Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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The small landing craft were sloshing through the choppy whitccaps in huge circles awaiting the order from a nearby L.S.T. lor our group to land on Yellow beach. There were eighteen ol us in our craft, mostly seasick and wet. Some leaned on their rifles, others slung them over their shoulders: few had grenades hung on their cartridge belts—seemingly an unnecessary burden of weight. Oh, it was wickedly raw and miserably cold: pack straps cut into shoul- ders, arms were numb, stomachs rolled. We received the signal and quickly headed for the shore. Then 1 glanced back, and there was Laurie: we smiled, but faint- l : our smile was short, for some- one veiled and things began to happen then. Our craft scraped bottom and we leaped out into the loose brown sand, then wallowed in it: airplanes were strafing off to our left and right with a steady and deafening staccato: explosions ahead—only our own mortar and artillery crews: black, twisting smoke curled slowly into the low, dark clouds from burning and smouldering installations on the beach: men were barking orders, and all seemed in confusion to my inexperienced eyes. We floun- dered ahead in single column further up into the beach: I saw around me men who crouched low in fox holes and wearily glanced at us. Others lay by the road. Why there? I thought. As I trudged by, (hills and emptiness went through my body for I saw their white and waxen faces—so still, their open eyes seeing nothing, their blood-clotted hair moving in the wind: their still and broken bodies strewn in holes. These lifeless men, the day before full of life and warmth, would never move again, never smile again. Wild thoughts ran through my mind, my throat tightened, and I seemed to stumble onward. I didn’t desire glory now, for death seemed the only answer. Now I realized that battles were not scenes set for heroes, but places far from home where men fight in a grim manner and die for a cause which is common to each man’s mind—fighting to save a country, and hoping to come back alive. What role will I play here? came the thought as we dodged for cover from snipers’ bullets. . . . Editor's Not»: I ». James Overmire. Jr . was killed in action the following dav while charging an enemy position. Papers found on his l od included this store, probable written in his spare moments, and brought home by Laurie Sherman. Mae God rest his soul. James W. O verm ire. Sr.. Editor. irantville Courier. Eero Rigttii.a rusi, . CoM —. Jim. ULeSU- page seventeen

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PVT JIM OVERMIRE. JR 67458. U.S.M.C. During the moonlit night the transport packed with fighting men, fighting equipment, moved and zigzagged its way through the smooth Pacific waters in convoy; men were about the decks, talking, joking, laughing, in groups, in pairs— passing awa time in the best manner. Time was free and plentiful now; before long it would end for some. Laurie Sherman and I had just finished arguing. Now we stared into the night, at the stars, and at the moon. I still thought that combat wouldn't be too tough; anyway, with faith in yourself and in your own sacred beliefs, you could go through, and maybe even do a few heroic things, make day dreams real. Laurie. I knew, was different. How foolish and even cowardly his opinions seemed, to me—his not wanting to see action, his constant fear of sudden death, his hoping never to go in. . . . Well. Laurie, you just wait and see; it won't be too bad. And anyway, that's why I joined the Marines—to get some action; maybe soon I'll get that chance. I muttered almost angrilv. He would never see my point of view, so what was the use of talking to him about an operation. We changed the subject, therefore, and were back on the same level—talking and planning our good times to come on our future dates, the old get-togethers of our crowd, and the hell we would raise when we got back home. You see, Laurie and I were real buddies, both from Grant- ville; being buddies, it was easy to pass away the time talking- radio of the desperate Jap resis- tance and of the high casualties among our men. seen a few planes shot from the sky, realized the huge fues were actually our own fuel and ammunition dumps. Yet no orders had come for us to go ashore; instead, confusion was throughout the ship, and men peering through binoculars, watching the tiny dots that were our men on shore. A regi ment of experienced Marines on board had left earlier in the morning, but I was only a replacement, one of many. It seemed tough to me—seeing the others go to the island while we stayed behind and waited, waited as if all and every- body had suddenly forgotten our presence. Combat was still for me fighting the enemy, heroes and gallant battles, fear unheard of on the front lines. But why. I wondered, had the veteran Marines who had left earlier this morning been so still, so disinterested; why were there no jokes, no laughter, no horseplay? Probably there was something I hadn’t learned yet . . . but no. the feeling surged through me again. As I waited, the order, Move out,” would not come soon enough. We had watched the smoking island where the beachhead had been established and advances pushed inward, heard over the talking until we both decided to ' hit the sack.” P page sixteen

