The AndreanEditor, A. M. BAUMGARTNER

STAFF

C. E. J. WAY, Art Editor BALDWIN FONG, Art Editor

EVAN E. KIMBLE

WILLIAM H. CLAYTON

THOMAS N. RIGHTMYER

RONALD C. BEACH

LESLIE P. FAIRFIELD

STEPHEN B. DUKE

CARTER COURTNEY

Faculty Advisor, MR. JACK R. VROOMAN

* * *

A Condemnation Stephen Baldwin 1

The Dodger's Greatest Second Sacker William French 2

Flight to Marseilles, A Story Evan Kimble 4

Dark Sand, A Poem Peter Dunning 2

Germany William Britt 12

Death Is Waiting, A Story Donald Woodruff 14

The Spoils of Rome, A Poem Robert Harnwell 11

Fractured Fiction: Two Sketches Stephen Duke 13

Five Times One, A Poem Peter Dunning 3

A Story of the Confederacy Alex White 15

The Byronic Cat, A Poem Stuart Culleney 6

The Indian, A Story Alex Baumgartner 7

Death at the Palace, A Poem William Wood 6

A Poem Thomas Rightmyer 5

Three Poems Robert Harnwell 1

All Is Quiet, A Poem Robert Harnwell 12

The Andrean is published once during the school year by thestudent body of St. Andrew's School, Middletown, Delaware.

A CONDEMNATION

A large number of fairly literate people, whohave taken it upon themselves to pose as critics,have recently been deploring the remarkable rise inpopularity of a certain class of literature whichhas long been mentally shelved with the so-called"comic" books. These dutiful servants have al-ways previously confined their intellectual diggingsto the hard and, from the modern-minded reader'spoint of view, undeniably sterile fields of Haw-thorne, Hardy, Howells, and the like; but nowapparently they feel it their bounden duty as solidcitizens to oust any such novel attempts at artisticrefurbishing as Science Fiction. As a matter of factI am perfectly sure that a large percentage of thosefew readers who up to this point have foolishlypersisted in bearing with me will, at the mere men-tion of these two horrendous and utterly despicablewords, immediately realize their folly and will putan end to it. This is not really necessary, how-ever, for I am not going to deal with this par-ticular victim in itself; I am merely registering astrong complaint against the many supposedly en-lightened literatti who unfairly condemn this novelfictional trend and others of its equivalent in theworld of art.

There are several reasons which I feel make mycomplaint an entirely valid one. In the first place,I have found that many of those people who, atthe mere mention of some modern trend, immedi-ately condemn it, have never seen fit even to in-vestigate it and its potential merit. I do not saythese people never investigate the best of, say,Science Fiction, as opposed to the penny trash offormer years; I merely state pointblank that theyhave never even opened the jacket of any magazineor book dealing with Science Fiction, other than theancient works of H. G. Wells, who certainly wasno modern Science Fiction writer by any standards.This blind ignorance of that which they are cirtiz-ing should automatically disqualify these criticsfrom either approving or denouncing Science Fic-tion. This, however, while being my greatest com-plaint against today's outdated amateur critics, isnot my only grievance. These same rather bom-bastic gentlemen have not only failed to read this

modern Science Fiction but have even neglected tomake sure that the connotations which they re-ceive from the two words are correct. For all theyknow, this sterling example of current modernliterary trends might be identical to the antiquifiedand admittedly repugnant two-for-a-nickel street-sold trash of yester-year. For all anyone knowsthis article might be confused with this undis-tinguished, and fortunately very distant, relative.

This same critical negligence and lack of ra-tional judgment is often exercised in regard to suchart-forms as classical music and modern art. WhileI am not necessarily in favor of either of thesetwo creative media, I do feel that it is quite unfairto criticize either of them merely on the basis ofcertain suppositions which one might have con-cerning, let us say, the aimlessness of modern artor the dullness of all classical music.

The only way one may make certain that modernart is not merely the result of a glorified whiskeybinge or that classical music is not all funeraldirges, or for that matter, that the world is round,is to investigate in some degree, whether large orsmall, that object on which one's judgment is tobe passed—in this way one can at least truthfullydeny having passed a prior judgment and cantherefore at least play the critic to some degreejustifiably.

Stephen Baldwin, '55

Silent creature of the past,Lion shaped head of man,If only thou couldst speak as IAnd tell me of thy ageless span.

* * *The enemy is circlingAbove his age old foe,And here he comes a-diving—The crafty mosquito.

* * *Death follows me in many forms,It hounds my every day.Why will it not claim meAnd with me cease this play?

Robert Harnwell, '56

THE DODGER'S GREATEST SECOND SACKER

Some people call Jackie Robinson a sorehead.Yes, he explodes every now and then and has littlearguments, but so would anybody who has gonethrough as much as he has. Others call him acry-baby. They'd cry, too, if they had beenequally razzed and scorned. Still others call hima loud-mouth, but everyone blows his top, some-times. I call him the greatest all-around athletesince Jim Thorpe.

In high school he excelled in four sports: hegained touchdowns by the dozen on the gridiron,sank innumerable buckets on the basketball floor,belted hits in baseball, and set countless trackrecords which will probably never be equalled.At the University of California at Los Angeles hewas Ail-American fullback and ground up yardageby the mile. Track records were continually brokenand rebroken. After graduating from college hewent to play minor league baseball at Montreal inthe International League.

Then came his big break. In 1947, Mr. BranchRickey of the Brooklyn Dodgers went to see himplay ball. He put on a fine performance. He wasfast, able at hitting and fielding, crafty at base-stealing, at ease over the plate—in short, he con-vinced Mr. Rickey that there was a man with truebaseball sense. But Manager Rickey wanted tothink the matter over. He realized that Jackiewas great, but he had a handicap: he was a Negro.What would people say? How long would aNegro last in the major leagues? Mr. Rickey wasdetermined, however, and asked Jackie to cometo his office. He told him he was great, that hehad a handicap and that it wasn't going to beeasy. Then, point blank, he asked him, "Whatwould you do if, on your way to the dressingroom, an irate fan called you a 'nigger' andslapped you on the cheek?"

