Girls High School - Yearbook (Reading, PA)

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There's a little too much of the 'We'lI show you how. We'll win this little war for you.' The part that we have so far taken in the actual battles has not been overplayed by the newspapers so far as we have seen those accounts, but you folks have exaggerated them. For instance, we are given credit for win- ning the great victory on the line from Soissons to Rheims. Now, on that whole front the troops that took actual part in the battles, that did the fighting, that won those great scraps, were divided fairly, and only fifteen per cent. were Yanks. Eight-tive per cent. of the lighting was not done by us. We boys are making good as well as we know how, but we know too well how really small an actual share we have, how much belongs to those glorious French and the others. But don't you folks back home get too chesty and let the notion run away with you that America is doing it. She is doing some, a little, yes, but our Allies are taking the brunt of it. Our losses are nothing in comparison wth theirs. We shall probably take a greater part in it later and will have to supply the balance that will tip the scales, but even then, when we do that, don't let us forget what has gone before in those awful four years. This is only one of many thousands of letters of this kind, sent to America during the last four years. Although our boys are too proud to admit it, we know only too well the long months of hardships through which they have fought. Not only is their unselfishness shown by the tone of their letters, but also by their actions. Their thoughts are not of themselves, and the great opportunities they are sacrificing, but of those at home, especially mother. They think only of her sacrifices, and are happy in their thoughts that some day they will go back to her. A very pathetic story, which brings out clearly the unselfish spirit of our Yanks is told by Stephane Lauzanne, a member of the French Commission to the United States: It was in 1915, near Verdun. Overlooking the entire plain of Woevre was a terrible hill, the name of which will always be spelled in blood- red letters in this war's history. It was the Eparges hill, where a heroic hand-to-hand struggle had been progressing for one year. The right side of the hill belonged to the Germans, who held on to it, the left side was held by the French and Americans, and the top belonged to no one, or rather it belonged to the dead who covered il, and whom it had not even been possible to bury. That hill was the terror of all who had to go up. One evening, a few miles from there, I met a young soldier walking along, a flower in his buttonhole, gayly singing a song. He seemed so happy that I could not help stopping him. 'Why are you so cheerful?' I asked. 'Next week, sir,' was the answer, 'I am going home to my mother in America. I have been assigned to train some of my countrymen to fight, and the camp to which I have been commissioned happens to be on the outskirts of my home town. Probably you think I am a slacker for being so happy to get home, but I assure you, sir, such is not the case. I am happy, but it is because of mother. I know it will cheer her good heart to see me once again and know that I am well and happy. But for her, I should have declined the appointment and stayed on this side to fight with my com- rades. Tomorrow I shall spend another forty-eight hours taking the Eparges trench, and then I shall go.' He gave me his name and the name of his cap- tain, who happened to be a friend of mine, and off he went lightly singing his song. By chance I met his captain a week later, and, as the lad with his song and cheerfulness had awakened my interest and sympathy, I asked about him. I told the captain the story I had heard and then asked, 'How is he? Has he gone hom yet?' 'Yes,l replied the captain, sadly. 'He has gone home. He went West the day before yesterday at Eparges? He then told me the sad 16

