Petersburg High School - Missile Yearbook (Petersburg, VA)

Text from Pages 1 - 140 of the 1945 volume:

' .1 . V I PETERSBURG PUBLIC LIB 3001 9 00 063 599 1 Res Rm 050 M691 (1945) c. 1 Petersburg Public Library Petersburg, VA 23803-4257 Petersburg High School . The Missile. r-. ' ■ D� ' ■ � ’ jc.! ' . ' i li ' ■■� , r 4: • V. c « IV. L. N V 5 MAY NINETEEN HUNDRED AND PETERSBURG HIGH FORTY -FIVE SCHOOL PETERSBURG, VIRGINIA sSiiE p Vol. XXXIII PETERSBURG. VA., MAY, 1945 No. I TABLE OF CONTENTS Page Staff 3 On Graduation Rex Sater 4 Senior Pictures— Organizations Section. Poems Kathleen Lunsford 5 To An Old House The Hunt Autumn Matthew 27:45-6 Arundel Hinchliffe 7 The Spinning Wheel Marjorie Johnson 10 Mother ’s Mania Rex Sater 11 Thoughts Irma Blacker 12 “. . Like Telegraph Poles . .’’....Dolores Watson 13 Sons of The Cockade City Martha Lee Chambliss 15 The Ancient Tree Jeanne Beekhuis 17 Observations John Kinker, Jr. 18 Purposeless Good Morning Doubtful Glory for Taurus Beverly C. Cox 19 The Suit and The Potatoes.. ..Marjorie Johnson 21 Beauty Claiborne Cummins 26 Pansies Joyce Evely 27 In Memoriam 29 Thoughts on Reading the Casualty List Horace P. Bill 30 As Partee Told It Lynton Goulder 31 Clouds Alice Johnson 34 The Art of Stealing Watermelons Rodney Perkins 35 Grave and Gay Rex Sater 36 Vesper Ode to the Valiant Page “Around The World Away” 37 Fantasy John Kinker, Jr. 47 Sailing— I Martha Robinson 48 II Anne Robinson The Founding of The Missile Charles Edgar Gilliam, ’12 49 On Man and Nature .. Ellis Zuckerman 50 It’s Murder He Says Ed Barksdale 51 Cinquains: Last Night John Kinker, Jr. 53 Panhandler Joseph Lasala 53 Sleepy Head Gloria C. Melvin 53 A Tribute to Unknown Heroes Preston Hodges 54 Battle Jane Eanes 54 Every Night’s Not Hallowe’en. .Preston Hodges 55 The Warden Preston Hodges 57 Hurryl Hurry! Bob Baxter 58 233 Jefferson Street -Martha Lee Chambliss 59 Insomnia Jean Shepherd 61 Twilight Marjorie Johnson 62 The Lost Generation .. Elizabeth Edmunds 63 Second-Hand Textbooks David Ross 64 Hell’s Bells and Little Kittens Marjorie Johnson 65 Wind Bill Kellogg 67 The Music Box Jo Carol Thomas 68 Comfort, Please! Roberta Gould 70 Voyage Margaret Martin 71 Advertisements 72 Issued in May by the students of the Petersburg High School, Petersburg, Virginia. Subscription Rate: $1:00 a copy; 75c by advance subscription. Editor-in-Chief WILLIAM O. KELLOGG Assistant Editors MARTHA LEE GHAMBLISS BEVERLY C. COX MARJORIE JOHNSON IDELL WILENSKY H. ARUNDEL HINCHCLIFFE LYNTON GOULDER CURTIS WILLIAMS Business Staff Business Manager JANE EANES Assistants PRESTON HODGES DOROTHY ELLIOTT SELMA GOLDBERG IRMA BLACKER JANET HAZARD ARLENE DONOVAN CHRISTINE SHEPHERD STUART TALBOTT POWELL SEWARD WILBERT KEYS LAWRENCE SPENCER Circulation Staff Circulation Manager WILLIAM RITT Assistants JOHN HOWERTON JOE LYMAN MORRIS BROOKS MURRAY UNGER Art Staff Art Editor ED BARKSDALE Assistants MARIETTA PARKS NAN JONES DOLORES DUCK CHARLES SHEFFIELD BILLY JACKSON EDGAR GILLIAM Photograph Editor MABEL WILSON Assistants ANITA GEE GLORIA MELVIN Faculty Advisers: Literary MR. H. AUGUSTUS MILLER, Jr. Business MR. W. W. READE Circulation MISS CATHERINE JOLLY As we enter life’s struggle and strive for the crest, Judge us not harshly, O heaveris on high; For we are but sparrows fresh from the nest. Fresh from the mother who taught us to fly. And now we must leave the protective breast. The friendly advice, the help ever nigh. And deep in our hearts we cry out in vain, “Oh, to live it all over again!” Senior Section Jolin Ik ' ii.j ' liii Howe ' ' ton N.ui Cokci k’artt ' r Hcnia l.onias Moral; Doi olin I ' l anccs Dixon Iinogcne -oialon Siupiifrcl Helene ()(U 1 Deal Makolm Raiulolpli Mallory Henr Ra I hacker Mildred Ann Spain Mabel Katlileen Wibon Iianccs Ann Winstead Mabel Ernestine Stewart Howard Allen Parrish (.ordon booth Andrews, Jr. (.loria Claiborne Mehin Selma Eugenia Vt)iing Peterson Marjorie Allene John ' -on Merle Elizabeth Rulifant Herbert Ashton Williams Joseph Anthonv Lasala Marv X ' irginia Walsh Sarah Jane Eanes Anne Catherine Robinson Jeanne ' erne Beekhuis Rex Howard Saler Edward Guv Jones Alma Smith Gi ers Jane Anne Snead Margaret Lee Martin Roberta Donnan Gould James Banks Jones Edwin Jean Williams Marv Seaborn Williamson I h Ili.s Rae Bowman Jeanne Rulhn Brown Delores Lee Duck William Lancaster Hales Arlene Helen Donovan Robert Everette Baxter Sarah Barksdale Seay ■ 1 i Joseph Ridley Kinsey. Jr. Alice Elizabeth Johnson Gloria Lane Moore Jane Paige Reade Eugene V ' ' ison Tcndi |j William Oscar Rinker I Alice Bolling Wynn I Marietta Parks ; Mary Jeanette White ! Elfie Gertrude Greene ■ James .Albert Pot .1 Robert Ellison Smith Ruth Louise Birdsong Mart ' .Alice Pritchett Beverly Catherine Cox Martha Lee Chambliss Henry Baldwin Higby, Jr. Robert Alley Totty, Jr. Joyce Anne Westmoreland Janet A ' oung W ' aters Barbara Victoria Martin Alice June Thayer Walworth Lemuel Peebles, Jr. Frank Ray Currin Mary Anna Traylor Billie Joyce Nickelson Catherine Ardell Barnes Olivia Marionette Shelley Russell Clarke Bishop Clarence AVilbur Parrish Lucy Ardenia Martin Margaret Ruth Whittle Dorothy Mae Horak Edna Marion Witzel John Everette Andrews ' xn ' ' • Hain V.’ O. Kellogg Preston Hodges Kugene j on Bcir 7 ' lielina Louise Jons Roslvn Mae Brown Ruth Spottswood Wilkinson Sidney William Ciowles Preston Harwood Andrews Dorotln Cassen Llliott Marjorie Harris Marv l itricia Moore Virginia Lucille ’augli.in Horace Palmer Rill. Jr. Miles Spence Abbott. Jr. Marv Rosa Mann Prances Armond Bowman Martha Catherine Baker . rline Lave Holt I homas Emerson Neaves William Benjamin Ritt Helen Ercelle Puckett Idell Libb Wilensky Marc Elsie Livengood Mai Jean Moran Ellis Nathaniel Zuckerman Claiborne Harrell Cummins Jac(iueline May Blankenship Irma Ruth Blacker Doris Rita Horner Einilv Leigh Cunningham Dercl Rodney Perkins Naurice W ' ilton Kidd Ann (dll Moots Claribel Eilomena Rott Edna Christine Brock well Annie Gardner Deadmon Curtis Grav Snead Selma Louise Goldber ' ; Edw. Marcellus Barksdale, IV Rosa Leigh Jones Ceilous Lycurtis Widiains, Jr. Beatrice Joyce Motto Barbara Marie Pamplin Bernell Elizabeth Brockweli Richard August Zaruba Murray Unger Carolyn Roper Day Helen Joyce Eyely Catherine Elaine Wade Rose DcArlington Payne Carl Ivan Pirkle, Jr. John Duncan Woody Virginia Belle Dyson Sarah Frances Powers Dolly Theresa Elmore Annie Ruth Fry Stanley Morris Akin, Jr, Joseph Sylvester Bradshaw, Jr. Anita Virginia Gee Ruth Evelyn Smith Betty Jane Berger Lucille Frances Blankenship John Rochester Booth Robert Marion Willis Sadie Mae Perkinson Helen Marie Hamm Charlotte Jane Scherr Grace Elizabeth Sadler Louis Motto, Jr. Richard Edmonds Peterson Thelma Paige Wells Ethel Lee Aldridge Mildred Arlene Fotvler Olive Louise Doss Lawrence Jerome Spencer, Jr. BEST ATHLETE BOY BUCK kitchen BESTAEL AHOUNO BOY JOE KINSEY HAMDSOnCST . BOY WTTON KIDD BEST ALL n, ,«[ GIRL JANE EANL 5 PRETTIEST GIRL BERtLL BROCRWELl E SPIN ' ACH BEST ATHLETE GIRL ooiLT Elliott brainiest BOY LAWRENCE SPENCER goofiest GlRl. OARY VIRONIA WALSH i jOFIEST boy MURRAY UNGER Print ijjiil Assistant Print ipal Librarian Secrctar RiiaSEix B. Gill H. Augl ' Sius Miller, Jr. . nn Deal Galosh a Nina Clements First Row Elizabeth Halev Catherine JoHv Russell B. Gill H. Augustus Miller, Jr. Georgia Wood Mrs. Pauline C. Robertson Second Row Mae Mclvor Mrs. Bernir- Long Laura Meredith , nn Deal Galusha Frances Evans Dorothy Harrington Grace Herr Third Row Hazel Callahan Alary T. Perkins Lelia F. Huddle Margaret Lewis Katherine Jamison Mar Bailey F’ ' r cs Morgan K ’ ’ ' Blanton Fourth Row D. Pinckney Powers William W. Reade Mrs. Allene Worsfold Gladys E. Wilkinson Nina Clements Frances L Browning Floward Freas Howard S. Holmes Fifth Row Edward B. Smoot I. B. Pittman acuttij Editor-in-Chief Busiiiess Manager Circulation Manager Art Editor Faculty Advisers First Row Eel Barksdale Jane Eanes Bill Kellogg Mabel Wilson AVilliain Kitt Second Row Lvnton Goni. ' er Idell Vilensky Beverly Cox Martha Lee Chambliss Curtis . ' illianis Third Row I’ottell Seward Janet Hazard borctht Elliott Irma Blacker Selma Coldberg Will)ert Keys C.hristine Shepherd Arlene Donovan Bill Kellogg J ■ E Eanes William Rut El) Barksdale .... Mr. H. .Vlgiistus Miller, Jr. Mr. William W. Rl ade Miss Catherine Jollv Fourth Row Mr. William Reade Lawrence Sjsencer Stuart d ' albott Preston Hodges Johnnv Howerton Mu - ' -? ' - Lnger Joseph Lyman Morris Brooks Miss Catherine Jolly Fifth Row Leland Short ’ Elgin Campbell Nan Jones Mr. H. . ugtistits Miller, Jr. Marietta Parks Billy Jackson Charles Sheffield President Vice-President Secretary Treasurer President J ' ic e-President Secretary Treasurer Officers of the February Class Jane Eanes Joe Kinsey Ann Moots Janet Waters Officers of the June Class Biel Kellocg Sidney Cowles Oscar Wood Nan Carter Senior Committee Bill Kellogg ' ane Eanes .. ' hn Kinker •vathlef 1 Liuisforcl Henry High by Margaret Vhittle Fhst Row Jane Eanes I?ill Kellogg Second Row Janet Waters Ann Moots |oe Kinsey Sidney Cotvles Oscar M ' ood Nan Carter Third Row Kathleen Lunsford John Kinker Mr. H. Augustus Miller, Jr. Henry Higlty Margaret Whittle £.nLo% LCEXl a fit nioz donimitts: z::tud£nt ' ouriCLL President I’ri .Ki ' , Hodges Vice-President liuL Kellogg Secretary-Treasurer Eanes Faculty Adviser Mr. Ki ' ssell B. Gill Beginnii’i.; at the bottom of the 1’ and reading clc-kuise: Presto-i s Bill Kellogg Jane Eanes Joe Kinsey Harry Taylor Sidney Cowles Patsy Vilson Mr. Russell B Gill Lynton Goidder Rose Yarn Villiam Ritt Mary Kevan Lai Nan Carter President Curtis Snead Secretary Janet Waters Treasurer Gloria Melntn Faculty Adviser Miss Dorothy Harrington First Row Arline Holt Anita Mersel Juanita Cottrell Janet Waters Gloria Melvin Jane Reatle Selma Goldberg Mary I’ritchett Second Row Bettv Jane Bentz Doris Horner Mary Ha ice Martha Robinson J3orothy Vatson Idell Wilenskv Helen Hamm Delores Duck Jeannette ’hite Third Rojc Ann Porter Frances Moore Evelyn Howerton Ruby Talbott Kav Horkan Kitty Lee Pettus Irma Blacker Billy Jackson Dorothy Horak Alice Johnson Fourth Row Nancy ' I hompson ' ,, . nita Stewart Helen Foussekiy Bettv Snead Frances Winsie N nicy Jeniiitig: Mildred Joiins.jn Nancy C. lumpier Alice Mayes Bettv Jane sieyer Filth Row Catherine Baker Doro nv Elliott Ciarol 1 homas M.’dred Ann Spain Cl ' .arlene Gordon Marguerite Hubbard Patsy Pavne Barliara Saal Jean Phibbs Jean Young Peterson Sixth Row Sarah Frances Powers Jeanne Browne Emily Cunningham Cherry Millard Ecclyn Eades Pattie Ruth Lewis Louanne Love Peggy Worn mack Marie Bulifant Miss Dorothy Harrington Seventh Row Curtis Snead Howard Lum Wallace Davies Rex Sater , nn Bonner Jean Diinnavant Marv Williams Ciloria Moore Janet Hazard Charlotte Harris Eighth Row Frank Currin Dac id Levenson James Boyd John Linker Mason Cole Villiam Gates Wilbert Keys Carl Hardy James Mason Leland Glazier Eldred Elmore n zaniatici dtulj President Pice-President Sec ret ary - T reas u re r Publicity Chairman Faculty Adinser Samuel Leys Helene Deal Ann Moots Jane Reade M; s. Alie.ne Worsfold First Row Alice Thayer Dorothy Emory Barbara Martin Mildred Bowman Second Row Rosa Jones Helene Deal Rose Mayes I hcresa Elmore Ann Moots jane Reade Third Row Jackie o d Lucille Hall Mrs. Ailene Vorsfold Thelma Jolly Ethel Aldridge Samtiel Leys Fourth Row Gene Lambert Herbert Williams Henry Horak r resident Vice-President . Secretary Treasnrer Faculty Advisers Goi ' idfr ARV Kf A.N L VI ClDTIv JoAV ' f. Hl ' N ' f NfR. E B. S. ' JO ' ■ Mr. Hoaard S. Holmes Mr. V. Reade First Row Jolin Slater Joanne Hunt Mary Kevan Lai Curtis Williams Lynton Goukler Gene Joyner Second Roiv Leland Short Mildred Johnson .- lice Johnson Wallace Davies Bill ' , Jackson I ' oiin Kinker Lucille Vaughan Judson Smith Third Row Niles Kitchen Herbert Miller Rudy Moser Harry Tavlor Peyton Pollard Whllis Bain Mason Cole David Ross D. A. imith Fourth Rou ' Tovce Pulley Connie Gill Dewitt Brooks Phyllis Pugii Virginia Cnrk ' ndon ' er Bobby Cjuic ' Beverly IcManawt-v IJnwood Leigh Barclay Walthall Henry Higby ; ijlh Rou ' Mary Lee Moois Louise Perki� ' m F rances Nell Washc. Caroline Cunningham Harri StrumingLi Charles Lanier Boliliy Clements Clark Kingery o .vrh Row Dick Procter Ed Cole Sarah ’ nces Powers Mary .Anne Whitten Ruth Ellen Disharoon Barbara Saal Wesle. Richardson George Jones Jimmy Jones Johnnv Howerton Rodney Perkins Seventh Row Mr. E. B. Smoot Mr. Howard S. Holmes Mr. W. W. Reade Director i .1 1 Rou ' Anita Gee Alleeii ason C.olleen Mason Mary Bland Dunbar Alice Johnson C.loiia Moore Lucille Vauglin Second Row Mabel ’ilson Evelyn Howerton Erances Moore Helen Hamm Dorothy Horak Marv Villiams Gharlene Gordon Delores Duck Third Roic Juanita Hopkins Jeanne Browne Jean Young Peterson Janet Hazard Gharlotte Harris }ielen Fotissekis Anne Porter Margtierite Hubbard Geraldine Burnett Fourth R ' x’ Delores d hompson Shirley Belcher Ann Bonner Evelyn Fades Dorothy Ellio.t Ruth Disheroon Erma Titmus Peggy VVommack Marie Bulifant Shirley Starnes Mr. Ral Stronach Fifth ' w Jimmy Smith Emmett Agee Jean Phibbs Alice Mayes Louanne Love Pattie Rtith Lewis Nancy Grumpier Diane Pott Saiaf! Frances Powers James Mason Sixth Row William Ritt Eugene Tench Willis Bain Howard Ltini Thomas Neaves Morris Brooks Bobby Quicke Frank Curtin Richard Proctor Seventh Row Mr. Ralph Stronach Johnny Howerton Joseph Lyman Curtis Snead flead A ii 0)1 it or . Faculty Adviser Gurus Sm ap r ' . Howard S. Holmes oniio XI Reading poni left to right Ed varcl Clark Dick Zamira ]■ K ' nsev ■ ' .OD lotty iartha Lee Chanilrliss Marion Sparks Becerly Cox Delores Duck Barbara I’amplin Sarah Seay Jean oinig I’eterson Claiborne Ogburn Jerry Bradley jininiv Jones Curtis Snead Fro))t Center Jeanette Vtliite Far Right Mr. Howard S. Holmes Chdiruian Secretary Treasurer E ecu live Comini tier Facullx Adviser Jane Eavfs T. T. EnMUNDi Bftia Snead .s Rfx.ERS, Harrn Taylor . Mr. D. 1 Mnck ' .v Powers Tirsi Ixoic Allen Pirkle r. r. Edmunds Betty Snead [ane Eanes nn Rogers nne Snead Harrv Taylor Sei on l Rine Mabel ' .’ilson Mildred . nn Spain )oe KInsev Preston Hod ' .., Selma fT( ' ;d ' ' ‘,g (ean o ' .nig Peterson jewell ’insteatl l’ats Wilson Thi d Bow Mary Pritchett Eli aheth Fergtison Nancy Jennings Mildred Joim.-on Jean I e C.race Sadicn Jean Hoiyerton James .snn,.; Henrr Higb fourih Row Lelaiul Short Alma Giyers Patricia Moore Kathleen Sholes . U■ ba ’oods JMiylliss Etlwti. ' ds Jimmy Jones Bob Potty Fifi!) Row Mr. 1). Pinckney Powers Dayid Ross Joyce Pulley Charles Lanier Charlotte Harris Bill White Edgar Goldston Johnny Gray s auin(j± F(uult .mvist-r Iiss M Bailey Hist Ilou ' Si th Row Foil I til Riy.i Jean Shei hcrd loNce Vestmoreland ! . T. Edmunds Christine Shepherd Mi-s Mary Bailey Mar ' irgipia ' alsh Jean Moran Marilvn • i.ijtiman Mabel Wdson Serovd Roic I-nifc. aU ' ■■ Nanc jiunings Frances W ' instead J ' lan Carol Thomas Mildred rn Spain Blar._ .. Collette Ann i (.gor: Caroline Bruner Third Rou’ Cecilia Crigg Betty Snead Martha Robinson (j ' oria ' -ielvin Alice jolinson Jean Oliver Shirley Starnes Ann Hubbard Preston HodgC ' Cdoria ' loore Carol) n l)av Ooiothy Elliot Martha Voods Rose A ' arn Patsv Wilson PliVlliss Echrards Janet Hazard Jewell O ' Farrell Martha Hinton Charlotte Harris Anne Snead Lillie Flarrison Joyce Mann Adelia AVilliams lean I’hiblts Jewell Winstead iletsy Heath Seward Charlotte Jones Mary Kevan Lai Ka Horkan Kilty Ixc I’ettus Sarah Seay Shirley Bristow ' Fifth Row A’iolet Jellerson Xannette Ramsey Arlene Donovan Anne Rvibinson Jeanne Beckhuis Xan CA ' irter Marv } Isie Livengood . liklred Johnson Barbara I ' amplin Bobby Got! Id Jane Eanes Hettie Jean Barton Nell Crostic President . Pice-President .. Secretnrx-Treasu Faculty Adviser Anne Sneao Preston Hodges I’ATsv Wilson Miss Mary 1 ' . Perkins First Row Patsy Wilson Anne Snead Preston Hodges Second Row Kathleen Lunsforil Charlotte Jones Cecilia Grigg Rose Yarn Third Row Ann Rain Margaret S’hittle Marietta Parks Mary Ke an Lai Fourth Row Janet Hazard Miss Marv i . Perkins Rosa May Seward I I uazE o. a etui; President Bfi-khius Vice-President Jame Reade Secretary Jean Dunnavan ’ Treasurer Mary Elsie Livengood Faculty Adviser Mrs. Pauline C. Robertson First Row Mildred Ann Spain Nanette Ramsey Jeanne Beekhuis Jane Reade Carolyn Day Second Row Jean Moran Anne Roltinson Mary Elsie Livengood Sliirley Starnes Jewell Winstead Blanche Collett Third Row . rlene Donovan Joyce Westmorelanil Nan ' ■•■• ter Jean diver Jean Dtinnavant Peggy Womniack Fourth Row Mrs. Pauline C. Roheitson . nn Hubbard Nell Crostic Joyce Mann Shirley Bristow Barbara Pamn ' in Presiitnt Jane Eanfs Vice-P. fiident Christine Shepherd Se ( . lari-Treusu r . T. T. Edmunds Faculty Adviser Miss Ann VanLandingham f irst Roiv T. r. Edinuii. ' is T ' ie Ear.es Christine Shepherd Miss Ann VanLandingham Third Kathryn Street Sarah Seay Betsy Heath Seward Carolyn Hedrick Violet Jeffers Jean Phibbs Martha Hinton Second Row Caroline Bruner Betty Snead Hettie Jean Barton Bobbv Gould Ann Rogers Marilyn Geiselman ooIjez { {ono xarn (2[uIj Fall Spring President _ Oscar W ' ood Buck Kitchen Vice-President Buck Kitchen Billi’ Rinker Secretary-Treasurer Randy Maucry Faculty Adviser ATr. Ed. First Rou’ Buck Kitchen Oscar W ' ood Ranch ' Mallory Bill Casli Bobb ' v Skalak Second Roic Dick Zarulta Eugene Tench haul Webb George Mason Dick Wrig-ht Third Row ii. Ed Motley Billv Ellis Sidney Cowles Edwin AVilliams Billv Rinker President Linda Davis Vice-President Hfnrietta Lanier Secretary Sarah Seay Treasurer Barbara Pa “HN Faculty Adviser Miss Ann VanLan: ham First Row Miss Ann VanLandingham Sliirley Bristow )can Sliepherd Henrietta I.anier Bariiara I’ainjrlin Linda Daris Sara It Seay Marv A’irginia Walsli Maliel Wilson Second Jiow Cecilia Cirigg d ' . I ' . Edmunds Cdiristine Shepherd Jean Mahone Carolyn Hedrick Betty Snead Frances PVinstead Delores Duck Dorothy Elliott Elizabeth Eergnson ' Third Row Frances Moore 5l irlev Belcher Charlotte Harris Alice Join- n Betty Jane Ste er Gloria Moore Evelyn Eades Jane Eanes Preston Hodges Bobby Goa Id Fourth Row Marietta Parks Mary liland Dunbar Ann Hubbard Selma Goldberg Janet Waters Carolyn Day Gloria Melvin Jean Young Peterson .Slartha Robinson Marion Sparks Sarah F. Powers ono xani Jli- 1! Fall Spring Presr-S ■ : Joe Kinsey Randy Mallor. f ' L. ident Carl Pirkle Bobby Ba s vcr Sec ' ’- ii : j Woody Billy Ei lis Treasurer Dick Zaruba Sidney Cowles Facultv Aili ixer Mr. Ed Mot ' ei ' Front Mr. Ed Motley First Row Dick Zariiha Joe Kinsey Second Roiv jack Woody Randy Mallory Bobby Skalak Third Row Jimmy Smith Walt; r Burge Billy Ellis Paul Webb Fourth Roxv Donald Jacobs Bobby Baxter Zack Gray Allen Pirkle Billy Eudaiiey Fif Roiv Sidney Christian Clarence Cowles Preston Andrews Sidney Cowles Dick Motley President J ' ice-Pi esident ... Sei gea}il-(it-A . nts Secretary Treasurer Faculty Adviser . Bobby Gould Barbara Pampun T. T. Edmunds Anne Snead Jane Eanes Mrs. Barbara F. Lester Beginning at the bottom of the triangle and reading lockwise: Bobby Goidd Barbara I’amplin T. r. Edmunds Mabel A Mlson Cecilia Grigg Nan Carter -Margaret ' liittlc Batsv AVilson Martha Hinton Christine Shepherd Sarah Seay .Lrimie Donoxan Preston Hodges jetvell Vinstead Marietta Parks Marilyn Geiselman Caroline Brtiner Jane Eanes . nne Snead Far Right Mrs. Barltara F. Lester dllEZX Head Cheer Leader ' vIarv Virginia Walsh yaculty Adviser i )iss M ' mv Bailey Front Mary Virginia Walsh First Row T. T. Edmund, ' Jean Shepherd jean Mahone Christine Shepherd -Iabel Wi ' i f i Second Roiu Mariivn Geiselman Joyce Westivioreland Jean Vioran Martha Hinton Rack Miss Mary Bailey Co-Captains Oscar Wood, Buck Kitchen Coach - Roi.and C. Day Assistant Coaches Ed VIoili. ' . Bob Kilbourne First Fton ' Bilh Kinker (iohby Sknlak Bill Cash Dick Zarul a Carl I’irkle Buck Kitchen Oscar AN ' ood Dick AVriglit Eugene lench Charles Lanier Ranch Mallory Second Roic Ck-orge Jones Siclnej’ Cowles (.corge Mason Paul Webb James Smith Donald Jacobs Valter Burge Bol)l)v Baxter Percy Perkinson Dick Motley ' Eommy Sullivan Jack A ' oody Third Roic Edwin Villiams Zac !i Grat James ' .’ohlhueter Barkley Walthall Richard Halbert jimmy Jones illy Eudailey Cdaiborne Cummins (.diaries Willis William Robertson Preston Andrews AJlen Pirkle Fourth Roiu Johnny Gray Richard Peterson Joe Kinsey Bill W ' hite Niles Kitchen Clark Kingery Jack Minnick Harry Taylor joseiih Lasala Villiam Lasala Frank Farris Clarence Cowles Fiph Row Randolph Picardat Fidward Jones Villis Bain Billy Ellis ' ' iliiam W ' oodruil Gordon Andrews JootUt