"I'd turn my other cheek," he said. That wasall that he needed to say. Mr. Rickey signed himimmediately and launched one of the most suc-cessful sports careers of all time. Since he hasbeen on the Dodgers he has won the League'sMost Valuable Player Award and has led theleague in almost every department several times.

He has proved himself truly great at second base,third base and left field, and if he wanted, hecould do the same at any other position. And yet,people still boo him; but, as Red Barber oncesaid, "They don't boo you unless you're good."

William French, '57

DARK SAND

Sweet monotony coating thick and heavy

Country tower ringing—

Ding ding done and dark and dismal.

Train mimics city-song, moving dusty town.

There's a man and a boy in that box-car.

The man jumps way in the sand.

But the boy's scared—first time—there he goes.

His foot's snarled! The man

He sees, hears the soundless thud.

Screech the train still,

Run back, stare all silent.

Pick him up—ease him,

His lolling head into the hot sand.

Christ he's young!

It was my fault—for the train—

He never knew. . . .

Late made train trods off—important schedule,

Done what could so on—and dark draws curtain

Thick and heavy o'er all the day and spill.

Sight's all out, all but some on man

Trudging out from spotted mound of sand.

Now dark's took all and new lights strain to peer as

Lightbulbs flick to chip the scopeless night and

Houses blink and swing in stilted motion. Now

Duldom's out as voices gay to tinkling music.

Then door is slammed and all, still, soundless,

Save hurt feet in cool black sand.

Peter Dunning, '55

FIVE TIMES ONE

Slough and stickyAll akimbo in endless end.Down and down he walkedThrough thin smoke flicking out light.Damp gauze sponging limp the factory walls,Thin sheets quivering through fog and peopleGone completely steel.So tough—so typical-—so gone.Three blind miceA billion blind miceSee how they runPushing, trotting, selfing,

All for a carving knife so quickAll dead for an end for an end.

Dada, de-dada, de-datsMy little baby,The great white answer-way.Come put on your moneyAn we'll go the big.Rahly, rahly unto you I sayIt was great tonight, a bang-up honeyWasn't it?The deuce, you say,My good friend, that was a pasicaglia,Every bit.All a lace mask

That death a necessary endShall come when it shall come.

And on he walkedThrough darker thicker light.There's another, a go-back to the real,Listen to it tun in the beatThe jazzband answer—the drums, the blareAnd its big black beat,Screaming back the timeWith its thick skin taut.Back, out, away from steel,Back to the jungle with its soft black beat.The trombone only laughsAnd flicks its tongue.

Hey man, get off that stuff,That's the rattle for death to play.

Still he walkedOut of the circus of art—a painted clod,

Out of the reeling rattle—what a wheel,On through the night-cling.Here a mouse, there a mouse,Everywhere a mouse-mouse.The one on the lampostHe's out with his answer,His sopping grey mind.He's his cup of whiskey—O that wonderful boozeIt's so slippery,

Excuse me, gulp, while I diffuse.Mistah Kurtz—he dead.

Passed the slum churchAnd its polished oak doors.There's an answer; that's rich.Mental oblivion; O smoothWith the stone axe floatingIn a bed of shook foilAnd the big black hippoIn a thick lace nightyCuddles clinging mice.Around the corner up the stepsAnd so he walks to a tiny roomCleaned every day.

So warm and dryJust a long bed to sleep on.

Peter Dunning, '55

FLIGHT TO MARSEILLES

Hans Oldendorf, ex-member of SS group 21,stationed in Northern Germany at the closing ofthe War, had fied south with several of his com-patriots in fear of being hanged by the onrushingRussian forces. The group of five men had as itsdestination Marseilles, so that they might join theFrench Foreign Legion and avoid the gibbet. Bythe time they had reached the French-Germanborder the group had diminished to three mem-bers, the other two lying in a field somewhere inBavaria—dead. The three fugitives continued tomove south until they met a troop of Americansoldiers taking their daily hike on the road toMarseilles, Hans was the only one able to escape,thus leaving him alone to face the alerted country-side.

Hans had run until his lungs felt as if they wereburning up. He knew that he was still being pur-sued by the Americans, and that if he didn't findsome place to hide he would soon be overtaken.The meadows of southern France flew under hisfeet, and scanning the horizon, Hans saw a housein the distance.

Hans reached the deserted building out ofbreath, and lay gasping at the door, Mauser inhand, awaiting the arrival of his pursuers. Butmuch to his surprise, no one came over the littleknoll. Feeling safe, he reached into his pocketfor his food, some rather stale bread. A softbreeze came up while he was eating. Suddenlythere was a rustling in the high grass and a soundof twigs snapping. Hans whirled around and firedthree quick shots in the direction of the sound,heard a yelp, and then saw a wounded fox limpout of the grass. Upset by the incident, Hans be-gan to snap his fingers nervously, and wished hehad a smoke.

Hans then decided to wait at the farmhouse therest of the day and try to reach Marseilles duringthe night. He drew out his map and tried to de-termine where he was and what would be themost direct route to Marseilles. After some min-utes he decided that he was about twenty milesfrom Marseilles and about three miles east of the

main road, which would now be alive withsearchers.

Darkness did not come until nine o'clock, andhaving checked his Mauser, Hans departed fromthe house and headed straight for the road. Hehad planned to walk a hundred yards or so awayfrom it always keeping it in sight, so that hewouldn't lose his way. He hadn't walked twomiles before he saw three men coming towardshim. Knowing that shots would be heard, he re-mained hidden in the grass. The men drewnearer, talking loudly. When they were withinten feet of Hans they stopped. Then he recog-nized them as American soldiers.

