Shawnigan Lake School - Yearbook (Shawnigan Lake, British Columbia Canada)

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He dressed and made himself something to eat, trying not to worry too much about the night ahead. Nothing could possibly go amiss. Glory was the latest type of submarine, equipped with many fantastic devices one hardly knew existed. After washing the dishes Dave hurried to his car and drove to work, little knowing he was heading for disaster. Approaching the yard he never failed to marvel at the bright white lights which gave the scene the look of a movie set. Dave parked the car and regarded the busy dock. Workers, moving to and fro and going up and down the gang plank of the sleek ship, resembled a community of ants crawling over a piece of candy dropped by some wayward child. Dave walked towards the jetty, showed his identification to the guard, and strolled along the pier to the submarine. He felt the tingle of fear in his spine as he walked up the gangplank. Would everything be all right ? Arriving on the bridge he noticed Captain Elliott, the short, stocky commander of Glory, watching the men making last minute adjustments to the periscope housing. Butterflies? asked Elliott as turning around he saw the worried look on Dave ' s face. Not really, replied Dave. I guess nothing could happen, but I ' ll be glad when this night ' s over. He looked at his watch — midnight, and the last worker climbed down the gangplank. Cast off ! shouted Captain Elliott. As H.M.C.S. Glory slid quietly away from the dock, Dave up on the bridge felt the chill air of an August night swishing past his bare head and sending an involuntary shiver through him. The soft lapping of the waves against the hull served to calm him. The city looked peaceful and safe to Dave as the sleek black submarine made its way out and lights blinked from the dark distant shore. As they passed through the harbour gates the sea became choppy and because the ship had increased speed it made a low swishing sound. When only five miles out the Captain gave the order to dive. This was the moment everyone had been waiting for. The hatch clanged shut and the friendly, twinkling stars were extinguished. Inside the bright control room, the rows of gauges gleamed and Dave at first was blinded. The submerging motion of the ship gave him the sensation of being on an express elevator in a skyscraper. All was quiet except for the hum of the generator. Dave checked the instruments over the shoulder of the operator, Leading Seaman Kirk. Everything was in perfect order. Twenty-five fathoms, sir, reported the quartermaster. Level off ! commanded Elliott. Then to Dave, All going as it should be, Mr. Johnson ? Yes, sir. Everything ' s fine so far, confirmed Dave. Good ! Take her down to one hundred fathoms and we ' ll call it a night, ordered the Captain. Thirty fathoms . . . , reported the rating watching the depth indicator. Thirty-five . . . forty . . . forty-five . . . The ship began to tremble. Surface ! Surface ! called Captain Elliott. H.M.C.S. Glory did not respond. As the angle of the dive steepened the ship gathered speed. It refuses to come up, sir ! cried the quartermaster. Keep trying, shouted Elliott. Three hundred fathoms, sir ! warned the rating. Well, lads, I ' m afraid this is it, said Elliott. He was outwardly calm. They stared incredulously at the depth needle which seemed to be racing around the dial. It now showed four hundred and twenty-five fathoms. The tension in the small control room was as tight as a violin string. Because there was no sound one sensed it all the more. Madly Dave thought back. He must find out what had happened before it was too late. The events of the past seven months flashed through his mind. It was s trange, he thought, trying to find out what had gone wrong. Suddenly at five hundred fathoms the sides were crushed like an eggshell, and the sea came rushing in, engulfing Dave and tossing him about like a twig in a rushing stream. Bells started clanging and the water suddenly disappeared and he found himself in bed. It had only been a dream, a strangely horrifying nightmare. Dave looked at the alarm clock which had now stopped ringing. It was 7:30 p.m. — time to go to the dock to take H.M.C.S. Glory down for the first time ! —JOHN NEAL. ti Page Twenty-Eight

