Fairhaven High School - Huttlestonian Yearbook (Fairhaven, MA)

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THE HUTTLESTONIAN 15 dripping filth of a trench seeped in dismal January rains. What was it Attouni had said? Something like, Take care of those hands; the world needs them.” Involuntarily hi eyes wandered up to the cold steel of his bayonet. Yes, the world did need his hands. But it was evident that it prized their efficiency with the bayonet more than with the scalpel. Break¬ ing his immobility of form, he took his weapon across his knees and felt the edge and point. Shortly he would find it neces¬ sary to use this. He! He who had learned to save lives with intricate instruments and delicate touch, would plunge this cruel blade into some heart. Well, he had been going to be a heart specialist, and if this was what the world called spec¬ ializing on the heart, he would fulfill requirements. Small wonder he was tempted to laugh; the situation did contain humor— Nature was painting dusk into night on a field in France when a screaming whistle split the silence attendant to this quiet occupation. It was the Zero Hour and Nature’s handi¬ work was spoiled by soldiers clambering over fortifications and through barbed wire, by the eery whistling of shells, and by agonized cries. Ceres was banished and Mars stood triumphant as men, in confirmation with his wish, proceeded to kill each other. i ' r The sun, as had been its custom since the outbreak of the war, peered fearfully over a horizon of hideous skeletons which had once been trees clothed in verdant green, to see what havoc the night had wrought. The fear was not unjustified. Huddled in pitiful brown bundles were those who short hours before had been living men. They were all alike — with their coatings of mud mingled with blood. One stood out from this slaughter. His hands were so white against the drab back¬ ground. Paul Fisher, ’36

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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,

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16 THE HUTTLESTONIAN Smoke Soft, curling wisps floating lazily, creeping silently up an unknown staircase; spirals clutching space until they are blotted out, never to return. Thick, acrid columns rushing skyward— Masses of visible energy shooting higher. Blue-black velvet puffing; then gaseous denseness is absorbed in the skyline. Marjorie Stitt, ’3 6 The Ways of Men You always say tomorrow And put it off again. And then you find with sorrow That that’s the way with men. With teachers it is different. Their hearts are hard and cruel. They think it is indifference — And keep you after school. Someday, you may be master. The tables will be turned! And they’ll meet with disaster Until their lesson’s learned. Gladys Raymond, ’37