 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
A TRIP INTO SOUTH GERMANY
TOWARDS THE END Of my recent stay in Germany this year I had the good fortune to be able to make a trip down to the Black Forest, the Rhineland and other corners of South Germany, the part of the country which everyone had told me that I ought to see if I wished to see the real beauty of Germany and its landscape.
Accordingly one Sunday morning we piled into a little Volkswagen at Minden, where I happened to be staying at the time, and made our way south through the Weser valley towards Kassel and eventually on to Frankfurt and Heidelberg.
On leaving Minden the Weser enters the upland part of its course and flows through an area of charming, forested hills with pastures on the lower slopes, dotted with occasional villages which, judging by some of the old houses and quaint narrow streets, could have been taken straight from the Middle Ages.
South of Kassel we came on to the autobahn network and here the little Volkswagen could really show its paces. The autobahns, I thought, were really magnificent pieces of engineering. They are built rather after the style of our dual-carriageways, but on a much more highly developed scale, with flyovers and viaducts and very gently banked curves. The result is that one can keep up very high speeds for long stretches at a time.
By-passing Frankfurt we made our way as far as Heidelberg, where we were to stay the night. First of all, however, we strolled around to gain some impressions of Heidelberg by night. It was still vacation time for most of the students, although their "dives" were still open, but crammed with American soldiers with their pay-packets to squander in those somewhat bohemian but most delightful retreats.
The following morning we continued south in the direction of Freiburg, although seeing little of the countryside on the way on account of the drizzle and mist which perpetuated. At about mid-day we by-passed Freiburg just as the weather cleared, in time for the start of the Black Forest stage of our journey as we headed towards Titisee. Here the road ran through narrow, steep-sided valleys, covered with thick forest, often giving way to tortuous stretches climbing up the mountain sides, heavily laced with hairpin bends. But they provided breath-taking views down to the valley bottoms with their patchwork meadows and fields, and the occasional farmhouse nestling in a sheltered corner a little way up the mountain-side. All the buildings are built of wood, even to the extent of making tiles from thin strips of it. Where the fast-flowing mountain streams come down into the main stream or brook flowing along the valley bottom, odd saw mills are to be found, manufacturing all sorts of wood articles, the traditional occupation of this area, so rich in forest.
After spending the night in Alpirsbach, a tiny but very picturesque and charming village in the Black Forest, we turned south again towards the Bodensee and the old town of Meersburg, not very far from the Swiss frontier. We looked around the old town with its fine buildings and streets which are noteworthy for their incredible gradient, a formidable task for any vehicle. Then, however, the weather broke and we accordingly set out on the next stage towards Ulm on the Danube, a very modernised town which possesses a very fine Gothic cathedral, actually the tallest in the world. It had a most impressive interior and in my opinion was far more attractive than any other large church that I have yet seen, Notre Dame, Kolner Dom, or Westminster Abbey.
The following evening found us in Hildesheim on the Rhine, the centre of the wine industry and reputed for a gay night-life in the wine houses of the "Drosselgasse," a narrow alley way, dead in the day time but bursting with life at night. The effects, however, did not prevent us from continuing our homeward journey on the following day up the Rhine Gorge with its steep sides covered with vines, the great business and occupation of the Rhineland, besides the tourist industry. At Koblenz we turned into the Lahn valley, a tributary of the Rhine, and from thence continued up to Limburg, the birthplace of the celebrated cheese. Then the weather broke again and we spent the rest of the day crawling along the narrow winding roads of the Sauerland and Siegerland in pouring rain towards the autobahn at Gutersloh and the way home to Minden, which we reached late in the evening, tired but contented.
Robert R. Cox (VI)
BART LOOKED at the old house: it stood as silent as death itself, illumined in the light of a pale moon. He was not afraid of ghosts because he did not believe in them; anyway, here was a hideout where he would not be disturbed by the villagers. They were a superstitious lot, all afraid of the ghost of the mistress of the house who had been murdered.
Inside, the place was in darkness; he took out his lighter and lit a candle that he found on a shelf. Then he explored the house.
He found what had once been a stately bedroom; the bed was still there, complete with mattress and covered in dust. Bart was used to sleeping in odd places since his escape, so he lay down to sleep.
