Scituate High School - Chimes Yearbook (Scituate, MA)

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22 THE ZERO HOUR Robert Spear, ' 41 fl HE seventy-two foot schooner yacht Olympic was slipping along quietly before a (]narlering wind into a glori- ous sunset. I don ' t like the looks of it. Sir, I said First Mate Simpson to his super- ior. Don ' t like the looks of what? snarled Cap- tain Crawford, who was leaning against the wheel, gazing blankly at the horizon. That cloud formation to the south ' ard, Simpson answered. It looks to me like we ' re in for something. It does look queer at that, ansAvered the captain. Hustle for ' ard to the radio room and get the weather report from the cjast. Aye, aye, Sir, snapped Simpson as he hur- ried on his way. The captain resumed his stanc at the wheel and looked at the clouds. It was not long before Simpson returned wit ' i the report and a long look on his face. What does it say? inquired Crawford. It says that the tornado that just whipped across the Keys is headsd this way — fast! ex- claimed Simpson, which means a waterspout, out here! That ' s bad, mumbled Crawford, that is — it ' s bad if it hits us. I know that, returned Simpson. Remember the Georgic? Her deck and topsides were ripped right off of her by a waterspout! Tell Sparks to keep us posted on it, ordered Crawford. As Simpson departed, the ship ' s clock struck one bell. What ' s up, Joe? inquired a new voice, that of the owner of the Olympic, Herbert Torrey. I heard you and the mate, and I wondered if anything was wrong. Everything ' s all right — at least now. an- swered Crawford. I don ' t know how it will be a little later. The coast just reported a tornado ' s headed this way. You can see it to the south ' ard now. It doesn ' t look any too promising. Wouldn ' t it be exciting if we did get tangled up in a waterspout? questioned Torrey, quite a landlubber. It ' s begiiming to blow, remarked Crawford. It won ' t be long now. We belter batten the hatches and clear the decks. Not yet. answered Torre) ' . We may not get it at all. Torrey wasn t much of a seaman when it came to a real emergency, but he was stubborn and Crawford knew better than to argue with him. It ' s his own funeral, muttered Crawford as Torrey sauntered for ' ard. He ' ll learn — in time. By five bells, the wind had risen in pitch and sounded with high crescendo over the dark, whitecapped sea. It was growing much darker now, and the moon was hidden behind formless, shifty clouds. By seven bells, the waterspout could be made out by Crawford, Simpson, and Torrey as they stood grouped around the wheel. As the ship nosed into a heav) sea, a shout from Sparks, the wireless operator, emerged through the hatch and Simpson went to see what it was all about. The radio ' s gone on the blink, shouted Simpson to Crawford. With no contact with the coast, the Olympic with its four occupants seemed like a piece of paper on a heaving sea. The Gulf Stream, a stiff wind, and a waterspout all combined against the small craft to make a formidable foe. Besides the fact that the radio was dead, they were thirty- four miles from shore, the nearest port being Miami. The waterspout could be plainly seen as it approached, headed straight for the Olympic. Batten the hatches! ordered Crawford. Simpson immediately carried out this com- mand. What will happen if it hits us? inquired Torrey, a little uneasy. Oh, began Crawford, Plenty! ejaculated Simpson. A waterspout isn ' t a very healthy playmate. Well, what had we better do? asked Torrey. There ' s nothing you can do, returned Craw- ford, only hope and pray it doesn ' t hit us. Les s than three miles away, by now, the water- spout held its course. Four helpless men on a small yacht, against a force of nature so great

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Mmes 21 The silence inside was disturbed only by the occasional refueling of the wood stove. Some of the police were asleep in the chairs. One was sprawled on the floor with his coat drawn over him to escape a draft that came in through a small hole in the wall. Stella sat in the corner with her eyes glued on the floor. She thought she heard a rustling; sound out- side. Was it the wind, or was it Edouard? Straining her ears, she heard the sound again. Then there was a feeble knock on t ' .ie door. Al- though half asleep, the soldiers heard it, and the leader jumped up and went to the door. He opened it cautiously, and Edouard fell onto the floor — frozen to death. MILITARY OBJECTIVE William Bradlee, ' 42 The man gazed longingly to where his son and the boy ' s dog lay sid? by side. The boy stayed quite still, and the dog never attempted to move, two symbols of innocence in a world gone mad. Not long before they had been playing in the afternoon sun. They were harming no one, not even thinking of any one but themselves. Sud- denly the sun was blotted out by huge bombers which cast monstrous shadows on the two at play. A bomb was released from one of the death birds. It blew the playmates ' home to bits. A huge piece of timber struck the boy full on the head. He fell as a sack of sand might. The dog ran barking to his side. The boy never moved. The death bird laid another egg to be followed by several more. One struck the little Scottie dog which stood faithfully by his master. Yes, the boy and the dog lay quite still. They had not seen the headline of the paper as the father had. They had not read the report of the bombing of ' military objectives as he had. Softly the man muttered, Some one shall pay for this, and then I shall join you. H you should go through a small town in Finland today, and if you should pass near the cemetery, you might see three graves there. It would not be the beautiful sculpture on the stones that would make you stop and think. It would be the inscriptions on the stones: on the first, A. Benderson, Jr. died January 17, 1940 . . . Military Objective ; on the second, Floppy Benderson, died January 17, 1940 . . . Military Objective. The third somewhat more impressive, ran, A. Benderson, died February 22, 1940 during heroic action at his post of anti-aircraft defence in which he shot down four enemy planes. The three lay side by side none attempting or wishing to move from his eternal peace. ON NEWSPAPERS Robert Holland, ' 40 A newspaper is one of our American institu- tions. It is composed of pulp from New England spruce and a large amount of printer ' s ink. Take the average metropolitan newspaper. It has a daily issue of approximately thirty thou- sand, and an average cost of two cents per copy. The editorial and printing offices must be located in a central part of the city and must be in direct contact with all parts of the globe, by telegraph, telephone, radio, teletype and tele- photo machines. In addition to reporters on the main staff, there must be foreign correspondents and connections with such institutions as the Associated Press, as well as special dispatches sent in by reporters in different cities in the United States. The editorial room close to press time looks to the uninitiated like an insane asylum. The editors are listening to about four telephones and an interoffice communicator at the same time, while reading proof from the copywriters. Office boys are running around waving tele- grams and carrying messages. Copywriters are pounding frantically on typewriters. Reporters are dashing in with last-minute news of a big fire or robbery. Someone else is rushing to the tele- type machine and rushing out again, waving a piece of yellow paper with news of the war in Europe. Finally, fifteen minutes before press time, the proofs go to the chief editor. He hurriedly ocans them for mistakes, and, in ten minutes more, they are on their way to the presses. When they start to roll on time, everyone draws a breath of relief and lights up a cigarette, con- gratulating himself on having once more beaten press time. The first papers off the press are brought in by an office boy and are read, still damp, bv cjveryone in the office. Each reporter finds his jtory and looks to see how much space it got. In a few moments the newsboys are shouting: • ' Wuxtry! Wuxtry! Read all about it! ■ ' AH about the big robbery on street! ' ' News from the front, hot off the press! ' Paper here! And all this from a few spruce trees cut in the freezing northwoods by Swede axemen who probably can ' t read English, and a few crystals of a black substance, discovered by some for- gotten chemist, called printer s ink.