The nearest of the soldiers had apparently hurthimself and said to the others, "You go aheadand see what's out there, I'll wait."

The other two hesitated a moment and thenleft him.

Realizing his opportunity, Hans stealthilycrawled up behind the American, withdrew hisknife from its sheath, and a few seconds laterthe young soldier was dead. Hans undressed theman, put on his clothes, walked out to the road,and resumed his walk to Marseilles.

Hans saw an American jeep coming down theroad, stopped it, pointed to his throat in a mannerthat indicated he was unable to speak, and waspermitted to get in the jeep. The driver askedwhere he was going and Hans, understandingsome English, pointed towards Marseilles. Sud-denly the jeep veered off the road and stopped infront of Company C Headquarters. Hans, lookingat the driver to see what was wrong, found a 45pointed at his side.

"Get out, buddy!" said the driver.

Hans, knowing that he must make his move,put his foot on the accelerator, and in the samemotion, drew his knife from his boot. The driver'sshot went wild, and before he had time for an-other, Hans had thrust his knife home. The jeepcrashed into a tree, stunning Hans. Soon realizingthat delay would mean death, he ran quickly intothe meadows, followed by several shots.

Again Hans ran until he was exhausted; how-ever, this time he kept along the road to Mar-seilles. He figured that he was just about tenmiles from Marseilles when he stopped to catch hisbreath. Just them he heard voices, this time speak-ing French. He looked in the direction of thevoices and saw a group of ten men, not more thantwenty yards away. What was he to do? Thenan idea struck him.

Still dressed in his American uniform, hewalked towards the French men and asked in ex-cellent French whether he could get a ride intoMarseilles, since something had happened to hisjeep and he had important business in the city.They answered that they didn't know of anyonegoing in and that the Americans were checkingall traffic, looking for the Nazi fugitive.

Hans then continued his march and reachedMarseilles at about four in the morning. He wassneaking along the docks when a cry rang out,"Stop there! Stop!"

Hans bolted into a warehouse and, after a time,heard the steps of the American MP, who yelled:"Come out of there!" Hans waited for a quarter-hour while all was silent. Then the voice said,"I'm coming in." That was just what he wanted,for as soon as the MP entered, Hans threw hisknife.

Furtively Hans stepped out to be greated by thesight of several more Americans, who had beenaroused by the MP's warning, driving back intothe warehouse. Again a voice echoed, "Comeout."

Hans looked around for protection, and foundsteps leading to the second floor. He hid behindthe stairwell and awaited the Americans, gun inhand. All of a sudden the door burst open anda tear-gas bomb was thrown in. Hans quickly un-derstood the danger of his position and lookedfor a way of escape. He started out a windowonly to find it covered by the Americans. Thensuddenly he saw a smaller window in the cornerpartially hidden by a crate. Raising it, he foundthat it opened on the water. He dived into themurky depths to safety.

The next morning with the search still goingon, Hans crept along the waterfront until he sawa sign which said: "Bureau Centrale—La LegionEtrangere." Hans entered the building, climbedup a flight of stairs, and stepped into a room tobe greeted by three American soldiers, whograbbed him. Hans didn't know what had hap-pened. Later, when he asked the Colonel, whowas interrogating him, why the Americans shouldarrest a man going to apply for the Foreign Legion,he learned that they had tricked him. For theColonel said, "We knew, Oldendorf, that youwere going to try to join the Legion. To save hisown neck, one of your 'buddies' who was cap-tured told us about your plans. We wanted to getyou before Marseilles, but when we realized thatyou were here, we put up a sham recruiting sign.Then we waited."

The Colonel picked up the file of papers fromhis desk and began thumbing through them non-chalantly. Then he looked up slowly, a grinbroadening on his face, and said with an air ofsatisfaction, "Obliging of you, Oldendorf, not tokeep us waiting long."

Evan Kimble, '56

* * *

Thru

the

warm

March

the

sky—

/ild

ducks

fly.

Thomas Rightmyer, '57

DEATH AT THE PALACE

Slim was a rovin' cowpokeWho had a likin' fer cards.He met up with Joe's kid brother,And soon they became fast pards.

A cowpoke in need was Slim,He had a debt ter pay,He stole it from Joe's kid brotherAnd managed ter get away.

Joe's kid brother folleredTer get his money sack.Slim ambushed him in the passAnd drilled him in the back.

Slim was a-playin' some pokerWhen Joe comes a-walkin' in.He spies Slim in the cornerBehind a bottle of gin.

Slim looks up kinda queer-likeAnd reaches fer his Colt.Joe jumps behind the counterWhile Slim pockets the money he stolt.

We were like a herd of cattleAs we stampeded fer the door.When we all got out of the buildin,We heard a mighty roar.

Slim was a-holdin' his ownBoth guns a-blazin' away.Suddenly Slim kinda cat-likeMakes for the alley-way.

Joe jumps up from behind the barAnd fires a couple of shotsBut Slim's already out of the doorAnd headin' fer other spots.

Many a month had then gone byWhen up to the bar strolls Slim.We all acted kinda baffledSeein' as how it was him.

He said he'd made it away alrightBut Joe'd follered him ter Dallas.He'd managed somehow ter shake him thereAnd he rode back ter the Palace.

Slim jumps away from the bar-railHearin' a footstep outside the door.Right-quick he reaches fer his coat—Two shots bring him to the floor.

A little red pool was startin' ter widenWhen Joe comes a-walkin' in.He looks at Slim and then "Huh!" he saysAnd orders a bottle of gin.