llioul lt6a±kE -f a[L Captain Randy NiA, 0!t Manager JaC ' H yi ' Coach Bon Ku.bol ' Rne lioiu i’ai. ' l Webb Ciiarieb Willis Randy Malb ' i ' , r ' arence ra-wies Sidi ev Cowie- Second Boiv James Smith Billy Eiidailey Richard Barber Gerald Rnott Preston Andrews Co-Captains Linda Davis, Bariv.ka X ' AM ' ' i.iN Manager Mari n 5 ' P .s.,-w Coach Mr-.?, Ann V anLa ndincham F--‘nt L:..d-i D,. First Row Frances O ' lierrv Jeanne O ' Donneli Bobby Gould Shirley Bris ' . y Cecilia Gri Jeanne Beekhiiis Preston Hodges Jane Fanes Saiah Seay Henrietta Lanier Elizabeth Ferguson Second Rou ' arion Sparks Xell Washer Mary Bland Dunbar Ann Rogers Adelia X ' illiams Rose Yarn Dorothy Elliott i an Jones Kay Horkan Syhia Sammons Miss Ann VanLandingham 17 . Eani P lC f’C la ZEtraLL . duni Co-Cq tnh-.i Barbara Pampl, ' ., Lino i Hams Mmiar ' ! ' fARiON Sr .kks Coach Miss Ann VanLandingh w; f.’fSi Roil’ jeaneue tAiiidle Bobi)y Gould Barbara Paniplin Linda Davis Christine Shepherd Jean Aiahone Second Row Wanda Archer Rose ' arn Cecilia GriFg Mary Blanc Dr.nhar Love Dish in an Jeanne Beekhuis Shirlev Brislo ' Third Row Marion Sparks i,ucv Birdsong Mary Kevan Lai Louise Perl inson Coialecn Dai! Prances O’Berry Miss Ann VanLanriingha.ii t 1 Poems By Kathleen Lunsford To An Old House You stand there silently upon the hill, While all around the old trees guard your place. And touch with loving boughs your ancient face. Voices that echoed in you now are still. But notes of birds the tranquil silence fill; Soft winds caress your shuttered window-panes, Your hoary roof washed clean by summer rains. And vines creep greenly over every sill. When I stand here, my soul a peace attains. As worldly things steal silently away; My weary heart some source of courage gains; I long to linger and perhaps to stay. Then turning quietly I journey down To face again the burdens of the town. THE MISSILE Page five The Hunt The long hot days of summer now are past. The time the sportsmen love is here at last. The hounds, a-tremble, strain to slip the leash. The horses paw impatiently the ground. Their coats of scarlet make a merry scene. As the hunters gather eagerly around. On yonder hill sly Reynard lifts his head. Then with reluctance leaves his sunny bed. And stretching leisurely, he cocks his ears; “A merry life I lead,” he says and grins. And starting hurriedly off he leaves the hill. And the loud excitement of the hunt begins. The hollow echoes back the shouts of men. The dogs run leaping madly through the glen. And fainter in the distance grows the chase; But the pursuing dogs have lost their prey. And as the hunter loudly blows his horn. The grinning fox slips silently away. Autumn I stood upon the hill today And watched the clouds float lazily by; They caught the sunset’s rosy ray And blushed across the October sky. I walked along a brown roadside And saw a bewildered butterfly. Did he look for a flower in which to hide Before the winter winds blow high ' ? I sat beside a woodland stream And watched the leaves as they sifted down; They floated gently as a dream. These boats of yellow, red, and brown. Page six THE MISSILE Matthew 27:45-6 By H. Arundel Hinchliffe HE ROCKY COAST OF MaINE Stood like a valiant soldier against the storm that was to come. The clouds were an ominous red, and the crack- er-barrel weather prophets all agreed that a hurricane would be forthcoming. Anyone who had a boat, large or small, was hurrying to the shore to secure his property. But no one was particularly worried; they had storms like this every two or three years. It was part of the environment of windy, cold, winter Maine. The clouds piled up— high copper clouds laden with rain and wind and their bedfellows, flood and disease. This storm had been a long time coming; for months it had puzzled scientists in its slow motion across the North Atlantic. They had begun to think of it as something almost human because of its ever-present threat and yet its lack of action. But now it would break, break and be done. It was said that the storm had originated over the cold black waters of the Baltic Sea, and had swept down over the lands of Prussia and Germany. There it was lost. There was no record of it for sometime after that until the long cop- per cloud was seen building up, far off the coast of Maine. How it could be at- tributed to that long-lost storm is not understood, but now it was here, and ready to let loose its fury. The storm was going to break. It was there, ready and waiting, like a giant human snake, coiled and ready to spring. To the natives of Maine it was human, it was “Old Red”; “Old Red”, a live thing, holding in its turbulent bosom the lives of many and the fortunes of all. A beast of many moods, now fast now slow, then dark then light, blow- ing, hissing, tearing across the lands of every man. Crushing everything in its path, killing, maiming, destroying. “Old Red”, very much alive. He was big, a thousand miles long from Florida to Maine. He was tall, ten thousand feet. He was fast, a hundred and fifty miles an hour. He was alive! There he stood. There he waited. And then, he sprang. Across the mountains of Maine, over the Great THE MISSILE Page seven Lakes, through the Shenandoah Valley, across the Gulf of Mexico, over the deserts, against the towering Rockies, over California, Washington, Oregon. And then, he blew himself out, blew himself out over the barren, watery wastes of the blue Pacific. But let us return and follow him more closely. Let us see what strange dam- age he has done. For indeed, he has lived for years across our country and will be a freak well worth investigating. The Logans were an easy-going family, who didn’t much care for anyone but the Logans. If a man got killed, they figured it was one less person to clut- ter up the city streets. They didn’t care whether their neighbors were sick and needed help. They didn’t give a damn about them anyhow. But, more than anything, they hated anyone who didn’t have the same color skin as they, or didn’t talk the same, or went to a different church, or even lived on the other side of the street. They hated the Jews and the Negroes and the Catholics and the Joneses. They loved the Logans. Yes, they were Americans. True, born here, bred here, go to church here, Americans. They were “State of Mainers,” and God help anyone who wasn’t! They were a cross section, a composite, of the Americans in 1935, in the days before the storm. The wind blew right over their house, across their chimney, and rattled their windows. They heard its voice, they heard its message and said, “Yes, yes, your way is right, you are right. Good for you,” they would say, “kill the Jews, kill the French, kill the niggers when you get here, and the Catholics and the Joneses too. You’re right, kill, kill, kill. Little man with a black mustache, go ahead, and hurry up over here, we’re waiting.” And then the storm went on, faster through the new momentum it had gained. Faster and faster it went, the poisoned rain falling, always falling. Down through Virginia it went, over the farm of the Owens. The Owens? Who are they? Another family, a good family; nev ' er interfered in anyone else’s busi- ness. If you went out and stole your neighbor’s horse, or his money, or his wife, they wouldn’t care. It was your business, didn’t make any difference to them. And so, they were a fine, upstanding family. They didn’t hate the Jews any more than they hated the niggers, and, even though you couldn’t be saved unless you were a Baptist, you didn’t have to be one. If you wanted to hate the niggers, go ahead; if you wanted to kill the Jews, go ahead, go ahead, little man, it doesn’t make any difference to us. It’s your business; we don’t give a whoop. So, on it blew, no faster, yet no slower, always long and cold and fast. Blew across the Gulf into the state of Texas, scattering the herds of cattle, poor dumb, ignorant beasts. It went to the ranch of the Vales, bombastic, idealistic cattle farmers, people with ideas and morals. They said if your skin was black, or yel- low, or brown, if you came from Palestine or France or China, or if you were a Page eight THE MISSILE Methodist, or a Baptist, or even if you lived outside the state of Texas, you were all right. Sure, you were all right,— as long as you stay away from us. We’re the Vales, we’re Texans, we’re Americans. You’re all right, but stay away from us. “Killing? Terrible!” That’s what they said, “but don’t worry about it. They will never come over here to bother us. There is an ocean between them and us; we’re safe. They can’t get across it. We don’t want any part of it. Ju st stay away from here!” Now, it was slower, but no less deadly. The rains it had shed were flooding the plains and valleys. It battered at the Rockies and climbed over them, over them and up the San Fernando Valley, up to Washington, slower and slower, al- most stopping. It was 1941, winter and windy, and the wind drove the sleet and hail before it in a solid sheet. Into the quiet home of the Edwardses it blew, carrying with it all the poison left in it. Hate the niggers, hate the Protestants, hate the English, hate, hate, hate. But they didn’t listen. Sure, they cared. It hurt them that men were be- ing killed while they lived, that women and children were starving while they ate. They listened, they waited, but they knew all the time it was wrong, and they said so. They said so every time they were given a chance. They built a haven against the storm; they halted and, with them, the millions who were flee- ing before it. They stopped and stood and defied the wind to do his worst. “You can’t kill,” they said, “you can’t kill!” An hundred million voices echoed. An hundred million voices of Logans, Owens, Vales, and whites and blacks, and Protestants, Catholics and Jews. An hundred million against a mighty storm. October, November, December 7th, and the wind had done its worst; it had blown out across the Pacific and the skies were blue. We were at war— at war against the storm, against a little man with a black mustache, who had blown a bit too hard. We fought. Long and hard we fought, and we lost men, a million men. We fought and we won. We took the last vestiges of the storm and hurled his broken body back at his creator. We killed the little man, we killed his followers. We killed as he had done, but we did not do that which he had done. We did not remember. We forgot the glowing cloud, the human, waiting cloud. We began to be the Logans again, and the Owenses, who thought everything was right. We forgot. Again, the thin wisp of red is growing off our coast. Again, the storm is brewing. It will be years before it strikes again, but it will strike. It is glowing, growing off the coast of Maine. THE MISSILE Page nine The Spinning Wheel By Marjorie Johnson Whirling Whirling! Over over! Always turning, turning ever! Thread ensuing from my fingers! Twisting! Twisting! Ceasing never! Feed me! Turn me! Ever, ever! Let my reeling frame keep rusting! Never cease this endless whirring! Stop me now! I need a dusting! “Dusting? Ha!” She laughs; confound her! Spinning is her art, not dusting! ’Tis a pity that her fingers Are now bleeding; are, too, rusting. Years she has been twisting cotton; Rolls of biting threads keep winding; Never moving from her luork bench. Bent and humble ever binding. Can your ears not hear my murmurs. Begging you to stop this wheeling? Turn your ear to me and listen! Listen, soul, who has no feeling! Whirling! Whirling! Ever, ever! Hear my words though softly spoken, Monotones of ceaseless whirring! “Ah!” she cries. “The thread has broken!” Thus the thread is broken, knotted. Tied again to start the spinning. Slave! She sits here never hearing. Is it she or I who’s sinning? Whirling! Whirling! Over, over! Always turning, turning ever! Thread ensuing from my fingers! Twisting! Twisting! Ceasing never! Page ten THE MISSILE Mother’s Mania By Rex Sater HE greatest friend of the designers of the post-war home is, without a doubt, my mother. She has a burning passion for the various types of electrical gadgets which clutter up our homes today and which, scientists tell us, will be ever more prominent in the future. Mother takes to these contraptions not so much because of the con- venience of using them, as because of the fact that they’re so much fun to operate. She likes the sound of wheels turning, and of the subsequent static on the living room radio. It all started several years ago when a friend sent us an electric mixing ma- chine. At once mother decided that drinking egg milk-shakes was the best way for me to gain weight. She made me drink one every night and insisted on mak- ing them herself. After awhile, however, when the novelty wore off, she let me make them and was somewhat disappointed to learn later that I hadn’t been using the machine. I had tried the mixer once, but, after nearly cutting my thumb off, I decided to go back to shaking them up, Indian fashion, in milk bottles. Mother’s next mechanical wonder came in the form of a new vacuum cleaner. She had always been content with our old one (the leaking bag type) until a friend told her about the new type that was coming in style. So mother, being very stylish, put in an application (they were frozen just then) for one. Then began a long series of dinner table bulletins in which mother kept us posted with all the latest news from the vacuum cleaner front. These announce- ments went on for about nine or ten months, during which time the rest of the family developed quite an interest in mother’s potential vacuum cleaner. We weren’t as zealous as mother, but we were all pulling for her. When we finally did get the vacuum cleaner (which incidentally was an odd looking affair, consisting of a long flexible tube with interchangeable brushes on one end, the other end being attached to a cylindrical object that faintly re- sembled one of James Thurber’s dogs) Mother saw to it that the house was given a thorough spring cleaning at least once a week— that is, for about three weeks. When guests came over, mother showed them the vacuum cleaner, giving it absolute priority over her new hat. Finally, however, the machine lost its at- traction for mother (not for dust though, I’m pleased to say) and now serves as nothing more than a mere cleaning device. Mother’s latest gadget was somewhat of a shock to me when I first became acquainted with it. I was coming into the house one evening when I saw in a THE MISSILE Page eleven corner of the living room a box-like device on which were several knobs and dials. Noticing the word “Philco” on it, I took it to be a new radio and switched it on expecting the hot air of a crooner or of a soap advertisement to come forth. Instead I received a strong blast of quite cold air and, approaching the thing more cautiously, I found that it was a home ventilator. Is there no hope? At present, mother is a little sad since most of the no-family-complete-with- out-one machines are out for the duration. Thoughts By Irma Blacker My thoughts today are not so gay As those I had but yesterday; Somehow they wander far away. For y esterday there was no war My countrymen were fighting for To keep the land that I adore. My thoughts, today are of a world Where the crimson banner of war is unfurled. Of the bloodstained field where my brothers are hurled. Yesterday the lights were bright Glittering vividly through the night; Now completely out of sight. Some day, somehow they will shine once more As once they did in days of yore; As they will gleam for evermore. They will shine again across the sea; They will shine again for victory; They will shine again eternally. Page twelve THE MISSILE 99 “...Like Teleg raph Poles... By Dolores Watson AT Redding a hardy rancher, came into the ranchhouse and sat down to pull off his dusty boots. “Pa, you got to git some wood afore you set yourself down. These here nights are a mite chilly.” It was Mrs. Redding, a bux- om and bustling woman of fifty or thereabouts. The man pulled himself up out of the depths of the rocker and went out again. The night was crisp and clear; the stars, very bright, were out in full force. Nat looked at the sky and at the broad grazing land. “Nice weather; good day tomorrow, too,” he mused. “Rawlings killed a record-sized rattler down the road a piece last week. Yep! Plenty of ’em around this year. No need to go into the hills to look fer ’em, either. That one I saw over behind the sheep-dip was a big ’un. Wish’t I coulda got ’im.” Nat walked around behind the house and disappeared into the gloom of a shed. In the dimness of the building he groped for some wood. Something dropped silently onto his back. He could feel a rounded cold- ness on his bare neck. He stood still, terrified; cold drops of sweat came out on his face. A thousand thoughts raced through his brain, each strange and crystal- clear. “The end? I guess so. Wonder what ma’ll do with the ranch? Wonder how she’ll take this? She’s a hard ’un, but I think she loved me. Must of— to live with me fer thirty years without much complainin’! Kids ’ave all moved away to Phoenix; they won’t mind so much, but it’s all right. “When old Ledley was bitten, he lost his arm, but he’s just as spry as ever. Found ’im in time. Wish I could holler, but, dang it all, I can’t. Wish I could pray, but that won’t come either. Guess God thinks it’s too late. “Yep, tomorrow’d of been a good day. Well, I won’t see it. But Arizona shore is purty. Never bin poetic, but I shore always did kinda like the way the THE MISSILE Page thirteen sun set, all fiery-red, every night. I always hankered a little after some schoolin’ so’s I could tell about things like that, but I never got it. “Wonder what Heaven’ll be like? I’m hopin’ ter git there. Guess the Al- mighty can find enough good deeds in His records to balance the other side of the books. I don’t think He’ll be too hard. He knows I almost always meant ter do the right thing. Hain’t never cheated a man ’er nothin’! “The end. Well, always know’d it’d come some time. It’s got ter fer every- body. Why, I can remember plain as day the night I married ma and brought ’er ter the ranch. I shore was proud of it. I’d worked hard fer it. And I can remember when I was a little boy on my father’s ranch. And my mother— I can remember her. She used ter say, ‘Now, Nat, you stay away from the sheep-dip, and don’t you go a-botherin’ the shearers.’ That shore was a long time ago. Why, it’s just like that there play the kids gave at school afore they went away to Phoenix. The feller at the end of the play said his life was whizzin’ past ’im like telegraph poles, and he could remember back to when he was born, and he knew that way he was goin’ ter die. Funny how I’m thinkin’ ’bout these things. I should be a-prayin’ my heart out or else be just too scared fer anything. Well, I am scared, too scared ter move, but I can think. I’m thinking ’bout more than I’ve ever thought ’bout before, I reckon.” All of these thoughts and many more filled his feverish brain as he stood tense, waiting for the utter darkness of oblivion to close in upon him, wondering if he would feel any pain, wondering what this strangest of all strange e ' per- iences would be like, the experience that comes to everyone, but about which one knows nothing. Then something snapped in his mind. A strange sensation enveloped him. A sense of being suspended in space overwhelmed him . His stream of thoughts was suddenly stopped. He straightened his body; he looked around. Then with a sheepish look, he replaced the length of smooth black hose on a peg and picked up the wood for the big stone fireplace. Page fourteen THE MISSILE I ' i; • .1 i « « r i « V., ' ■ ' ’ ' ' i: 4 . ;r 0 i � 0 rX i. ► ?: r ‘ Hi-: : ■■V . t Sons of The Cockade City By Martha Lee Chambliss Lt. General Leonard T. Gerow, ’07 T. GENERAL LEONARD T. GEROW was born at Petersburg, Vir- ginia, on July 13, 1888. He was graduated from Petersburg High School in 1907 and began his military career in 1911 when he received the Vir- ginia Military Institute honor appointment to the Army. He has served in Mexico, France, China, and the Philippines. Dur- ing the last World War he was awarded the Distinguished Service Medal and the French Legion of Honor for his procurement work as a signal officer. General Gerow was graduated from the advanced course in the Infantry School at Fort Benning, Georgia, the chemical warfare school at Edgewood, and the Army War College at Washington. After being graduated with honors from the Command General Staff School at Fort Leavenworth, he was assigned to the War Plans Division of the War De- partment in 1935 and later directed the division. He was made Acting Assistant Chief of Staff in the Fall of 1940 and was assistant at the time of Pearl Harbor. In February, 1942, he was assigned to Fort George G. Meade as Commander of the Twenty-Ninth Division, made up principally of Marylanders and Vir- ginians, now in action in the European Theatre. On July 16, 1943, he was made Commanding General of the V. Army Corps. On D-Day, General Gerow, with Major General J. L. Collins, commanded the American forces which landed on the coast of France. The V. Army Corps, com- manded by Lt. General L. T. Gerow, captured Paris with the Second French Armored Division and the American 4th Infantry Division. During this war General Gerow has been awarded the Legion of Merit, the Distinguished Service Medal, and the Oak Leaf Cluster. In a letter written a few days after the D-Day invasion General Gerow states: “My soldiers did a grand job and lived up to my expectations. The old outfit I commanded at one time has made history, and the page they wrote is a glorious epic. It was nip and tuck for a while, but the glorious American GI who went in with his chin up and fighting bravely and skillfully won the battle. The people of the United States owe him much.” (The outfit to which General Gerow refers is the 29th Infantry Division.) General Gerow, at the present time, is commanding the 15th Army “some- where along the Western Front.” To an editor of The Missile General Gerow recently wrote the following letter: THE MISSILE Page fifteen Headquarters Fifteenth US Army Office of the Commanding General A P O 408 Somewhere in Belgium, 13 March 1945. My dear Miss Chambliss: I deeply appreciate the honor of having a page in the “Missile” dedicated to me. Any success I may have attained in my chosen profession may be attributed in la rge part to the sound training and wise counsel of my teachers at Petersburg High School. Also, it will always be a source of pride to me to have my name included in an annual dedicated to the officers and men of Petersburg who have been killed or wounded in this war. Their unselfish devotion to duty is worthy of emula- tion by every future student at Petersburg High School. Enclosed is a biographical outline of my military service for such use as you may care to make of it. Best of luck and all good wishes to every graduate for future success and happiness. Sincerely, L. T. Gerow, Lt. Gen., U. S. Army. Miss Martha Lee Chambliss, 235 S. Jefferson Street, Petersburg, Virginia. Brigadier General L. S. Gerow was born on March 29, 1891, at Petersburg, Virginia. He was graduated from Petersburg High School in 1908 and completed his military career at the Virginia Military Institute, from which he was grad- uated in 1913. General Gerow was promoted to temporary Major during World War I and served three years as a member of the Army of Occupation in Coblenz, Ger- many. Returning to the United States, he was assigned to Fort McClellan, Alabama, and joined the 22nd Infantry. He was graduated from the Infantry School, Fort Penning, Ga., Command and General Staff School, Forth Leavenworth, Kansas, Army War College, Wash- ington, D. C., and Na ' al War College, Newport, Rhode Island. He became a Professor of Military Science and Tactics at the University of Wisconsin in September, 1924, and at the Western Military Academy, Alton, Page sixteen THE MISSILE Illinois, the following year. Following his graduation from the two-year course in the Command General Staff S chool in June, 1931, he was assigned to the Office of the Assistant Secretary of War, Washington, D. C. General Gerow has served at many camps and forts in the United States, and in April, 1937, he was named Commanding Officer of Fort George Wright, Washington. In August of the same year, he was appointed a Professor of Mili- tary Science and Tactics at the University of Washington, Seattle, Washington. In April, 1942, he went to Camp Shelby, Mississippi, as Commanding Officer of the 338th Infantry, 85th Infantry Division, and in 1943 he was named Assist- ant Division Commander of the 85th Infantry Division. General Gerow was promoted to Brigadier General on March 15, 1943, and left for overseas duty on December 1, 1943. Petersburg is justly proud of her two native sons, who have distinguished themselves in valor and in serving their country, and wishes them continued suc- cess in the future. (LTS The Ancient By Jeanne Beekhuis The towering, time-honored, twisted tree On the crest of the near-by, wind-swept hill Is a woman distorted by lingering sickness. Who clings to life with stubborn will. Her features, once beautiful, now are transformed. They’re grotesque, haggard, and marked with pain From unmerciful beatings received during life From lightning and thrashing winds and rain. She no longer retains her youthful form; Proudly she stood with her head held high. But now she is crushed and has no joy Except from thoughts of days gone by. THE MISSILE Page seventeen Observations By John Kinker, Jr. Purposeless The oxcart slowly wends its way. Drawn by an ox now old and grave. Guided by feeble hands of clay; Goaded by one no less a slave. A task for each set by their lord. No final aim, no end is meant; He drives the beast with whip and cord. Blame not the ox if he resent. Slaves are xve in some strange way; A purpose in view for some is clear. While some plod dumbly all the day. Driven by a force through fear. Good Morning All nature awakes at the break of the dawn; The sun brightly bids a good morning to you. As it shines on the flowers still covered with dew. Displayed by fair nature in dainty array. Including the birds, flitting over the bay. Preparing a feast for her babes in the nest, Down in the meadow, the lark’s on the wing While her mate in the tree top does nothing but sing. “Why worry?” says he; “just be happy and gay.” O happy is he as he flits on his way! The barnyard’s alive with a wild, merry crew; The farmer appears at the stable’s main door. He’s greeted by all with a lusty, mad roar. The day has begun and the world springs anew,— His wife from the porch calls a merry “Hoo-hoo!” Page eighteen THE MISSILE Doubtful Glory for Taurus By Beverly C. Cox. HE trolley car jolts sickeningly over the bumpy tracks, as it goes past the low, muddy Rio Grande, trying to hide itself in its own filth and arid river growth. Swarthy senoritas eye your slacks disapprovingly, while the arrogant military police check passports and ask your reasons for entering the ancient city of Juarez. Alighting from the rickety steps, one notices heavy-veiled women entering the small stone church, clasping motley rosary beads in their grimy hands. An old Indian, with tusk-like teeth, gnaws on a corn cob with tusk flies and insects swarming about him, while Mexican merchants do their best to force serapes and ivory-colored sombreros on you. A deformed beggar, squatting in the dust, adds to the general appearance of squalor and neglect. Then from the distance a sudden blare of music reaches your ears, and im- mediately you are nearly trampled by the rushing crowds, seeming to appear from nowhere. For today there is to be a gala event in the old city: Don Ramon Manuelo Carlos Jose de Camacho, Mexico’s renowned matador, is to be guest artist at the arena, and people say he will kill four bulls! Hurry, hurry, hurry— the crowds push you forward and the air is polluted with the odor of sweating bodies as the heat rises from the soft sputtering tar of the narrow streets. The stench is terrific. Once inside the Plaza de Toros, one takes his seat in the blessed shade, but on hard stone benches. A persuasive soda-pop vendor soon convinces you that you are in need of a cushion. The noise is deafening as two unrehearsed bands play different airs, one trying to outdo the other. A huge sign over the ring says: “Anyone Caught Throwing Cushions or Bottles into the Arena Will Be Fined,” but it is to no avail. Suddenly all is quiet, a trumpet sounds a fanfare, and through the archway streams the stately procession of picadores, banderilleros, and matadors. Their small plaited queues reach their shoulders. When they retire from their profes- sion, the queues will be clipped off, signifying the end of their career. The crowd cheers in expectation. Then silence and a tense waiting. As if in a body, all lean forward and stare with bated breath. The bars of the corral are lowered and a bucking bull with a blue-ribboned dagger in the small of his back leaps forward and snorts in anguish. A handsome picador, lavishly dressed and looking very straight and handsome on the gilded saddle of his blindfolded horse, charges, turns in his glory, and picks and jabs cleverly until blood is pouring from several wounds. THE MISSILE Page nineteen But wait— the horse is hurt and paws the air in fury. The banderriilero rushes in to distract the beast’s attention. The scarlet cape flashes in brilliant circles, the bull rushes from one side to the other, the crowd goes wild. The brave man smirks warily, and as the frightened animal dashes past, he deftly thrusts two beautifully decorated but deadly darts into the bull’s shoulder blades. Two more, and again another two, until the bull looks like a living banner. But the lovely pompons soon become dark and gory with the escaping life blood of the doomed animal and slowly he begins to weaken. The time is ripe. The matador strides proudly forward, brandishing a shin- ing sword; a great ovation awaits him. The beast charges, but Camacho deftly step aside. The bull charges again and, with a sudden twist, the matador plunges the sharp blade through his neck and it comes out of the throat. He stumbles, a film over his eyes, and blood flows freely from the mouth and nose as the jugular vein is severed. The bull falls in the dusty dung and writhes in his last agonies. The matador has done well, killing the infuriated beast with but one blow, and the crowd shows its appreciation with wild cheering and fanfare. Pretty sehoritas throw the victor roses from their hair, and he presses the favored one to his lips. With a quick movement, the matador cleanly cuts the left ear from the now dead bull and presents it to his lady-love, one of the highest marks of esteem that he can bestow on a dear friend. Tonight all Juarez will be eating bull-meat; at least, those lucky enough to be able to afford the tender delicacy. Yes, bull-fighting is a splendid sport, especially if one has the guts to stomach it. Page twenty THE MISSILE The Suit and The Potatoes By Marjorie Johnson HE weather-beaten wooden wagon creaked slowly up to the barn door and came to a delayed halt because of the balking of the mule. “Dang ye, mule! Git thar! Git thar!” huffed the driver. This order was responded to by a sudden kicking and scraping of the ground by the stubborn animal. The barn door slid open, and a head thrust it- self out to see what was all the dis- turbance outside the barn. “Well, if it ain’t Jeff Bailey!” greeted Uncle John as he slid the door the rest of the way, holding out his hand, “Good mornin’, John.” Jeff Bailey sounded as if he’d burst, but instead he coughed slightly and stroked his coarse beard. “What’s on ya mind, Jeff?” asked Uncle John leaning on the handle of the pitch-fork, which still smelled of manure that he had been “pitching.” Jeff sniffed in disgust and eyed Uncle John skeptically. “Well, speak up, man. Speak up!” “I come a’ askin’ ’bout them ’taters, John,” he said, finally. “When ya plannin’ on diggin’ ’em?” “What ’bout them ’taters, Jeff?” asked Uncle John, blowing billows of smoke from his corn-cob pipe. “A fo’th o’ them ’taters is mine, John Eanes, an’ you know it!” said Jeff, halfway rising from his high seat in the wagon. “I ain’t promised you no fo’th,” bellowed Uncle John. “When I helped ya’ las’ spring with that plantin’, ya promised me a fo’th o’ them ’taters, John Eanes, an’ I mean ta git ’em, too!” At this Jeff stood up and the mule balked again, flinging him back on the seat, at which Uncle John bellowed aloud in his heavy gruff laugh. “Jus’ who d’ya think ya’ are, tryin’ ta beat a man out o’ his share o’ ’taters?” said Jeff gruffly, his eyes glaring like a cat’s at night. This story is based on a real incident. THE MISSILE Page twenty-one “Listen, Jeff Bailey; I ain’t promised you no ’taters and ya ain’t gittin’ none,’’ answered Uncle John fingering the pitchfork. “An’ if ya don’t take that danged wagon off here and begone. I’ll ram ya with this pitchfork!” “I’ll git ye, John Eanes, if it’s the las’ thing this body o’ mine does,” Jeff flung at him. “Git thar, mule! Git thar!” He spat on the ground before Uncle John’s feet and rode off cursing the mule. A few nights later Uncle John was riding along the cool dirt road in his newly made wagon, which Jeff Bailey secretly envied. He was singing an old country ballad and the still wood echoed his song. Down in the old creek among the trees the frogs were accompanying him with their choir of mixed voices, from the tenor to the bass, each one singing a different song. Uncle John laughed aloud, and his laughter was as stiong as his muscular body in spite of his age. He laughed because on a night like this with the light of heaven shining down, one might laugh for the joy of living. Thus he rode along, singing, sometimes whistling, but all in the joy of being alive. Slowly he rounded the bend of the road, and on the huge oak tree was a white sign. At first he could not see the lettering on the sign because of the shadow, but as he neared the tree he saw that his name stared him in the face from the sign. “Well,” he huffed, and, knocking the ashes from his pipe, he put it in his pocket. Grunting a little, he climbed down from his seat and walked over to the sign with his lantern. There he read aloud, “John Eanes, biggest liar in Lunen- berg County.” He let out a breath of surprise and then flung the lantern upon the ground. He cursed the lantern and the mule and finally wound up and cursed the man whom he had been cursing in his heart. “That dang Jeff Bailey done it! Dang ’im! He done it! Decent men can’t live in this county wi’out his name plastered all over the place!” Sputtering he grabbed the lantern and leaped onto the wagon, whipping the mule unmercifully when he lighted. The mule, both startled and hurt, took off in a mad gallop along the road, hurling dust and loose rocks into the angry face of his master. Uncle John thought all the devils in hell were making a fool of him tonight. He couldn’t fight the devils, so he took it out on the poor mule who was innocent of the whole thing and whipped him all the way home. The next morning, with all its sunshine and light, could not chase the gloom from Uncle John’s heart. The brighter the day, the more he fumed, until Aunt “Sis” declared he would “explode any time now.” “Yes, yes,” he bellowed and shoved his hands farther down into the pockets of his work-worn breeches. “I’m going to explode! No, I’m not, either, but my shot gun is and purty soon, too!” “Now, John Eanes, ya ain’t thinkin’ ’bout nothin’ as drastic as a’ that!” cried Aunt “Sis,” starting up from the potatoes she was peeling. Page twenty-two THE MISSILE “No, I think I’ll let ’im suffer a lil’ while first,” said Uncle John, a new light shining in his eyes and a crooked smile about his mouth. He picked up his weather-beaten jacket and walked briskly out the door calling over his shoulder, “Won’t be back till sundown, ‘Sis’.” Aunt “Sis” ran to the door dropping the potatoes, which rolled wildly over the floor. “Where ya be goin’, John?” she called after him. “Ta Blacksburg,” he answered firmly, pulling himself onto the wagon. “Ta Blacksburg!” cried Aunt “Sis.” “But that’s nigh twenty miles away! Why ya goin’, John?” “Ta see Judge Land,” said Uncle John and rode off slowly, leaving a cloud of dust along the road and a cloud of doubt and suspicion in his wife’s mind. Two days later a lone rider on horseback stopped by at Jeff Bailey’s house, which was about a mile from Uncle John’s. Jeff was in the chicken lot feeding his two hundred prize white hens. For a minute he thought the man to be the postman, but then he noticed the glint of the badge he wore. Old Jeff had never before come face to face with a man of the law, nor had an officer ever set foot on his property. The sunshine of his day suddenly went behind a cloud and his white hens, which he prized so highly, seemed to grow dark. He flung the rest of the corn, pan and all, upon the ground, barely missing a startled hen, which flew cackling to his shoulder. Jeff knocked her off and strode through the gate up to the horseman. Having settled his restless horse, the man lifted his hat to Jeff and said po- litely, “How a’ ya, sir? A’ you Mister Jefferson Bailey?” “Yep,” answered Jeff, his pipe hanging loosely from his parted lips and his beard shaking slightly as he spoke. “I’m the deputy sheriff over ’t Blacksburg,” said the man. “Come to bring ya a warrant from the sheriff ta ’pear in court fo’ trial.” “ ’Pear in court?” cried Jeff wide-eyed and indignant. At this outburst he dropped his pipe completely and it fell in the dust at his feet. “Fo’ what, may I be askin’?” “Seems like John Fanes got all het up ’bout that sign ya posted on that oak tree by his lane,” explained the deputy. “He filed suit ’gainst ya fo’ five-hundred dollai ' s or such.” “Five-hundred dollars!” exclaimed Jeff, infuriated at the thought. Not that he’d miss it, for he owned the largest farm in the county, but the thought of pay- ing the money to John Fanes infuriated him. “Yep, five-hundred dollars,” said the deputy. “Here’s ya summons. Mister Bailey. G’day, sir.” With this he turned and rode off, leaving Jeff surrounded by the dust. By the time the dust cleared, Jeff was nowhere to be seen, but soon THF MISSILF Page twenty-three out of the barn creaked the weak old wagon with Jeff perched on his high seat, beating the stubborn mule. Mrs. Bailey jumped when she heard the wagon, put her sewing aside and ran to the door just as her husband drew the mule to a halt before the door. “Where ya figgerin’ on goin’, Jeff?” she asked, smoothing her hair from her face. “Ta Blacksburg,” answered Jeff. “Git thar, mule!” “Ta Blacksburg! An’ why, might I ask, are ya goin’ to Blacksburg?” “Ta see Judge Land,” said Jeff, fully resolved, and turned the mule into the lane. “Git thar, mule! Git thar!” To his wife he called, “Won’t be back till ev’nin’!” The trial was held in the general store at Blacksburg on an early Saturday morning. Judge Land sat sternly but graciously on a bench behind the counter. His clerk sat on a crate beside him and the defendant and the witnesses sat all in a row before him. A stool unlike any stool ever seen before was placed beside the counter for the witness’ chair. It was a high narrow stool with three bow- legs and a multitude of notches and initials on its seat. Farmers and city men lined the walls, sitting on the rafters, in chairs, on boxes and atop the show cases. The frantic proprietor, watching everyone at once to protect himself againt wrongdoing, declared that there were not as many customers in town as there were men here. The judge finally called the court together by pounding the counter with a hammer which belonged to the storekeeper. “The court will come to order,” he stated solemnly. The murmuring in the room changed to a dead silence and all eyes were on the judge except those of Jeff Bailey and John Fanes, which were staring into each other’s meaningfully. “The witnesses will be sworn in,” said the judge. From pure habit the clerk jumped to his feet and read the oath so fast that Uncle John and the rest stared in amazement. The clerk with an air of boredom stated in a monotone, “Please say, ‘I do’.” In a chorus the men answered, “I do.” At this the judge turned to the lawyer for the defendant and said, “Please call your witnesses.” The lawyer said, “We have none. Your Honor. Mr. Bailey has decided that he will take the judgment placed upon him and confess that he did post the sign on Mr. Fanes’ property.” “Then I see no need of carrying the trial further,” said the judge. He faced Jeff and said to him, “Please rise, Jefferson Bailey.” Jeff rose slowly to his feet and walked a few steps toward the counter. Isem Badley and Uncle John were conversing in undertones behind him. Isem Page twenty-four THF MISSILF was the chief witness that Uncle John had chosen to view the sign on the tree. Isem had a certain personal grudge against Jeff and he thought if he testified against him, he would even the odds. He was angry because he had not had a chance to tell what he had seen. Uncle John’s face was quite different from Isem’s. A pleased smile was on his face as Jeff faced the judge. His eyes twinkled and the wrinkles about them grew until they were almost hidden in his bushy eyebrows. The judge said in a low, firm voice, “Jeff, I’m surprised at you, a grown man, acting so childishly. This matter might never have happened if it hadn’t been for your childishness. The court has found you guilty of the offense; therefore, John will have to be paid the five-hundred dollars.’’ At this Jeff’s face lighted, strangely enough to the onlookers, and he stepped forward a little. “Now, Judge Land, you know I can’t give that John Eanes no money ’cause of what I done here with you.’’ “I’m coming to that,’’ said the judge and turned toward Uncle John. “Jeff made over all his properties both personal and real estate to his wife a few days after you filed suit, John, so it will be impossible for him to pay you the money.” Uncle John’s face turned black with anger and surprise, and he clcutched Isem Badley’s arm so hard that it made Isem wince. “However,” continued the judge, “the money will be payable after Jeff’s death.” The commotion that followed made the rest of the judge’s speech inaudible, for Jeff’s friends were congratulating him on his slyness and Uncle John’s friends were patting him on the back for winning the suit even if the money was payable after Jeff’s death. The men were reluctant to leave the store because of the warmth of the store. Today was the first winter day in Lunenburg County. Jeff walked pompously past Uncle John and gave him a satisfied look, at which Uncle John turned away. “To think that danged ol’ fool made a fool o’ me,” he thought to himself, but outwardly he laughed with Isem Badley at his triumph. When Uncle John left it was so late that he decided to spend the nght in town with Isem. The air was bitterly cold and the wind blew tempestuously. Someone made the remark that the cold would ruin the potatoes in the ground tonight. Isem wondered at the strange look that came over Uncle John’s face. Uncle John, cold and tired, arrived home the next morning, and Aunt “Sis” met him at the door. “How was it?” she asked before he could get down from the wagon. “I’ll tell ya everythin’ after I git them taters dug up,” said Uncle John, mo- tioning his helper to take the mule away. “Won’t be no need o’ diggin’ ’em, John,” said Aunt “Sis” turning back into the house. “Ya was so het up ’bout that trial this past few days that ya forgot THE MISSILE Page twenty-five all ’bout them ' taters. There was a frost last night, ya knowl Go see for ya’self.” Uncle John did not have to look at the potatoes to see that they were no good. His helper had already dug a few that morning. They lay at his feet on the ground, black from the frost. He kicked a few of them in disgust and turned regretfully toward his helper. “There’s no fool like a’ ol’ fool, boy. ’Tain’t me that’s won that suit, but’s Jeff Bailey. Look at them ’tatersl Look at them tharl An’ I still can’t git the money till ol’ Jeff kicks off! There’s only one thing that’s worrin’ me now an’ I’m just scared that Jeff’s goin’ to outlive me!’’ By Claiborne Cummins On a starlit night when the air is crisp And the moon rides high above, And the couples stroll in the grassy parks And think and talk of love. How I love to sit on a wooded hill Where the breeze is soft and the night is still. When the leaves are brown and the trees are bare And the sunbeams brightly dancing. Where the fish are swimming in the pools And the buck and doe are prancing. The eagles nest on the rocky hill Where the breeze is soft and the day is still. When the day is dark and the sun is gone And the snowflakes fall around. Trees are bent with the heavy load. Strong branches touch the ground. And a blanket covers the towering hill Where the snow is soft and the breeze is still. Page twenty-six THE MISSILE Pansies By Joyce Evely They slowly open their sleepy eyes As the sun peeps over the hills; Their dew-rinsed faces raised to the skies, They awake to the mornings thrills. As they don their bonnets of colors so bright, They laugh and dance with glee; They wave “hello” to the others in sight. As happy as can be. But now too soon they’ve begun to tire. For the day has quickly sped; They’re worn out kiddies with one desire— “Mother Nature, please tuck us in bed.” Jilt Jttgtnnriam Private Hamilton W. Andrews, ’43. Died in Petersburg, Va., Dec. 9, 1944. Lieutenant Langford Bell, ’40. Died in Germany, Feb. 23, 1945. Technical Sergeant W. Leslie Blankenship, ’40. Died over Germany, Jan. 14, 1945. Private First Class Harry J. Bowles, ex-’44. Died in Italy, July 19, 1944. Private First Class Broaddus E. Bowman, e.K-’44. Died in New Guinea, Nov. 26, 1944. Private First Class John J. Brockwell, ’42. Died in Germany, Mar. 24, 1945. Staff Sergeant Winston Cave, ex-’43. Died at Hot Springs, Ark., Sept. 21, 1943. Lieutenant William L. Claytor, ’41. Died in Italy, June 6, 1944. Private Allen K. Dalton, ex-’31. Died in Italy, Dec. 20, 1943. Sergeant James H. Downing, ex- ’34. Died in France, June 24, 1944. Private First Class R. Mason Eanes, ex-’40. Died in France, July 24, 1944. Lieutenant Richard Lee Epes, ’32. Died on Luzon, Feb. 15, 1945. Lieutenant Charles S. Fazel, Jr., ’39. Died in Belgium, Feb. 2, 1945. Gunner’s Mate Preston Goulder, ex-’38. Died off France, June 6, 1944. Captain Joseph D. Harris, ’35. Died in Italy, Feb. 5, 1943. Captain J. Hartwell Heath, ex-’34. Died in Belgium, Jan. 4, 1945. - — Staff Sergeant Lee Roy Heath, ’37. Died in Germany, Dec. 14, 1944. Private John T. Jackson, ex-’45. Died in Italy, May 19, 1944. Private Robert Elmer Kidd, ex-’44. Died in Germany, Dec. 27, 1944. Staff Sergeant Elmer L. McKesson, ’37. Died in France, July 12, 1944. Private Edgar E. Moody, ex-’41. Died in Italy, Feb. 19, 1944. Private First Class Stuart M. Owen, ’35. Died on Iwo Jima, Feb. 19, 1945. Staff Sergeant Raymond M. Parker, ex-’44. Died in France, Dec. 9, 1944. Private First Class Herbert Chappell Partin, ex-’44. Died in Italy, Oct. 18, 1944. Corporal J. Bolling Perdue, ex-’33. Died in Germany, Nov. 11, 1944. Lt. Col. Raleigh Powell, Jr., ’32. Died in Germany, April 24, 1945 Corporal Herbert J. Price, Jr., ex-’37. Died in Santa Barbara, Calif., Aug. 7, 1942. Private First Class Davis Sawyer, ex-’34. Died in Italy, July 1, 1944. Private F irst Class Herbert W. Shelley, ex-’44. Died in Atlantic City, N. J., Jan. 1, 1945. Sergeant John B. Tench, ex-’3L Died in England, Jan. 20, 1945. Lieutenant Taylor Simmons Trueheart, ’35. Died in Oahu, — - Hawaii, April 8, 1943. Sergeant Robert O. Tucker, ex-’36. Died in Toole, Utah, April 30, 1945. Lieutenant William Albert Usher, ex-’Sl. Died in Belgium, Jan. 12, 1945. Lieutenant Harvey M. Walthall, ’39. Died over Germany, Aug. 4, 1944. Sergeant Charles M. Whitt, ’37. Died in Italy, Sept. 24, 1944. Staff Sergeant Frederick G. Williams, ’33. Died in France, Jan. 6, 1945. Sergeant G. Howard Williams, ex-’42. Died in Germany, Oct. 11, 1944. Lieutenant Brooks C. Young, ’36. Died in Solomon Islands, Feb. 20, 1943. — “His grave a nation’s heart shall be, His monument a people free.’’ Thoughts on Reading the Casualty List By Horace P. Bill The casualty list grows longer day by day. And as it lengthens nearer home it comes. Thoughts are stirred; memories are rekindled; Our minds go back to days and years long past— There’s Tom, the boy that lived across the street. Who dreamed of coming back to spend his life As he had planned. Those things are suddenly Snatched away from him forevermore And one more name is placed upon the list. Only the other week came word of Bob, Bob, so strong, so young, and full of life; It seems that surely he could this be spared. But no, the hand of Fate has dealt its card. Thoughts turn back to messages received. The words that were bringing only sorrow and grief. The first was brought to the folks up high on the hill. The richest people in town; the other went Across the tracks to a broken-hearted widow Whose only son had placed his name with the brave— Yes, rich and poor must suffer sacrifice. And those in county, town, and nation wide Surrender lives that we may live in peace. Page thirty THE MISSILE As Partee Told It By Lynton Goulder ARTEE was sitting in his chair by the campfire. Most of the boys had returned to their cabins, but as usual some few had gathered around to hear one of Par- tee’s fabulous tales. The darkey was dressed in his usual attire— his tobacco stained pants, his Sunday-go-to-meeting coat (if it could be given such a name), a cover- ing on his head which could hardly be called a hat. His forehead was a mass of wrinkles as he stared at the group that surrounded him. Even though Partee was the care- taker of the camp and had many du- ties to which he faithfully attended, he usually found time to tell a story. Though he sometimes appeared extremely serious-minded, it was just his way of giving a mysterious effect to his pride and joy— story telling. On the other hand, Partee was quite a jovial fellow when he wanted to be. “Well,” the darkey said after some deliberation, “dis night ah’m goin’ t’ tell de story ub— now le’ me think— dat Terry Moss, yes suh, dat’s ’is name. Dat boy and ’is friend, Leslie An’erson, walked t’ Chesterfiel’ Cote House one night, an’ ’twas cornin’ back dey had all deah trouble. “Yo’ know dat road dat comes th’ough de woods by de ole saw mill? Well, ’twas right ’long in heah dat Terry and ’is frien’, Leslie, as ah hab ’fore said, got demselves inta mischuff. All ub a sudden it begun a-lightnin’ and a-thund’rin’ and a-rainin’. Well, ah means t’ tell yo’ dey was shore in a mess ub a fix. “Terry he sez to ’is frien’ Leslie, ‘Leslie, don’ ya think we bettah try t’ git some sheltah in dat dar house?’ “ ‘Yes; suh. Ah reckon so. We bettah knock at de doah,’ Leslie answered t’ ’is frien’. “By dis time de boys, dey had gotten so wet dat dey was soaked cleah t’ de bones. As dey ’proached de house, dey was gitting kinda scared. De ole house, as Ah hab ’foresed, ’sisted ub two stories. De windows was all broke out and THE MISSILE Page thirty-one boded up. Dar wa’ not a speck o’ paint on de sides; naw suh, not a speck o’ paint on de sides, naw suh, not a speck. “ ’Twas b’ now dat de boys was makin’ deah way up de muddy road t’ de house. From dis dis’dance dey see a light a- peepin’ th’ough a broked window. But ole Terry Moss was wond’rin’ if dis would be so safe a place fo’ dem aft’ all. “Dey soon dumb de rickedy ole steps dat led up t’ de poach. “Leslie, he knocked on de doah, while Terry tried t’ squeeze de water out ’is clothes. “De doah started t’ squeak an’ priddy soon a lil’ ole man ’bout de size ub you” (Partee pointed to a youngster seated at his right) “poked ’is head roun’ de doah. ‘Well, whatcha want? I ain’t got nothin’ fo’ yo’.’ ” (Only Partee was able to talk in such a trembling squeaky voice). “Leslie ansahed t’ ’im, ’e sez, ‘We ’ud kinda lak t’ git sum sheltah fo’ de night.’ “De li’l’ ole man, ’bout de size o’ you”— Partee was again referring to the same boy— “as Ah have ’fore sed, ansahed t’ Leslie a-sayin’ in a weak, shaky voice, ‘Well, mebbe Ah kin git yo’ a place t’ sleep aft’ all! Jes come right on in. Yo’ looks kinda wet, so I figgahs dat yo’ prob’ly won’t min’ sleeping in de hay lof’ ub our mos’ dilapidated bahn.’ “Dat ole man had all ub a sud’n, quickah dan a fox runs, ’come awf’ly nice t’ our frien’s. “Well, de boys followed de ole man th’ough dat ole house. All de rooms ’cept one was dark as de ace o’ spades. “Terry, he jes’ ’bout tripped up on a ole rockin’ chere dat was set right plum’ in de middle ub de hall. It was so dark, as I have ’fore sed, dat Leslie lak t’ bumped right smack in’ de wall. “As dey drew nigh t’ de one lighted room, dey saw anudder man who Ah reggons was ’bout a foot tallah dan de li’l ole man ub which Ah have already sed.” By now Partee had changed his tone of voice. He had begun in a rather gruff manner, but by this time he was putting his whole self into it. He was be- coming more and more excited. “Soon dey got a view ub de room and saw a-lyin’ on a ole broke-down, leathah couch anudder man lak dey seen ’fore. He musta bin ’bout six feet tall. T’ dis day dey ain’t bin able t’ tell whethah he was a’ Indian or some Af’can fresh b’ought t’ dis country.” (Partee greatly exaggerated, as was his usual ten- dency). “Leslie and Terry, dey latah toll me, kinda secrit lak, dat on de inside dey didn’t feel so comfituble. In udder words dey war jes’ plain sceared; yes suh, jes’ plain sceared. “De li’l’ char’cter which was leadin’ dem had from somewhere found a Page thirty-two THE MISSILE ker’sene lanta’n. Dey follahed on and on th’ough de ole ramshakle’ house and by dis time war ’proaching de back doah. “He (the man) sez to ’is foll’wahs in dat ’terious li’l voice, ‘Now boys, jes’ follah me an’ Ah’ll lead yo’ stre’t t’ yo’ nice bed in de bahn. Ha! Hal’ he chuckled. “When he sed dis, I guess, dere won’t nothin’ fo’ dem t’ do but obey in- strucshuns and follah ’im. Dey walked and walked not even knowin’ whar in de work dey war goin.’ I guess dey ’sumed dey mus’ be goin’ back o’ de house. Dey hoped dere frien’ was leadin’ dem t’ de bahn and not somewhere else. “Terry thought t’ hisse’f, ‘S’pose ’e ain’t takin’ us t’ de bahn, whar’s we goin’? ’Tis so plum dark, I can’t evun see mah fingah in fron’ ub mah face an’ Ah won’t know whar we bin, come mahningl’ “Leslie he thinks a li’l’ diff’runt. ‘I don’ care s’much fo’ mahse’f; it’s Terry whut worries me. What’s gonna happun t’ him if we ain’t found a safe place t’ stay?’ ’’ Par tee added a note of explanation. “Leslie’s de ol’est boy, so ain’t nuddin’ but natchel fo’ ’im t’ think o’ Terry’s welfare. I mos’ fo’got t’ rilate dat ’tis still a-rainin’.’’ Continuing with the story Partee said, “Dey reached de bahn fin’ly. De li’l’ ole man took from ' is pockit a key, unlocked a lock what was s’ rusty dat it didn’ wanna unlock. As dey entahed th’ough de wooden doahs dat was s’ ole dey ’mos’ fell ofFn de hinges, de man sed in ’is same squeaky voice, ‘Boys, you’l jes’ dim’ up dat laddah and make yo’se’f at home till comes mawnin’. G’by!’ Our li’l frien’ parted an’ locked de doahs ’hind ’im.’ “De boys, dey dumb up de laddah, step b’ step. “Terry sez t’ Leslie, ‘Whatcha think o’ our ’dicamunt?’ “Leslie ansahed t’ ' is frien’, ‘Ain’t quite made up mah min’. Guess we might as well try ' n git some sleep on dat hay ovah yondah.’ “ ’Bout de time Terry reached de top o’ de laddah, Leslie yelled, ‘Help!’ “Terry ansahed, ‘What’s dat?’ ’’Leslie den ansahed back, ‘Nebber min’. Ah jes bumped mah head on a ham hangin’ down from dis roof.’ “Well, de boys den made dere bed, out o’ hay, ’bout what I ’fore sed and laid ’dere weary bones down fo’ a night’s sleep. “I reggons ’bout two hours passed when a thump, thump, thump caused Leslie to wake up. He agin heard a noise, but ’twas somebuddy unlockin’ de doah. I means t’ tell yo’, he was a-gittin’ kinda worried. He saw dat was ’bout mawning, ’cause a light come th’ough de cracks in de bahn. Leslie, as Ah have ’fore sed, was de ol’est of de boys, so natchelly he didn’ take it on hisse’f t’ wake up ’is Men’. He jes’ laid dare waitin’ an’ hopin’ dey war still safe. THE MISSILE Page thirty-three “Pretty soon ’e heard steps inside de bahn ’proachin’ de laddah dat dey had dumb. Somebuddy was a-comin’ aft’ dem.” Partee’s voice now showed a great deal of excitement. “Dar prob’ly was jes’ ’bout thirteen steps in de laddah. Yes suh, dat ole un- lucky thirteenl De person was on de third step! Leslie was lyin’ dere jes’ .... but wait a minnit! A hand ’tainin’ a long knife ’peared. De hand rose highah and highah! Soon dat In’yun, Af’ican, or what he was, ’peared in sight. Yes suh! He was a cornin’ ne’rah and ne’rah t’ Leslie. Fin’ly it happened. ’Is hand was ready t’ come down. Leslie, he was so sceared he didn’t know whuthah ’e ought t’ try t’ tackle de man or not.” Partee took time out from the story to give a few chuckles and say, “Dis heah Terry an’ Leslie war re’lly in a mess. Ah means t’ tell yo’!” He continued, “Ole Leslie was sittin’ up by dis time a-holdin’ ’is breath an’ still a-wond’rin’ whuthah he should tackle de man. He was lookin’ right square at de man what now he still didn’t know whuthuh ’e war a In’yun or Af’ican.” Then all of a sudden he paused and shouted hysterically, “De hand come down, cut a slice from de ole ham, and b’lieve me or not, de boys war served ham an’ eggs fo’ breakfas’ in de mawnin’!” Clouds By Auce Johnson Across a maze of blue God sent the clouds To make someone forget the day just past. To help him close his eyes to things unkind. And think of scenes that he would want to last. They gather slowly to take unusual shapes Of oceans wide with white-capped waves that break. Majestic mountains far from any clime. Or barks that drift on yonder distant lake. Around the edge, a line of gold appears. But wearily melts into a silvery gray. His visions fade; the man prepares to rest As darkness snugly tucks the clouds away. Page thirty-four THE MISSILE The Art of SteaKng Watermelons By Rodney Perkins T WAS a bright moonlit night and our shadows were projected against old man Patton’s barn. My friends and I had come to try his water- melons, which are especially famous for their size and flavor. Patton, an Irishman, was the type who would shoot at anyone who trespassed on his property. This was a job which required extreme care and precision in every move. We decided that it would be an every man for himself affair. The patch was located in the middle of a cornfield to conceal it from out- siders, so he thought. I moved stealthily toward the patch using the barn to shield me from the old man’s keen eyesight and his buckshot too. As I approached, Patton’s dog sprang up from the bushes and began barking wildly. I was stunned momentarily, but common sense told me I had better get out of there. After a hasty retreat I again found myself at the edge of the farm. That cursed dog had destroyed a well planned scheme, but I wasn’t to be beaten by a dog. By now I was hot, tired, and thirsty. After a brief rest I walked all the way around to the north side of the farm and proceeded to enter. I was very cautious this time because I was very near Patton’s house. Suddenly two shots rang out and I quickly fell on my face. Evidently the shots weren’t meant for me because I didn’t hear the buckshot crash through the cornstalks. I figured the old man was shooting at the boys who came in with me. This gave me a good chance to make a run for the melons and get mine while Patton’s attention was being diverted to catching the other boys. About fifty yards away from me I could see the break between the corn and the melon patch. As I got closer I could see the tops of the melons shining in the moonlight. When I came upon them I was utterly distressed, disappointed, and disil- lusioned. The watermelons were nothing but common old egg plants. THE MISSILE Page thirty-five Grave and Gay By Rex Sater Vesper The hush of twilight falls on a drowsy land And geiitly soothes the meadow with its balm. The forest receives the touch of its moistened hand. As swaying pines relax to its comforting calm. The sands of the prairie succumb to the vesper call As, stealing like whispered breathings of heavenly air. Dusk bathes the plain and spreads its shadowy pall To soothe the warm grass with its tender fare. And the moonlight spreads its trance o’er the placid pond And, tinting the rising swell of nature’s breast. It waves with silent gesture heaven’s wand Like a shepherd as he puts his flock to rest. Ode to the Valiant (Inspired by Cafeteria Shortages) Sing, for the hardy have shown their true zest! We have laughed in the face of hardship’s chore And have passed through the fire of adversity’s test With unyielding valor, but now as of yore We can get choc’late milk in the lunch room once more. Shout for the courage that conquered our fears When we cried for the royal sandwich in vain. But we vanquished the blow and catastrophe’s leers And fought off our sorrow with might and with main. Shout, for the royal is with us again! Sing the brave epic of courage and grit! Throw back your heads and laugh at despair! We shall walk with the Spartans, with heroes we’ll sit. We have weathered the storm but now banish care. For the food of the gods has returned to our fare. Page thirty-six THE MISSILE “Around The World Away ” Alaskan Diary (Excerpts from a Sailor’s