Peabody High School - Peabody Yearbook (Pittsburgh, PA)

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24 ' - THE PEABODY pital for shell-shock patients. He took a puff at the fag I had given him, cleared his throat, and began. Our captain had ordered a gas attack. After the fumes of the destruc- tive gas had passed away, the order was given to charge. The American Marines held their first trench and they could fight! With little eagerness our men went over the top. I was leading the company since our captain had received a slight wound. I shall never forget that moment when with the lust of blood in my veins I went over the first American trench. The battle was nip and tuck but the Yanks would not give way. We charged and counter-charged but it availed us nothing. I raged at the useless effect of the attack and cursed my men who were everywhere falling back. Finally I rallied them together for one more at- tempt. This time we succeeded and held the Americans in a hand-to-hand encounter. An American Marine still wearing his gas mask was cutting down my men everywhere. God-but he fought! One after another they fell before the onslaught of this young fellow. Enraged I sprang at him. He parried my blows with cool skill. Then suddenly he stopped and fell back as if struck. He held up his hand and tried to stop me. I sneered at him and cursed him, taking advantage of his hesitation. I struck at him with my swordfuriously. He did not return my blows. I could not understand. He left an opening. With all the strength I had in my body I sprang at his throat. Once, twice I struck and he fell, his life blood ebbing out. As he fell he pulled OE his gas mask and- The blood rushed to my head. I thought my brain would burst. I fell to my knees beside the body-for-O God I-he was my brother! My brother who three years since had sailed to America with my widowed mother. The fighting men seemed to stagger before my eyes. All grew black. I fell into a dead faint where you found me and took me prisoner. Such are the fortunes of war. Your American general was right when he said, 'War is hell', and that is the place for men who make war to satiate their thirst for conquest. .... .O..?.....-T.i THE BROTHER YEARS Helen Muchnic It was a cold winter night. The ground was covered with snow that sparkled like crystals where the rays of the numerous electric lights fell upon it. It was evidently a night of festivity: every house glittered and shone in the brilliancy of its illuminationg every street presented an animated as- pect despite the late hour. People walked to and fro as though it were mid- day. The restaurants and theaters were crowded and every other place of amusement was alive with a joyous throng. The enjoyment seemed to be at

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THEPEABODY 23 clasping his hands behind his back, and staring out into the darkness, always ending with the cry, 'The Damned Thing!' It began to haunt me, and in the middle of the night I would awake and look thru the window for 'The Damned Thingl' But, strange as it may seem, Biscuit appeared none the worse for his experiences, for, in the morning, he would say nothing of the matter altho I could detect an anxiousiand furtive look in his eyes that suggested worry and uneasiness. These fits began in the middle of April. They continued regularly until the early part of May when the reaction came. VVe had just finished a hard day's work at the mine, and both of us were well tired out. When we reached the hut, I did not take time to eat supper, but threw myself upon the bed and would have fallen asleep, had I not caught a glimpse of Biscuit moving suspiciously about the room. I could easily watch what he was do- ing without being seen myself, so I determnied to know once for all the reasons for his strange actions. As usual, he began pacing up and down the room. ,His whole body shook, and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. CHe was as one dumb.j The moans this evening were unusually terrifyinig, for they would rise and fall like the swelling resonance of an organ note. But something singular happened during the pantomime, which I had not noticed before. He un- expectedly turned his eyes from the window and cautiously looked around the room as if to see if anyone were watching him. Then, satisfied that he was unnoticed, he bent his head downward, and gazed at something. I thought this out of the ordinary, but I had no time to come to a conclusion, for, before I could realize that had happened, he uttered a wild, shriek and pointed toward the window. As he pointed he moved backward, and, as tho some weird creature of the night were about to pounce upon him, he cried 'The Damned Thingl' and fell lifeless upon the floor. wk is wk :sf 4: . At this point in the story, I saw my friend turn his eyes toward the door. It slowly opened, and as I turned to see who had entered, I noticed a, peculiar smile play about his lips. Suddenly, with a hearty laugh, he jumped up from his chair, and cried out: VVhy hello, Biscuit! I was just telling my friend here how you re- hearsed for that play at the Miners' Ball. s--n 1-O- -. THE FORTUNES OF WAR Albert Kabet Never before had I realized how terrible, how hellish war really is. As I listened to the tale of this German I realized that war, besides en- shrouding in a dense fabric the hopes of civilization, takes fiendish delight in visiting that upon individuals which surpasses destruction in awfulness. I repeat to you the story he told me that day. It was in a convalescent hos-

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THE PEABODY as 25 its height when lo! down the street came an old man. He was not dressed fashionably and seemed to take no part in the general conviviality. He dragged along painfully, carrying a heavy book under his arm and support- ing his feeble footsteps by a long staff on which he leaned. NVhat was most noticeable about his person, however, was his huge boots. They were old, worn and were smeared with blood-human blood so that every step the old man took left its mark on the white snow. ln this way the old man tramped along leaving his scarlet track behind him until seemingly exhausted, he threw himself down on the steps of a large building in front of which a great crowd had gathered. No one seemed to notice him and so he rested undisturbed. But why were there so many people in front of the building? The attraction was a large bill board on which in large red characters was printed a long para- graph under the heading War News. Everyone seemed interested in this notice with the exception of the old man. Yet, strange to say, he had more to do with it than anyone else. He it was who was responsible for it. He it was who had posted it up. He was the Old Year. 1917. The Year that will come down in history, as a year of sorrow, of blood, of mingled disaster and success. He was now going away and glad indeed were the blood-weary people to welcome the New. Down the street now came a fine young man. He held himself erect. walked resolutely, and looked around him with an expression of mingled in- terest and triumph. He was the New Vear, 1918, coming to see the old before his departure. He approached the old man and sat down beside him. Here was a picture of lost hope, withered courage, broken promise, misery, age, side by side with hope, youth, energy, strength, spirit, vigor, animation. The New Year first addressed the Old. Brother, said he, I have come to talk with you before you leave in order to learn your experiences and to profit by them during my future reign. If the old saying be true, rejoined the Old Year, that one can profit by another's mistakes, you will indeed be benefitted by an account of my trials. See, my hands, my boots, my whole person is smeared with human blood which even the tide of generations will notrbe able to wash away. Here the Old Year pulled out his enormous book from under his arm. This is the 'Record of Years', he said leafing through it. Here is the page on which you will write the history of your reign, and this is the one on which I have kept a memorandum of mine. See, it is written with blood, yes, human blood! See this paragraph, the bloodiest of all? It tells of the barbarous murder of innocent women and helpless children? This other one relates the story of intrigue-treacherous intrigue--which has broken up a great empire and made it helpless, an empire known as Russia. These lines tell of the various victories and disasters on the Western Front. Small victories paid for by the lives of thousands. Petty triumphs whose price was tears of mothers! Not much these, not much! chuckled the Old Year. Now look at this paragraph. It is the most glorious of allg it tells of the entrance of the greatest country in the world, the United States, into the war. This country, my brother, is the hope of future generations and it is the most pre- cious charge that I confide to you. Take care of it, brother, and preserve