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 This is the second most important day of my life” (the first one being in her estimation, the day she was born), thought Clara, as she hopped out of a restful slumber. I wonder what the weather will be today. I hope it is nice. It’s just got to be nice, she said to herself as she walked toward the window. Sure enough, the sun was shining bright and it was a beautiful day. “Oh. that's a relief.” she sighed. 'I hope it stays this way. Satisfied with the world in general, she hurried through her toilet habits (still careful to make sure she was spic and span, for Clara was very particular about her appearance) and ran happily down- stairs to the kitchen. There, as usual, was Mrs. Flowers concocting delicious dishes for the household breakfast. Mrs. Flowers was not her mother, for Clara had been made an orphan at the early age of nine months when her parents had been killed in an automobile accident. However, the Flowers’ were very good friends of Clara’s parents and so they adopted her and endeavored to bring her up right. Mrs. Flowers in some ways represented those gifts of nature to which her name was similar. On certain days she was happy and spry and just blossoming forth with good humor and sunshine, but on others, she was tired and droopy and seemingly too worn to lift her head. On this particular day she was in very good form and greeted Clara with a cheerful Good morning, dear,” and then con- tinued her chores. Clara said nothing but went right to her breakfast, for she was totally famished. Mrs. Flowers smiled knowingly and said. “I won’t bother you much today as I know you must be very excited. She had, Clara decided, hit the proverbial nail on the head, and she scarcely paused a moment, leaving as soon as breakfast was finished. She felt good when she got outside in the brisk March weather; here and there she noticed the first signs of Spring. She enjoyed immensely these morning walks, which she had started taking two weeks ago. and she could hardly wait, when they were over, for the next day to come. This particular morning her walk took her to the rural part of the town which was the part Clara liked best. She didn't like the busy business section with its roaring noises, eternal tide of rushing people, and those fresh male characters, found in every city, whose object in life is to bother young and pretty females like herself. Not that Clara was afraid of them, for she could handle herself all right. How- ever, Clara liked the country best and as this was a very special day, she thought that nothing but the best would do. She enjoyed herself immensely for the next hour and a half, and when she had enough of nature’s beauty she returned home. No one was home, but Clara let herself in through the door which was always left open for her. Being tired from her morning excursion, she decided to take a short nap. She hoped she wouldn’t sleep too long as she wanted to be awake when the event took place. About five o’clock Mrs. Flowers came home from her Red Cross meeting, Mr. Flowers followed shortly from work. “Well, Jim, have a good day at the office?” asked Mrs. Flowers. Fair,” said her husband, and then after a moment’s pause. Where’s Clara? She usually comes running to meet me? 'I don’t know.” said Mrs. Flowers, she went out for a walk this morning and must have come home while I was out.” She must be taking a nap. then,” sighed Jim, thinking that that's what he would do. She isn't in her room,” frowned Mrs. Flowers, a little worried. Don’t worry about her, she can take care of herself, concluded Mr. Flowers. Just the same. Mrs. Flowers was not relieved, and as soon as supper was finished, she decided to look around for her. Mr. Flowers was resting comfortably on the sofa couch, smoking his corn cob pipe, and just day dreaming when he heard his wife cry out from the cellar. Immediately, he jumped up and, without stopping even to put on his shoes, ran down the cellar stairs After her first cry Mrs. Flowers had been silent, and now nothing could be heard but the muffled thumping of Mr. Flowers’ stocking feet on the wooden stairs. VVh • • What’s the matter?” he asked breathlessly as he saw Mrs. Flowers over in one corner. Look, Jim, Look. she said, pointing to a box in the corner. “Claia has given birth to a half dozen kittens This did not surprise Mr. Plovers very much because after all, Clara, was a cat. Kenneth Skantz