Diary) December 7, 1941. On Sunday, December 7 th, we left Kodiak. The Army Chaplain held services at 10:00 in the ship’s recreation salon. There were about 70 men present, and he preached a short but impressive sermon on Moses and the Burning Bush. After dinner we were all sitting in the recreation room when one of the crew came in and told us that Pearl Harbor had been bombed and that we were at war with Japan. Naturally we thought he was joking, but he seemed so in earnest that we sent one of the fellows to the radio room to see what he could find out. He was soon back, with the news that the base had been attacked at Pearl Harbor. Shortly after that the Spica, a U. S. patrol boat, came alongside and sent us a message by blinker to silence our radio and to black out the ship. We then began to realize that we were at war and that we were in a pretty bad spot at this time. The crew painted all the windows black, and then we hung blankets over them on the inside so there would be no chance of light coming through anywhere. That night (Sunday night) we were all assigned posts at various points about the ship. I had the post on the port side of the ship, seeing that no one went up into the radio room except the radio men and officers. We also were to watch for submarines and any lights. I was on deck from 3 A. M. to 8 A. M. The moon was out, the sea was calm, and everything was perfectly quiet. The next day we started running into some heavy seas, and as night came we were rolling and pitching the worst of the whole trip. As I did not have a watch to stand, I went to bed early and had to almost brace myself to stay in my bunk. We were all ordered on deck with life belts on at 5:30 Tuesday morning. After asking around, I found that a radio message had come through that a submarine was waiting to attack us at a certain pass. Food and water were placed in all the life boats and the crew were standing by ready to lower them at a moment’s no- tice. Even if we had a chance to get the boats into the water, I don’t think they would have been of any value as the sea was just a mountain of waves. We sat on deck for three or four hours huddled together, wrapped in blankets, almost holding our breath. At last the word was passed that we had passed the danger point and would soon be at Dutch HarTor. Then other complications set in. THE MISSILE Page thirty-seven Our radio operator called Dutch Harbor to ask i£ the harbor had been mined, but could get no answer; so on we went into the harbor anyway. If it had been mined, we would have been blown sky-high. One of the navy’s Y. P. boats came alongside as we came in with its guns staring us in the face. We later found that we had been signaled and asked to identify ourselves, but we had not seen the signal. We were just lucky not to have been fired upon from the coast defense guns as they were just waiting for the word. Boy, were we glad to set foot on muddy ground again. This was Tuesday, December 9th. Right away we nine sailors were taken to the marine barracks and there issued rifles, bandoliers of am- munition, and gas masks and told to carry them with us at all times and to put them close to our bed at night so we could grab them in a moment. We were given one of the defense cottages which had just been finished. And that’s our home. All of the women except a few nurses have been evacuated. So far we have had a black-out nightly and you would never think it could be so dark until you tried to walk around in it as we have to do occasionally when on duty. December 31st. 7 ' oday I saw how lucky I really am. A few days ago our patrol boats picked up a Dutch East Indies boat with a crew composed mostly of Chinese. There also were two Japanese aboard who were placed under arrest at once. This boat had been at sea some time without any food or water, and today I saw that boat and the crew. They were tied up at Unalaska and I had to go to talk to the captain about getting a part of the engine repaired. Most of these Chinese were of small features. None of the crew except the higher officers could speak English and they very little. Most of the poor devils were without clothes and shoes; that is, except rags, and were like a gang of children or more like a gang of chattering monkeys when we gave them clothes and supplies. Of course, I guess they never have had much, but it just takes something of this nature to make us realize how fortunate we are even to be alive and Americans. Quite a few people I know would profit by seeing a sight such as this. Certainly they are continuously at war. Who wouldn’t fight, having to live and earn a living as they do? I guess none of us are ready to die, but if giving up our life would right such wrongs as these, I don’t think there’s a man in the crowd who wouldn’t fight to a finish. I’m ready. January 8, 1942. Well, things are going along about the same: still watching, still waiting. For what? No one knows. Robert W. Bryant, ’35, RM 1 c. Page thirty-eight THE MISSILE Early Days In New Guinea New Guinea, June 3, 1944. Dear , I thought you might like to know more about New Guinea as we early arrivals in this theater saw it, and I believe I can express my opinions along this line without being censored. New Guinea, when one lo oks at it in this man- ner, was like a new and virgin country to the Ameri- can soldier on his arrival here in those first months. A strange land of green jungles, and on the coast cocoanuts trees laid out in lines like a plantation. Coming up by ships we skirted the coast— beautiful scenery from that distance. Picturesque islands— water— crystal-clear with vari-colored fish and coral reefs plainly visible in its depths— truly a setting for a sarong-clad maiden as in the Lamour productions. All this is from shipboard— now let’s go ashore. Over the side of the ship with full equipment— down a cargo net to a waiting barge. We do this after nightfall. We’re anxious to get ashore to this apparently beautiful land and out of danger of being caught aboard ship during a raid. We reach shore and assemble in the darkness. Our packs are heavy now and the straps cut into our shoulders. Everyone is weary and hoping we will soon be on our way to a camping ground for the night. As we wait we catch a glimpse of a native woman in a grass skirt as she passes near the headlights of a truck. Wow! Everyone forgets his burden for the moment. She quickly disappears into the darkness. Now we begin to take stock of our surroundings— the road is a one-lane affair as if it might have been used only for wagon traffic- it is also muddy from a recent rain. A flashlight appears ahead and we form in file and follow it down the road— the only thing to lead us in the darkness. We slip and slide on our way. The light is a hundred yards ahead of me, and I follow the fellowin front of me. I hear the splash of water as we come to a dip in the road. Soon I feel the water— cold— as it seeps through my leggins into my shoes. I feel the bottom of the stream-bed cautiously with my feet— in the darkness not know- ing whether the next step will plunge me into water deep enough to swim in. We take the streams in our stride now— we’re already soaked and a bit cooler now. After about a half mile we fall out to one side of the road— our bivouac area. Half of it is covered by tough grass chest-high— the other half in a rocky soil. I pick a spot and cut the grass with my bayonet— find a partner (the med- ical man in our outfit) and am lucky, for he has a hatchet for driving our tent pegs. We take our shelter halves and pitch tent (pup tent). We spread our raincoats over the grass and spread our blankets over this— put our mosquit o bars THE MISSILE Page thirty-nine over the open front and with our equipment under cover proceed to get some sleep— many fully clothed and with wet feet and leggings. However, I took mine off and was fairly comfortable except for a rock hidden under the grass which was pressing into my back. The ants and insects I ignored and was soon fast asleep. Awoke the next morning to find ourselves nearly in the middle of several native huts. Was surprised at their relatively small stature when compared with our fellows; also the way the women carry the heavy loads by a basket on the back and a strap-like band over their heads while the men walk in front with no load at all. The many-skirted women— the tall palms— everything is different but the rain, mud and mosquitoes. d ' he New Guinea of today still is strange to the uninitiated, but it is changed. Two-lane highways, airstrips, bombers, fighters and transports (even Piper Cubs), malaria control with sprays on stagnant water, drainage of swamps. Traffic jams on the roads and thousands of soldiers, sailors, seabees and marines. Even a few GI radio stations for the GI’s enjoyment. A changed New Guinea. A land of future development with promise after the war. Such is my account as a GI sees New Guinea. Tech. Sgt. Stanley M. Samuel, Jr., ex ’38. Afloat and Ashore In Port, March 20, 1944. Today is the second birthday of the U. S. S. South Dakota and at present it rests calmly and quietly in an unnamed harbor waiting for its next opportunity to go to work on the Japs. In the past two years, since it left the States, it has travelled over one hundred thousand miles, or four times around the earth. During that time it has boosted its own score against the Japs to a new high to be disclosed at some later date. I think I mentioned in my last letters our activities at sea and our contact with the enemy. Now I want to write about our life in port, after we have re- turned from a tour of sea duty. When I use the word port, don’t think of San Francisco, Bremerton, Brook- lyn or any place like that. Think of the wide spaces of the ocean and imagine us with our anchor down. In fact there is not much difference now between “in port” and “at sea.” At sea, we stand battle watches night and day, always ready for action. In port we have other kinds of watches, and for the most part we are free from combat work— to do other kinds. As soon as we reach port a tanker comes alongside and we fuel. After some hours this leaves us; we put away Dear Mom, Dad, Sis; Page forty THE MISSILE fueling gear and get ready for ammunition. This takes a day or two of around- the-cloek work depending on the amount we need— and we generally need plenty. Next we take on stores— tons and tons of them— and what a job. But all of this is a primary necessity, and the first week in port is one of concentrated work. After this we have time for rest and recreation, but it is always of the utmost im- portance to have the “Old Girl” ready for action, and we have to think of her be- fore we think of ourselves. What kind of recreation do we have? In the first place there is no shore lib- erty. Twice a day recreation parties leave the ship for a nearby beach. They take along a couple of footballs, a baseball or two, and have what fun they can running up and down the coral beach and swimming in the waters which were not too long ago entirely Jap controlled. In the afternoon aboard ship we rig a volley ball net on the fantail. In the library we have a stock of athletic gear, and the afternoon looks like Sunday afternoon at a recreation center with baseballs, softballs, and footballs flying through the air. You are either throwing one or ducking one. Then, too, all of our boxers work out so that if we are not actively engaged we can at least watch what is going on. At four o’clock the bugle sounds swimming call, and the air is filled with hurtling bodies, some diving from the deck, some going over the side on cargo nets. Four marines stand by with rifles to shoot any unwary shark that might be too inquisitive, but since we have been in this port none have been seen. In the evenings we have movies on deck. Every week since being here we have had a boxing show, with boxers from other ships as our guests. In addition to this we have a very good ship’s orchestra and groups of entertainers. We send them over to other ships, and they in turn let us have their performers so that we get a variety that way. However, you can get pretty tired of looking at men all this time. We have decided that what our band needs is a female vocalist or two, or three, or— how did I get off on this? Mail has been coming regularly, but the big moment in a long time came a few days ago. A ship came alongside with ammunition. It was fresh from the States and had a huge shipment of Coca-Cola. The boys went over the side like pirates and each bought his own case. It was the first we have had in many months. This ship has no soda fountain or ice cream plant as these accessories and luxuries were taken off when we came out to fight. Well, I guess that’s all the news for this time. So keep me in mind in your prayers and also in your letter writing. All I can say to you at this time is that I am well, safe, and happy. There is only one thing which could increase my hap- piness; that is, to walk down the gangplank and put my feet once again on the good old U. S. A. Son (Walter H. Saunders, SC 2c,’ 45). THE MISSILE Page forty-one A Soldier In Iceland Base Quartermaster Office, Iceland Base Command March 16, 1945. Have been meaning to write you for some time, ever since I got here, but didn’t get settled until a few days ago. I am working at personnel in Head- quarters Company and it isn’t too bad. This work is the key to every position known in the Army, but the trouble is finding a lock it fits. I arrived here the last part of February and much to my amazement the place isn’t as expected, and the worst was expected. Iceland is old, like the bitter winds that still reign over her— rugged, strange and distant with its treacherous fjords, mountains, lava-splashed hills and ice beds. It is beautiful with a deep unexplainable desolate kind of beauty that I don’t like to know, or any Southerner for that matter. The wind is the key to Iceland’s beauty and changeable weather. It has stricken Iceland bare of nature’s non- essentials and what is left is solid and raw. It has to be. Iceland is unpredictable. Nowhere does the sun shine brighter, rain fall harder, and icy breezes cut sharper. Nowhere can the wind whip itself into such agonized uproar of madness, nor can nature show herself to be more calm and submissive when she chooses to. Biting winds, jagged ice peaks, geysers and boil- ing springs, water, fire and desolation— that is Iceland. From a struggle to sur- vive has come civilization— modern, broad-minded, and far-seeing. Cities with ex- pensive hotels, office buildings and modern homes, swing bands and jitterbugs. There are also hamburgers, but a definite lack of Pulley’s. There are fishermen, sailors, farmers, merchants, students and intellectuals: children, blonde and beau- tiful, and blondes that aren’t children, but still beautiful. Iceland is the fourth largest island in the North Atlantic (I’ve been reading up on it). It has 540,000 square miles with 120,000 people. It was settled by Vikings, Celts and others. Bjarni Herjulfsson of Iceland discovered America in the year 981, more than 450 years before Columbus was born. Leif Ericsson (Eric the Red) set foot on the mainland of American in AD 1000. Looks like Colum- bus was scooped. Enough about this place though. I could write a lot more about Iceland, but don’t think you would be inter- ested and I can’t write too much about the camp here. It’s a good safe place so far, but that’s beside the point. We live in tin cans cut in half and packed with sandbags, but they are very cosy inside and look more like a room at college than Army huts. Dear Page forty-two THE MISSILE What is going on at school around this time of the year? To me Petersburg High is still my school. Maybe it’s the length of service put in there. Nothing really happens here. One night I did see the Northern Lights flash- ing across the mountains. Blue, green and dark orange mixing together and giv- ing off a weird half-light that glowed and ran in streaks across the sky. Very beau- tiful but eerie. Give my regards to everyone. Yours, Bill (Pvt. William M. Jolly, ’43). In The Philippines The Philippines, January 25, 1945. Dear Folks, At the moment there are about six Philippino chil- dren gathered around my tent. One, Eugenio Agas, has taken quite a fancy to us and has hardly moved from our shadow since arriving. Yesterday four of them built us a bamboo structure and a floor off the ground and we feel quite elegant. One, whose last name is Caliban, spent five months in the Philippino army. They all feel bitter hatred for the Japanese— they stole most of their food, clothes, etc., and whenever they met a Jap had to bow very low or be slapped across the face. Whenever they (the Japanese) wanted rice, they just stuck a flag in the best section of the field and that automatically made it theirs. The Spanish influence around this section has largely disappeared except for names, Catholicism, and some of the buildings. Few of them know any Span- ish. Yesterday Caliban came to invite Bob Hinson and me to visit him at his home, but I wasn’t here; so possibly we will go today. Most of their homes are of bamboo and are well off the ground. They are very strong and are kejDt in im- maculate condition. There are lots of flowering shrubs in most of the yards. The most common is a flower which looks like a cross between an Althea and a Hybiscus and is a bright red. Bananas are abundant, and I hope to get some before long. Pine- apple, I understand, does not grow well in this particular locality. Cocoanut trees are all around us and the juice tastes much better than that in New Guinea. The natives think nothing of climbing a tree and getting them. THE MISSILE Page Forty-three The people are very clean-cut, highly moral, and very religious, and some very pretty. They are very small for their age— I nearly always underestimate when guessing how old they are. This is the dry season over here, and they say that it doesn’t rain any at all ’til May, and then it pours for three months without ceasing. Our air supremacy is very apparent over here, I am glad to say. It’s a com- fortable feeling to see so many of our planes. With love, Pinckney (CoRP. David Pinckney Powers, Jr., ’38.) A Visit To Rome Italy, Dear Mom: June 27, 1944. The big news is I have been to see Rome, and though I might not have seen all of it, I did the best I could. Sure did have a good time and wish I could run in and tell you about it and not have to try to put it down on paper. First, I went to the Vatican and saw the Pope. As you go in they give you a little medal and a pic- ture of the Pope. Each day the Pope comes out and blesses the soldiers, and each day they give you one of the little medals. When I got them I saw the Pope. He was dressed in white and looked just as he does in the pictures. One day I was near enough to him to touch him for about twenty minutes. The Papal guard of honor were dressed in all kinds of uniforms and added lots of color and splendor to the service. After the Pope had blessed us, he got in his chair and they carried him on their shoulders from the hall. I also went to St. Peter’s, and although I knew it was the largest church in the world, I didn’t think it could be so big. We had a guide to take us ail through it and tell us all about each thing, but it’s too much to try to even write down. I’ll give you a few of the high-lights and you can read up on it in the en- cyclopaedia. The dome is 493 feet high, and the mosaic pictures were put in by Michaelangelo. Right under the dome is the Papal altar which stands over the tomb of St. Peter. Only the Pope can say mass from this altar, but there are 43 other altars in the church. It took over three and a half centuries to build this church, and it cost over ten million pounds sterling; each year it takes six thous- and pounds to repair and clean it. The church covers a space of 240,000 square feet and can hold about fifty thousand people. It’s a little larger and cost a lit- tle more than our church at Matoaca, but I love ours best and feel more at Page forty-four THE MISSILE home in it. There are over seven hundred pillars of marble, limestone and bronze’and 391 statues. We went up on the dome, and you can walk around in- side and out up there. You can see how big the church is when you get up there. You can see the beautiful Vatican gardens and they are beautiful. I wish I could show them to you, for you can see all of Rome from up there too. The Vatican Palace has about 11,000 rooms in it; quite a