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Further on we can see huts of various kinds, rudely constructed and float- ing that wonderful flag of mercy-the Red Cross. The first sight which greets our eyes on entering the hut is a band of queenly figures dressed in the costume of the Mothers of the World. They move back and forth so quickly that one might mistake them for an apparitioii. They are the well-known Red Cross nurses and a God-send to our boys over there. Next in view is a crowd of Yanks, playing their favorite game of Swat the Kaiser. Every one seems extremely excited, and those poor unfortunates who are unable to sit up are greatly amused by this little vaudeville show. Their smiling faces tell us how happy they are, but behind each smile gleams a ray of hope. Their main ambition is to get on the Hring line once again in order to take revenge for their comrades who have fallen. Does this not show wonderful spirit? Could you be happy after going through the hardships of the battlefield and being brought back, minus an arm or leg or with a partly shattered face? Could you smile after having seen your comrades fall beside you and pass into the 'Great Beyond? Could you go back and suffer the same hardships all over again? A few more miles of imaginary travel brings us to the trenches. The sights we see here do not bring to our minds memories of the dead or wounded, or of the devastation of the soil, but of mud-everlasting mud. lt is not the kind the American children use in playing bakers, but is a greenish, yellowish slimy mixture. ln these trenches our boys have lived and fought for one or two months at a time, in mud. There seemed to be no escape from it, no corner where they could be free of the oozy horror. But months of 'troughing it are easily borne, when, after that, if only for a few days, one can return to civilized life and all that it meansg just as the crossing of a desert is rendered tolerable by the oases that break its barren solitude. This was the feeling of every American boy who fought in our trenches since 1917. The dreams of a little hut, where they would be sent after the battle, enabled them to bear their sufferings without complaint. Even the thoughts of a removal, no matter where, were enough to enable them to go through the hardships which might have otherwise eventually crushed their spirit. Everywhere along the front, a few miles behind the trenches, thousands of delightful shelters have sprung up against the mud like so many oases, and in the midst of all the ruins and desolation of nature numbers of small huts are to be seen bearing the familiar letters of Y. M. C. A. Great shouts and applauses from within tell us that our boys are having a good time and are happy, that their spirits have not been crushed, that they are recovering from the great nervous strain of the battlefield, and that they are once again enjoying a few of the many home comforts. The Y huts, as the Yanks call them, are homes for the time being, and are the places which make them think they are again back in the good old U. S. A. lt is while in these huts that those long, interesting letters are written to home folk and friends, which show the unselfisli and modest motives our boys have. Their spirit is one to be admired, for it is not to themselves that they give the credit of victory, but rather to the French and English. ln a letter to his home folks one Yank writes: We men have been disappointed in the forte of the home letters that have recently come. They strike the note as if the Yanks are doing all the fighting, as if the Americans were winning the warg as though the tremendous sacrifices of the past four years of the Allies are all to be forgotten. 15

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story of how a shot had caught the boy full in the chest. He fell and death came almost immediately. His captain was beside him, trying, as he lay there moaning, to soothe and comfort. 'Be brave, my boy,' he said. And the answer came in short breaths, 'l am brave, but would be still braver if I could have made mother happy by a visit before I died.' - Although we can never forget the spirit shown by our boys, we are ready, now that the cannons have ceased roaring and some of our boys are coming home, to forget the horrors of this war. But some we can never blot out. Sweet memories of the heroic dead will forever be in our minds. Song of peace, nor battle's roar, Ne'er shall break their slumbers more, Death shall keep his solemn trust, Earth to earth, and dust to dust. Dear, yet living, their patriotism, sacrifice, endurance, patience, faith and hope can never die. Loved and lamented, but immortal! Paeans for the living, dirges for the dead! Their work is done, not for an hour, a day, a year, but for all timeg not for fame or ambition, but for the oppressed of all lands, for civilization and Christianity, for the welfare of the human race through time and eternity. RED CROSS CHRISTMAS DRIVE fb ,nl fi M ft i tt 4 ttf 'til In the Red Cross Christmas Roll Call drive the girls of the High School took an active part, and in so doing helped to make the drive a great success. They went to work with a will and made success their goal. The drive was carried on one week from December 16 to 23. The girls of the High School were made official collectors, wearing a red hat, on the front of which was a red cross on a white circle, and an arm band on which Xmas Roll Call was printed. ' Through the kindness and patriotism of the principal, the girls were allowed to go out to canvass during study periods. In this way they accom- plished a great deal of work during school hours. The girls were given half of the city to canvass, and before the week was up had succeeded in canvass- ing the entire district and had realized a good total. 17