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had promised him that I would stay until the fourth. He would repeat these words in a dreary succession when he thought he was alone, putting the same dreadful emphasis on each syllable. It was, therefore, with a feeling of dread that I awoke on the morning of that fateful day. I quickly glanced over at the old man ' s bed, but it hadn ' t been slept in. I immediately jumped up, throwing on my clothes. Julius, Julius! I called, beginning to search for the old fellow. Suddenly I saw him entering the door, and the sight that he presented made me shiver with horror. He had obviously not slept the night before, for his bloodshot eyes were surrounded by hollow circles. From them shone forth a look of horror. His thick lips were covered with tiny specks of foam, and his beard was a stringy mess. His whole body was periodically convulsed with sharp spasms of shivering. What time do you make it ? he asked, his voice cracking with emotion. Nine o ' clock, I answered, sure that I was addressing a madman. One hour . . . only one hour left ! he shrieked, his eyes rolling wildly back into his head. One hour till when ? I asked hesitantly, backing further into the kitchen and grabbing a stout bread knife. Who said you could ask questions ? he snapped. Don ' t worry your weak head about me. Who are you to know what is to happen ? I am great. You are puny . . . small . . . nothing ! He then wandered aimlessly around the house destroying everything possible, cackling with fiendish joy as he wrecked his most valuable possessions. When I tried to reason with him he only spat venemously, swore, and said it didn ' t matter any longer. Time ticked by. For a long time he said nothing, gazing into the dying embers of the fire, sweat pouring down his sad old face, making tiny rivulets through a week ' s grime. I looked outside and shivered. It had begun to snow; swirling flakes drifted down from the dirty grey clouds that hung ominously above. A cold wind blew open the door, bringing a cloud of freezing flakes in with it. I ' ll have to get out of here today, I thought, or I ' ll be trapped all winter with this lunatic. However, since he saved my life, I should try to do something for h im. He turned around sharply and asked in a hoarse whisper, What time is it ? I glanced at my watch, my hand was shaking so much that I could barely read it. Nine thirty, I croaked. Without warning he jumped to his feet and grabbed me, pinning me against the wall ! I struggled to free myself from his vice-like grasp, but his strength was fantastic. He slapped me twice across my face with his hideous hands and then grasped my hair, forcing me to look in his eyes. They were now bright and red, the pupils had contracted to become two tiny dots, that flashed terrifyingly. I suppose you think I ' m crazy ! Well, you ' ll see. You ' re not great enough to know. I ' ll leave you here ! he shouted, his mouth twisting into an indescribably savage smile. Wh - - - wh - - - wh - - - where are you going ? I stammered. To hell! That ' s where! he yelled, laughing insanely, Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! You can read about it in my diary . . . but make it quick. His eyes burned with a fiendish glee. I ' ll be seeing you in Hades ! he screamed. With this parting speech he turned quickly and dashed through the open door. The last I saw of him he was running through a blinding snowstorm, shouting gibberish, his long hair streaming behind him, shouting and screaming into the storm. I tried to follow him but it was useless. Then I remembered the diary. Quickly I went over to where it lay and opened it. The leaves fell back at a marked page. There under the heading of June 2nd, 1915, was the following statement: The world is going to explode on November 3rd, 1955, at ten in the morning. I glanced at my watch. It was five past ten. —A. VINCENT. ti it DIVE FOR DISASTER Dave Johnson aroused himself from a deep sleep and gazed bleary eyed at the alarm clock which had rudely awakened him. It was 7:30 p.m., time to report at the dockyard for duty. Tonight was a very special occasion. For seven months he had been working on the new submarine H.M.C.S. Glory, which was now ready for her final test run. The first few days of the tests had consisted of surface cruises but tonight Dave, as engineer, had to go down with her on her maiden voyage into the depths of the sea. Page Twenty-Seven

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NIGHTSHIFT — KITIM AT Towering, purple snow-capped mountains loom out of the black, murky night over the smelter nestled at their feet. Roaring furnaces and flashing flames cascade showers of starry sparks into the darkness. Twinkling multicolored lights blink fitfully, like fireflies about the smelter. Heavily laden, the conveyor belt zips along, while a humming electric yard engine hauls glowing carloads of slag to smoky, red-hued slag heaps. Drifting aimlessly about, the dense smoke from towering stacks and whirring ventilators blankets the valley night and day. It filters through the webs of fences into high tension towers, drifting around switch yards to drape languidly over buildings. Constantly it oozes in through cracks in doors and windows. Just as the glowing, rotund moon glides out of a jagged hole in the clouds, the shrill whistle announces a shift change. Tired, black-faced men stream out of the smelter, passing the incoming night shift in the silent murk. As the ding, ding of the punch-clock echoes away into the night, workers pick up their tools and the night shift begins toiling over the roaring monsters. Inside, light is dim and smoke-streaked, with flashes from furnaces which throw off heat to over one hundred degrees. Goggled workers, wearing hard safety hats, move about like many ants around the miniature holocausts. Furnaces belch flames as men called crust-breakers prod at the molten masses with long-handled iron pokers. Crust-breakers are strung out along the iron catwalks which stretch along the sides of the building, like clinging vines above the pots. Along comes the overhead crane; the operator is in his glass cage, suspended below the crane itself. This machine travels the length of the line carrying pots to different departments. The crane rumbles down the line, its warning horn combining with the sound of a danger bell, because a pot is about to be moved. Shirtless, sweat-soaked giants advance on the pot; they are the stud pullers. With gigantic wrenches these men unbolt the tops of the pots. The last bolt is wrenched loose, accompanied by a flash and a roar, followed by molten aluminium and searing gas forced out of the vessel by the tremendous pressure inside. Workers scramble aside as the lid is raised, venting the full fury of the monster like a volcano into the surrounding area. After the molten mass recedes, the crane operator drops the hook; it snakes swiftly down and attaches to the pot. Grime-covered and shirtless, like most smelter workers, the -burly foreman signals to the crane operator. When the pot is raised, the crane rolls smoothly down its rails, swinging the pot along a centre aisle, preceded by the foreman who clears the way. Once there, the pot is lowered into a frame and clamped in by a sweating, cursing pourer, who wields a large steel wrench. Quickly tapped, the molten aluminium spews out, like a spring torrent in the mountains, into moulds which form it into ingots. Still searing hot, ingots are broken out of the moulds to be stacked on loading platforms that are a buzz of activity. Under strings of glowing lights, men load ingots into boxcars, for all parts of the continent. Further along the tracks a gigantic dock crane festooned with lights, loads ingots into the yawning hold of a sea-going freighter bound for Europe. Stevedores move quickly to and fro on the dock, placing ingots on the crane sling. Chains rattle, wheels screech, and gears clash as the crane swings load after load into the cavernous hold. Once more the shrill whistle echoes away into the night; tired workers lay down their tools. Again accompanied by the ding, dong of the puncher-clock, men stream out of the plant greeting the incoming day shift. Night is over, clouds part to admit the warm rays of the golden sun as the tired night-shift workers trudge down the dusty road and into the morning light. R. McNAB. it -fr A MIRACLE It was a dreary afternoon and people were hurrying in both directions along the sidewalks. Among them were an elderly gentleman and his wife who were obviously in a hurry to cross Georgia at its interesection with Granville. Glancing quickly at Bilk ' s clock, the man exclaimed, Heavens, it ' s almost five and the Bay closes then. The light was just changing and the last of those crossing were a few yards from the curb. The elderly man decided to make a run for it, but before he reached the other side an oncoming car knocked him down and ran over his left leg. John ! cried his wife aghast. Before, however, she could reach her husband ' s side, a policeman had taken charge of the situation and, having made a brief examination of the injured man, was demanding of the onlookers walking sticks and handkerchiefs to make a splint for the victim ' s leg. Sympathetic bystanders willingly gave what was asked for. Page Twenty-Nine