Fort Bragg High School - Breath of Ocean Yearbook (Fort Bragg, CA)

Page 44 text:

SECOND PRIZE TO A Sl-HP THAT NEVER RETURNED She rose like a serpenT MighTy and sTrong- and sang as she whipped Through The breeze. l-Ter greaT masTs Toppled In The wild winds Throng. She Turned and Tossed on The seas. Long pasT Time due She Tailed her reTurn. WiTh The seven she venTured Too Tar. The days are TasT, She did noT learn, To Tollow her guiding sTar. Far down below in The Ocean's deep, l-ler hull is noT aT resT. Sh,e's buT a babe now TasT asleep, In her new discovered nesT. GreaT TaThoms There, she Tells her Tale OT a baTTle she has losT. And high above, blows hard a gale And The cold moon brings The T rosT. The rocks ThaT line our rugged shores, IT They could speak, would Tell, OT ships ThaT baTTle endless wars, Then lose and driTT To hell. The rnoon above, The guarTer moon The winds ThaT blow on highg Could Tell us Tales, buT noT Too soon, OT ships ThaT TighT and die. The gulls on wing ThaT venTure Tar, See lives ThaT TighT in vain. And see our ships sail 'cross The bar, NoT To reTurn again. Through Thickening Tog Through hell and sTorm They driTT To seas beyond. Our love They carry deep and warm, From dusk To breaking dawn. The days are Tull, The nighTs are long, Since ThaT gallanT ship wenT down. She's resTing now in The ocean's Throng. A Queen wiThouT a crown. ..N. K. lv1cNABB

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HIENHNU NNNIESI WINNERS We We We We We We We We We We We DOROTHY McGUIRE, BILL PHILIPS, NORMA MCNABB F I R S T P R I Z E AMERICAN YOUTH are The parTy-mad, Iaughinq youThg are The iiTTerbug, crooner-crazed cIan1 are The plaid-shirTed, T-shirTed, Levi wearers, The wrinIcIe-socIced, sIoppy, above-The-Icnee-sIcirTed7 are American YouThI are TheTeaTher-brained, unThinI4ing youThg are The slap-happy, peace-iIIusioned Throngg are The do-noThing, soTT-muscIed coIce drinI4ers, The Model A owners, The blowers oT horns: are American YouThI are The mass-minded, gullible youThq are The Time-wasTing, seIT-cenTered brood, are The sIang-making, auTograph hunTers, The movie-going, Tad crazy, comic sTrip readers, We are American YouThI We We We We are The bIood-spiIIing, warrior youThg are The pIane-TIying, peace-planning group! are The classless Democracy buiIders, The voice oT Tomorrow, now hushed in a prayer: are American YouThI -DOROTHY IvIcGUIRE

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THIRD PRIZE WAR IS A I-IERO'S GAME I arrived aT The TronT wiTh TwenTy-nine oTher men iusT Two hours ago. Already we were geTTing our bapTism OT Tire. An English arTiIIery baTTery OT ThirTy pieces had open Tire on us. This same baTTery was responsible Tor our being here. IT had killed TiTTy men in iTs IasT assauIT. We new recruiTs lay TlaT in The Trenches like so many scared puppies. The veTerans looked aT us as if To say, You poor, piTiTul Tish. You should be home wiTh your mommiesf' The veTerans knew when a shell was coming Their way, buT we didn'T. This had caused many deaThs among green soldiers. I look slowly around me. To my IeTT is KesTer, a Tormer school maTe, crying like a baby. To my righT is I-IardT. I-Ie is noT scared. I-Ie was always our leader aT school. FarTher up The line lies small Welding. Though smaller and younger yeT Than The resT OT us, he had Taken his Training beTTer Than any Two OT us. DownI comes a sudden shouT. A shell is coming our way. The screech is louder Than The resT. I press myselT hard againsT The ground. My hearT is beaTing hard, my Temples are Throbbing, I wanT To geT up and run, I wanT To scream-. The ground awakes and shivers, dirT is Thrown over me as The shell hiTs up The line a way. I hear a hideous scream. IT Turns my sTomach. I am aTraid To look. We had beTTer geT a docTor Tor This man, Corporal. I-Iell no. I-Ie's Too Tar gone. LeT him die. LeT him die! You can'T d- I sTop. IT is Welding. I-Ie is lying There wiTh his guTs hanging ouT OT a hole you could puT your head in. The shell had hiT abouT TiTTeen TeeT Trom him. A large piece OT shrapnel has ripped The hole in him. Poor Welding. I-Ie was a young warrior. I-Ie wanTed so badly To TighT. Ach! Already I'm Tired OT This damned warl I have been aT The TrOnT Two monThs now, and Teel like a veTeran. I know when To duck when shells are coming now. IT is my Turn To piTy The greenhorns as TwenTy came up Ias+ week. Seven are dead already. To see men die, To me, is as seeing flies die To housewives. I have seen much bloodier messes Than Welding more Than once and iT doesn'T boTher me. I am Torced To believe if your number is up you'Il go. IT is guieT Today. The only sound is The disTanT rumble OT shellTire and an occasional shoT Trom a sniper. The men are lying around delousing Their cIoThes and Talking or are playing skaT. The usual Talk is TloaTing. Max RinehardT is Talking OT his girl in Munich. AlberT Kropp is Talking OT his wiTe. FriTz Mueller is Talking OT whaT he Thinks are The beTTer Things OT liTe. This is Too good To lasT. FrogsI They're aTTackingI To your sTaTions on The double! I leap To my machine gun. My Two assisTanTs land righT behind me. The beIT is quickly TasT in place. I swing The machine gun around and Tor The TirsT Time, really see our enemy. By This Time They have sTarTed Tiring, I squeeze The Trigger. The buIIe+s beaT a rapid TaToo OT deaTh on The oncoming Frenchies. I sweep The gun back and TorTh. The Frenchies shriek and scream as bulleTs Thud home. I haTe myselT Tor having To do This buT realize iT is They or we. A grenade is Tossed inTo our piT. One OT The men kicks iT ouT, buT Too laTeg iT explodes. The man falls backwards wiTh a gaping hole in his head. The Frenchies are hard upon us now. One leaps inTo The piT and rams a bayoneT in my oTher man's Tace. I kill him wiTh my Luger. The machine gun is useless now. I sTop anoTher wiTh Three shoTs Trom The Luger. I accounT Tor a Third sTill. Then They are upon me. One swings aT me wiTh The buTT OT his riTle. A kniTe To The hiIT in his guTs sTops him. A blow Trom behind sends me inTo unconsciousness. I awake in a Tield hospiTal. A Tall, dark Englishman sTands by my bedside. Well, I-Ieinie, iT's all over Tor you. Did They Take Over our line? I ask. Yes, IT was a bloody baTTIe Though. Frenchmen did The TighTing, you know. I know. Where will They send me now? To a prison camp. You're ouT OT The war now. I'm ouT OT iT now. Such sweeT words. I Thank God Tor iT. For The TirsT Time in monThs I'm happy. Yes sir, This Boche is beginning To live anew. -BILL PHILIPS