Trinity College School - Record Yearbook (Port Hope, Ontario Canada)

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TRINITY COLLEGE SCHOOL RECORD 11 You'1l hear familiar words and you'll do familiar exercises. Why? Because, right now, you are under one of the finest instructors in Canada. Watch him work. Study him. Then, students, remember his teachings. After a few days, when the P.T. becomes like break- fast to you, wait until after dismissal, when some of your buddies lie gasping on their bunks, muttering impreca- tions against drill sergeants. That will be your moment. Then you can turn non- chalantly on your side, raise experienced eyebrows, and say with perfect truth: Not bad to-day. But Wait until I tell you about Working under a really tough S.M. He was at T.C.S. and his name was Batt. That ....... -Sandy McPherson V26-'28l x91- 5- ' Q. V E I, ' ' 7 ' H112-.Ei 1 .'?f'? 7' I - 93, 1Q . F 65-4944 Y . ,A f f-. -f - ' N' f Y 1 f E .- Lf., Pie M - - 1g 'f-E5-'ffE:,., , K .4'f-' f N.. 1 f -I 's-Q,-1. -- mjrrf ' -E f- M55 1:53 :gif .E'-Z...-f --ii' f ' ,Rf , ,, W- L , ,,q.,.:,.,: , g 7 . , , 1, ' A' ',7f,Aiigg 3-if--', f ' Q f -cw--','I.: 3 . 2. Y , , ex Q Y ', fs f .- V 'gtffjzg f'sUPERMAi11NE SPITFIRE I. H. Layne

Page 28 text:

10 TRINITY COLLEGE SCHOOL RECORD SAME OLD S.M. He'll always be the S.M. to me. To-day, we call him Lieutenant Batt. It doesn't sound right. Every morning now, shortly after eight hours, fond recollections of the S.M. flood my mind. I am on the drill square of the Seaforth Highlanders' training grounds. Directly in front of me I see Mr. Batt's counterpart. He is patient, kindly. He is a P.T. instructor. His voice at times rises a trifle as his brogue cuts through the salty mist of this seaport in September. But I think of the S.M. And as these 29-year-old back muscles creak protestingly, and these palsied hands tremble at an inferior hips firm , I breathe a silent prayer of thanks for Mr. Batt, and his three-year contribution to my physique. We go through our paces spiritedly, methodically. Al- though these muscles which cut such fancy capers during school days now whine and creak, I'm not afraid. I look straight ahead at my instructor. Instructors, especially physical instructors. strike no terror in the heart of McPherson. For I have worked under Batt. That, to me, is like having an auto mechanic say he taught Henry Ford. I hope every student can grasp the portent of these words. Someday, and I clon't wish to be prophetic, a certain percentage of you boys will be on a drill ground. You'll be in the army. It will be all new. Except one thing. And that one thing will cause you to thank Mr. Batt just as fervently as I do now, even though I am 3000 miles away. The P.T. will be the same in the army. And, mark my words. if you have worked under Batt, your worries are over.

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12 TRINITY COLLEGE SCHOOL RECORD LATE SEPTEMBER Late September, that month of mists and mellow fruitfulnessn, has never failed to charm me. Men may speak of the delights of early spring, of the joy of mid- summer, or the beauty of winter, but for me the sweet o' the year is still the autumn. I have seen Canadian auturnns, the glorious red and gold tints in the trees, the fresh nip in the air, and I have seen English autumns, the grey mists, the early morning cub-hunting, and the agri- cultural shows, and it has left me satisfied. Autumn is the season of plenty, the season of content. The farmer has gathered in his crops and is free to stroll the uplands with dog and gun. The Man-about-Town , released at last from the giddy whirl of the London season ,can turn again to his horses and hounds. Each and every one of us feels a new sense of wellbeing stealing over us as we watch the leaves slowly turning. Not for me the uncertain, and oftentimes rainy and cold, months of April and June. When Nature is awaken- ing and beginning to pulse with life, such a time is not for lazy and slothful souls like myself. The sultry and oppres- sive days of midsummer find me prostrated in the nearest armchair, eagerly lapping up liquid refreshment. Surely no life for a man! The bleak days of winter seem too desolate and bare of beauty to find a champion, yet sundry persons of my acquaintance have lifted up their voices and declared that it is indeed the best part of the whole year, old chap. It is not until the first mists and showers of autumn alight on the parched land that I begin to expand. Moreover. do not the all-wise beings who govern us choose autumn as the best time to make war? As soon as the last sheaf has been carried in, the war drums begin to beat in the land. In Africa the raiding season is after the crops have been gathered, when the warriors, full-fed. grow restive and prideful in their native villages. Is it not likewise with us, the children of a noble race?