St Bernards School - Crusader Yearbook (Gladstone, NJ)

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Sea, writing diligently on a small pad. Suddenly he heard a terrific explosion, and he looked out on the water to see a PT boat, hit by an enemy shell, go up in a ball of smoke, flames, and tin cans. He again wrote fervently on his pad and had iust finished when he noticed a soldier dragging himself on nearly all fours through the sand a short distance away. The soldier was Lieutenant Southward, exhausted from his hot trek across the desert after losing his ride with Ripley. He gestured feebly to the man on the hill and gasped, Water - water! The man pointed casually to the Arabian Sea and walked away. But suddenly he turned back, took out pencil and pad, and asked with a feverish gleam in his eye, Soldier, what's your name? This will make a fine story for my news- papers. lt's got human interest! The Lieutenant gasped in two choking voices, Southward . . . Kit Southward. Gi'me some water so I can head northward! Kit Southward! exclaimed the man. Why I used to go to school with you. I'm Jeff Stansbury, newspaper owner. This story will make the front pages! Just then a green pickup truck roared up the hill in second amid a hail of machine gun bullets and came to a stop near tne two men. Stansbury read the lettering on the door: HAL GREEN - REGIMENT VcTERINARlANA', and he and the driver greeted each other as two more members of the Class of 1962 were met in mutual recognition. After relieving the gasping Southward with a drink of radiator water, the two rode off in the direction of the regiment camp. ln the truck Hal disclosed that it was his responsibility to keep all the army mules in working condition. l'm on my way now, he said, to doctor up a batch of the animals which incur- red the Vitamin B Jitters while being shod by the regiment farrier, and I bet you can't guess who he is , he ended, as the truck pulled into a stable yard which was pretty well scattered around the vicinity by a direct hit from an enemy blockbuster. Not Bob Speck? said Stansbury, with pad and pencil in hand. None other, asserted Hal, and there he is now! A few feet beyond the truck a wiry man in a dirty apron was busy shoeing the hind legs of a droopy army mule. He stopped his task to scrutinize the two in the truck, and upon recognizing them, he flung his hammer to the winds and ran over to greet his former classmates. Jeff and Hal! he exclaimed in great animation. What are you two doing here? The reporter and the veterinarian answered the query, and then asked the far- rier how things were coming in his choice of trade. Oh fine, fine , responded Bob. See this device of mine here? He gestured to- ward a long plank supported three feet off the ground behind the mules by stakes driven into the ground. l just push the mules' legs through the holes in this plank. Then I can nail on the shoes without having to hold up the mule's leg at the same time, but there's only one hitch to it. What's that? asked Hal, who was busily medicating some sick mules with eighteenth-century corn liquor. Well, replied Bob, It's all very easy to stick the mule's leg through the holes in the board and nail on the shoes, but with these oversized army horseshoes on 'em, I can never get the legs out without a hard struggle. The mules' legs usually break in the process, and the critters have to be shot, but confidentially, it saves work for me. Just then a shell exploded nearby, effecting a rather hurried departure on the part of the three men. Stansbury pulled himself together and located the nearest teletype machine, on which he sent his story to a million offices in the U.S.A. and in one of them .... Smoking pistons! exclaimed the big round man as he stared at the print on the long line of teletype passing through his fingers. Look at this, Pete! The Arabs and the Ethiopians are massing in the Sandy Desert for another all-out offensive against our forces! L21l

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0112155 Hrnphrrg ln Saudi Arabia there lies a desert whose name is an absolute mistake. By some hideous twist of mind this arid expanse was called Sandy Desert. lt is not the name, however, which is important, but the location, which was the scene of a great event. Back in the summer of 1960, a cloud of dust was moving along the floor of the Sandy Desert in the direction of lndia, where the moon was sinking beyond the Ganges in retreat from the dawn of a new day. The cloud of dust was the spray of sand being kicked up by the wheels of an army jeep as it careened across the desert toward the sound of distant gunfire. Sitting in the driver's seat of this sandblaster on wheels was Lieutenant Kit Southward of the United States Army. Suddenly, as he headed the strugg- ling vehicle up a long sand dune, he heard a loud screech beneath him, whereupon the ieep began traveling north and west at the same time. lt suffered a broken tie rod and a neat split down the middle. The Lieutenant got out of both halves of the machine and muttered, Pull yourself together, Kit. You've got a battle to fight before this day is over . As he stood there wondering what to do, a second army vehicle of new design and construction swerved over a neighboring dune and pulled up alongside him. A man leaned out of the window and said in what was once a Vermont accent, Hullo soldier! See you had some trouble here. Hop in, 'n l'll give 'e a lift. lt was only after the two had driven a mile or so that Kit, whose memory was still clogged with sand, recognized the driver. Why, if it isn't good old Don Ripley! he exclaimed. You wouldn't be kitting me now, would you? Fancy meeting you here, replied Ripley. Don went on to explain that he was a mechanical engineer who had come to Arabia to see some of his army trucks of a new construction in action against the Com- munist-incited Arabs and Ethiopians. Kit related that he was a platoon leader in the 2nd Regiment of the Far East Command. l was separated from my unit during a sandstorm, he said, and I .... Just at that moment the truck's engine sputtered and died out. Sand-clogged fuel line, frowned Ripley. Guess you'll have to walk the last ten miles while I clean out the motor. So Southward ascended the next sand dune and began plodding along toward the scene of the coming battle. At the same moment, every platoon and company leader in the regiment was gazing intently at his watch as the hands moved ever closer to zero hour for the attack. The watches, made of titanium, were shock-proof, water-proof, rust-proof, and time- proof, and had a compass, a small telescope, and a looking glass attached. inscribed on the back of them were the words: Designed by the fabulous David Ward. Good old Wardie, said Admiral Ed Simpson, as he too gazed at one of the miraculous watches. Admiral Simpson, commander of the combined Far East merchant marine and naval fleets, was at that moment aboard his flagship in the Arabian Sea, iust offshore from where the 2nd Regiment was camped. His vessel and fifty converted PT boats had been lent to the government by the Chris-Cross Yacht Company, owned by one Keith Hyer, who was himself just cruising by the fleet in his yacht. Although the noise of the big navy guns was almost deafening, Admiral Simpson still thought he heard the smooth purr of his ship's twin engines in the stern below him, and he turned to look fondly in their direction. The purr, however, was not coming from the engines, but from two old cats that were chewing contentedly on the Admiral's shoes. He quickly shook them off, and assuming his former dignity, waved smartly to Hyer, who was iust passing under- neath the flagship in his submergeable yacht. Meanwhile, on land a man was standing on the crest of a hill by the Arabian E201