place, I would say. I don’t have too much time, so I’ll just name some of the things I have seen besides St. Peter’s and the Vatican. I can’t remember them all, but I ve seen the Palace of Justice, Castle of St. Angelo, Forum, Coliseum, Railway Station, Memorial to Victor Emanuel, Venezia Palace, Arch of Septimus Severus, St. Paul’s, St. John Lateran, the Pantheon and dozens of parks, fountains, statues, Roman ruins, and I have crossed the Tiber lots of times. Have been in most of these places but not all of them. Went to service in St. Paul’s and took communion there. It is a real nice American Episcopal church and the time I was there an American chaplain held the services. I also saw Irving Berlin’s “This Is the Army” at the Royal Opera House. It was a stage show and the best one I ever saw. Irving Berlin sang several songs himself and parts of a new one he is writing ran, “When the Boys Come Home.” Some day soon I hope you can hear it and the boys can come home too. Boy, that will be a happy day. The Opera House is beautiful. I sat right in front of the King’s box, but of course he wasn’t there; I had one of the best seats in the house. Love you all, JUNIE (CoRP. Ralph Mann, Jr., ex-’28.) A Trip to Paris Dear Dr. Mason, France, Feb. 11, 1945. Now I can write you about the trip to Paris. Sorry I had to put it off until now, but almost the next day after I return- ed we became quite busy and no time seemed left for long let- ters or, in fact, any at all. Everything is under control now, so I’ll see if I can remember everything and not bore you too much with details. The time was altogether too short, but I crowded every- thing possible into the two days. The hotel was quite nice, but had one serious drawback— there was no heat except in the dining room and one little bar. There was plenty of hot water, and it was grand to fill the tub with it and steam awhile before retiring at night. THE MISSILE Page forty-five I took in everything available in such a short time. One night we went to the “Follies Bergere.” It was not very good— even the men who have gone from here to see it felt a little cheated. Maybe, in peace time they are different. One afternoon was spent taking a bus tour of all the important places or rather the better known tourist sights in the city. Included were Eiffel Tower, Notre-Dame, Arch of Triumph, Napoleon’s tomb, the Louvre, the Latin quarter, and many others. The Champs-Elysees is a beautiful place— but then the whole city must be very beautiful in peace time, or even now it will be as soon as the slush and debris are cleared away. I shopped up and down the famous Rue de la Paix— the window type shop- ping I assure you. There are many lovely things to buy, but who has the money to pay the huge prices demanded? One little rayon scarf I priced was a scant $45.00— sounds ridiculous, but that’s the way prices seem to run for about every- thing. I went to see a style show at Maggie Rouff’s one half hour. Some lovely things were shown; the least expensive was a little sports dress for $280.00. The people don’t want to sell to .A mericans or other outsiders, for they need all the clothing available for the people of France. Unfortunately, the people haven’t enough to pay the prices asked. The trip back was really the grandest thing imaginable. We came on a beautiful train— lovely compartments with good berths, heat, hot and cold run- ning water, and every convenience one could ask. It was a long trip but I’m glad I went, for I may not get another chance. I’m hoping for a return in the spring, but that can’t be depended on. Lots of love, Elenora (Lieut. Elenora Parker, ex-’35. Army Nurse.) With the Marines on Iwo Dear Mother, Iwo Jima, Tuesday, 6 March 45 (I think) Today is about D + 15 and the battle still goes on. However, if everything goes O. K., tomorrow should be the last day. My outfit and myself have been very lucky. We have been on the beachhead 1 the whole time, and our beach was not as hot as the others. I landed about 10 A. M. D+1 and worked steadily for about 6 or 7 days. Very little to eat and very little Page forty-six THE MISSILE sleep. Jap artillery and mortars pounded us every once in a while and your son was lucky to come out of D+1 night alive. They were hitting within 10 to 20 yards of me. Most of my buddies have come through O. K. Lots of my friends in the 28th have been hurt, but I don’t know who. Johnny Jones is up front iVith the tanks and is O. K. as far as I know. I heard his tank was knocked out, but no one in it was hurt. Right now there is a heavy cruiser off our beach pouring shells on the Jap positions. The artillery on the hill behind opens up every once in a while too. The blasts shake my little foxhole. This morning I went over to the west side of the island to take a bath, but I didn’t get much dirt off. I am a filthy something— my clothes and myself are past dirty. I haven’t shaved since I came ashore and have quite a beard. It is warm here in the day time, but it gets pretty cool at night. I am as comfortable as could be expected, but I will be glad to leave, which I hope to do in about 3 or 4 days. There is too much to write it all. Some of it I never want to think of. Love, Billv (Lieut. William Bragg Russell, ’37.) Capt. John E. Jones, ’38, Tank Battalion. By John Kinker, Jr. The moon is a ball Fixed in the sky. It’s a snowball that children Throw so high. Being close to the sun, It melts from sight. Again to be whole Some other night. THE MISSILE Page forty-seven Sailing Bv Martha Robinson What a beautiful sight is before my eyes, For my pretty boat in the distance lies. It is waiting there for the moments gay, That will send me rapidly on my way. To toss with every breeze. With the wind in my sails I just glide along. Rocked by the waves to the lilt of a song. First up and then down, ’tis such jolly fun To joyfully float out under the sun. Away from land and trees. My spirits are high from the thrills that I get, For what is a sail if you don’t get wet? When the jib seems to make my sailboat fly. Then my joy becomes boundless as the sky. And wide as seven seas. II By Anne Robinson To sail a boat on a windy day Fulfills a joyous life for me. I start just at the break of dawn And I feel so gay and gorgeously free. The clearcut lines of the sturdy small boat And the sails that are filled with the morning breeze. The foamy wake in the salty brine As the prow cuts each wave with such graceful ease— All fill my soul with such comfort and glee. And the swish of the wave s that keep lapping the side Takes my mind off the troubles each new day brings forth As if they by chance might go out with the tide. Page forty-eight THE MISSILE The Founding of The Missile By Charles Edgar Gilliam, ’12 N the fall of 1911 Miss Maude Hobbs, teacher of senior English, sug- gested to a meeting of the Petersburg High School senior class the idea of publishing a monthly magazine. The class consisted of Misses Mary Moylan Banks, Annie Lois Chap- pell, Lula Cameron Hack, Lillie James, Pearl Estelle Mann, Cora Mar- tin Rolfe, Virginia Meade Walke, and Messrs. Meade Cook Brunet, John Archer Chappell, Charles Edgar Gilliam, Earl M. McKesson, Nicholas Brezee Munson, Charles D. Sandford, James Herbert Tench, and Ernest Nelson Townes. These together with members of the editorial board chosen from other classes founded the magazine. For the first time, insofar as anyone could remember, there were more boys than girls in the senior class. The eight boys took a great and almost perverse interest in opposing everything the girls suggested in any class meeting. How- ever, both boys and girls hailed Miss Hobbs’ suggestion with enthusiasm and, without much ado, voted unanimously to undertake the publication of six monthly issues, the first to appear in January, 1912. The class next proceeded to elect the following editorial and business staff; Charles Edgar Gilliam, Editor-in-Chief; Cora Rolfe and M. Frances Drewry, Asso- ciate Editors; Ernest N. Townes, Editor of “A Few Pointers”; Robert G. Butcher, Athletic Editor; Virginia M. Walke, Alumni Editor; Beatrice Coleman, Exchange Editor; Agnes Stribling, Head Reporter; Meade C. Brunet, Business Manager; Ernest N. Townes, Circulation Manager; and Frank Buchanan and Russell L. Perkinson, Asssistant Business Managers. For once it appeared that the boys and girls were in complete accord; but Miss Hobbs let slip the fact that she had consulted some of the girls as to the name of the publication and thought the simple “Petersburg High School Maga- zine” would be dignified. The boys immediately went into a huddle. The upshot was that it was voted to let anyone suggest a name. The girls began suggestions, most of them with some literary significance. Miss Hobbs wrote them on the board. The boys still huddled and plotted. They were trying to think up some word that would fail to meet the approval of any girl. The result was that either Meade Brunet or Ernest Townes hit upon the word “Missile.” One by one the erudite names were voted down in the traditional eight to seven. Then the name “The Missile” was proposed. Every girl had something to say against it; and Miss Hobbs, who had no vote, delivered quite a sermon on the inadvisability of saddling such an enter- THE MISSILE Page forty-nine prise with such an absolutely meaningless name. But to no avail. Both Meade Brunet and Ernest Townes declared a better name could not be found, but, when asked its significance for the purpose intended, merely replied with the thought that it would be up to the Editor-in-Chief to explain that editorially in the first issue. Well, the editor did try to give the name significance in the leading editorial in the January, 1912, issue; but somehow all his exposition was a mild fraud on the readers. For the real reason the name was chosen was not stated, and that leal reason was the malicious fun the male ever has when demonstrating it is not always true that “the female of the species is more deadly than the male,” for in the matter of that name the boys in the class of 1912 had their way! In the years that have followed this name has grown to have some real sig- nificance. For each succeeding senior class has been a shade better physically, mentally, and spiritually on the average than those preceding it. This growth has been evidenced in each succeeding publication of the high school magazine; and each annual issue of “The Missile” has been sent forth, like each succeeding graduating class, to carry with it the feeling of satisfaction shared by the school’s sons and daughters for having romped and studied and dreamed and planned their advent into womanhood and manhood at the Petersburg High School. On Man and Nature By Elus Zuckerman The dove is cooing in yon cedar tree, The breast of red robin is full as can be; The sun earthward smiling finds joy just to know That his warning rays caused a rose bud to grow. Men are now waking, their work to begin. And pray to their God that they should not sin; For they, like the cedar, the robin, the dove. Are dependent on heaven for food, drink, and love. Can not we as the dove which to heaven is nigh. Spread peace on the earth as well as on high? Our earth like the sky is so fair and so bright. Can not we, like our forefathers, keep it so right? Page fifty THE MISSILE It’s Murder He Says By Ed Barksdale T the outset I’d better say that I have never read a mystery novel; that is, a mystery novel in the accepted present day sense. On the other hand, you continually meet murder in books of varying degrees of literary quality, representing the products of all ages and races and ranging from the Bible to the latest opus of S. S. Van Dine. Ever since Cain killed Abel, people have been diverting themselves by entering accounts of the latest manifestations of man’s homicidal instinct on reams and reams of paper— -or papyrus or sheepskin or stone or whatever seems to have been on hand. Likewise, throughout the ages, even more people have passed the winter’s eve- nings by the fireside and the summer’s afternoons in a hammock reading the latest detective novel. In viewing murder in all its historical aspects as reflected by its literature, you can see that although the fundamentals of murder and sleuthing have not changed, there has been considerable elaboration in method. The ancients seem to have lacked fhe delicacy of the more recent murderers. They simply butchered whom they pleased, where they pleased, with a sword, bludgeon or similar instrument, and tickled their babies under the chin after- wards. Usually they did not feel the strong arm of the law, mainly because they were laws unto themselves; making no secret of the affair, thy usually caused their fellows to feel any investigation superfluous. The woman’s way, poison or poniard, was as effective and quieter and has been just about her mainstay all through the centuries. However, as you progress from those straightforward, uncomplicated times you find yourself in the Dark Ages where murder gathered a more sinister import. Its forms assumed a bewildering complexity that succeeding ages have scarcely equaled; and although it lacked perhaps the grace and clarity of more recent times, it more than made up for these qualities in its wantoness, its unrelieved blackness— quite disgusting. Deservedly most of the accounts of these revolting murders have perished in wars and in fires, or otherwise sunk in oblivion. An- other point to bring up is that murder as a fine art began to take form. Certain conventions were established; and in spite of frequent orgies there was probably some criterion of taste, whereby the murderer would know how to brandish his stiletto, and how not to mix his poisons. No doubt the murderer was con- scious of his dexterity and confirmed in his skill through practice; and just as he would give a certain flourish in guiding the blade to its mark, so he would dodge the workings of his conscience with equal agility. The tales which have survived sometimes give the impression that murder in THE MISSILE Page fifty-one addition to being a quite personal thing was somewhat of a public enterprise. Otherwise, how could you explain how these bands of cutthroats, complete with their versions of Dale Carnegie’s book, piled up so many bodies? This age, though marked by a notable progression in form, was no less sanguinary than the others. Its ethics were like umbrellas; used only when needed. The Renaissance ushered in something entirely new, something which at once complicated and simplified matters, but which I think was a decided step to- wards reform. People began to regard murder not only as a violation of the right of an individual, but as a social offense. I suppose they thought if any- one else could be murdered that easily, they might as well take some protection for themselves. Simultaneous with the development of this social consciousness was the growth of the police department. Under these circumstances our sleuth makes his debut. Now there are sleuths and sleuths and sleuths. As many dif- ferent types, perhaps, as there are kinds of murderers. On the other hand you can’t say the number of murderers equals the number of victims. This is due to that overenthusiastic type known as the homicidal maniac. About this time the art of murder moved from the back alley to the drawing room, so to speak; and, invested with a gentility it had never known before, it became the province of the cultured, whi fh, needless to say, gave it a great deal of distinction. This was the Age of Reason (it was also the period of the French Revolution), and politeness was its first principle. A signal innovation was the introduction of the gun, marking the advent of the Industrial Revolution, which, as any fool would see, would revolutionize the art of murder. The next step, development of the scientific way of thinking, was an evidence of the change of the art to a science. I personally think of it neither as an art nor as a science, but as something the plotting and execution of whic h embodies some of the characteristics of both. Others maintain that the murder itself is an art and the subsequent detection a science. Unquestionably, it was a turn for the better. Murder purged itself of its more unsavory elements, abolishing the absurd posturings of the Medieval Ages and giving itself over to simplification and the sweet reasonableness of our Modern Age. The art of mur- der has undergone modifications and broadened its scope. It has given itself a thorough housecleaning. Streamlined methods are definitely more efficient. This new order offers an amazingly varied choice of weapons; ballistics, chemistry, electricity, electronics, and even cosmic rays figure importantly. Mod- ern design makes the big difference. It also has wielded an enormous influence on detective novels. Since I have not read any of the contemporary works, I do not know to what extent. However, you occasionally meet old-fashioned as well as remodeled murder, richly satisfying too, in other kinds of literature. I hap- pen to think of the murders in Hamlet and Macbeth and the celebrated murder of that celebrated fellow, Julius Caesar, perhaps more famous for his murder than Page fifty-two THE MISSILE any thing he ever did, the murder of the father in “The Brothers Karamazov”, and others. Now here’s a closing remark pertinent to issues being heatedly discussed in academic circles. When you rise in the morning, intent on dispatching the first person you see, don’t be taken in entirely by the misleading chatter of modern utilitarian methods; don’t forget the tremendous heritage of the past, that the earliest murderers were the greatest. So when on the point of electrocuting someone, be reminded of when Achilles slaughtered Hector and dragged him seven times around the walls of Troy and run your victim through with a sword; make no bones about it. Cinquains Last Night By John Kinker, Jr. Last night, With stealthy strokes, Nature veiled my garden With crystal gauze, and sealed my rose With death. Panhandler By Joseph Lasala Mister .... With whining plea The mole uptilts his face. And with a muffled sound, a shuffle. He slinks. Sleepy Head By Gloria C. Melvin The sun Sinks into The clouds as a drowsy babe Rests his head upon his pillow To sleep. THE MISSILE Page fifty-three A Tribute To Unknown Heroes By Preston Hodges Few can live and heroes be Die, yet long remain. A life that can is the kind of life That was not lived in vain. But common folk must tread life’s path, And they have want of gain. Not all can live in glory’s blaze. Or die in a flare of flame. There are many who never reach the stars. Yet have a right to fame. We do not know the deeds they did; Nor do we know their name. Some will trudge the rocky road To castles above the sky; And heaven’s final judgment day Will sound their praises high. The little things in life they did. Others failed to try. Battle By Jane Eanes Out of the dark tempestuous deep A gale begins to blow. Gigantic waves at war do creep Towards their ancient foe. The cannons shell the rocky beach; The winds attack o’erhead. The lightning to the rear does reach. And hail comes down like lead. The battle is lost, the waves retreat. The land they did not gain. The ocean retires at its defeat To wait and try again. Page fifty-four THE MISSILE Every Night’s Not Hallowe’en By Preston Hodges HARLIE GLASS was the sort of person who made up his mind quickly and acted more on impulse than by reason. Once he had reached a de- cision, heaven and earth could not prevail upon him to alter it. That was the way it had been with everything he had ever done, espec- ially selling his farm. Years after- wards, when Charlie was again living on the old place, his friends would continually remind and torment him about that so nearly disastrous ex- perience. In the late fall of 1904 Charlie approached the group of farmers gathered about the country store and an- nounced that he was going West. No reason was given, but his friends whispered that he had met a girl from Kentucky whom he really liked. “She’s not like all the rest,” spoke up Lindsey. “Wouldn’t be surprised if Charlie didn’t get married this time.” “Oh, I don’t know,” retorted Sam Johnson. “Charlie’s been a bachelor forty years and probably will be for forty more.” In the next few days Glass sold the two hundred and eighty acre farm which had been left to him by his mother. He sold it mighty cheap for good land bor- dering the Banister River; but he was determined to sell, even the valuable live- stock on his place. Just before leaving. Glass stopped by Sam’s to say good-bye. “By the way,” he said, “be nice to that Daniels Guy that’s moving on my place. He’ll be lone- some till his folks come up from North Carolina.” Still no explanation and off Charlie went. Little did Sam Johnson ever ex- pect to see him again in Halifax County, but one never knew about Charlie. In due time Sam rode over and paid his respects to his new neighbor. He liked Daniels tolerably well, yet somehow didn’t feel as if he would ever be as close a friend as Charlie had been. In a way he was sorry for Daniels, who was living entirely alone in the old twelve-room farm house about five hundred yards from the river. THE MISSILE Page fifty-five Towards dusk one evening two weeks later the usual store gathering was greatly astounded by the arrival of Charlie Glass. Between chews of tobacco Lindsey managed to mutter, “West too wild for you, Charlie?” while other friends chimed in with various greetings and ex- clamations. Not bothering to answer, Charlie began to talk hurriedly in his old nonchal- ant way. “Listen, fellows,” he said, “I’m aiming to buy back my farm, but Dan- iels won’t sell. He bought it cheap and means to hold on to it. I don’t blame him for that; but nevertheless I must regain my farm somehow. If he won’t sell after I talk to him tomorrow, I want you to help me think of some way to get him out.” “Tell ’im it’s haunted,” spoke up Uncle Joe, the colored handy-man around the store. “Not a bad idea, Joe. He looks like the type to scare easily,” said Glass. In the week that followed Glass vainly spent most of his waking hours try- ing to persuade Daniels to sell out. He even went so far as to raise the price five hundred dollars, but Daniels was firm. Finally Charlie realized that he had met a man of his own persistence and would have to outwit him by another method. With the help of friends the rumor was spread throughout Halifax County that the old Glass place was haunted. Even if Daniels remained, he would be unable to secure any farm laborers, for not a negro would go within two miles of the would-be haunted house. However, Daniels tenaciously continued to live there. Glass was beginning to worry a little when he suddenly conceived the mirac- ulous idea of making Daniels actually see the spirits he’d heard about. It would be difficult to portray a ghost in any form, but Charlie was determined to carry through his plans. All of his friends heartily approved of his idea and were quite willing to participate. The next bright moonlight night found Glass and five friends, bedecked with sheets, chains, pots, pans, and various rattling objects, near Daniels’ home awaiting Sam Johnson. Presently Sam came up riding his white mule. He dis- mounted and Charlie mounted. His friends draped the sheets about him and tied the impedimenta to the mide. Accompanied by an increasing display of amusement from his companions, Charlie galloped wildly around the farm house. In that attire he really looked enough like the Headless Horseman to have ter- rified Bram Bones, but how would Daniels take it? The loud pounding of the mule’s hoofs upon the solidly frozen ground plus a gieat rattling of metal soon Lfought results. While making his third round, Glass perceived a night-shirted figure dash out of the house, as if on wings, and run down the river road. The base, which lasted several miles, was really on! Charlie swore he’d never seen Page fifty-six THE MISSILE a man, run as Daniels had that night. Stopping for nothing, the frightened far- mer sped into the river lowgrounds. Glass rejoined his fellow conspirators to await Daniels’ return, but two hours later he had still not come back. The group vainly searched the surrounding territory. The night was deadly cold and the men began to worry that their frightened neighbor, clad only in light night-clothes, would suffer from the cold. As a last recourse they set the blood-hounds on his track. Baying loudly, the dogs followed his trail four miles into the river swamps. When the men arrived, they found the hounds barking excitedly at the foot of a swamp willow. They looked up and saw Daniels about half-way up the tree clinging desperately to its trunk with both arms. With great difficulty they carried the exhausted, half- frozen, one-hundred and eighty-pound man back to the farm. His condition was such that a doctor had to be summoned immediately. All night long Glass waited anxiously by the sick man’s bedside. He promised again and again that if Daniels would recover he would never play another prank as long as he lived. Several months elapsed before Daniels had regained strength of mind and body. Charlie was so truly sorry for what he had done that he told Daniels to remain on the farm and he would never again be bothered. “Never!” said Daniels, recalling that miserable night spent in the low- grounds. “Just give me my money, and I’m going back to North Carolina, where a stranger has a chance.” The Warden By Preston Hodges The moon is guardian of the sky; The silent sentinel of the night, Her task to guard that black domain, To keep its jewels shining bright And sparkling with a starry light. With yellow dust from golden beams. She nightly polishes each one. Then smiling behind her fading face. Content and calm, her job well done. At dawn her post she yields to the sun. THE MISSILE Page fifty-seven Hurry! Hurry! By Bob Baxter N the course of daily activities on the face of this earth, one is obliged to come in contact with many things about which, wisely or otherwise, he forms definite opinions. Among these things are some which make us happy, some which depress us, some which irritate us, and some which manage to become our pet hates. Of the many petty annoyances which somehow find their way into this group, the thing that most gets under my skin is the eternal hurry in which the majority of Americans live to- day. Oftentimes when you are crossing the street, an over-anxious motorist with a quick jack-rabbit start may dust his fender off on the seat of your trousers, or while entering a store, you may be trampled or even stomped by impatient cus- tomers wanting to purchase some of the remaining goods before you have had your chance. All my life I have seen little cause for the hurry in cafeteria lines, theater lines, in stores, and traffic in unessential causes. After working for the past two years in a part time job as a clerk in a modern drug store, I find myself disliking hurrying more than ever. Many times I have waited on a fat, unpleas- ant, high blood-pressured customer, in the biggest kind of a hurry to have his prescription filled and get out of the store, although he never seems to have any- thing more important to do than to spend the remainder of the evening stand- ing idly on the corner in a “bull session” with some more loafers. Many other people in a hurry to get their prescriptions filled probably would not have had to go to a doctor at all if they hadn’t hurried so to get the last one filled. Often also I have sympathized with doctors who come into the store complaining of being called in the early hours of the morning asking them to come at once because “Susie has been sick for three days and she really should have a doctor.” It would have been easier on the doctor, mother, and child if the call had been made when the patient had first become sick, but no, the favored way seems to be to wait as long as possible and then tell the physician to hurry. Sometimes I think I was born thirty years too late and have sudden attacks of wishing that I had lived in the days that my employer occasionally longingly refers to, when the customers expressed their desire to have their prescriptions compounded carefully, and didn’t ask hurriedly, “How much will it cost and how long will it take?” Page fifty-eight THE MISSILE 233 Jefferson Street By Martha Lee Chambliss ALES of ghosts and haunted houses always arouse my cu- riosity; for, in the middle of my block stands an old, gray, dim, frame house that looks as though the rain might leak through and that a storm might blow it over. The house was built on a small hill in the center of a fer- tile lot. The windows, covered with cobwebs, embrace an eerie tale. The day when I learned the strange story of the house was dreary and rainy. Despite my eagerness to get home, I was magnetically drawn to the house. Fearfully I walked up the steps and found shelter under its dilapidated roof. A neighbor passed by and, noting my interest, told me the story connected with this particular house. “Twenty years ago,” he narrated, “the house was newly built, and its love- liness, both inside and out, was the pride of the neighborhood. The three occu- pants, two sisters and a brother, were always welcoming new guests and cordially greeting neighbors. “Dan Barrie was a rising young architect, but due to poor health was con- stantly bound to his sisters’ loving, capable care. Friends sadly shook their heads at the older sister, Ellen, who acknowledged the existence of no other man but her brother. Jill, the younger, was of a less serious turn of mind than her sister. “The grandfather clock struck six, and supper was on the table. “ ‘Where is Dan?’ asked Jill impatiently. “He knows that we eat at six.’ “ ‘He’ll be down any moment,’ said Ellen placidly, while eyeing her sister coldly. ‘Dan must not over-exert himself, and you know that he was tired this afternoon.’ “The moving hands on the grandfather clock showed six-twenty, and still Dan did not appear. “ ‘Dan, Dan,’ yelled Jill. “ ‘Hush,’ admonished Ellen. ‘Can’t you be a lady for once? Do you want the neighbors to hear you?’ “Silently she walked up the steps. Upon reaching Dan’s door, Ellen softly THE MISSILE Page fifty-nine called him name. When an ensuing knock brought no answer, she opened the door. Horror came to her eyes. “Then Ellen’s eyes began to focus, and they searched the room. Yes, the room was the same, the closet, bed, bureau, pajamas folded neatly on the bed. All were ready for life, but at the desk, slumped over, was Death. She knew it be- fore touching him. “No sound came from her lips. When Jill found her, Ellen had undressed Dan and placed him in bed. “ ‘Dan is sleeping, Ellen. Why have you been here so long?’ “ ‘Yes, he’s sleeping’, said Ellen’s ghost-like voicce. Then she fell to the floor. “Jill forced Ellen to move out of the house, but no one could keep Ellen away from it. Every room of the twelve-room house was bare except one, Dan’s room. Each day Ellen unlocked the door, walked into the dull, dusty house, walked up creaking stairs into a room that was always ready for its occu- pant. The bed was neatly made, covers turned down. On the foot of the bed lay a pair of faded, moth-eaten man’s pajamas. Under the bed lay a pair of cracked old slippers. The closet was filled with worn, threadbare suits and crumpled hats. The dresser drawers were empty. Everything in the room was spotless except for the large ink stain on the desk that was made there twenty years ago by a lifeless hand. Every day Ellen placed fresh flowers by the bed be- cause Dan loved flowers. “The twentieth anniversary of Dan Barrie’s death was stormy. Lightning flashes made ghosts walk around the dilapidated, crumbling house in the middle of the block. Rain leaked through the roof, and the windows rattled. “Suddenly a car stopped in front of the house and out jumped Ellen Barrie, old, red-headed, homely, and bitter. Frantically she turned the key in the lock, but the door refused to open, However, without any obvious effort, she finally opened the door, then ran up the stairs. “Upon reaching Dan’s room, she seemed to go crazy. She ran everywhere, touching his belongings, calling to him. “ ‘Dan, Dan, where are you? Why are you hiding?’ “The town clock struck six. “Dan, it’s supper time. Don’t be late for supper.’ She spoke softly and gently, walking to the bed, stroking the pillow. “Suddenly she screamed, ‘Dan, I see you! Dan, I see you.’ “That is how Jill and her husband found Ellen. She began to beat on the desk, still crying, ‘Dan, I found you!’ “That old home stands entirely deserted now. The neighborhood kids call it the ‘haunted house’. Perhaps it is haunted with memories. “No one knows what happened to Ellen, for Jill took her away.” Page sixty THE MISSILE I was so engrossed in this weird tale that I had not noticed that the rain had stopped. “Good-by, sir,” I said, extending my hand. “This meeting has been a pleasure.” W ith this I walked away, and I could not help hoping that Ellen would some day be with Dan. Perhaps she would be much happier if she were with him now. Insomnia By Jean Shepherd Sleep, sleep, there is no sleep For tired minds that seek a rest; Nights too long, and thoughts too deep. With haunting hours that measure time For restless weary eyes that weep. I seek repose; I need release; I long to meet the break of dawn. For then my endless thoughts will cease. When lost in worldly things, I find A refuge safe and sometinies peace. Oh tangled hope, oh sweet delight. The message comes; I see now clearly When fears are gone, and days are bright. Life is reborn, sweet dreams are ours; ril sleep, my love, good night, good night. THE MISSILE Page sixty-one Twilight By Marjorie Johnson The leaning trees— blown lame by strolling breezes— Brush their shady skirts against the ground And bow as blushing maidens at the end Of fiery dances, when the cheers abound. Bravo, you naughty maids! “For shame, for shame!” Whisper the Puritan winds, but all the same. They bend; display their slender limbs; fie blame. The rugged gambling river gapes and stretches. Impressed a little with the tempting row Of dancing trees, turns and strides away. “Confound!” he grumbles gruffly; “same old show!” He winds his wicked way through water weeds That cling to his arms like cleaving social seeds. The snobs whose sucking mouths his water feeds. The laughing lilies lying on his lap Ignore his arms and laugh at smiling stars. That wink and flirt, defying the gambler’s gloating. Drinking their draughts in their own secluded bars. With smoldering souls and boastful burning hearts They entice the lily-maids with shiny darts Of gold-white diamonds, and the bicker starts. Earth against high heaven and the gods. Nature fighting nature, and the smoke Ensuing from the fight with fury folds The fuming earth and sky in his gray cloak. The lilies lie disarmingly prostrate. Unmindful of their bitter wilting fate. Smiling at the universal state. The chorus of chanting croaker frogs ignores The brawl and pitches its pipes to shriller tones— The high soprano frog, “Sillee—sillee—” The lowly booming bass— “Well, bless mah bones!” Along the river lie the snakes uncurled. And silent sleepy shrubs, their leaves unfurled. Watch the warring of the wayward world. Page sixty-two THE MISSILE The frantic lightning-flies shine through the dark And flee to find the rising blue-gold moon. Now through the smoke she smiles upon it all. And it is still. The gambling stops— the tune. The dancers shrink; the lilies melt from sight; The river winds his way into the night; The stars grow dim. Nature stops the fight. The Lost Generation By Euzabeth Edmunds Seems strange that it should fall on us, —This wasteful war and shameful strife— When minds more mature, more aged than ours— Heedless of love, heedless of life— Compelled us to fight for their sinful sakes. And pay with our lives for their mistakes. This generation is bearing the brunt. Paying for that which we did not do. We were going to reach for the silvery stars. And implant our name in the sky so blue. But now what choice of life have we Since the lost generation we happen to be? THE MISSILE Page sixty-three Second-hand Textbooks By David Ross NYONE who has ever bought a second-hand textbook knows what fun it is to try to figuie out what kind of person owned the book before him. For instance, if the book is worn but not torn, it probably was the book of a very studious chap who spent many an hour studying over this volume. Sometimes you are fortunate enough to obtain a Latin book which belonged to a lazy person who has written all of the translation out in the book. However, as a rule you are not quite as lucky as you might think, because a per- son w ' ho resorts to this method usually makes quite a few errors. A true piece of art is a history book which was once owned by a moustache fiend who has given Caesar a handlebar and Joan of Arc a goatee. By putting a patch on Napoleon’s upper lip and a little hair over his eye our artist has made it confusing to decide whether it really is Bonaparte or a certain paperhanger with whom we are all familiar. Then we have the geometry book of the pin-up artist who has adorned each page with a sketch of a girl in a bathing suit or reasonable facsimile. It is quite obvious that his mind often wondered from geometry, although he did seem to be interested in figures. A rare treasure is the literature book that was formerly owned by a very con- siderate person who has written out all the themes of the poems and stories and underlined all the important quotations. This type of person has probably label- ed all the boring stories also. I ' he real bargain is the book that was last owned by a pupil who opened it only twice in the wdtole trem. How he passed is quite a mystery. However, after you have acquired such a book, you feel that it is your duty to decorate it for the pleasure of the next owner. Page sixty-four THE MISSILE Hell’s Bells and Little Kittens By Marjorie Johnson O begin with, my favorite cousin was unfortunately, or otherwise, pre- sented with a litter of wriggling, oriental-eyed offspring by her amiable, well-meaning feline pet. I have not yet decided which was prouder, the mother or my cousin. I suspected a certain amount of jealousy be- tween the two, but I dared not mention it. My cousin assured me that the only reason she was fond of the kittens was due to the fact that they were born on my birthday. I shall never forgive that cat! Of all the birthdays —three hundred sixty-five in a year, to be exact— she chose mine on which to bring her babies into the world. I had a vague idea of what her next suggestion would be and quickly recommended that we go for a walk. Fate, however, cannot be avoided or hindered; so the inevitable came. She would like to present me with one of the “adorable little things” for my birthday. By doing so she would, no doubt about it, accomplish two purposes with that one act: rid herself of one of the kittens and supply me with a birthday gift. I made haste to assure her that it could not be moved for months, for moving would endanger its sensitive lives, all nine of them. She, in turn, made it a point to call a veterinary to de- termine the exact date of mobility. After convincing me that three weeks were sufficient time for its weaning, I could do nothing else but accept the thing or hurt the feelings of both the vain mother and her mistress. I feigned sickness at first in order to avoid the procedure of bringing my newly-acquired pet home. Living at least six miles from my cousin and with no other means of transportation— save taxi, which was beyond my allowance level— I was forced to travel by bus. To make matters worse, it was a rule of the com- pany that all animals should be barred from their vehicles. With all the odds of both nature and man against me, I boarded the homeward-bound bus with my present in a shoe box tucked beneath my arm. Needless to say, the bus was crowded, and people pressed me to the extent of almost suffocating both me and the kitten. To my dismay I discovered that we, with all our precaution, had neglected to provide the box with air holes; and in the midst of the swaying of the bus and people alike, I heard that faint, but unmistakable, “meow” issuing from the box. I quickly lifted the top a fraction of an inch and peered inside. The bright green eyes that met mine were filled with a mixture of anger and bewilderment and pleaded for air. I tore two fairly large holes in the end of the box, break- ing one of my newly-filed prized finger nails. People began to stare at my actions, and from their faces I judged that they wondered if I carried the box around in order to amuse myself by tearing holes in its sides. THE MISSILE Page sixty-five The cat, quite contented with his fresh air which was not half carbon diox- ide, settled into a fit of deep purring. I thought that had he been a human be- ing, he would have possessed a terrific bass voice capable of resounding for miles. To cover his loud murmurings, I began humming a little tune, thumping time against the box with my fingers. I looked around to see if people were still star- ing. Undoubtedly they were, but not at me; for protruding from one of the holes was a long unmistakable black tail wagging slowly back and forth in per- fect rhythm of “All Through the Night.” I rendered a terrific blow upon the tip of his tail which resulted in his loud wail. A nodding soldier nearby told the lady next to him to keep her baby quiet. She, in turn, shot daggers into my heart which made me weak for a second. I smiled apologetically her way, but she didn’t forgive me. All was well for a few moments until an elderly man turned to me and said, “I beg your pardon.” Thinking that he had done some trivial thing, I assured him that it was all right. His face was a mask of total surprise. He soon turned again uttering the same words. “Of course,” I agreed. “Young lady,” he said with a tone of annoyance, “if you would like to say something to me, please say it, and stop poking me in the back with those in- fernal finger nails!” “I beg your pardon!” I said, quite surprised. It seemed that we were passing away the time by begging each other’s par- dons, but I had no idea what he meant and was quite peeved at his behavior. He turned once more to his former position. Suddenly I was aware of a tugging beneath my arm and looked down just in time to see two claws dangling from the holes in the box, clutching playfully at the man’s coat, snagging threads, and pulling them toward the holes. At this the man whirled around; and I stood helplessly without defense, but with a considerable amount of offense. “Young lady—” he began, quite red in the face by this time, but he never finished. He was evidently a victim of feline-phobia or the “black cat” super- stition; for immediately upon seeing the animal’s paws, he shrank back and called out hoarsely for the driver to stop the bus. I felt the blood draining slowly from my head; and when I thought my end had come, someone slapped me crudely on the back. I heard someone saying (I later learned it to be the bus driver), “It sure takes a cat to get rid of that old ‘pain-in-the-neck.’ ” To this day I don’t know whether he meant me or the kitten; for at that moment the sleepy soldier, who had pleaded with the lady to hush the cries of her baby, arose from his seat, pushed me aside (and the rest who were in his Page sixty-six THE MISSILE way), saying loudly, “Cats or women! What’s the difference! Let me out o’ here!’’ Just then the baby began to cry, and the kitten, not to be slighted in any way, commenced his wailing; and I let him, for, after all, who am I to compete with a son of the devil who is capable of ringing the bells of hell? Wind By Bill Kellogg The wind is an orchestra ever playing A melodious symphony, wholly supreme; A breeze in the pines gives a flowing andante, Violas presenting the beautiful theme. The gently rustling zephyr plucks The strings of a harp the whole day long While the wind through chasms sets oboes moaning The wonderful largo of nature’s song. A roaring crescendo is quickly attained When a gale descends from the far northwest. And cymbals crash at window panes As the volume of sound approaches its crest. Although the sound of the wind is varied and queer, God, the conductor, makes it all sweet to the ear. THE MISSILE Page sixty-seven By Jo Carol Thomas HE child’s fingers hovered hesitantly above the fragile gold box, as if loath to touch it for fear of marring its per- fect beauty. Finally, how- ever, the little dimpled hand gently grasped the lid of the box and ran a tiny finger caressingly over the delicately wrought figures of a minia- ture lady and gentleman of the “hoop- skirt and powdered wig” era, which stood upright on the gold-filigree top. The figurines were delicately tinted in soft pastel shades. The gentleman, bowing courteously before the lady, wore breeches of the palest green, with a handsome apricot vest, and a coat of softest gray. His powdered wig was tied with a matching apricot ribbon, and beautifully wrought ruffles showed at his throat and wrists. The maiden wore the loveliest gown imagin- able. It wa s a soft dawn rose, with an over-skirt of tiny filigree gold lace. The skirt was caught up at intervals by the minutest of fairy rose-buds, and a wreath of rose-buds crowned her beautiful hair. Her face was hidden by a fan, held in a tiny porcelain hand, over which she seemed to peep coquettishly at the rever- ent gentleman. The child now lifted the golden lid tenderly, and after touching a tiny key inside the box, again replaced the top. There was a moment of breath-taking silence, and then . . . the music. It was like a rainbow, or a cascading water-fall, or a sunrise, a sunset; like an April breeze, the call of a bird, the humming of the night wind in the trees. It was all of these. Nothing lovelier had been or ever will be heard. It seemed as though all the angels and all the fairies had striven together to make one per- fect song. As the laughing, lilting melody progressed, the tiny figures atop the box came to life. The little maid drew her fan away, revealing a lovely little porcelain face, with cheeks of palest rose and eyes of deepest blue. The gentleman bowed even lower and then slowly straightend, adjusting his snowy ruffles. The Music Box Page sixty-eight THE MISSILE The lovely lady, swaying ever so slightly to the enchanting music, seemed just then to drift into his waiting arms. They danced. There were all the graceful motions of the world, of the universe, in that one dance. They dipped and swirled, and glided and swayed, while the music itself inspired the graceful motions through its true, clear notes. All other movements everywhere seemed to have stopped for this moment, to watch a more perfect motion. All other sounds had ceased, and the limpid notes floated from the golden music box into the waiting world where they re- mained in the tinkling of a brook or the whispering of locust leaves. The child sat watching breathlessly, his rapt eyes never leaving the tiny fig- ures, and his breath just barely caressing his lips, for, so afraid was he that all this beauty would pass if one sound were made, he scarcely dared to breathe. But all his precautions were in vain, for soon the sweet symphony ceased, and the dancers slowly separated and drifted silently apart. As the last golden note echoed upon the air, the little fan was again before the porcelain face, the gentleman again bowed low. After that one joyous moment together, was it any wonder that the maiden’s eyes held crystal tears, that her cheeks were no longer rosy, and that her whole exquisite being seemed wilted as a flower? Was it any wonder that the gentleman’s face held a look of infinite sadness? For now, another hundred years must needs pass before the music would again sound from the precious golden box— a hundred years before he could again take the maiden in his arms and dance. The child was crying broken-heartedly, begging his mother to play the fairy music again, but the mother only laughed and placed the box upon a shelf. “You are only imagining things,” she told the child. “The music-box has not played for a hundred years, and it will never play again.” Then did the lady and gentleman laugh quietly to themselves, for they knew. It grew dark upon the shelf and they settled themselves among the dust and cobwebs, to wait another hundred years. THE MISSILE Page sixty-nine Comfort, Please! By Roberta Gould LAUDIA, for goodness sakes hurry and come over. I’m just dying to show you that pair of pumps I saw advertised in the paper,” I shrilled over the telephone to my best friend. For days we had been arguing with our mothers about being al- lowed to wear high-heeled shoes to a very special tea to which we were invited. As it is in many families, both of our parents considered us entirely too young to begin such enterprises. Nevertheless, after a furious strug- gle, we obtained their permission to buy a pair of black patent-leather pumps, provided that the heels weren’t too high. Upon Claudia’s arrival at my house, I thrust into her hands a piece of news- paper containing the picture of a smart looking pair of shoes, which were priced very moderately. “This is exactly what we want!” she cried with excitement. “Let’s rush down town right now before our mothers change their minds.” So down town we hastened, and after much parading, giggling and discuss- ing, we at length bought our long desired pumps. The first thing I did when I returned home was open the box and peer into it zealously. After appraising the shoes for a few minutes, I proceeded to try on each dress that I owned to see which one would do my new shoes justice, while my mother watched patiently, not quite understanding my reasons for wanting to become prematurely “grown-up.” When I began strolling up and down be- fore the bedroom mirror and making sophisticated gestures with my hands, she completely refused to proffer any further remarks about my appearance, declar- ing that if I had decided at the age of twelve to become a woman of the world, she would give me no advice. Not one whit repelled by her words, I continued my capers until supper time. The day of the tea arrived at last, and after spending a full hour in prepa- ration, I marched triumphantly out of the house, positive that I would be the center of attraction. Claudia was waiting for me on the corner, and in high spirits we set out to- gether, very careful to walk with an experienced air. After walking a block and a half, I began to feel that my shoes were grow- ing too small for my feet, and my knees would wobble in spite of all my efforts to control them. To make matters worse, on the corner stood several of the boys in our crowd whom I was particularly interested in impressing. When we were within earshot. Page seventy THE MISSILE one of them asked very sarcastically, “Are you advertising Dr. Scholl’s Corn Plas- ters, or do you walk like that naturally?” - Never in my life had I been so humiliated. After that remark, I was com- pletely disarmed. My feet felt as though knives were piercing them, the muscles in my legs were in knots, and I no longer had any control over my posture. “Claudia,” I cried in agony, “let’s go home and change our shoes,” to which she readily agreed. Fortunately, in later years I have managed to bear rather than swear at high heels, but even now I always say, “Give me good old loafers every time.” Voyage By Margaret Martin My hooks are hut a cargo ship That carry me into the houndless blue. Often into a harhor I steal. Read and dream of friends like you. I meet the merry sailors there Who have traveled to other lands so fair; They tell me tales of turbulent seas— Which makes me wish that I were there. Someday I’ll sail upon those seas And visit lands unknown by men, And if I like them well enough I’ll turn my ship and sail again. THE MISSILE Page seventy-one Bentz Paint and Stevens Maclin Wall Paper Corp. ‘‘The Record Shop Brushes — Glass — Oils 31 West Washington St. ACME QUALITY PAINTS VARNISHES Largest Stock of Records in Southside Phone 435 23 W. Washington St. Virginia Jordan- Young Motors Chrysler-Ply mouth Dealers 111 West Washington St. Phone 2600 Petersburg, Va. Harl ow-Hardy Co. Furniture, Stoves, Floor Coverings, Etc. 17-19 W. Washington St. Phone 919 Compliments of A. P. Bakery, Inc. 35 South Sycamore St. Compliments of Petersburg Motor Co., Inc. COMPLIMENTS Remmie L. Arnold Master Chevrolet Sales, Inc. Sales — Service Phone 200 25 - 33 E. Bank St. Compliments of BLACKIE BUY AT THE FASHION Ladies’ Wearing Apparel Telephone 1194-J 312 N. Sycamore St. Petersburg, Va. Clear’s Drug Store 517 Boulevard COLONIAL HEIGHTS Stanley, Florist Say It With Flowers FLOWERS FOR ALL OCCASIONS Corsage Work a Specialty Phone 3978 2102 Femdale Ave. 108 N. Sycamore St. Petersburg, Va. Veteran Restaurant Petersburg s Largest and Finest EUROPEAN CUISINE OUR SPECIALTY Phone 5233-J 124 W. Tabb St. Petersburg, Va. Allimac Stamping Co. — Manufacturers — Trunk Hardware and Metal Stampings PETERSBURG - - VIRGINIA Blackwell Smith’s Drug Store Washington and South Streets Don’t Sniff— at the First Sign of a Cold Take SYMPTOMS - 25c PHONE 575 Kirkland Auto Service Company PACKARD SALES and SERVICE General Auto Repairing PHONE 298 15 E. Washington St. Petersburg, Va. The Gem W. Garland Anderson Inc. The Drug Shop PHONE 1511 The Globe Department Store Exclusive Ready-to-W ear Star Lunch 311 North Sycamore Street Best Place to Eat REASONABLE PRICES Max Tobias Moore’s Atlantic Station High-Grade Clothing, Shoes and Furnishings Lubman’s Men’s Shop Military Uniforms and Supplies 233 N. Sycamore St. Phone 2638 COMPLIMENTS OF THE SHERWIN-WILLIAMS CO. 205 North Sycamore Street ' Petersburg, Virginia “The Old Reliable Established 1887 Petersburg Furniture Company, Inc. HOME FURNISHERS “Your Credit Is Good 100 N. Sycamore St. Phone 223 Southworth’s A B Restaurant Cor. Washington and Sycamore A Good Place to Eat Wm. E. Lum, Jr., Inc. Kodaks — Stationery Offiice Supplies 15 North Sycamore Street Phone 15 Petersburg, Va. L. W. T. Bulifant Jefferson Standard Life Insurance Company P hone 115 38 Franklin St. Compliments of McLELLAN’S The Petersburg High School Students are to be congratulated on their efforts to improve their publication. The Progress- Index joins a proud community in wishing the students much success in their scholastic life and in their careers. We are proud to publish the “School Weekly News” for the students of P. H. S. Watch for it in the .... PROGRESS-INDEX Every Week We invite you to visit our store corner of Franklin Sycamore Streets, and see our display of Early American and An- tique Reproductions. McKENNEY’S Petersburg s Newest Furniture Store FRANKUN and SYCAMORE Help Win the War BUY WAR BONDS AND STAMPS Young-Harrison Co. IT’S EASY AS ... . 1 - 2-3 TO CALL G. C. WILSON CO., Inc. FOR Insurance Standard- Ja mes Shoe Company “For Better Shoes” 124 NORTH SYCAMORE STREET ‘The Store of Fashion” PHONE 164 HALE Beauty Shoppe PETERSBURG COMMUNITY CHEST, Inc. Supports CHARITABLE, WELFARE AND CHARACTER BUILDING ORGANIZATIONS OF PETERSBURG “All of Your Begs in One Ask It” Diamonds — Watches — Jewelry Albert’s, Jewelers 148 North Sycamore Street PHONE 3366 “If it’s from Albert’s, it’s guaranteed’’ Visit Our New Re-modeled Air-Cooled Beauty Salon Let our Mr. Harold create the per- Petersburg Laundry manent and hair style best suited for your individual personality. PHONE 236 Molly’s Beauty Shoppe “High Quality Services” 124 North Sycamore Street 197 — Beauty Phones — 198 R ucker OSENSTOCK . . . FOUNDED ON THE PRINCIPLE THAT A STORE EARNS THE RIGHT TO EXIST ONLY AS IT SERVES ESTABLISHED 1860 Petersburg Savings American Trust Co. “The Oldest Bank in the Oldest State in the United States” MEMBER FEDERAL DEPOSIT INSURANCE CORP. PHOTOGRAPHS THAT ALL BUT SPEAK ROSE STUDIO 124- A NORTH SYCAMORE STREET PHONE 1315-J Jones-Rosenstock, Inc. -CLOTHING -HATS -FURNISHINGS For the Young Man and the Man PHONE 808 107 N. Sycamore St. Petersburg, Va. C. F. Lauterbach’s Sons Jewelers and Silversmiths 122 N. Sycamore St. Petersburg, Va. Makers and Designers of FINE JEWELRY Jordan Bros., Inc. EVERYTHING IN JEWELRY We Make Terms to Suit You 1231 2 Sycamore Street PHONE 1894 Petersburg Mutual Building Loan Corp. 121 NORTH SYCAMORE STREET Save for a Home • Compliments of Tony’s Restaurant The Leader Try Champion Fountain Pens -for Smooth Writing Southern Pen Company 16 North Union Street PETERSBURG, - - VIRGINIA DALTON’S “Dependable Jewelers” 135 N. SYCAMORE ST. Seaboard Salvage Co. (GRESHAM WARE) ORGANIZED CLEANERS At Your Service We Buy and Sell ’Most Anything Secondhand New System Laundry Cleaners — Dyers Phone 128 128 N. Market St. 516 W. BROWN ST. PHONE 781 DeSOTO and PLYMOUTH The Best in Mill Work and Building Materials Always Petersburg Builders’ Supply Co., Inc. Everything to Build With” Sales and Service Tri-Motor Sales Co. PHONE 1338 FLOWERS SCATTER SUNSHINE- -FLOWERPHONE 11 Cotten Motor Co. BUICK FOR 32 YEARS 109 North Market Street PHONE 513 R. S. Terrie Co. JOHN H. CATO, JR., Manager INSURANCE 9 W. Tabb Street Telephone 120 PETERSBURG, VA. Petersburg Insurance Company, Inc. PHONE No. 4 Insurance of all kinds plus Real Service D. D. ADKINS SHOES OF QUALITY Since 1878 Full Line Military Footwear The Newest in The Newest in Sportswear Haberdashery Sollod’s Clothing Shop “Solid Built Clothes FOR MEN AND BOYS Phone 728 Special Attention to 220 N. Syc. St. Boys and Students Petersburg, Va. Roper Bros. Lumber Company, Inc. PETERSBURG, VIRGINIA 0. P. Hare Drug Co. KENT’S “The Prescription Druggist” Dependable Furniture Motorcycle Delivery 84 — Phones — 145 Since 1897 SMITH’S Cigar Store GELLMAN’S Wells Coal Co. Friendly Jewelers (Since 1903) COAL Diamonds - Watches - Silverware Phone 366 Watchmakers and Jewelry Repairs 212 N. Sycamore St. Union Trust Bldg. COMPLIMENTS OF THE CITIZENS NATIONAL BANK OF PETERSBURG, VIRGINIA RESOURCES - OVER 10 MILLION DOLLARS Member Federal Deposit Insurance Corp. Powell Manufacturing Co. BUILDING MATERIALS 4th and Henry Streets PHONE 340 J. D. MANN Bakery Phone 1655 Hotel Mark E. Holt Optometrist and Jeweler Petersburg Established 1915 218 N. Sycamore St. Petersburg, Va. Our Store Is Air-Conditioned Chamber of Powers’ News Store Commerce Magazines — Newspapers Candy — Cigars PETERSBURG, VA. Phone 1485 242 N. Sycamore St. PETERSBURG, VA. COZY MODERN Century Theatre PETERSBURG. VA. COMPLIMENTS OF Phone 1625 Petersburg, Va. Covington Ritchie Dealers in FEEDS - SEEDS Hay, Grain, Mill Feeds, Poultry Supplies 129 W. Bank St. Compliments of Virginia Lens Co. PETERSBURG, VA. LEONARD’S HARDWARE - SPORTING GOODS - PAINTS WEST BANK STREET PETERSBURG, VA. Building, Plumbing and Electrical Materials Dixie Supply Company 44 Bollingbrook Street PETERSBURG, VA. THE OAK “Sells Everything’ 400 N. Sycamore St. Phone 2587 Oliver E. Crocker Distributor and Operator LEGAL AMUSEMENT and VENDING MACHINES AUTOMATIC PHONOGRAPHS W. F. DANCE Everything in Season OLD MARKET 176 - Phone - 177 Ellerslie Co-operative PHONE 1193 Dairy, Inc. Flowers For All Occasions Pure Dairy Products Turnes, the Florist The Home of Quality MILK 27 South Sycamore Street 37 Sycamore St. Phone 1868 PETERSBURG, - - VIRGINIA MAGEE’S CORNER DRUG STORES (Your Professional Stores) Cor. Sycamore and Bank Sts. Cor. Sycamore and Halifax Sts. Phone 81 Phone 1435 PETERSBURG-HOPEWELL GAS COMPANY Wood’s Petersburg Dairy, Inc. Sales Room -- Plant 323 WYTHE ST. PHONE 1543 Pasteurized Dairy Products Compliments of WHITMORE’S Restaurant 29 SOUTH SYCAMORE STREET Visit us . FOR REPAIRS To Household Electrical Appliances and All Makes Radios Carr’s Radio Shop 31 S. SYCAMORE ST. TIRE SERVICE BATTERY SERVICE Sycamore Service Station C. C. BUCHANAN. Prop. 15 - 17 - 19 South Sycamore Street LUBRICATION WASHING Rainbow Cleaners and Dyers 275 Phones - 276 Hill Top Barbecue M. J. EUDAILEY Phone 9004 Ettrick, Va. HARRIS ■ BRENAMAN, Inc. ATHLETIC SUPPLIES - SPORTING GOODS 211 NORTH SEVENTH ST. RICHMOND 19, VA. DIAL 3-2241 Southern Athletic Supply Co., Inc. “Athletic Outfitters” 116 N. Seventh St. — Phone 2-6203 RICHMOND 19, VIRGINIA Northrop Sport Shop, Inc. 450 Granby Street NORFOLK, VIRGINIA For the best in GROCERIES, FRESH MEATS, FRUITS and VEGETABLES See Your NEIGHBORHOOD GROCER COMMUNITY STORES PETERSBURG, - - - VIRGINIA Howard Eanes FIRE AND AUTO INSURANCE Phone 169 or 2072 DEL MONTE Quality Food Products John A. Gill Grocery Company DISTRIBUTORS RANDOLPH - MACON COLLEGE 1830 1945 A Standard Liberal Arts College for Men A member institution of the Southern Association of Colleges and Secondary Schools, of the Association of American Colleges, and of the Southern University Conference. On the approved list of the Association of American Universities. Confers the degrees of Bachelor of Arts and Bachelor of Science and provides carefully arranged pre-professional courses leading to medi- cine, law, engineering, and the ministry. Sound scholarship, strong faculty. Each student has daily direct contacts with heads of departments. J. EARL MORELAND, President Ashland, Virginia Our High School .... THE GREATEST ASSET WE HAVE It is a pleasure and a privilege to support it in all its activities PETERSBURG NOTION COMPANY, Inc. 223 NORTH SYCAMORE STREET Compliments of a Friend Compliments and Best Wishes Delta Oil Sales Co. PETERSBURG, VIRGINIA WE THANK OUR ADVERTISERS FOR THEIR SUPPORT Hi .i .’fi I A V .4 5 A: ■f as-, ' ■y. lit . ' ■ ■ ' 1 . • f 4 ' . ft % P- •. ' V. Ti. pt: I ? [I A ’, I ' ' - ' i ' I i.t;!