Red Bank High School - Log Yearbook (Red Bank, NJ)

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stubborn and effective resistance that they did. Had Liege fallen sooner than it did, no human power could have stopped the tide of Prussian Imperialism on its march to conquest. Who knows but that the world owes its present peace and security to this glorious sacrifice of a noble hearted boy? The tragic news of the episode just related finally reached the Chateau de Modave. In the shifting of German officers to and from the castle, two young- officers were detailed there. They were given a suite vacated by the previously mentioned officers. Since the rooms had been left in their chaotic condition, the new arrivals rebuked the Chatelaine and demanded an explanation. For reply she showed them two particular entries in the visitors’ book. The truth of the matter was so evident that their arrogance was shocked into silence. To relieve the awk- ward situation they asked in more courteous tones, to be shown over the immediate grounds. After a walk through the park they strolled to the banks of the Oerth. It will be recalled that some of the bottles of wine had been deposited in the stream for concealment. A ludicrous thing had happened. The labels had been washed off and had floated to the banks. The officers caught sight of them and the Comtesse wondered whether they would gather from the evidence before their eyes, what had been done. They remarked about them, picked up several of them and read the names of the vintages, but were too obtuse to penetrate the mystery of the phenomenon. To prevent any possible discovery by this, she hinted that these were the only relics left of several Bacchanalian orgies indulged in by their fellow officers since the occupation of the castle. The officers, having before tasted of her acumen, made no further comment. Returning to the Chateau through the gardens and orangeries, the conversa- tion reverted to the experiences of the men while in Liege. They told of a clever ruse, in which they had participated, the object of which was to effect the capture of the commanding Belgian general. A shudder passed over the Comtesse’s frame. They continued to narrate how their plan was frustrated by the quick perception of a young Belgian officer, adding in a cold blooded and almost jocular vein, that his interference resulted in his death. Their hero’s mother was petrified for the moment, in the consciousness that she stood face to face with the murderers of her son. Through her mind in quick succession passed emotions of hate, revenge, and then an anguish which rent her heart. With supreme self-control, stiffing the seeth- ing passions burning within her soul, she majestically proclaimed to them that it was her son who had fallen before them in fulfilling the “last full measure of his devotion.” The grandeur of her spirit, for one moment at least, pierced the callous hearts of her hearers and evoked a sentiment of compassion and reverence. Then she said proudly: “Do not feel that, by your act, you have deprived me. On the contrary, by his immolation, 1 am everlastingly glorified as his mother.” The tale will go down to remote posterity; a tale of deep infamy and lofty honor, and to Charles, the victor, who played the game, shall go the prize—IM- MORTAL FAME. The School Library. What would we do, in our spare period, if it were not for the school library? Our lessons done (?) we scamper to the desk, securing a slip, then rush downstairs with a book. It may be anything, from “Horace’s Satires” to “Four Buckets of Blood.” Let it suffice that it is a book—by name. Giving the slip to the librarian we turn in our reading matter. How the time flies, as we search frantically for another one. This one looks nice. We open it. “The irreverance with which humanity regards our topic is stu- pendous.” Nuff said! We want a book of fiction; not a dictionary. Ah, a pretty cover. Let’s see what’s inside. “Cum esset Caesar in Citiore Gallia.” Wow! With a sigh of relief we throw the book back and glance fearfully at the clock—half the period is gone. This sounds nice. “The Tragic Fate.” Let’s see the end of it—“With a last sob of despairing agony, she hurled herself from the cliff.” None of that stuff.

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Then, in turn, succumbed Namur, Charleroi, Verviers, Bruxelles and Anvers, leaving the Chateau country in the hands of the German enemy, the Chateau de Modave be- ing' engulfed in the maelstrom. Belgium, the martyr-nation of the war, was lighting not only her own battle, but the battle of France, the battle of Great Britain, and the Battle of Freedom. German officers took possession of Modave and German troops were quartered in the surrounding forest. The marauders ransacked and despoiled the old Castle, removing priceless works of art, destroying furniture and emptying its celebrated wine cellars. The Comtesse, prisoner in her own Chateau, could only witness the desecration with speechless indignation, almost oblivious to this vandalism in her great agony for the safety of her son about whom she had heard nothing. While affairs were at this pass, two German officers of high rank arrived to station themselves at Modave. The Comtesse knew that these two would countenance further spoliation and determined that the world should some day know who it was who sanctioned it. She naively asked the officers if they would not comply with an old custom of the Chateau and register their names and the date in the visitors’ book. Flattered, they did so. They were assigned to rooms still untouched by the hands of the wreckers. During a short stay there, they slashed into ribbons with their swords all the curtains, sheets and tapestries in their rooms; smashed to atoms all the bric-a-brac and costly furniture and costly vases. Moreover, they consumed vast quantities of wine, wantonly wasting it. After their departure, the Comtesse gave strict orders to her servants to leave their suites exactly as they then were. In order to save the wine that remained, she charged the servants secretly to conceal the bottles in the Oerth, in the hope that at the dawn of peace, this wine might be used to celebrate victory. We now leave Modave and digress to an incident which occurred before the storming of Liege. Upon learning that the German troops had crossed the border, in violation of a treaty in which England guaranteed her protection to Belgium in case of invasio'n, the populace of Liege, in particular, were hopeful that Great Britain would immediately dispatch troops to aid in the defense of the city. Because several English officers had been seen in Liege, the people were deluded into the belief that their ally had arrived, being too frenzied to realize its impossibility. The people shouted: “Les Anglais Arrivent!” This cry reached the ears of General Leman at his headquarters in the Rue Lourex, where Charles was assisting him in some official work. The office was on the ground floor and the General was seated by an open window facing the street. Charles was seated at a desk between the commandant and the door. The door opened and in walked several British officers. The officers had come, to all appearances, to discuss the defense of Liege, and were very cordial in their demeanor and speech. The first surprise of their unexpected arrival being over, Charles, rapidly recovering his equanimity, came to the decision that it was an impossibility for the English to have arrived already on the scene, and as rapidly came to the conclusion that these men must be imposters—that they were Germans attired as British officers. Evidently the equally quick witted strangers read what was passing in Charles’s mind, and one of the strangers put his hand to his hip. This convinced Charles that he had guessed correctly, and he divined their purpose. Without a moment’s loss of time he jumped toward General Leman, gathered him up bodily and threw him out the window, shouting to him to flee—that these were enemies. Scarcely had he performed this act and uttered his warning than the reports of several shots rang throughout the building, and Charles, the first martyr of the war, lay dead at the feet of his murderers, having consummated in one brief act two of the noblest deeds possible for a man to perform—to die for one’s country and to sacrifice one’s life to save that of another. And from his mortal wounds gushed the first drops of blood stained torrent shed in vindication of the world’s ideals of liberty, justice and chivalry, and in expiation of the abominations of a race who by its hate slew its own soul. General Leman was saved from the cunning and illicit trick of the Germans. It was their intention to capture or kill him, which was frustrated by Charles’s nobility and heroism. Had they succeeded, it is possible that the brave defenders of Liege, deprived of the brilliant leadership of Leman, would not have been able to offer the 8

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If it doesn’t end O. K., we give it that K. 0. (Forgive me, 1 couldn’t help it.) The next one we try reads, “The terrible beast grew nearer” ha! More like it. “And sprang full in the face of—” Great! “Harold, who- No, I never did,” said Stanley. Wot tha? Oh-h-h! A page is missing. With a sigh, we put it back, hoping Harold received no injuries. This one looks fine! Let’s read it. “The shining sun sank in the South, The golden West was not.” With a shudder we drop the book and two seconds later the bell rings. Believing in Fate as the best chooser, we turn around seven times and pull out the first book we touch. We sieze our slip and dash upstairs. Just in time, too. But there is enough time left for us to discover that the book was the same one that we took out two days ago. —C. V. L., '23. The Mystery Man. A dark figure moved along the dockhouse wall toward the light shining brightly from the night watchman’s window. As he looked in he saw a young fellow of, perhaps twenty-four, sitting beside an oil lamp, buried in a book on “Traffic Man- agement,” while beside him on the table lay a newspaper dated 1918. The man on the outside stood, uncertain as to what the next move should be. Finally he reached his conclusion, and pushing open the door, he said, “Good evening, Mr. Floyd.” “Oh,” exclaimed Jim Floyd, startled by this sudden intrusion, “Hello, Hen- drickson, what are you doing down here this late at night?” “I came down to see McGregor, I thought that he was on night duty.” “He was taken sick yesterday and I’m taking his place until he comes back. Why, is there anything I can do for you?” “No, I guess not,” was the reluctant reply. Jim was not very friendly with Hendrickson, whose sly, sneaky traits did not appeal to him. Hendrickson was sometimes called the “Mystery Man.” He had come into this country as a member of the crew of a Swedish vessel and he had the typical characteristics of a Scandinavian—large frame, light hair, blue eyes and a sulky disposition. Ever since landing he had hung around on the piers, and es- pecially on Pier No. 50, North River, where Jim was employed as a shipping fore- man. Hendrickson always dressed fairly well and seemed to have plenty of spare cash. Of course, Jim knew' all the men on the pier by name, for he was very popular among them. He made friends easily, hut the Mystery Man had always avoided him. This was the first time that Jim had been in close contact with him, and as they sat there facing each other in the lamplight, Jim wondered just what was passing through his visitor’s mind and what the real motive of his visit was. Hendrickson, on the other hand, remained undecided. Suddenly he said, “Say, Mr. Floyd, my friend McGregor used to lend me a skiff when 1 needed it. That’s what 1 came down for tonight.” His mood seemed too affable to be natural, yet Jim could think of no reason why the boat should not be taken, so he gave his consent. He sat for some time after the man had gone out, wondering about this strange individual. Finally, casting the matter aside, he re- sumed his book. If Jim had known where the Mystery Man was going and whom he was to meet, he would not have picked up his book so soon. At midnight, when he went his rounds, he heard the “putter put” of a power boat, far out on the river. Jim thought it queer at this late hour, but did not con- nect it with the fact that Hendrickson had not yet come in. The next night when he was again making his rounds, his toe struck a small round object which lightly bounded away. Picking it up he found it to be nothing more than a plain rubber ball. He took it into the office to examine it carefully by the light. It was of about the same size as the average rubber ball, but the rubber itself was different. This was jet black and of a softer quality. Also he found it to be a German made toy. As he was handling it he noticed that there was a small slit just below the words “made in Germany.” Prying this slit open he was able to withdraw a piece of 10