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Peter Randall, another big round man who had been sitting by a small square desk gazing out over New York City, turned ashen at the news and trembled, Oh no! Booth, it can't be true! Five of my best gold mines are located in the Sandy Desert, and if they are seized, l'll be a ruined man! Booth Taggart, who had been standing at the teletype receiver, was himself trembling with anxiety. Flinging himself wildly into two armchairs in opposite corners of the room, he gasped, And my precious automobile industry will collapse! Those cles- ert nomads have been the best customers for my no-clutch convertibles. I can't afford to lose their business! I must do something to put this terrible invasion to an end! - AHA! I've got it! l'll sponsor a show for our soldiers between battles. It'll boost their morale and our chances of winning. l'll get hold of three of my old classmates: Colton, Telesco, and Jacquemot, and l'll have them perform! l'll .... Now wait a minute, don't leave me out in the gold, drawled Randall, as he brushed several bothersome diamonds off his desk. Let me get in on this production, too! Together the two wealthiest members of the Class of 1952 began their plans on a show for the U. S. Army in the sands of the Sandy Desert of Saudi Arabia. Two days later the desert battle was in full progress. Men on both sides were dropping like flies, but the U. S. 2nd Regiment was slowly driving the tenacious Arabs and Ethiopians back. It was a colorful sight - camels and mules running amuck, turban- clad Arabs jumping up and down in gaudy striped bathrobes, and the cannon and the angry generals belching orange flames of fire. In one area, however, the U. S. forces' attack had bogged down in the loose sand. An expert was called in from the States to supervise the building of a firm road around the enemy. He was none other than civil engineer Larry Weymouth. Under his direction, the roadbed was quickly and accurately laid. But despite his best efforts, he could not stem the tide of wind-blown sand that continually swept in across the founda- tion, and thus the pavement could not be laid. So, another expert arrived from America to clear up the situation. This time the man of the hour was David Walkden, electronics engineer. With a new electronic device of his own design, he melted the sand around the roadbed into glass, and the concrete paving was then laid, and the road finished. Unfortunately, the regiment was forced to give up the idea when chips of glass broken off by enemy bullets deflated its ego and the tires on half of the army trucks. Also on hand endangering his life for his country was chemical engineer, Albert Hart. He was seeing in action for the first time some of his own anti-attack gas. The gas was fired in shells at the aghast Arabs and Ethiopians, and had a peculiar effect on them. lt caused them to laugh to such a hilarious degree that they were rendered for the most part harmless. Al himself inhaled a considerable amount of the humerous fumes, which had been leaking from an imperfect shell. As he was carried out in a straight-iacket, he remarked between roars of laughter he who laughs last laughs best. The 2nd Regiment that clay was using a new specially prepared explosive in its shells. lt's made from the metal sodium, and can be ignited with ordinary water, re- marked its inventor, metal powders expert, Joel Hall, as he blew a wad of chewing gum from his mouth while standing nearby a magazine. Unfortunately the moist gum fell on some of the specially prepared explosive and the surroundings vaporized amidst a trem- endous explosion. Hall, however, miracuously escaped damage. But then again, miracles are not uncommon in this day and age. With the aid of the new explosive, the laughing gas, and the naval support of Admiral Simpson, the regiment finally routed the flabergasted Arabs and Ethiopians and put them to flight. When the last of the vanquished desert invaders had left the scene lPlease turn to page fifty-four? l22fl