St Matthews High School - Samascript Yearbook (Conshohocken, PA)

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“I left him then, but later, in the woods when the firing had slowed down a bit, he came to me where I'd holed in and said, ‘Sarge, let me carry some of the wounded back. I hate to see them lying out there without aid.’ “ 'Man,' I answered, 'you’ve picked yourself a tough job, but go to it.' ‘Thanks, Sarge, you’re a good egg,’ he said, 'but if my number’s up, I'd rather go out helping some man to live than sending one to his death,’ and turning he headed out of the woods. “ ‘Good luck,’ I called as I watched. “I saw him around giving first aid, and carrying back the badly wounded. He had a cool head and absolutely no fear. More than one man owes his life to Swick’s help that day. Late that afternoon I was hit in the shoulder and sent back to the first aid station for attention. As I passed through Cunel, quiet now after some fierce fighting, I came upon Swick’s body just outside the town. He was lying face down in the road, a stretcher a short dis-tance away. He must have been on his way to the front when he was killed by the concussion of a shell that hit near him. I moved his body to the side of the road and said a silent prayer for a brave man. “When I arrived in New York, July, 1919, I looked up Swick’s father to give him the Bible I had taken from Swick's body. I thought it might ease his grief to know how bravely his son had died. “I found the family on a side street in a quiet section. A young girl opened the door for me. After I had introduced my' Prayer The sttn that shines upon us here, Through hours of daily toil. Shines on our brave boys far away Who fight on foreign soil. And through the busy hum of day. And silences of night, Across the miles our thoughts and prayers Speed fast on pinions bright. “In war's dread dangers everywhere God eep you in his loving care. Robert J. Burt '43 self and explained my errand she said, ‘Come in, I'll call mother.' “She ushered me into a comfortably furnished room and left to summon her mother. I was looking at a portrait of Private Swick, that stood on a small table, and did not hear anyone enter the room until a quiet voice said, ‘Good morning, Sir.’ “ ‘Good morning. I hope I am not intruding,' I replied. ‘I would like to see your husband, but if he is not at home I'll leave and come back later.’ “ ‘You are very kind,’ she replied. ‘It is only that Poppa is so sick. But he will see you. Come, I’ll take you to him.' “We walked down a hall into a cool room, and there lying in a massive bed was an old man. His hair and beard were white as the sheet that covered his wasted body; only his eyes were alive. When I spoke to him he tried to extend his weak hand in welcome. I took the Bible from my pocket, and placing it beside him said, ‘Sir, this belonged to your son; he was a brave soldier.’ “Looking at it lovingly he whispered, ‘Tell me.’ “So sitting by his bed, with his wife and daughter standing by, I told how his boy had died. When I finished he said suddenly in a clear, proud voice, ‘Louie was such a good boy.' “And even as we looked down at him, the old man, with a contented sigh, slipped past the border line to join his son.” Teresa Marie O'Connor ’42 Advice Little squirrel in the tree Please come down and talk to me— Tell me why you run around Hunting nuts upon the ground. Tell me how you always now To store your food before the snow, And why you're happy all the time When you do naught but work and climb. Little squirrel in the tree Tell your secret, please, to me. Marie Entenman '42 T welve THE MIRROR

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Killed in Action THIS is a story of the First World War as told to me by my Uncle Ezekiel who was a sergeant in the 60th Infantry. I shall tell the story as nearly as possible in Uncle Zeke’s own words. We landed in France in the morning, and that night in the Vosges Sector, the Boche pulled a surprise raid on us, but we weren’t nearly so surprised as the few prisoners we took were to discover the YANKS had arrived. I don’t believe I'll ever forget that first taste of warfare. “It was in the St. Mihiel drive that I first noticed that Private Swick wasn’t do-ing any fighting. I saw him giving first aid and carrying the wounded behind the lines and, while that wasn't his job, I knew we were short of men for first aid, so I let him alone. After six days of fight' ing and digging in new positions we were finally relieved, and when the roll was called, Swick was among the missing. I went around making inquiries, but no one knew anything about him. A couple of days later he came into camp while I was out drilling and was placed in the guard house. When I heard that he was back, I went to see him. “ ‘Where have you been?’ I barked. “ ‘Sarge,’ he said, 'I was bringing in the wounded and the ‘‘Doc’’ told me to stay around and assist at the first aid station. When they moved on, I hiked back to look for the company. And that’s the truth, Sarge’. “I believed him, so I went to Captain Allsworth, told him Swick’s story, and asked for his release. “The captain said, ‘Since he can't prove his story, I must hold him, but I’ll let him out in a few days.’ That night we received orders to leave for the front. We were loaded into trucks, and taken to the Argonne Forest to re' lieve the 3rd division, and Swick came with us. We moved on pretty quickly until we reached Cunel, a small village with a graveyard on the left and heavy woods and brush on the right. Many at' tempts had been made to take that town THE MIRROR and hill. Lieutenant Woodfill, named by General Pershing as the greatest hero of the war, lost nearly his whole company trying to take Cunel. Well, for four days we ‘holed in,’ being under heavy artillery fire all the time. At night, patrols were sent out to contact other troops around us. Swick was always willing to do anything; he seemed to have no fear, so I sent him out on patrols knowing he could be relied on to carry out orders. On October 14 we were ordered to take the town. We were to get an artillery barrage at 7:45 a.m. to cover our attack at 8:15. Something went wrong there, so our Lieutenant ordered us to attack with-out the barrage. The German artillery opened on us as soon as we started, and our men were mowed down all around us. The 7th Engineers were to take the grave-yard while we went on to the town, and it was here I noticed that Swick, while charging all right, didn’t use his rifle, though he had many chances to do so, as a German machine-gun nest was causing us a lot of trouble. As soon as we took the nest, I went to Swick, mad as ’blazes’. “ ‘Je-ru-sa-lem.’ I yelled, ’What do you think the army gave you that gun for? An ornament? Why didn’t you use it on those Jerries?’ ’Sarge’, he answered, ‘I can’t use this gun—I can’t kill a man’. I looked at him in amazement. “ ’By cripes,’ I said, ’you’ll use it before this day’s over or you'll be a dead man.’ “ 'I can’t kill a man, even to save myself. I just can't, Sarge,’ said the poor fellow almost crying. ‘It’s against my religion.' “Of course, I knew he was a religious ’guy’; he always carried his Bible in his pocket and read it every chance he got. But I had a good religion myself, and I had killed plenty, I guess. ‘If that's the way you feel it’s “okay’’ with me, buddie,’ I said, 'but if some of these other “guys” see you wasting that gun, it’s going to be just too bad.’ Eleven

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Victory Gardens NOW that the U. S. A. has entered World War No. 2, shortages of many civilian commodities will inevitably result. The common citizen will obtain rubber goods, metal products, and building materials with a maximum of difficulty, and perhaps not at all. But the plentiful American dinner table has, so far, managed to survive and it is our desire to see that it continues to do so, for good food contributes to the well-being of the nation. With the extra amount of food exported to allied countries and the tremendous fortune needed to feed our own fighting forces, a scarcity is certain to occur unless something is done immediately to ward it off. The “Victory Garden, if you are not already familiar with the term, is one that is made where a truck garden was never intended to be. Flower beds, lawns, and vacant lots are ideal. The government suggests that “for the duration” we tell the nasturtiums and petunias to move over and make room for everything from the lowly sweet potato and blushing tomato to the tall, stately com and curly lettuce. The term “Victory Garden” is, however, the only thing about the vegetable garden which is new to me, for every year, about the middle of February, the soil of my brain becomes fertile and little dream seedlings start to push themselves to the fore. With this tender reminder, I am off on a whirl of vegetable productions. Tall rows of golden bantam parade before by delighted eyes. Scarlet tomatoes and bright, healthy carrots do the “Conga,” while big brown potatoes dance the “Harlem jig.” I close my eyes in an ecstasy of joy. This year I shall have no wilted lettuce, wrinkled turnips, anemic corn, or squashy tomatoes. “Fresh Garden Vegetables on Top” shall be the motto. Soon the winter's snows yield the reins of the year to the carefree spring. Trees that had been black and bare suddenly burst forth into refreshing green. The fields are carpeted with violets, forget-me-nots, and buttercups. As nature once more comes into its own, so does my long dormant spirit. The wheelbarrow is brought out while rakes, hoes, picks, shovels, and trowels again thrill to the golden sunshine which has been so long denied them. Seeds and insecticides are restored to their position of honor. The gun has been fired and I’m “rarin' to go.” For almost two months I have planned my “Victory Garden.” In my mind, I have lovingly cultivated each little ethereal plant till it has grown to a size greater than that shown in the garden manual, and then exhibited with conceited pride the harvest perfect. Now the actual time has come, and Old Sol gives the “high sign. The soil looks up in joyful approval, for it, too, is vain and wants some new clothes. I begin tilling with more gusto than you would believe I possess. The pick goes down with a mighty thud and is brought up again along with a rock of immense magnitude. “Rocky soil, eh? Well, so what? Can’t let a little thing like that stop the advance of progress. The pick is up! Then it’s down! It's up! It's down! And each time a new rock is brought to the surface. After a while, this sort of thing becomes irksome. My back begins “to squawk” under the strain. It simply won't have it. It’s not used to this kind of stuff. After the long winter’s rest, such a thing is preposterous. Besides it’s almost dinner time. With aching vertebrae as my token of defeat, I wander numbly into the house. “What need have we for a 'Victory Garden’ anyhow? Our yard’s too small to produce any tangible amount; besides I have unearthed enough Japanese beetle grubs to consume the whole works in a week. “Did I hear the huckster’s voice outside? Tell him to wait a minute. After all, a fellow has to eat. Louis Moore ’42 THE MIRROR Thirteen