William Wood, '57

THE BYRONIC CAT

The cat came out like a lion on the fold;Her fur was gleaming of brownish and gold;The sheen of her teeth was like stars on the sea;Where the big blue waves roll on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when springtime isgreen;

The cat on the lawn with her mouse is seen;Like the birds of the forest which in autumn have

flown;That cat on the morrow lay fat and grown.

Stuart, Lord Culleney, '59

THE INDIAN

Dusk was beginning to settle over the desert.The old Ford Indian Joe had borrowed was chug-ging along the endless road through the bareplains of New Mexico. The red sun was dyingslowly on the western horizon, and the heat waveswere still rolling upward from the road and sandin the thick dust. The motor was very hot now.He thought, as he hadn't for so long, of hismother and father and of the frying of meal-cakes over a small fire. His anxiety became likethose heat waves as the desert miles fell away intothe endless deep blue of the sky behind him. Onlyanother mile now, the way he had figured it, andthe reservation builings would be in sight. For amoment his mind began to wander, as it oftendid, back to the war—the war and the men whofought it and the world that was outside of hisreservation. There was Terry. . .

They were leaning on the ship rail looking outacross the harbor at Frisco as it rolled away fromthem in the wake of the vessel. There was a tense-ness inside of him which seemed to lift for amoment as he heard the voice of Terry for thefirst time.

"Where you from, mister?" He was drawing ona cigarette leisurely. Joe was not a smoker.

"New Mexico," was Joe's indifferent reply asa silent smile crossed his face.

"New Mexico? Hey, you're out in the desert!""You might say so. Most of it is desert, I

guess. I'm used to it through.""Yeah? How come?""Was born there. I'm an Indian.""Indian!""Something unusual about that?" Joe turned to

meet the dark eyes of the tall, broad-shouldered,unshaven young man.

"Nothing. Never met one before. Used to readcomic books about 'em when I was a kid, though.Damn if those Indians didn't always get it whenthe Cavalry come along!"

"That's all, huh? Just comic books..." Joestared sullenly ahead for a moment.

"Just comic books," he laughed.

There was a pause and then, "My name's TerryWalters. What's your's?"

"Joe. Used to be a long Indian name. Backhome they call me Indian Joe—my friends."

"Good to know you. Guess friends are some-thing you can use out here."

"Friends, yes.. ."And that was how it had begun. They were

friends—in a funny way.And then there was his first association with

the war—the real war. That he would never for-get either. The island had been taken already.He was leading one of several patrols which hadthe dirtiest job of all: that of cleaning out the re-maining snipers. Besides the danger the menhated the climate. To him the heat was nothingnew. He had experienced worse in the desert. Tothe rest the jungle was hell. The heat was stickyand when there wasn't sun there was rain whichbathed the island and its growth in thick dew—warm sickening dew. It poisoned the mind, mademen go mad. But, much as they hated it, this wastheir job, an they were being paid for it—paidsomething.

They hadn't advanced very far when it hap-pened and so suddenly that there was little timefor thought. The enemy had surrounded them.The Japs were good at that. There remained onlyone way out. They had to retreat and someonehad to hold off the enemy temporarily. Someone.. . . Indian Joe felt a reaching deep into his heart.

He cried out to the rest of the patrol, "Jim,Mac, get back! I'll hold 'em for a minute. Itwon't take much."

"Are you crazy?" was the reply."You heard me. Retreat fast, dammit!""You'll be killed, Sergeant.""You want to be shot by me or those devils in

there?"They were swarming in now. Indian Joe, his

forehead moist, fell on his belly in the brushand waited—waited for the first face to appearthrough the undergrowth. He crawled forward afew inches. For some reason he was not afraid.He was only anxious.

All of a sudden they were coming. The shellsrattled from his machine gun and inside himselfhe felt the hate for yellow-faced Japs that hadtried to come out for so long. The enemy fell inrows on top of one another as he tossed his onlygrenade on the path ahead, and the white smokeand fire rose on the warm air. He looked at thescene for one triumphant moment. Then, asthough terrified, he started running faster thanhe ever had. He tripped over vines and rocks andsplashed through swampy water and suddenlyreached the front lines. A bullet tore into himand his khaki shirt began to absorb a trickle ofwarm blood.

From that he recovered. He got a medal for it.He didn't know how or why. He knew, for somereason, that he would never feel natural with it.He traveled the country like a hero. When it wasall over he ended up in New York. Here it wasmore than just hunting in the morning and pre-paring food over an open desert fire at dusk infront of a small wood shed or an adobe hut.There were great restaurants where men andwomen sat at tables covered with rich foods, andin back rooms men in tall white hats cooked meatsand fish and birds from foreign lands. But thiswas only part of it. He got used to the city fastand he learned more about it from Karen. Infact, that was where he guessed he learned mosteverything—from Karen.. . .

He met her that night when he was having awhiskey and soda at a downtown bar. He wasseated on one of those swivel stools drinkingalone. When she slipped onto the stool next tohis and he saw her image in the bar mirror, therewas something that caught him suddenly and heldhim. Maybe it was the thin white arm or thesmall delicate fingers as she rested the elbow onthe shiny surface of the bar. Maybe it was theclear deep look in the eyes or the soft eyelashes.

"You and I drink the same, soldier.""Yes," he smiled a bit, still focusing his eyes

on the tall mirrow in back of the bar."In on leave?""No, unfortunately, it's all over for me.""You feel good when it's over.""Not really."

"Oh?" she asked, sipping her drink, "Howcome?"

"Army's better than wandering around big cities.Better than looking for a job you'll probablynever find and then trying to save up enoughmoney to go home."

"Where's home?""On a reservation in New Mexico—since I was

a kid."

"Oh, Indian, huh? You look like one. Whenyou grow up in a city, like myself, things lookdifferent though. You get a taste of real life—thegood and the bad. I probably wouldn't like yourreservation either."

