Somerville High School - Radiator Yearbook (Somerville, MA)

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taken on a new meaning: to Montagne. For hours at a time he would sit at his desk and stare at the huge, gray structure. “The Wall’s” very presence had an unnerving effect on him. He was constantly tormented by nightmares depicting himself up against that man-made colossus trying frantically to sur- mount it, and, finally, “the Wall” would crum- ble and fall to the ground, crushing him into oblivion. The question that wall presented frightened him and drove him to the brink of insanity. But he kept all this to himself. Even Walsh, now a captain, who had helped the Colonel in his hardest times, and had befriended him, did not realize that this man was being torn apart inside because of one thing — “The Wall” — the huge, gray wall which presented a challenge to Montague; a challenge that he would soon answer. It was a dark, foggy night. Col. Montague crept cautiously from his quarters and headed straight for the fog-shrouded edifice. He had to find cut what was on the other side. He had to, or it would drive him crazy. He stopped for a moment at the base of “the Wall.” It seemed so high and beyond reach. He started up, clawing his way, hanging on to protruding rocks, wedging upward through weather-worn cracks, until, finally, three quarters of an hour later, the top was within his grasp. He sat for a moment on the edge looking back down at the city. The sun was coming up behind him, and the rays shone down at Sandonburg. Here and there, he could see a car or truck, its operator probably starting an early work day. It all seemed very remote from the top of “the Wall.” Montagne stood up and started walking the couple of hundred yards to the opposite edge. “Soon I’ll know the answer,” he muttered to himself. The sun was shining brightly on the East. He looked down. “No! No! How could they?” he gasped out loud. He jumped away, a look of horror, mixed with fear, on his face. He started running back. He kept running faster and faster. He couldn’t stop. Capt. Walsh was an early riser and the first to find the Colonel lying at the base of “the Wall.” He knelt down beside the body of his superior officer. Montagne’s facial ex- pression was one of fear and horror, yet, in his staring eyes, a look of understanding could be detected. Walsh could tell what had happened there and a twinge of sorrow over- came him. “He knows,” the Captain said looking up at “the Wall.” “He alone knows.” HOW THE OTHER 30% LIVE James (Montana) Curry ’62 The newspapers say that seventy percent of the people of this country live in cities. That leaves only thirty percent who live on farms. These are just dull statistics. But the thirty percent statistic has a special interest for me. For most of my life I have been a member of that 30% • I was born in the town of Ekalaka, Mon- tana (population 1,000) and have spent most of my life on a sheep ranch in that vicinity. Ekalaka is located in the southeastern corner of the state, not far from where Montana, South Dakota and North Dakota all meet. This is a stock-raising region. There are a great many cattle ranches here, and Carter County is very high on the list of wool-grow- ing counties. Some wheat and a little corn are raised, but the main agricultural crop is hay. Carter County has an extreme climate. I myself have experienced temperatures of 110° Fahrenheit and —50° below. Almost every winter we have severe blizzards. The worst snowstorms I can remember occurred in 1949. Many isolated ranches were snowed in for weeks. Our summers are usually pretty hot and Twenty-one

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I ITFMk LJ I LI AI Jlww. THE WALL Leo Kelly ’63 John Montagne gazed down at the gold eagles pinned very carefully on the shoulders of his dark blue dress jacket. It was only six months ago that he had joined the militia, and now he was a full colonel on his way to his first command. Although he wanted to believe this quick promotion was due to his own initiative, he realized that, as a direct descendant of the great William Montagne, he was to be subjected to favoritism by the High Command. William Montagne was one of the meager fourteen-hundred survivors of the missiles, the nuclear bombs, the fallout, and the countless other weapons of destruc- tion, which over seventy years ago, during World War III, had wiped out a whole civil- ization. Being sixty-three years old, and the eldest of all the survivors on our side of the war, William Montagne had been elected the first Supreme Ruler of the new democracy which had been formed. He was the man who had led the rebuilding of the western democ- racies and issued the order for the construc- tion of “the Wall.” The Colonel’s trend of thought was then interrupted by a raspy voice at the back of the coach. “Sandonburg, next stop!” He gathered together all his belongings and sat back in the soft chair, trying to get a better view of the town as the train pulled in. “There it is; not very big,” he thought to himself as he eyed the pleasant little houses in neat rows and, off in the distance, a few tall build- ings which designated the army post which he would soon command. A young lieutenant raised himself to at- tention and saluted curtly as the Colonel stepped off the train. “I’m Lt. Walsh, sir; welcome to Sandonburg.” Returning the sa- lute, Col. Montagne thanked the lieutenant and stepped into the long, black, staff car which already had the motor running. The car started with a roar and sped along a well- kept highway. As they drove nearer to the post, Montagne could see “the Wall” clearly. It was huge and ominous looking, about the height of a seven or eight story building. He had read about it many times, but this was the first time he had ever seen it. After the war, this wall was built to separate East from West. No treaty was ever signed. No attempt at friendship was made. The “enemy” simply went back on their own side and were never heard from again. That is how it had been for years, and that is how it probably will be for years to come. “The Wall.” stretching from the North Pole to the South, slices its way through many lands, such as Finland, Germany, Tur- key, Arabia, and parts of Africa, and works up along the Pacific Coast of the Americas. No one knows what is on the other side of “the Wall” and no one likes to think about it. If there is still some life on the other side, no one will know it. It is against the law to approach “the Wall,” and the militia is al- ways there to enforce this rule. Lt. Walsh showed the Colonel around the post and then led him to his new office. It was small, but modern and very well kept. After dismissing Walsh, Montagne sat down in the comfortable chair behind his desk. Be- fore him, through the large, picture window, he could see “the Wall.” Just to think of what may lie beyond there sent chills up and down his spine. It was too remote to even imagine. Now, several months later, “the Wall” had Twenty

