St Thomas More High School - Utopian Yearbook (Philadelphia, PA)

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How are his chances, Doc? A little less than fifty-Hfty, Father. That's not too bad. No, agreed the doctor, that's not too bad, but there is one thing that particularly disturbs me. What's that? Well, he arrived here a little more than a week ago, and I've been attending him person- ally ever since. And even within that short period of time he's given me the idea that he doesn't give a hoot whether he lives or not. The chaplain, meditated on the doctor's words a few moments, and then asked, How did he receive those wounds? I didn't get the complete story, but from what I heard it seems that his platoon's advance was being bogged down by a Red machine gun that was set up on a ridge just outside of Seoul. They tried three times to rush it, but each time the buzzards withstood the charge and knocked off a couple of marines. The Leatherneck Sergeant was seething mad and completely at a dead-end on what to do when Keenan here crawls up to him and says he'll get the nest if they manage to distract the Reds for a while. The sergeant told him it was suicide to try, but, realizing there wasn't any alternative, gave him the go-ahead sig- nal. With the other marines covering, he man- aged to sneak up to within about twenty yards of the Commie gunners before they saw him. Jumping up, he started to run toward them with a grenade in each hand. They told me that the machine-gun bursts brought him down twice, but that each time he got up and continued stum- bling on until he was within nine yards of the nest. Here he unleashed both -grenades, killing the gunners and demolishing the machine-gun. The chaplain, who had been listening atten- tively, didn't make any response, and the doctor went on. And, you know, I was also told that this reck- less, I-don't-give-a-damn bravely has been char- acteristic of Keenan ever since he landed in Korea. Smilingly, he added, He's a typical leatherneck, don't you think, Father? The question seemed to awaken the greying chaplain from some far-off reveiie. Uh . . .Oh . . . Yes, he stammered in reply. Staring down at the wounded marine, whose hand was swathed in bandages, he asked the 68. doctor, You say he's a Catholic? That's what his tags say. Turning to the doctor, he said, Call me, Doc, before you take him to the operating room. I'm going to see if I can get some more information on this lad. Whereupon the eyelids of the marine about whom the two men had been conversing flut- tered open. A cynical smile crossed his lips as he turned over in his mind the words of the doctor and the chaplain. What was it the doctor had said of him? Reckless bravery. Yeh, that was it. Reckless bravery . . . a typical leather- neck. Some jokel He, Private Matthew J. Keenan, U.S.M.C., a hero. What was the matter with those goons? Were they crazy? They didn't realize he was just getting even with a few people, that he was paying off a grudge that he had nursed for two years now. Was it against the Reds? No, of course not. They just happened to be the ones he had to fight against. And that chaplain asking if he was a Catholic. Sure he was a Catholic . . . or at least he had been until two years ago. That guy was probably going to ask him to go to confession. He'd tell him. Yeh, he'd tell him that he hadn't been there for two years. To be exact, since january 13, 1949, and he was never going to confession again. January 13, 1949. That date he'll remember as long as he lives. The chaplain had wanted no know more about him. Well, he'd never know, and neither would anybody else ever know. No, nobody would ever know anything about his past except himself. And the reason that nobody would ever know is because of what happened on january 13, 1949. Like a red beacon light on a pitch-black night, every detail remained vividly Hxed in his mind. He had picked up joan at 8:30 P.M., and they had gone to the Stanton to see All the King's Men. Even as he thought of her his heart seemed to beat faster. Joan Jennings, Hve-feet- two, chestnut brown hair, a real sharper and Matt Keenan's girl. My girl. And the thought stabbed at him so that the pain of his wounds seemed a mild ache. He forced his mind to go on. They had stopped in at Mac's Diner for a quick snack be- fore midnight, and, noticing that she was only toying with her hamburger, he had asked her if anything was wrong. It was then that she told . THE UTOPIAN

