Pickering College - Voyageur Yearbook (Newmarket, Ontario Canada)

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THE VOYAGE UR ZS 0 SHORT STU RY Q The Pay-0ff by T. sTEPlmNs0N IKIE BERNSTEIN was worried, to say the least. For two weeks he had been on edge. He was jittery, his nerves were ragged, yet the one spark of manlif ness left in him kept him rooted where he was. Now the day had arrived. 'LSlick Rocco was free again. Mame Bernstein begged him to leave town. She became hysterical. Ike hit her once, hard, and never even bothered to look where she fell. He knew that flight was useless. He must beat Slick at his own game or Mrs. Bernstein would have to look for a new provider. Rocco had gone to the big house for five years on Ike's testimony. Ike no longer regretted having squealed, but now his only thought was to save himself. Ike took his revolver out of the drawer, and practised a few draws. His hands shook, and he cursed his inability to control them. The day dragged slowly on. Ike sat sullcnly, not saying or doing anything. He seemed in a trance. Mame paid no attention to him. She had learned her lesson. About ten o'clock, Ike aroused himself from his stupor. He pocketed his gun, and left the apartment. A car moved slowly away from the curb, near the corner. Ike knew the car contained Slick's men, going to tell him of Ike's approach. Ike set out for the saloon. His control had snapped, and he became aware of the darkness. He moved along warily, yet he was still blocks away. He began to mumble incoherently, and broke into a run. He turned down an alley, just one block from Slick's hangout. He slowed to a walk again. A dark shape appeared at the other end of the alley. Ike froze. He snatched out his gun with trembling fingers, fired, and ran to the prostrate form. He gloated. Well, Slick, I won. Ha, ha, hal He turned the body over and broke into a wild laugh. Ha, ha, ha! That's a hot one! It's only Gus Graziano, the old drunk. Ike snapped completely. He laughed wildly and fired into the air. Answering an urgent call, a police cruiser turned into the alley. A gun was leveled at the raving Ike, and he fell slowly, still laughing at his grim little joke. The police records called Ike's death justifiable homicide, yet the under' world knew he had been paid off in his own coin.

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THE VOYAGEUR Q POETRY Q My Native River by E. IINYSFIIUK See the river, deep and blue, Rushing swiftly to the bend, There to come out, swirling through, And enter to an early end. Many people on its shores Have fought for its possessiong Many have died in bloody wars, In many a bitter session. Now does the Dnieper River flow With happy homes on either side, In a land of peace and gloryg But, it shall be a different story. For, many nations have become Jealous for its wealthy stores, And, soon shall be another war On those rich and happy shores. But the river keeps on flowing, Heedless of the peace or sorrowg In bitter war, or peace beloved, Our only hope is for the morrow. , ' f J of ' oecomi Prize Pliotograplz by R. Sutcliffe

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Zo THE VOTAGEUR . SHORT STORY 4 llell- Shocked by ll0N Moons THREE MINUTES TO Go! This isn'r the first time the boys have heard that cry, but it might as well be. The effect is instantaneous. Most of them turn a chalky white. The hardened old veterans, shaking inwardly, take out cigarettes and with steady hands proceed to enjoy what may be their last smoke. The younger recruits take it the worst. Some of them start to weep softly. Others clench their hands, grit their teeth, and try to think about something else, but giving that up, they turn for a lastfminute look at sacred letters or pictures. Two minutes to go! A buzz of conversation arises out of the fetid trenches. A whisper, Hey, Mac, If I don't come back give this to my mother in Y, will you? iPause, while coarse, scarred, numbed hands fumble in the tunic pocket for that elusive scrap of paper on which a simple message is written.w Thanks, old man. From another part of the trench, I wonder if I'll come back? Shut up! One minute to go! A last minute inspection of guns and ammunition. A last handshake all around. Whispered words of encouragement. A coarse joke here and there. Muttered curses over some thing gone wrong. Over the top! With a shout the men leap up to be cordially received by a barrage of shells, machine gun's fire, and barbed wire. Dozens fall but they can't stop now. The laddies are carried onward by the seething mass of humanity bubbling out of the graves, called trenches. A shell lands near. Pieces of legs, arms and a sea of blood spout into the air to be received by horrified and shrinking comrades. Onward, onward, their objective the enemy trenches a quarter of a mile away. What a distance! If measured in miles of bloodshed, horror madness and agony, it would stretch far out into space. Only two hundred yards now. Fully one third of that fine regiment is lost in the dust. Soldiers fall beside wounded comrades who, maddened by the blinding, tropical sun and intense thirst, rip open their throats and gorge themselves on blood which then proceeds to flow out a hole in the back made by a flying piece of ragged shrapnel. Finally the trenches are reached. The grim attackers look down on the horrified enemy whose officers led them to believe that their position was impenetrable. Hand grenades are thrown and bayonets Hxed. Heads go soaring in the air like bloody animated jackfinfthefboxes with a mixed ex' pression of horror and incredulous surprise on what's left of the faces. Bayonets are thrust with unerring accuracy between the third and fourth ribs on the left side, Hand to hand fights ensue in which legs and arms are broken with fiendish glee by men crazed with the lust to kill and maim. At last the shots thin down and the fights peter out with the men engaged sinking down in utter exhaustion. The battle is woneeewhat-a lot of holes in the ground.