears lost, and looks dazed, almost as though he existed only physically. I’ve heard he’s had a tough time of things. To my knowledge he has never laughed, or even smiled.” Too bad, Dr. Rocheau, that a man of his ability must be like that. Ironic, isn’t it, that although his life is going to be a huge success, it is at the same time, going to be a dismal failure. Oh come now, don’t look so downcast. After all, what we’re concerned with is his professional, not his per¬ sonal life.” And leaning back in his chair, the questioning Dr. Attouni beamed on his aid. Now all his years spent in a medical school didn’t seem in vain. In a few months he would be able to present a great heart specialist to the world. That specialist would be Pierre Nevin. The Zero Hour crept on inevitably, bearing in its wake death and destruction.

Page 14 text:

12 THE HUTTLESTONIAN play no part, then that person should not be made to par¬ ticipate. He can get his exercise by pleasant walks through the meadows or by an afternoon at cycling now and then. But does not a person like that regret, after he gets out of school, that he did not take part in athletics with his former classmates? I am inclined to say, from previous experience with this type of person, yes. He always has an unpleasant memory in his mind of pleasant Saturday afternoons, when everybody was headed for the stadium, or evenings in the gym when people hung their heads over the bannister to watch a basketball game or gym meet, and of always being on the outside of a circle of a laughing and bantering group, dis¬ cussing some past contest. Are you on the outside of that circle? If you are, why not get inside and see what is going on there? If you do not like it, you can step out again. My guess is that you will stay in! Emile Dubiel, Harvard University, ’37

Page 16 text:

14 THE HUTTLESTONIAN The trench was permeated with a hushed and strained undertone of activity. It was the activity of men who were trying to forget the horror that awaited them — inspecting rifles, fastening bayonets, adjusting gas masks, while their thoughts raced home to loved ones; attempting to appear non- chalent and unconcerned, while their stomachs tightened and their hearts beat in slow plummets. Such were the men who were going over,” many separated from eternity by but a few minutes. Only one did not ostensibly join in the bustle. As though deprived of any human emotion, he sat on a box, supporting his back against the slimp wall of the trench. Although ob¬ scured by an encasement of grime, his clear-cut features were easily discernable. He, too, was thinking, but not of home and family. He had no home or family to think of, not even a friend. A vivid picture of his mother and father being shot by a Turkish firing squad on suspicion of espionage flashed through his mind, causing the grim set of his lips to lower per¬ ceptibly. He was then fifteen years of age. From that day he had fended for himself — always with one aim, one object, one consummate desire in his early matured mind — to be¬ come a great surgeon. This had been his venered mother’s wish. Without friends, or money, life had not been easy. At night he studied incessantly and this, coupled with an abnormal in¬ tellect, gained him, after some years of hard work, a scholar¬ ship to one of the leading medical schools of Europe. Here neither his talent or determination lay latent. Wizened pro¬ fessors with years of learning stored within their gray skulls imparted obsolete and yet valuable bits of knowledge to him when the class had departed. And then, just as he was coming down the last lap, just as the fulfillment of years of courageous endeavor loomed before him, Fate had beaten him back. Europe was plunged into the deadly whirlpool of 1914, and into its very vertex, by power of conscription, he was sucked. Such were the reflections which Pierre Nevin milled over. He gazed at his hands, and for a brief instance he felt an overpowering urge to laugh, uproariously and abandonedly; his hands long, tapering, well-kept, clean in this oozing,