Milford High School - Oak Lily and Ivy Yearbook (Milford, MA)

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THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. 21 ing of intense relief. What had happened? He reviewed the last ten minutes in his benumbed brain and all he could remember was Bill’s advice: ‘ Watch your step!” He laughed hysterically as he heard the roaring of the mad whirl¬ pool and the groans of dying men. Suddenly Ray felt the importance of his position and he issued curt orders. The men, chilled to the bone in the tomblike cold, silently wrapped themselves in blankets from the nearby cots. The lights became dim. The air became poiso n and black water seeped in, covering their prison floor. Scanty rations were doled out. The insufferable gloom and iciness of the narrow room bore down upon the imprisoned men. In the rank, sickening air an over-powering thirst clutched Preston’s throat and he cautiously leaned over to take the water jar. An arm shot out with surprising agility and grasped his pale hand. “Go easy—that’s all we have!” A sudden determination for revenge took hold of Preston’s dull mind and lifting the jar in his trembling hands he drank long and refreshingly. “You cur!” Ray snarled angrily as he sought to wrest the jar from Preston’s hands. The jar splashed into the muddy pool and the precious drops of water mingled with the icy sea. Thirst tore at the throats of the other five men, and all pinned their waning hopes on five small steel cylinders of condensed oxygen. Hours that seemed days passed in the bitter agony of a fight for life and three of the oxygen cylinders were consumed. Preston groaned and writhed on his cot and his weak body shook visibly in the uncertain light. A piercing cry rent the chilled air and five men uttered an inward prayer for their dead. The two seamen gave up the fight and rolled into the depths. Three men fixed their glazed eyes on the one remaining cylinder and only one thought reached each mind: “I must have it!” Another groan echoed in the desolate chamber, and two men faced death alone. Preston still uttered moans of agony, and his whole body was twisted with the torture of his breathing. Ray, crawling on his stomach in the icy water, reached the oxygen cylinder. One twist and he could breathe with ease! If he could only turn the valve, he might be saved. A groan rang in his ears. He clasped the cylinder in his arms and dragged it to the floor. A moan of intense agony from Preston broke the oppressive silence. Ray glanced at Preston’s face, ghastly pale in the dim chamber. Just one twist and Ray would be saved! He dragged the cylinder nearer to him and Bill’s words rang in his ears. “Watch your step!” He smiled weakly and struggled to bring the tube of the cylinder nearer his mouth and nose. Preston clutched at the empty air. A feeble whisper came to Ray’s ears. He passed the tube into Preston’s hand wildly grasping the rank air. Preston’s grip weakened, and as Ray turned the valve, the tube dropped into the dark water. A hiss, followed by the gurgle of compressed air suddenly released under deep water. Two pairs of blue eyes met as the last hope of life vanished. Moments passed. Hours. The clang of a diver’s hammer, beating against the iron sides of the S-40, echoed ominously in the still, dark grave. Marguerite Taylor, ’28.