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dry. There was very little rain last spring and summer and this, combined with a mild winter in which little snow fell, produced a severe drought. By this time you must be thinking, “What an awful place to live in!” The truth is that I didn’t much mind it, and will take Montana over New England any time. “Why?” Well, for one thing, the weather in Montana isn’t nearly so changeable as it is here, where it can be hot one day and freezing cold the next. Furthermore, when it becomes hot in Mon- tana, it becomes hot, but it doesn’t get humid. I have felt worse here when the temperature was 80 degrees than at home when it was 100°. The same thing happens in winter, only in reverse. Here in Massachusetts it feels colder at the same temperature than in Mon- tana. Don’t ask me why. I like open spaces. You can find them plenty in Montana, but they don’t exist here. It comes as something of a shock to move from a ranch where your nearest neighbor lives three miles away, to the most densely populated city in the United States. You don’t get much privacy in a city. You may wonder how I ever got out here. It is a rather long story but I’ll make it short. My uncle was born and brought up in this area. During the war he was in the Navy and met my aunt on the West Coast. They were married there and moved to Billings, Montana, where they lived until 1956. That year they moved back to Somerville. How does this tie in with me? Well, when I reached the 9th grade I had the choice of going 20 miles to a high school of approxi- mately 200 students or 2,000 miles to a high school of 2,000. I chose the 2,000. This choice is not no strange as it may seem. My older sister went to Portland, Oregon, for her freshman year. So here I am. I enjoy going to S.H.S. very much. However, I wish I could spend more time each summer with my family and had a longer Christmas vacation, so I could l e home at Christmas time. But I get used to it. And it surprises me that I am not as homesick as I thought I would be when I left Montana to start at Southern Junior High School in ’58. RETURN TO TUCSON Janies Curry '62 At last, after miles and miles of frenzied galloping. Bob Turlow thought it was safe to rein in and look back over his trail. He brought his heaving, sweat-covered horse to a stop, turned around, and searched the des- ert carefully with his eyes. No, man nor horse, nor any cloud of dust, save that which his own horse had raised, was to be seen. Bob chuckled, “Looks like I finally shook that posse! Pickle-Face Mac-ready ain’t even goin’ to catch me!” But his moment of happy triumph was short. As he turned his horse about and con- tinued up the trail at a slow walk, he felt faint twinges of regret. Not that he regretted shooting Faro Jim Banks. He’d gun anybody who tried to cheat him at cards. But he really shouldn’t have waited till Banks turned his back before he shot—especially in the middle of a saloon in broad daylight. Sheriff Dan Macready took a dim view of the whole affair, and Turlow had been forced to leave town in something of a hurry, with half the town’s citizens rid- ing hotly after him. “Well, Tucson’s one town I better never go back to! Sheriff Macready’ll see me hanged for sure!” mused Turlow. Then a more ur- gent problem surged into his mind. Apaches! He was heading directly into Cochise’s coun- try around the Dragoon Mountains. But this menace did not deter him, or even worry him as much as it would have most people. Twelve years ago, back in ’61, he’d prospected right in the middle of the Mescalero Country when Mangas Colorados was on the warpath, and no Apache had ever known he was there. Turlow knew how to dodge Indians. He rode steadily up the trail to Silver City, and the mountains loomed ahead. The sun was long down and it was begin- ning to grow very dark. Turlow decided to ride a few more miles and then make camp. He’d have to find a well-hidden brushy spot to camp and he didn’t dare light a fire. That sack of dried beans and bacon would have to do for supper. As Turlow was looking for a place to camp, Twenty-two