University of Wisconsin Superior - Gitche Gumee Yearbook (Superior, WI)

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“The Undersea Terror” On a sultry, dark night, about the middle of the summer, an Eng steamer was lying off the coast of Gallipoli, in the Sea of Marmora. ' mission this ship had to fulfill was to bring aid, in both men and provisk to their gallant brethren attacking the Turks. The crew consisted of ab two hundred and eighteen weather-beaten sailors, the majority of wh were capable of handling the ship’s guns if worst came to worst. The coast was about three hundred feet off the starboard bow. 1 broken outline was made more distinct by the rising of the moon direc behind the cliffs, causing one of the most beautiful scenic effects imag able. The peaks were low but indescribably jagged and cut with fissu: and canyons that lent a fantastic appearance as the shadows apparen played hide and seek among the rugged fastnesses. The trees at this ti) of the year were nearly stripped of their leaves and as they were broug into clear relief against the brilliant horizon, reminded one of a giant oc pus or a multiple armed man, waving his arms as if to warn the sh against danger from a reef or some other hidden entanglement. If t officers had but realized it, these were undoubtedly the hands of Pro’ dence. Early in the evening, the two young sons of the captain had obtain permission to fish in their small dory, on condition that they kept near tl steamer, since no light was allowed on the ship lest it be a target for tl Turkish batteries on the hill. Midnight came on; the boys had little succe. beyond catching a few inedible fish. “How about going back now, Jack?’’ said Roy. “Aw, I hate to quit now. You know how dad teases us when we don get enough halibut for a mess,” returned his brother. “I’ll tell you, let’s stay here a half an hour, and if we don’t get a bit in that time, I’ll row the dory back to the old hulk.” “All right, then. Say, did you see something sticking out of the wate over there?” “Go on! It’s only your imagination; don’t let fear get the best of yot Jack.” “I’m not sure, but it looked a lot like one of those submarine peri scopes Uncle read us about last night.” “Shucks, that was only a fish jumping out of the water,” scoffed Roy “Well, if it was, you’ll admit it was the first fish we’ve seer tonight.” “Look at the ship. What’s the matter? What are the people running around the deck for?” yelled Roy, in alarm. At that moment an enormous explosion rent the air, seemed to pound against the ear-drums as David's stone on the head of Goliath. The sky was livid and lit up for miles around, making the former darkness seem as bright as the noon of a summer day. After the first explosion, an awful stillness settled down over the entire country surrounding; a whisper might have been heard, or the fall of a marlin pin on the deck of the unfortunate craft. Then pandemonium broke loose; there were cries of, “Make her fast, Matey,” “What wouldn’t I give for a shot at that d---Dutchman,” or “Give me that life preserver, Bill.” These exhortations were made by men who realized that they were in grave danger of never seeing their loved ones again. {Contimud on Pagt 55)

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nfr Fmwfrc W “America Will Come” As the sun slipped slowly down over the gray solitudes of Brittany, old Pierre Alacoque dragged himself through the field up to the small courtyard leading to a little tumbledown, two-windowed house. He entered a»d groped around for a tallow candle which he lighted and placed on the roughly hewn table. He next searched the bare cupboard. He carefully poked the dying embers, and put on to warm the solitary pan of pea soup. Then he stepped to a small door leading to the loft. “Antoine, Antoine,” called the unsteady voice, but no answer came. “Why doesn't he come?” thought the old fellow, as he sat down at the table. The taper was dripping upon a small piece of parchment beneath it. He leaned his white head forward. It seemed as though there were something written on the paper. He moved the light, snatched up the paper, and with a trembling hand, held it close to his dim eyes. His face wore a peculiar questioning look as, still holding tight the precious slip of paper, he laboriously closed the heavy door and struggled out into the darkness. Making his way over the hill he came to a tiny church, a dull light streaming through the back window. Upon opening the door, he heard the light tread of a man nearing him. Suddenly a gentle hand was laid upon his shoulder. “Pierre Alacoque,” came the deep, kind voice. “What troubles you ?” “Oh, Father!” The old man was shaking from head to foot. He trust the slip of paper into the good priest’s hand. “Read it to me, Father!” breathed Pierre. With his arm around the trembling old man, the good Father led him through the dark church into the one dimly lighted room beyond. “What, oh, what does it mean, Father?” panted Pierre. “Nothing, my dear Pierre, but this.” Pierre was still shaking from head to foot. “Sit here, Pierre Alacoque.” He helped the old man into the only chair the room afforded. “Tell me, Father, quick! What does it say? Where is my Antoine? He—he hasn’t—? “Yes, my dear Pierre, he has gone, too.” The old man fell forward, his face hidden in his hands. “But, Father, 1 gave my Michel, my Sebastien, Pierre, my Jean, then my Louis—and now—” “But Pierre, what did you give them for?” “For the Germans to—” “No, Pierre, you gave them for humanity—you gave them, your sons, that France might live!” “Do you believe that—that France will live, Father?” “I know she will, Pierre, if all men will be as brave and generous as our Antoine.” ( Con I iurn J on Pag144)

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“Weeth But Wan Feet” The young man smiled and doffed his hat And rose at once from where he sat, For she was sweet and fair to see And not a day past twenty-three. The car was crowded and his seat Accepted while his own two feet Before her held him in a trance; Her baggage check was labelled “France.” “I beg your pardon, Miss,” said he, “But honestly it seems to me That some time in the misty past, Your hand in mine 1 have held fast.” Her eyes were sad, her accents low, “Non, Non, Mesieur, eet ees not so! The onlee wan wat hold my han’ Was bein ze brave yong fighteeng man.” “Teez true he come from Amereek, But in ze war he loose wan feet And I, a Red Cross nurse, just zhen, Was nurse heem back to healt’ again.” “His face was torn; zhey wrap it so, If see again I’d hardly know. Zhey sent heem home to Amereek, An’ now tiz heem—se man I seek. “Eet ees ze slackaire wat you call, Ze man lak you—not go at all. Ze reeson I’m in Amereek Ees finding heem, weeth but wan feet.” “Then Antonette,” said he, “awake, This left foot here is but a fake. Behold the scars upon this cheek, I am the man ‘weeth but wan feet.’ ” “And if mistaken I am not, A photograph of me you’ve got.” The photograph was soon brought out. Comparison dispensed with doubt. And Antonette, with a chirp of glee, Just filled the arms of Ileneree. Today they live on Patriot Street, The girl and her man “weeth but wan feet.” —Dorothy Leader.