"What makes you say that? What makes youthink we don't have real life there?" He turnedto her earnestly, a half-smile on his face.

"It seems so isolated. No people. And then,again, it might be wonderful. I can't talk aboutthat very well," she laughed.

"I've met some people in your world." Thesmile died and he was facing the mirror again."In the Army I saw plenty. They were tough,weak. They were men from everywhere, from allkinds of environment. White men, Negros. Thereweren't many Indians, at least not real Indianslike myself. Some of them said they were, but Iknew they were either lying completely or elsejust half-breeds."

"I guess you'd know." She smiled, and her eyecaught the medal on his jacket. "Where'd you getthat, soldier?"

"Heroism. At least that's what they call it.""I'm sure you deserved it.""Thanks."She returned his smile. "My name's Karen.""Joe," he replied, turning as the soft eyelashes

closed and opened slowly.

"Bartender, fix up another one for my friendhere."

Joe's expression showed reluctance. He seldomdrank and, when he did, usually took only one.Karen explained reassuringly, "This is special, Joe.You're home now—from the war."

"Home?" He laughed and hesitatingly took asecond."

8

"You don't know what you've been missing,Joe."

His lips tightened. "I know alright. . . "

That was how it had started. There was some-thing more than her beauty. She understood him—in her own small way.

He got home that night and for many nightsafter that tired, but feeling better than he hadever felt for some reason. They went out togetherand saw the city—all of it. Then one night in thepark, with the tall bright buildings behind themand the loud horns and buses passing on the street,she kissed him. It was the second time in his lifethat had happened. First it had been with a young,dark Indian girl, but that had been so long ago. . . .

In April, as it so often happens in the city,she left him without warning to go off with an-other man. He felt the sickest he had ever felt,and the elation that had come with her love wasgone—gone forever. He spent nights on parkbenches after that, and the jobs he managed toget came and went, for he was too drunk, too sickthe next morning to go to work. The cafes wereall he needed to keep him happy—to make himvery sick. But the sickness would go away andthen he would return to that same bar downtown.What little money he finally managed to save toget home was accumulated only after many weeksof resolute attempts to work hard.

Now, as he rode towards home, his thoughtsgave him a deeper longing. The road turned andweaved in a narrow path between the rocks andboulders near the pass behind which he would seethe reservation. It seemed as if the springs weregoing to break under the old Ford as it bouncedacross the rough rocks. And then, quite sud-denly, he no longer felt the heat or the shaking ofthe car. His world was now lying below him, forthe little shacks could be seen from the rise at theedge of the pass. For a moment all the troubles,the war, the jobs, the borrowing, the miles ofdesert, the money, the whiskey—it all seemed be-hind him. For the first time in many years he feltsecurity.

His brown face smiled and his dark eyes seemedto dance with happiness. He removed a comb

from the pants pocket of his worn-thin dungareesand drew it through the disordered mop of shinyblack hair. For a moment his eyes rolled acrossthe wide expanse of plain. Spread in a cluster werethe little wood shacks with warped shingled roofs.Out of the small chimneys rose the smoke fromthe cooking fires. And farther in the distance werethe cliff dwellings built next to the rock wall ofthe mountains which rose out of the sand likestone monuments to the glory of what was oncea great Indian nation, ruler of the plains.

Indian Joe started down the slope and felt thesame dust rising at his heels, the same earth thathad been there before the white man, before time,and would always be there. He passed betweenthe shacks. Reaching his old home he lookedabout. There was no smoke coming from hismother's chimney and there was no meat hangingover the spit where his father used to turn it inhis own special way. There was only the stonywizened gaze of a white-haired Indian womanturned slowly towards him. The wrinkled faceslooked sadder than he had ever seen them, andthe children romping in the dust did not seem tohave the same brightness in the eyes as they oncehad. The old woman pointed to a place near thecliff dwellings against the mountains.

Slowly he started for the mountain. He walkedin the hot sun as he once had done and felt theeyes of his friends watching him. There, near thebase of the red rock bank he saw two smallwhite crosses set in the sand beside each other. . . .

From that day on he worked daily with hisuncle in the fields on the other side of the moun-tains. At night, when he didn't sit and watchthe stars, he would play cards with his brothers,and they would bring whiskey they had takenfrom the white men. They would drink and feelgood. They went one of those nights to the cliffdwellings that stood against the scree. The eve-ning was warm and quiet and they sat in an adoberoom and played around a small wooden table.

"Bring alot of whiskey, Joe," laughed WhiteHorse.

Joe drank reluctantly and the whiskey made himfeel warm and confident inside. They played untillate and they drank until late.

"You learned to have fun in the city, Joe," saidWhite Horse.

"I learned some other things too.""Like what?""Life isn't always pleasant in that part of the

world. You're lucky.""We're lucky?" said White Horse sarcastically,

"No fun, just field work all day. Hardly ever getto the city."

"I hope it stays that way," replied Joe. "You'vegot friends, food, work here."

"Who wants work?" asked High Cloud, thesecond brother. "White men don't work. They sitin big buildings and count their money all day.Why work when you can do that?"

"I don't know, just don't know. . . " Joe shookhis head. The room was tottering now and hefelt sick again, very sick—as he had felt thosenights when he came home with Karen. He wantedso much to stop, but for some reason he couldn't.Instead, he just kept shuffling the cards, hour afterhour, minute after minute. Ace, Jack, King,Queen, and Ace again.

"Have another, Joe. We go and get more inthe morning," said High Cloud. "We go watchthe white men count their money and put it in thebig box."

"No, no ... Can't stand anymore," choked Joe.Slowly he stood up and staggered to the door

and out on the sandy ground, leaning heavilyagainst the blue, moonlit adobe wall. "No more,can't drink anymore. Need air, medicine."

