Yeshiva University - Masmid Yearbook (New York, NY)

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T j- roniLsc vnl by DAVID MmSKY So you think it necessary ? Absolutely I And the sooner the belter I That ' s what I thought, but I felt it would be better to ask your opinion. How noon will you be ready, doctor ? As soon as you are. Fine. I ' ll take care of all Iho arrange- ments immediately. Look at those two guys. Talking about me. What do they think I am, a baby? Funny thing about doctors. Never tell you what ' s wrong with you. Hell, who ' s got a better right to know. Well, and how ' s my patient today? Feeling better I hope . And all the time he knows you ' re ready to kick off. Ah, what ' s the difference. They mean all right 1 suppose. But still. . . . That guy with the trick mustache looks like the sarge that signed me up. Geez, seems like a lifetime — only a year and eight months, no nine months. . . . Dark in here sort of grey- like — like when I used to wake up in the jungle, the rain beating down through the trees; lying in mud, oozing and squashing around to get comfortable; gotta keep the rifle clean. Never know when some lap ' U pop up. Lousy Japs. Sneaking around with new equipment, plenty of ammunition, try- ing to plug a guy. Well, I showed them. Yesiree! They won ' t forget John Masters for a long while. Not on your life they. . . . Just lie still. This won ' t hurt. Hello, beautiful. A few more nurses like you and this joint would be O. K. Jabbing needles into you all day long. They certainly dope you up around here. Don ' t want a fellow to know what ' s going on. Well, it ' ll take more than a little shot of stuff in the arm. ... the left arm. Glad the right arm don ' t bother me anymore. For a while there I thought I was gonna go crazy from the pain. Like when I burnt myself there at the bonfire. Boy I musta been some kid. Always getting into trou- ble. Getting burnt, busting an arm, a hole in the head, trying to become an acrobat. Boy, those were the times. If only I could be a kid again I ' d have a swell time. Hang around with the old gong, ploy all sorts of crazy games and gags, only this time. . . . Hell! I hope that attendant ain ' t wheel- ing that table in for me. . . . Sorry, fella, gotta get you on this thing. If you ' ll just slide over a little bit. . . . Sure. Why don ' t they leave me alone. All these doctors examining me, throwing me around from place to place. Why don ' t they leave me alone. It ' s like the jungle. Pushing through all those trees and bushes and rivers. Keep going all the time. No planes, no artillery, no guns, no ammu- nition, no quinine. Nothing. Only the jun- gle, and the rain, and the heat, and the fever. And those slimey yellow guys Creeping. All the time creeping around, trying to plug a fellow. . . . Rolling along on this table. No pillow, head all the way back. Can ' t see nothing but the ceiling. Don ' t know where you ore or where you ' re going, or what ' s coming next. Nothing but the white ceiling and those lights up there. One, two, three. . . . Cut it out Masters. You ' ll go bats right away. ... I guess this is the elevator. Yep! There ' s a guy in a nice white uniform. My uniform wasn ' t sc clean. Not by a long shot. Dirty and torn; full of mud and filth; crawling with all sorts of bugs. Boy that jungle gets on your nerves. Plowing through till you oan ' t keep your eyes open and your feet just won ' t lift. Masters why don ' t you lie down and forget about it. Give up! Get some sleep. ' Yeah, you think that way often enough Txcentv-one

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M A S M J D poet in the unpoetic world, with the refrain of the dead echoing along the cosmic cliffs, rotting with the moss of age, Come let us bdthe in the sea . . . perhaps we shall drown in eternity ' The lonely song of the youth, asked to hope, asked to believe, deserted by those who wrote the negative and song of the sordid, but those who sat atop that muck heap, five poetic inches deep, some chose to call — artistic creativity — confusing libertinism with liberty. Fed on a diet of slop — do you ask us to be strong? nursed at cancerous breasts — do you ask us to be fine and pure? Yet on the disillusion we shall build a hope; on the fear, a stirring certainty; no need for unreal slogans with real bread for the free. We shall know our friends, seek the trust and the faith in the blood that has been shed, discard the catch-words of the past, lead — where once we were led. Given the fragments of a world, we shall melt and mold them into one with the fearless heat of man ' s new sun. Twenty

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M A S M I D Give up? Hell nc! There ' s that funny feeling inside of you. Just keeps driving you along. Do you know what you ' re fighting for? Some happy little moron al- ways coming up with that question. Sure I know. It ' s that funny feeling inside of me. Sure it ' s what they call vague and gen- eral . They say it doesn ' t mean anything. Maybe to them it doesn ' t, because they don ' t feel it. They never felt it. But it ain ' t vague and general to me. Get out where you meet guys that are trying to take away what that feeling means, then you ' ll know what I ' m talking about. Sure it ' s all mixed up. It ' s the good times you had when you were a kid, and kicking about the cheap politicians running the works, and the fellows you hang around with, and the foreman who bawls you out, and the kick you get out of going on a binge once in a while. . . . . . . And it ' s more than that. Ever since I ' m a kid, 1 got a feeling that things are wrong. Not like they should be. The world is good and nearly all the people you meet ore nice guys, and yet things ain ' t right. Pop keeps looking for a job and can ' t find it. And he ' s a good man, too. Maybe not the best, but as good as the next guy, and every day he gets worse and worse be- cause he can ' t get work. Mom laughs and tries to make believe that things are going to be all right. But inside she ' s crying, not laughing. A kid feels that. Funny about kids. They don ' t know about things and yet they feel so many things. And when you get older and start to get the scene run around you begin to understand how pop felt and what mom felt like, inside. You get mad, crazy mad. You feel like punching out and breaking down whatever is stopping you. But you can ' t start punch- ing because there ' s nothing there, and you don ' t exactly know what it is anyhow. So you just keep on getting madder. Then along comes a guy like Hitler, and the war, and you begin to see things. Maybe it still isn ' t exactly clear what you want, but at least you know what it ain ' t. Every- body you know feels the same way, and you figure maybe if we all get together and stop this thing we don ' t want, we ' ll be able to build up what we do want. That ' s what I ' m fighting for. So mom won ' t cry when nobody ' s looking and pop won ' t have to slink home like a beaten dog. And I won ' t feel that everything ' s against me. And it ' s not only pop and mom and me. It ' s every pop and every mom and every me. It ' s so that every kid who feels things ain ' t right can grow up in a world where things are right. Where everybody gets an even break and a fair deal. Where people don ' t have to sit down and worry about what ' s going to happen to them when they ' re sick and old. Where the world is run for us little guys and not against us. . . . Hell, it ' s life; my life, the way I like it and the way I want it to be. That ' s what that funny feeling inside of me means, mis- ter. That ' s what I ' m fighting for. And that ' s what keeps you moving when you ' re sick, and tired, and all washed up. That ' s what doesn ' t let you lie down in the jungle and let everything slide. Because that ' s what those little yellow bastards are trying to take away from you and that ' s why you won ' t let them. . . . Shoving me around again. Into the elevator, out of the ele- vator. Why don ' t they make up their minds. . . . Oh, oh, look who ' s here. . . . H ' ya doc. Hello. And how ' s my patient feeling ? I knew it. I knew he ' d say it. . . . Now you just lie here quietly for a while and we ' ll be ready for you in a minute. Alone! Where is this place? Why ' d they bring me up here. . . . Operating room! That must be it. They ' re going to Twenty-two