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After struggling with them in a terrific conflict in which he kills 8, wounds 3, and knocks out 13, he outsmarts the others and escapes. Next, he rides into town and organizes a posse. The posse handcuffs all the badies except the boss, who deserts his accomplices in a vain attempt to escape the long arm of the law. Our hero alone spies him and pursues assiduously. This is known as the chase, the dramatic climax. Gradually our hero, thanks to Old Paint's superior speed, overtakes the badie-boss as they are cresting a ridge. Leaping from his horse, Dan unhorses Slade. Together they roll 150 yards downhill amidst clouds of dust. Some- what dizzy, they regain their feet and begin to whale the daylight out of each other. QSome- times this melee follows five minutes of gunplay in which the hero ducks all the bullets, then throws away his own revolver in order to fight it out man to man, with bare knucklesj. The badie, natuarally, is no match for the goodie, a clean liver. So, Dan picks up what is left of Slade and tells him: You're gonna swing for this, Slade! Slade retorts, O.K., but not alone! The real boss is-- Two shots ring out, Slade slumps, slain. Dan wheels around, seizes two more guns from Old Paint's saddle holster and blazes away. Even Old Paint's eager to get in on this one. The real boss turns out to bef Tch! Tch! Shamelj Black Bart, the town's respected sheriff. That reminds Dan of several other bits of un- finished business in the next county, so before anybody gets ideas of making him sheriff, he rides off silently into the West, stopping at Nell's ranch long enough to say he'll be back someday, if she'll wait for him. But don't get the idea that this play-actin' business is as easy as it sounds. No, sir! Mere ability to ride a horse backwards counts for little. To star, one needs the uncanny skill of finding short cuts over strange territory, and must be able to split a card sideways with one shot at fifty paces, and fire 17 times from a six-shooter without stopping to reload. Deadpan Dan, of the present feature, for instance, proved his right to play the part by tossing a deck of cards into the air, whipping out his -gun, and without even looking, shot a hole clean through the middle of the ace of spades! And the cards weren't marked either. These are but a few of the reasons why fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers and kiddies would rather miss their supper than the 6:03 edition of Guns a-spittin' Lead! The public appreciates quality, but as for ME, don't carry ME back to the lone prairie! IH!!!!lll!!l!nt!! N THE OUTSKIRTS of Nagasaki, japan, there was located the Mac Arthur Hospital, a mercy base originally built in 1945, shortly after the Allied occupation. The hospital, under the supervision of the U.S. Army, was con- structed primarily to care for those poor sur- viving victims of the atomic blast, but just re- cently it had been turned into a regular armed service hospital so as to insure expert medical THE U TOPIAN . BY THOMAS MENTZER, '51 treatment for the wounded evacuees of the Ko- rean battlefields. The hospital was divided into four major wards, one of which was set aside for those crit- ically wounded and still in danger of death. It is in this last mentioned ward that two men stand conversing in low tones at the bedside of one of the patients. The man in khaki spoke. .67

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him, and even now he could recall exactly what she had said and the peculiar mist in her eyes as she spoke very firmly. I'm going to give you back your class ring. This is the last time I can go out with you, Matt. We've had wonderful times together, and you're . . . well, you're a swell fellow . . . But I've thought and prayed a lot, and I think God wants me. I'm going into the convent in September. Stunned, he had sat their with his mouth agape and his eyes fixed on her. The first emotion to seize hold of him was one of sadness. Knowing that she was awaiting some response he had said, Gee, that's swell. This had brought a smile to her face, and she clasped his hand. But as they walked silently towards her home, the realization of her loss became a gnawing ang- uish. It wasn't swell at all, and God or Joan or somebody was playing him a double deal. He had never thought of her as a nun. True, she was a good girl, but she seemed regular and with- out any fits of piety. Besides, they had simply taken each other for granted, had gone steady, and he, at least, had quietly assumed that their being together would one day achieve the happy permanency of marriage. By the time they had reached the Jennings' house, resentment had yielded to an angry self- pity. He told her that she was just putting on an act, that she had deliberately chosen this means to hurt him, and that she had probably grown tired of him and just wanted to dump him. That she was very patient with him had not helped matters at all, and he remembered how- when, she had said Remember, Matt, God al- ways comes first. Please pray for me, and I'l1 say a rosary for you every day of my life -he remembered how for the first time in his life he had sneered at religion. joan did go away, and the btitemess of what he considered her betrayal never left him. He had enlisted in they marines to get away from his parents, who continually questioned him and scolded him about his laxity in attending the Sacraments. Once away from home he had cut THE U TOPIAIV himself off from religion altogether. He ceased to pray. He did not go to Mass. He carefully avoided the chaplain. Piece by piece he had con- structed for himself a shell within which he shut himself. For Matt Keenan, every form of friend- ship had ceased. And now, while some loony doctor and some meddling old priest were trying to find out some- thing about his past, he, the only one who could tell them about it, was dying. Death? Who was afraid to die? just something that has to happen to everybody-sometime. But was it? Slowly, from his confused and cobwebbed memory, he seemed to have drawn an incident. He saw him- self in the fourth-grdae classroom at St. Michael's school, and heard with startling distinctness the voice of Sister Assumpta. If you die in mortal sin . . .if you die in mortal sin and are not sorry . . . if you die in mortal sin you will lose God forever . . . For you know, children, death is not the end . . . God made us for Himself. A hand upon his shoulder interrupted his troubled thoughts. Hello, Matt. I'm Father Kelly. Would you like to go to confession? He tumed slowly towards the priest, but said nothing. He was surprised to find himself softly sobbing. He knew now that he was no longer Private Matthew Keenan, U.S.M.C. He was just a tired kid in the fourth grade of St. Michael's School. A very tired kid who had been bad and was now sorry, sorrry because God loved him very much and had died for him. God must come first . . . The priest was bending over him. He had to strain a bit to hear the words. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned . . . And some five thousand miles away, in the chapel of the Immaculate Heart Nuns in San Salvador, Peru, Sister Mary john fborn jen- ningsj fingered the crucifix of her rosary as she concluded her fifth decade . . . Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost . . . .69