Scituate High School - Chimes Yearbook (Scituate, MA)

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Growing Pains

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30 Mistaken Identity Warren O ' Shea, 8B IT was a beautiful rosy dawn that was beginning to break over Kendall Field, Florida. Captain Earl Stanton stood admir- ing his newly-arrived B-17, a heavy bomber which sat clumsily facing into the gentle breeze on Runway Three. Twenty minutes later. Captain Stanton and his crew stood in Operations Office just before take-off for a briefing. It was Lazy Mary ' s turn to patrol for subs, and although her crew was hopeful, they doubted whether they would even hear of a sub. A few minutes later, they filed out and climbed aboard their waiting ship, the pro- pellers of which were turning over evenly in the now-bright sunlight. Captain Stanton was a tall man, well-built, with a shock of black hair. He was young, about twenty-four, and wise. He boasted a Texas drawl, and had a wide smile. He gunned the engines with brakes set, and the plane shuddered. Then he let down the flaps and released the brakes, and the plane shot down the runway. Split seconds later, the landing gear was up, the flaps were up, the crew was relaxing, and Lazy Maiy was climb- ing rapidly. They reached a 30,000-foot alti- tude and leveled off just as the coastline slipped beneath the plane ' s trim fuselage. She responded beautifully to every known trick in the book. They were now well out over the ocean and they banked southward. Just then, the peering, hopeful navigator shouted, Suspi- cious fish below at 5:30 o ' clock! The plane tipped as Earl calmly said, Man your battle stations. He took the plane down to 200 feet and leveled off. The bombardier shouted ex- citedly! Sub below, German U-boat— Lubein type! The engines roared and the plane climbed for altitude for a bombing run. She climbed steadily to one thousand feet, banked, and leveled off with the sun at their backs. Once again the sub came into view and its shadow was changing from black to gray! It was diving fast, but it was a large sub and the target was still clear. Suddenly, Bob Benton, tail gunner, yelled something over the intercom, and screamed in agony! The unmistakable whine of a Me. 109 was heard as it streaked past. It was equipped with floats. The forward and top giuis spit death, and the tracers, smoking, bit deep into the 109 ' s stabalizer! It climbed rapidly and banked. Then it disappeared! But this run, the bombardier was determined to get that sub! He called out instructions. Bear to the left — Hold ' er. Skipper — Steady — Steady — Bombs Away ! Earl felt the plane lighten just as the Messerschmidt came in again. Gims chattered and metal chipped from ninnbers one and two engines! Flame streamed from them, and the automatic ex- tinguishers went to no avail on No. One en- gines! However, the fire in No. Two went out! The plane was lumbering on when the air about the banking plane shuddered! Look- ing below, they saw the sub disintegrate, and then slip below the water ' s oily, scarlet sur- face! I hen they knew why the plane was there— the sub had launched it previously! A voice broke the silence. Bob looks badly wounded, sir, but he ' ll live. Shall I man his post? It was Jim Kent- worth, the navigator. O. K., was the answer, but it was cut short by the chattering of guns. Earl heard some unpleasant nickel-jacketed messengers of death whistle, splinter the canopy Plexi- glass, and plough into the instrument board! As the fighter plane shot past, it too disinte- grated and plummeted earthward. Lazy Mary turned ruefully homeward, shot to bits but victorious! As she approached the field, she tried to transmit her difficulties to base, but the radio was in pieces! Then short bursts of flack exploded near the plane and one scored a hit! The tail slumped backwards like a crazy stunt rider, and like a woimded bird, the plane slipped earthward slowly, smoking from a severed oil line which spilled oil on the red hot parts, making smoke. The plane made a sickening belly land- ing, dug one wing into the runway and stopped short! The crew climbed out carry- ing Bob; and when the ambulance had taken him a vay, Colonel Cross shook hands with Earl and said, We thought you were a shot up ' Krout. ' That sure vas a mistaken iden- tity. It sure was, Earl agreed with a wry smile as he glanced at his plane ' s smouldering remains in the afternoon sun. It sure was, he said to himself.

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32 Source of Wonderment Terry Butler, ' 47 IN northern England, midway between Scar- borough and Budlington on the old post road, there is a lonely stretch of rolling land that is a subject of much amazement and curiosity to me. Probably the most singular feature that I remember of this expanse of land is the old Turnbull Tavern, a pictur- esque inn adjacent to the road in a section of level valley. To the north and south are gently rolling hills which are typical of that countryside. A little distance to the east is Flamborough Head, a section of weather- beaten shoreline. The fresh ocean winds scatter the salty spray inland so that one can always scent the salt tinge of the usually- torpid hanging air of the inland. The first time I viewed this rural scene was two years ago, coming down from South Shields on the Tyne with two of my good friends. The carriage had just topped the hill when one of my friends, who was facing forward, called attention to the beauty of the coinitryside. As I turned to look, some sub- conscious foreboding of ill impressed me. I breathed easier when he had left Tinnbull Tavern in the dust. No sooner had I dis- missed the depression from my mind than the carriage slowed to a stop. The coachman poked his grimy head in the door and begged oin- pardon but we would be obliged to spend the night at the last inn we had passed be- cause a bridge had been weakened by the high rushing waterS and he didn ' t dare attempt to cross. All the way back we mournfully discussed bur ill fortune at having to spend a boring evening at some relic of a roadhouse. As we drew up to the Turnbull Tavern, I began to notice the building itself. Hanging out front was a large sign with a faded picture of a bull and a red cape. The entrance was a double door with large iron bolts studding the oaken frame. The after part had a crude stone foundation; the main room appeared to have been constructed of some vessel ' s tim- bers. In general the house seemed solidly built. A plump, matronly lady received us with more or less forced sweetness and conducted us to our barren rooms. Accepting our fate as best we could, my friends and I descended to the main room. We sat there, comment- ing sarcastically about our surroundings until I spied a decrepit figure near the fire. In a good-humored frame of mind we moved closer to the burning embers and the old codger who sat smoking there. Shortly we diverted our conversation to the probable history of the quaint structure. Directing our queries meaningfully in the old man ' s direction, we settled ourselves around the fire. The old man shifted his pipe, tamped the tobacco, and cleared his throat while we waited in respectful silence. According to this twice-a-yoimgster, the original stone framework had been placed there by invading Danes before the time of Caesar. Later, the counter-invading Picts from Scotland had burnt the wood framework of the Danes. Centuries later in English history, some merchantman, blown off its course, had run aground on Flamborough Head. Thrifty natives had carted the ship away piecemeal, and one enterprising group had constructed this tavern on the old stone foundation. All the time our storyteller was coloring history, the tavern was filling up with groups of silent, somber men. I couldn ' t possibly imagine where they had come from since I hadn ' t recalled seeing a house for miles around. The tavern was thick with a distaste- ful smoky haze; so I took silent leave of the elderly gent and his first-hand evidence and threaded my way through the throng. As I passetl along, no one so much as raised his head. Though I expected the outside air to put me in better spirits, I found that the outside air was heavy and thick. I could actually feel the weight of the air on my skull to such an extent that it sent me into a mental torpor. My senses dulled, I wandered back into the tavern almost in a trance. Locat- ing my friends, who by now seemed also quite subdued, I conducted them to the rear of the room to partake of our meal. As I raised a succulent portion of mutton to my lips, I was startled by a short piercing cry coming from a back room. I arose with such a start that my fork spattered gravy over my frock coat. I was further surprised by the complete indifference of the rest of the people and especially my friends. They were alarmed only at my jumping from the table. I was almost convinced that I was hearing things, when again there was a long agonizing scream. I coiddn ' t be imagining it. Yet, no- body else in the tavern even batted an eye- lash. Heaving a bewildered sigh, I sank into