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20 THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. of hope; but in this Broad America of God and man, where the forest is only now falling, or yet to fall, and the green earth opened to the inundation of em¬ igrant man from all quarters of oppression and guilt; here, where not a family, not a few men, but mankind shall say what shall be; here, we ask, ‘Shall it be War, or shall it be Peace?’ So it is for the great United States to determine between the issue of war and peace. For the progress and benefit of our country, let us hope that the decision will be—Peace! Mary Burns, ’ 28 . UNSUNG GLORY. A sign creaked dismally in the wind. The crunch of hurried footsteps on the snow-covered sidewalk suddenly halted. The glare of a street-light shone on two dark forms. “I tell you, Ray, submarines are dangerous!” “Yes, Bill, but—I love them!” “How far does the tryout take you, Ray?” the first voice continued. The younger figure straightened, and there was a defiant ring in his voice as he answered, “Provincetown, Bill!” The first speaker smiled at the boyish eagerness, but as his thoughts deep¬ ened, he frowned. “Lad,” he said, “watch your step tomorrow!” The younger man laughed and bade his companion a hurried farewell. It was not until the next afternoon in the S-40, that Bill’s words came back to him: “Lad, watch your step!” He thought to himself that Bill Tyndall was becoming effeminate, and laughed to himself. He glanced at the young torpedoman and noticed the weak chin and shift¬ ing gaze in his eyes. The face seemed vaguely familiar to him, and later he found out that the man had been a classmate of his at Annapolis. He recognized him now as Earl Preston. He recalled the quarrels that he and Preston had had over seemingly trivial matters and he felt instinctively that these quarrels would naturally have an effect on their friendship during the trip. They were well on their way before Preston recognized Ray. He had been leaning over to adjust a bolt near the torpedo tubes and as he straightened up, his eyes met Ray’s. A knowing light gleamed for one brief instant as he brushed by his superior officer. However, Ray forgot the animosity which existed between them in the de¬ lightful thrill of being in this throbbing submarine below the surface of the choppy sea. His reverie was interrupted by the whistle of the speaking tube. 1 he words of the seaman in the conning tower came in startled gasps: “Ship ahead, sir! Watch your st-!” A crash. A horrible ripping sound and the noise of frigid waters pour¬ ing through the gaping wound in the submarine’s battery room. Stifled by the chlorine fumes from the brine flooded cells of the storage batteries, Ray struggled with the wheel and valve in vain. His muscles were like strings. He pushed forward, knee deep in the icy water to the forward torpedo- room, followed by the three torpedo-men and two seamen. He knew he was safe for a time in this steel-girt cell and he breathed the purer air with a feel-

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22 THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. THE IMMENSITY OF SPACE. August 8, 1926. Dear Fred:— Remember this morning? You came into my office and told me to relieve myself by telling my troubles to you. “What,” you asked me, “is the matter with you lately? You’re jumpy. You’re irritable. You’re grouchy. You don’t come to see your old friends any more. Can’t you tell me, Bob? It may help, getting it off your chest, old man.” And I answered, “No, I can’t tell even you, Fred.” “But even so,” you told me, “you mustn’t let this hypochondria go on. It retards your work. Talk to me. Talk anything,—philosophy, law, divorce, love. Talk all that hellish frenzy right out of your system. Tell me about the Harrow- by case. Anything, only talk.” To this I made a general observation. “People don’t like to talk of their troubles, and if they have troubles, they can talk of them or of nothing.” “Then you won’t talk? Its for your own good, Bob.” “I’m afraid not, this morning.” “You ought to tell something to some of your friends. We’re worrying. Hang it, Bob—“you were suddenly angry—“you’re not the only one who has troubles. Other people either don’t display theirs or they display them with half-decent reticence.” Something in the way you said this made me look up. I had only to look at your twisted mouth and brooding eyes, Fred, to know that there was some¬ thing bothering you, that you had troubles far greater than mine. “Sit down, Fred.” I tried to be gentle but decidedly firm with you. “Now, what’s itching you?” You smiled weakly at my unwonted use of slang, and ineffectually you pro¬ tested that nothing was bothering you. But I insisted that there was something, and finally you broke down and cried—remember? You cried, Fred, like a baby, and finally you confessed to me your tragic affair with Judith. I admitted that I had been out of touch with affairs and that I had heard nothing of this. I was all sympathy for you, Fred, and I still am. Having unburdened your heart, you seemed quite calm. It was to be ex¬ pected that you would be relieved, but you were so calm! It seemed unnatural after the sad tale that you had unfolded. It was ghastly. And I questioned you; don’t you remember, Fred? 1 How, I asked, “can you appear so undisturbed now, after the recital of your tribulations? How have you been so calm al l these months?” And, rather dramatically, you answered my latter question. The sky, Bob,” you exclaimed, and you repeated it. “The sky! Whenever I become oppressed with the world, with financial difficulties, or with my greatest source of mental suffering, I go out and look up at the heavens, I contemplate the vastness of this universe, the immensity of space, and the thought naturally follows, What a maggot I am!’ My troubles drift away to nothingness. I was interested. I advise you,” you told me, “to try that method in attempting to remove this nameless oppression of yours.” I hen you left. You remember all this, don’t you, Fred? Is it not as I have set it down? Well, I have followed your advice, Fred. At seven o’clock tonight, I ventured into my wife’s little garden, and, alone there in the dark, I regarded the