Newport High School - Live Wire Yearbook (Newport, ME)

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THE LIVE WIRE and dying, they had no chance to kick about the rationing and what was go- ing on at home. They had to fight and like it. So would those same people at home have fought, if they had been there with the soldiers. L. Chadwick. A PRISONER It is strange how a mother can re- member incidents of years past- little things that have clung in one's mind as if they were of yesterday. It still seemed a hideous nightmare, that telegram from the war department which read: We deeply regret to inform you that your son, Pfc. Ivan Tower, is reported missing in action over Italy, February the 14th, in the year nine- teen hundred and forty-four. Yes, a fragile piece of paper, but holding words which could tear down a secure basis for future happiness. Ivan, her son, a perfect duplicate of Big Ivan, who had been killed in a plane crash carrying mail from Chi- cago to Los Angeles, when Ivan was but a baby. It had been born right in young Ivan-this love for planes- the same feeling he possessed when he was flying or piloting a plane as his dad had had. Now young Ivan was gone. Per- haps he was a prisoner in a Japanese or German prison camp, or perhaps he was lost in a desert 3 the sun blind- ing him, and he himself suffering from the agony of thirst. There were many possibilities. Must she always be tortured with the terrible dread of the unknown, or would some word come to her of his capture or his death-anything to release her from this feeling of suspense-of waiting? I 'Then it did come, a dirty, torn, but readable, piece of paper from her be- loved boy, a letter full of hope and longing, of loneliness, but not of fear. It read as follows: March 26, 1944. Dear Mom, I realize you're probably wonder- ing about me. I'm fine, even though I am a prisoner of the Germans. Yes, Germans, Mom, not J aps. I have God to thank for that. Joe wasn't as lucky, Mom. The Japs have him. At least the Germans are human to some ex- tent. I had your picture in my wallet, Mom, when I was captured. They let me keep it. I looked at you last night, Mom, and you smiled, a smile full of hope and courage, and it gave me new strength. Your lips moved, and you said, I'm praying for you, son. Soon you'll be home. Never lose faith or courage. I'm always with you. A tear slipped down your cheek. I couldn't bear to see you cry, Mom, so I placed your picture beneath my pil- low, close by me always. That's the way I want it. Keep praying for me, Mom, and I'll come home some day when it's over. I know Mom, I feel it. Your loving son, Ivan. Yes, son, I'm praying. Some day you'll come home, the same small lad of yesterday, but with an older face, worn by hardships suffered, and blood, sweat, and love shed on the field of battle-love for comrades never to return, and blood and sweat for revenge paid the enemy for those like Joe. I'l1 wait-I'll pray. The day will come-SOON. . D. Soper, '46. l

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NEWPORT HIGH SCHOOL his arms around me. You're just the girl we want. You just come along with us without making any fuss, or we'll have to use forceful means. They led me behind some buildings and across a vacant lot. A dim light showed from an old house. I knew they were taking me there. Sure enough, they led me, or rather pulled me, into the spooky place. By now I was so frightened that I could hardly walk. Three other equally evil-looking men greeted me. In the center of the otherwise empty room were a long table and several boxes. They looked up at me saying, Oh, boy, it isn't going to be as dead to- night as I thoughtf' Oh, shut up, said the guy hold- ing me, and help me get her ready for the noose. For the noose ! I shouted. Yes, for the noose, said the other. We'd better explain boys, so as to ease her mind. Well, we are black marketers, he said. Every stranger that comes into town we hang so not to interfere with our business. We don't like to take chances. I had an awful struggle, but five men being stronger than one girl, they succeeded in getting me tied to the scaffold. How that rope choked me! Just as they were letting me drop to break my neck, I woke, with my neck aching from leaning over the back of my seat as the conductor was saying, N ext Stop, Boston. That is what trains and ration books will do to you on a busy day. Ethel Henderson. I INVASION The Americans were just invading an enemy held island. As they step- ped foot on land, the fight really be- gan. Shells were bursting every- where, bullets were going over their heads and hitting the-ground in front of them, and planes, tanks, and trucks could be heard all around them. There was only a small group of soldiers, but what there were knew what they were there for, and knew that it would be either they or the enemy that would be lying dead on the ground after the battle. The night was dark and murky, and the ground was muddy and rough, yet these soldiers cared for nothing. Their job was to take the island and to blast the J aps out of the world forever. These soldiers took no chances, for, if they did, it would mean certain death. As they advanced, the battle got worse, and instead of its looking like night, it looked more like day with bursting of shells and the firing of tracer bullets. Every once in awhile a bullet would find its mark, and an American soldier would die for his country. Some were wounded, yet they fought on until the last drop of blood dropped from their bodies. A soldier, while advancing, got both legs blown off by a bomb. Immediately he shot a Jap Zero. Then, as the Zero came down in fiames, he died from lack of blood and weakness. Many died this same way, yet when the battle ended, the Americans had captured the island with a loss of men and supplies far less than that of the enemy. ' While these soldiers were fighting l

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NEWPORT HIGH SCHOOL THE RETURN OF A HERO ' Pamela could hardly wait until Saturday. Here it was already Thurs- day. She and the whole town expect- ed John home on Saturday. There was going to be a formal dance in his honor that night, and, like most girls, Pamela didn't know what she was go- ing to wear. After much fussing and shopping, she found a dress and the necessary things for a formal. Of course, everybody in town knew she was John's girl friend, but Pamela knew all the other girls would be after him. Pamela was certain of this, because every girl in town was shopping. Saturday morning came with a gleam. Pamela had her hair waved, and everything was ready for the evening by 2:00 P. M. They expect- ed John on the 3:00 P. M. train. On her way to the train she saw Patsy Jo standing beside the drug- store. Patsy Jo and Pamela never got along very well, because Patsy J o wanted John. Pamela went over to Patsy Jo and spoke to her, Hi, Jo! What ya doing? Patsy J 0 answered in a very digni- fied manner, Not much right now, but in a few minutes I'm going to the station to see J ohnnyf' Pamela tried not to seem hurt, but she had a very large lump in her throat. How about coming with me? I'm going that way. Patsy Jo turned to her laughing, I'd rather not. Pamela walked on to the station. The whole town of Winterport was out. The band was playing, and everyone was talking at once. It seemed ages before the train rolled around the curve. Everyone pushed l Pamela aside as John got off the train. Pamela started for the road, because she thought John had forgot- ten her with everyone else congratu- lating him. With tears in her eyes, she stumbled down the road. Someone called her name, and she turned around. It was John. He ran quick- ly to meet her and said: Why the tears ? Pamela wiped her eyes and replied, Tears of joy. John never knew the real reason for the tears. Pamela knew now that no one could take John from her, not even Patsy Jo. Joyce Sheridan. DOORWAYS ' What is a doorway? Webster says, a gate, or entrance of a house, means of access. I prefer the latter. I prefer to see something more, to let my imagination create something more vital than the physical proper- ties of a hinged portion of a sidewall created to provide entrance into a building. To the outsider approaching a large white house with magnificent green lawns, the massive oak door with the polished brass knocker rep- resents a barrier which only his im- agination can penetrate. But should that doorway be that of our home, we wildly rush upon it and throw it wide to greet our loved ones within. To the shut-in, a doorway, may provide the only means of contact with life outside. A tap on the door will instantly bring a smile of expec- tant warmth-of sociability. To a prisoner, a doorway would be a hated shackle that represents only a means of escape to freedom. To the l