And there, not far away from the house in thoseendless miles of desert, a man lay near two, smallwhite crosses. The black shiny hair was clotted insweat over the moist broad forehead which slopedoutward above the high ridge of the eyebrows.The dark skin was a bit wrinkled now and hadlost some of its deep healthy color—its strength.The once clear eyes which had searched the hori-2on in the dawning morning were now sunken andbelow them was the dark line of sleepless nightsand drunken stupor. The slight hollows below thehigh cheekbones were now deeper—weaker fromthe orgies of a dazzling city. The heavy lips, oncesteady and finely curved, were now slightly parted,pale, and twitched every few seconds. The roundedchin climaxed what had once been a powerful In-dian profile. The eyes were glazed now and tired.He tried hard to keep them open, but there wasno chance anymore. The alcohol had taken thelast ember of life from him, and the eyes closedslowly on the beginning of a new day.

Alex Baumgartner, '56

10

THE SPOILS OF ROME

The messengers come flyingFrom the northern Alps they speedTo tell the Roman consulsOf terrible Hannibal's deed.

He has crossed the Alps in winterWith forty thousand men,And now he stands on Roman soilAfter losing one thousand ten.

The Roman consul then spoke outWith voice both bold and clear,"We of thousands seven hundred have,There is no cause for fear."

Straight off he sent an armyTo find the cursed fiendAnd lo the consul found himBy the shores of Thrasymene.

Hannibal was waitingIn the reeds along the shoreAnd at the set of sun that dayRome's army was no more.

This time the consul heard the news;His face grew grey to hearHow one of Rome's great armiesHad tied by the Thrasymene mere.

The Senate heard the consul's curse,"These fearful deeds must ceaseI will march to stop himAnd with his death bring peace."

So off marched mighty VaroWith Seventy thousand strong,Straight down the peninsulaTo right the mighty wrong.

But Hannibal marched quickerAnd circled the Roman band,So in the town of CannaeThe Romans made a stand.

They fought both hard and fiercelyBut fell upon that dayAs the best that Rome could offerWere mowed right down like hay.

There was no Roman familyThat did not feel the blowThat Hannibal had dealt themWhen he laid Rome's army low.

From up and down Italia's shoresThe cry went up "How long."Till once more Rome's great armyWent out to right the wrong.

This time the brave men stopped himAnd forced him to the shoreTill at last with fearful strengthThey knocked on Hannibal's door.

No mark shows where Carthage stood,A city claimed by sin,So to this day we do not knowIf Rome did lose or win.

Robert Harnwell, '56

11

GERMANY, 1955

Whenever the country Germany is mentioned,most Americans think of a dark little land, swarm-ing with Communists, overrun by refugees, andwhose streets are clogged with rubble. On thewhole, Germany is not like this. It is true thatin some sections, especially the French and Rus-sion, the country has not been rebuilt or cleanedup as much as in the American Zone. The peopleare well-dressed, though their clothing may ap-pear drab and coarse when compared to that ofthe many Americans who are stationed there bythe Army and State Department. Modern farm-ing machinery is appearing more and more on thefields and an increasing number of civilian auto-mobiles and motorcycles are beginning to useHitler's superhighways—the Autobahns whichserved as veins of transportation during the war.Certain strips of these highways were blocked offfor military purposes and used as airstrips.

The Germans are an energetic people, ever forg-ing ahead, making new discoveries, and inventingnew boons to mankind. These industrious peoplehave earned a reputation for themselves among thenations of the world. This is no more than just,because any country that can bounce back to Ger-many's present economical status after being twicecrushed should be highly regarded.

There are many opportunities for the Germanyouth of today. New industries are springing up,scientists are resuming their studies, and old in-dustries are being revived. An excellent exampleof this revival is the Mercedes-Benz automobilefirm. Mercedes racers before World War II wereinternationally famous. During the war Mercedestrucks and staff-cars cruised the roads, and Mer-cedes engines dominated the marine and aircraftfield. Allied bombs completely devastated theMercedes-Benz plant in Stuttgart. Since then ithas been rebuilt and is again manufacturing auto-mobiles, trucks, buses, and marine and stationaryengines. Through the efforts of several other man-ufacturers, many Germans can now ride to workin their own cars, whereas previously only therichest of Germans was able to afford this luxury.

The Germans are a very practical race, whoseimplements and tools are a perfect example of sim-

plicity, with all unnecessary frills eliminated. Thisfact is exemplified by the average hardware shop.There, wooden rakes, hoes, and any other house-hold tool will be displayed behind an American-type plate glass window.

The typical German is not unfriendly towardthe Americans, though there is some resentmentcaused by the U.S. Army's being stationed there.There are many organizations to better German-American relations. These groups sponsor jointparties, dances, picnics, and other social events.

The Germany of 1955 is a country brimmingwith valuable potential. Under a competent, un-selfish leader this small nation should have achance of becoming an estimable internationalpower.

William Britt, '57

All is quiet on the moorAs the day moves swiftly onToward the time the night will comeAnd the light of day be gone.

The farmers from the fields do comeTired and weary from their dayAnd thread their way each to his homeLabor's cares aside they lay.

Night has settled round the townQuiet hangs on every homeThe bell has struck the curfew hourSleep the peaceful moor does roam.

Robert Harnwell, '56

12

FRACTURED FICTION: TWO SKETCHES

IWhen I wandered into room twenty-seven a

week ago, I found Van Schyler De Peyster, St.Andrew's speediest waiter sitting dejectedly on hisbed. I immediately decided it was because he hadbeen "late waiter" at the noon meal. It was muchworse than that, however; Van Schyler's speed hadfinally done him in, for he had been given anHonor Committee for lying. De Peyster told methat, in order to get his food earlier and thusincrease his chances of being first waiter, he hadannounced that he sat at the headmaster's tablewhile he was standing in line waiting for histable's food. As luck would have it, the realwaiter at that table was none other than RewChew and when Chew heard Van Schyler's state-ment he immediately reached for his little yellowbook. This was the chance Rew had been waitingfor. He had only one more Honor Committeeto give someone before he would break the alltime record set twenty-five years ago by SidneyMeany. As a result of his desire to be "first waiter"Van Schyler De Peyster thus received an HonorCommittee. His sadness was caused by the ver-dict returned by the jury. It was decreed thatfrom this day forth De Peyster would not be al-

lowed the privilege of waiting until the finish ofhis career at Saint Andrew's. Today Van SchylerDe Peyster is washing dishes at the Granary pa-tiently waiting for his chance to become a full-fledged waiter.

II

The movie, "Calvin's Escapades" didn't appealto Thomas O'Toole and when the mysterious crav-ing caught hold in Tom's throat, he knew he'dhave to satisfy it. Like an addict after his bottleTom shot out of the auditorium and didn't stoprunning until the shiny metal box appeared aroundthe corner. O'Toole pulled out his last dime fromhis secret pocket and deposited it in the machine.After several jerks the Pepsi Cola was in Tom'shands. Since everyone was in the auditorium Tomdecided to drink the Pepsi in the library. Tomimmediately found his favorite magazine, "TheReporter," and began to read while swishing thePepsi around in his mouth, delighted as it cooledhis parched palate. Soon O'Toole was in a deepslumber with his magazine in one hand and anempty Pepsi-Cola bottle rolling out of the otherhand and crossing to the middle of the floor.This sleep was fatal to O'Toole for PritchardBroth nonchalantly came marching into the libraryand, never expecting a thing, found himselfbalanced on a Pepsi-Cola bottle one minute andlooking up at the ceiling the next. This was anexcellent chance for Broth to give O'Toole aD.C. and Broth took advantage of his chance.After having O'Toole examined by the school psy-chiatrist the D.C. committee decreed that O'Toolewould be deprived of Pepsi-Cola for the re-mainder of his stay at Saint Andrew's. At lastword O'Toole was financing the Pepsi-Cola Com-mittee in a southern public school.

Stephen Duke, '56

13

DEATH IS WAITING

Cal Hyatt walked slowly down the dark alley,glancing from side to side. He had always beenafraid of dark tight places, and here in the alleysof New York his fear was intensified. He had thefeeling that some night he was going to turn acorner and there death would be waiting. He hatedthe alleys; but, because they were the shortest wayhome, he was sometimes forced to take them.This one was dirty as all the others and held thesame deathly fear. He listened to all the familiarsounds: a cat scratching at a garbage can, a loudmale voice bellowing for supper, and a youngerone crying. He wished he were out of all this—•out of the noise, the stench, out of the filth.

He hurried a little now because it was fightnight. He opened the door to the boarding house,said hello to the landlady, and rushed upstairs.After a fast shower he donned his lighter weightsport shirt and trousers and then went to Mac's.Mac's was the place where he always ate on fightnights. He ate, then left. Outside he decided totake the alley route again because it was almosteight-thirty. He watched all of the corners verycarefully as he walked speedily down the alley.It was quiet. Ahead of him he saw the brightrays of a street lamp. He crossed the pavementand went into the auditorium.

Soon the preliminary matches began. Hewatched with little enthusiasm as they progressedand finally ended. When the contestants for themain event, two of the top heavyweight contenders,entered the ring, Cal was on edge. He felt, asthey ran toward each other, dodged, feinted,hooked and jabbed, that he was a part of thisfight. In spirit he was in the ring with them,battling and exchanging blow for blow; yet heknew, deep inside, that he was a coward. Whenit was over, Cal realized how late it was. Hewalked slowly with the crowd until he reachedthe street. There in the cool night air he noticeda clock through a restaurant window. 11:35. Thiswas late enough for him to decide to take theshort-cut once more, much as he dreaded takingthe alley back to his flat.

He now heard loud rowdy voices at parties. As

he continued the voices faded. Cal's previous fearreturned in full force, and he whistled nervouslyso that he would feel less alone. He dared notlook back, afraid of what he might see. Cal beganto wish that the noise, which had annoyed himearlier, would return. He turned a corner andstarted to quicken his pace. Only a few blockswere left now. Then he heard something behindhim. It sounded like a very soft footstep. Sweatbegan to break out on his face. He walked a fewmore steps and then started to run. He ran forseveral blocks until finally he came to a familiarstreet. Here under the bright street lights, he feltsecure and laughed a little to himself. What hehad heard was probably only a dog—or his imagi-nation.

After a short walk he was home. Here wassafety. There were no more alleys, nothing at allto be afraid of. He went upstairs, opened thedoor, and almost cried out in his astonishment.His room was a shambles. Tables were over-turned and pictures dislodged. Then he walkedto his dresser and saw that the top drawer, whichwas always kept locked, had been pried open.While he was examining what was left of its con-tents, he heard the door behind him shut, andhe whirled in fear. Out of the shadows steppeda great hulky man holding a revolver.

Donald Woodruff, '57

14

A STORY OF THE CONFEDERACY

1850 -1955

The date was 1863. The tide was slowly turningagainst the Union. It had seemed at first that theUnion had victory in their hands, but as theypenetrated farther south, the Union army supplylines had grown longer and more tenuous. Andthrough lack of foresight these supply lines werenot adequately protected, resulting in the completedestruction of a large per cent of the Union army.

By 1868 a few of the remnants of the northernarmy were still holding out, but for all practicalpurposes the Union of the Northern States ofContinental North America was now dead. Afterits death the Western states were incorporated intothe Confederacy and the Southern Army wasmade even stronger. Also, through tremendouswar effort, advanced weapons were being massproduced at a speed never before attained. Artil-lery was developed, better than any in existenceat that time. The Confederacy could boast the in-vention of a high-speed, accurate, heavy-duty ma-chine gun. This was probably the greatest inven-tion of that century. The "Human Sea" tacticsused in those days made a rapid firing weaponvery practical. The Confederate Army was bettertrained than any other military force. It used tac-tics that would not have come into existence untilforty years later had the war ended sooner.

The Confederacy, by May 1875, had fallen intothe hands of many ambitious Southern statesmen,who saw great possibilities in this war machine.War was declared ori Mexico and the vulnerablestates of Central and South America. Within twoyears these nations had fallen to the Confederacy.

By 1880 many more advancements were made inthe Confederate military force. Europe had copiedsome of its inventions, but did not have the me-chanization of the Confederate army. On June15th, 1880 the Confederate States of North andSouth America declared war on the EuropeanAlliance. With the fall of France in 1896 theEuropean alliance surrendered after six years ofhard and bitter struggle.

A brief interval of fighting with the combined

forces of Russia and Eastern Asia followed, butthese forces gave little resistance. By March, 1897,the Confederacy of the American States hadachieved world dominion.

We today are greatly indebted to our greatforefathers for what they have given us. We areunited under one government, a government whichgives equal rights to everyone. Living conditionshave never been better. Today there is no starva-tion, no want of the necessities of life, since theyare provided for us. If history had turned anotherway and the Confederacy had been defeated thereis no certainty about what might have happened.Today we might still be fighting, killing eachother like barbarians. With science as it now exists,war could be made even more horrible than it wasin the beginning. People might still be starvingin the streets, living the life of animals.

Let us never forget those pioneers to whom weare so greatly indebted.

Alex White, '59

15

WHO'S WHO?

ROBERT HARNWELL adds to his work aspoet laureate of the Cardinal with his brilliantverse in this issue of the Andrean. Bob, who haslong been known to SAS readers for his inimitablestyle in writing on matters close to home (for ex-ample, his earlier poem "Ode to the Pepsi Squad")now turns his skill and his attention to Hannibal... . Baseball fans will find WILLIAM FRENCH'Sstory on page 2 an interesting and vivid char-acter sketch of one of today's most prominentfigures in the sports world. This represents Bill'sentrance into literary work.. . WILLIAM BRITTshows authority and enthusiasm by his two con-tributions, both the products of first-hand ex-perience. A newcomer to publications, Bill showsgreat promise. . . Known to last year's Andreanreaders for his poetry, STEPHEN BALDWINshows his verbal dexteerity in his critical essay tobe found on page 1. . . ALEX WHITE has drawnfrom a powerful imagination to create his "Storyof the Confederacy." Al is a newcomer to SASwriting circles, but his work shows considerableliterary merit. . . Along with Al White is anothersecond-former, STUART CULLENEY. His questfor a new idea in poetical expression appears onpage 6. .. EVAN KIMBLE, Cardinal actingSports Editor, will see his first work of fictionpublished in this edition. Evari has also dis-tinguished himself in another SAS publication, theYearbook... STEPHEN DUKE, displaying a verynoticeable sense of humor, makes his first Andreancontribution this year. Steve is also known as

Assistant Business Manager of the Cardinal andas a reporter. . . Continuing his diverse journalisticendeavors, THOMAS RIGHTMYER shows anovel graphic idea in his poem on page 5. . .PETER DUNNING, another poet extraordinary,demonstrates his skill in handling a free-verseform on pages 2 and 3. Peter here gives ampleproof that his work is that of prolonged thoughtand not the often misleading ambiguities of thebeginner who believes free-verse to be a chanceto wander verbally through a maze of non-sequitors. Peter has also been an active contributorto other SAS publications.. . WILLIAM WOODhas the knack of making people laugh. His workon page 6 illustrates that point and also markshis debut in the Andrean after initial appearancesin The Saint. . . DONALD WOODRUFF, em-barking on what we hope will be a long and suc-cessful literary career, comes up with a chillingplot in his story on page 14... ALEX BAUM-GARTNER, known to last year's Andrean readersfor his "Prelude to Death," has distinguished him-self among SAS writers since his arrival here. Heis well known for his Andrean work and as theCardinal's Chief of Clerical Bureau. It was "alto-gether fitting and proper" that he should havebeen chosen as Andrean editor for 1955. For hisenthusiasm, his competent management, and hisdesire to produce a magazine of true merit, every-one connected with this year's issue is indebtedand grateful to him.

16

Editorial

A CHANGE OF PLAN

Let it not be said that this issue of the Andreanis going to carry the typical "there ought to bemore interest" attitude. In January the sky lookedrather bleak to the staff, and we felt exactly thatway. We resented the position of the Andrean inrecent years caused by lethargic or non-existentreaders and contributors, and we were ready totake a swing at those responsible. We were goingto make them, by repeated table-thumping if neces-sary, aware of the fact that other institutions oftenjudge us as much by our publication as by ourathletic records and that outsiders frequently mea-sure the ability of free expression among the stu-dents entire according to the content of just sucha magazine as this.

Since that time, however, there has been achange of both plan and opinion ori our part. In-creased staff interest and effort ignited what wasliterally an Andrean "movement" centering in theIVth Form—a movement as unexpected and con-tagious as it was welcome. This year, in fact, be-cause of space limitations, it has been necessary toturn down many submissions with excellent possi-bilities. We are no longer resentful but proudof the student body's attitude. With the help ofall concerned we now feel that we have been suc-cessful in putting out the kind of publicationpresent and future Saint Andreans can turn to withpride and read with enthusiasm.

The Editor