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DCS 23 as to lift tons of water from the ocean and make them into a whirling column — that was the sit- uation in a nutshell. It wasn ' t long before the spout was within a half-mile from the Olympic. With apparently no relief in sight, the men abandoned themselves to their fate and started saying goodbye to each other. The ship ' s clock struck eight bells, mid- night, the zero hour. It won ' t be long now, said Captain Craw- ford; the Olympic was a good ship, and I hate to see her go. At least I can go down with her. Many a good year have I spent on her, said Simpson, the mate; she ' s practically a sister to me now. It cost me a lot of money, Torrey said, but it was worth it. Sparks was silent. He stood motionless, gazing fixedly at the spout. All at once it seemed to drop down to the sea and disappear. That was, indeed, the case, and before long, the wind subsided, the Olympic was safe, and her four occupants fell to their knees and thanked God for their safety. In another hour, the seventy-two foot schooner yacht Olympic slipped along quietly before a quartering wind away from a glorious sunrise. THE DISSECTION OF A MUSICIAN ' S HEAD Jean Cole, ' 40 After reading Addison and Steele ' s essays, The Dissection of a Beau ' s Head and A Co- quette ' s Heart, I began to wonder what would be the contents of other heads were they exam- ined. Now although I am not a surgeon, and do not even profess to be interested in the science of surgery, it was soon my good fortune to be called in by a friend of mine who was about to dissect a musician ' s head. Having been asso- ciated with musicians all my life, I was very curious to see what strange things were in their craniums. It was with great interest that I watched my friend remove the top of the skull and reveal the most fascinating sight. Little musical notes popped out and filled the room with their tones. We tried to capture them but they eluded us. Inside the head were many little pockets. These were filled and overflowing with everything musical. I saw G strings, A strings, gut strings, and wire strings. Out of one little pocket, a di- rector ' s score for a Haydn Symphony protruded. G clefs, sharps, flats, and naturals were carefully concealed in another little niche. Scales, appeg- gios and exercises — all were tied up in a neat bundle, ready, I supposed, for some future use. Then there were four or five pockets with min- iature musical instruments of all kinds in them. One was full of woodwinds — clarinets, oboes, and flutes. Another contained the string section — the violins, cellos, violas, and big bass viols. The brass section occupied the next pocket with tiny cornets, trombones and horns. Baby drums, cymbals, and a piano also could be seen. The owner of this head had obviously been a symphony orchestra leader, for last but not least, we found a diminutive baton tucked away in a crevice. This is the most extraordinary head I ' ve ever examined, exclaimed my friend. Suddenly I noticed a little inflamed place on one side of the skull. As I pointed it out to my friend, he gave it a quick glance and then gave a shout. That ' s what we ' ve been looking for! That bruise is where swing music has worn on the nerves of this real music lover! It has worn so constantly that at times he must have been quite violent. Poor man! How he must have suffered! Every time he heard swing, this place must have given him a severe headache. This will prove what we have been trying to prove — that swing music does have an effect on the real music lovers of this world. The investigation was over. As I turned to go, my friend said, You must come over again when I have another interesting head to dissect. I made a mental note to be on hand at the next dissection and bade my friend Goodbye. AT THE FIRESIDE Edward Anderson, ' 41 At nightfall by the firelight ' s cheer My little daughter sits me near, And begs to hear of things that were When I was little, just like her. Oh, tiny lips, you touch the spring Of sweetest sad remembering; And hearth and heart flash all aglow With ruddy tints of long ago. Again I by the fireside sit Youngest of all who circle it. And beg him to tell me what did he When he was little, just like me. FIELDS IN MARCH Cornelia Leith, ' 41 Rows of dead cornstalks, broken and bent. Go marching like soldiers through the mud. Through the mud. past long-forgotten snow. Into the mist they go, to hide their broken shame. Long, brown corn fields stretch to the horizon. Wet and sodden, cold and bleak. Yet imder the mud, the ice and the snow. Lies the seed of new grasses, and the green of a new spring.