He awoke - with a start; the moonlight poured through the broken window and illuminated the figure of a woman at the end of his bed.
'I thought the villagers didn't come here," he said. "They don't," she replied in a hollow voice.
"Who are you?" he asked, his flesh starting to creep. "I am the Lady Gwyneth."
He looked her up and down, the moon was shining full on her. He gasped. She cast no shadow . . .
"Yes, sergeant, it was a scream all right," said Will Brown. "I was passing the old Manor House and I heard a man scream. In mortal terror he must have been."
"I'll get my bike and we'll investigate," said Sergeant Cooper. "This ere's the room Lady Gwyneth was murdered in," said Will. "Let's 'ave a look inside."
They entered the room and stopped dead, for there, crouched in a corner, was a man, sobbing like a child.
"It was Lady Gwyneth," he sobbed. "She came here; I spoke to her." He laughed hysterically.
"Why!" said Sergeant Cooper, "It's that lunatic who escaped from the asylum."
Barry Condon (IVB)
HAMLET - ACT V - SCENE 1 - A CHURCHYARD
Enter two Clowns with spades:-
MOST PEOPLE either look at us queerly or laugh out loud when George and I tell them that we worked for a month in a cemetery during the summer holidays. They have every reason to do so. The idea came from the manager of the local employment bureau. a supposed friend of the family, who suggested quite calmly:
"How would you like to work in a cemetery?"
A vision of corpses, bones, coffins, skeletons, hearses, etc., was conjured up in my mind. The look on George's face was noncommittal, and he merely said, "How much a week?"
On the following Monday we duly presented ourselves at the cemetery office and were given our tools. Instead of the motor mower I had hoped for, I was given one sickle and one whet-stone. George was looking rather worried and I felt sick.
The cemetery concerned is the last place on earth where many people go: it was very nearly the last place I ever went, too.
The grass in the cemetery certainly isn't elephant grass but you have to look very hard before you can distinguish a grave. The whole cemetery looked like one enormous field of coarse grass with trees, bushes and briars all over the place.
George and I nearly collapsed when we saw the size of the cemetery as compared to our sickles, but we started gamely enough.
George was using his whet-stone rather clumsily. I warned .him: "Better look out or you'll cut yourself." In a matter of minutes I was at the first-aid box and George patronisingly bandaged my cut finger. We worked and we sweated that first day and succeeded in cutting 36 graves (although we must admit they looked worse when we had finished than when we had started). About an hour from the end of the first day, when George was taking a well-earned rest behind a headstone, one of the other employees approached me, looked at the result of our combined efforts and said: "'Ullo!" "Hullo!" "Ain't done much, 'ave you?" We had worked ourselves on to our knees; our eyes ached, our shoulders, backs arms, legs and feet ached and we'd sweated enough sweat to fill a couple of baths (nearly!). While the flies and insects, mainly ants, were still tormenting me, our fellow employee kindly informed me that each person was supposed to cut 12 graves an hour, 96 a day. This meant that instead of 36 we should have cut 192!
It was an awful bind getting up in the morning at 7 o'clock and shuffling up to the station, especially as we knew what lay ahead of us. We usually carried our lunches, or at least George did, since I went home for dinner after the first two days. There was always a race between us and the various cemetery insects to finish our food first; if the insects lost they usually took it out on us.
There was one element in our work which we forgot and remembered as the occasion best suited us -time. We always made a habit of starting a quarter of an hour after the correct time and finishing half an hour before we were supposed to. This time-wasting was not a crime: we still maintain that we did more work than we were paid for.
We did not mix very much with our fellow workers (or shirkers?) but George did make the acquaintance of one young boy who raked-in the grass which we had cut. He told us that soon after he had started working there his mates told him to slow down; he had been working too fast and was showing them up. Another fellow employee must have been a schizophrenic; he was an assistant grave-digger and the leader of a local Teddy boy gang. He was also a bit queer. On the only occasion when we happened to go down to the workers' hut he gave us a demonstration of .how to give someone a crew cut with a sickle. The person to whom he was going to give this haircut was unwilling, but unfortunately undersized. He put up a gallant resistance (calling his friend many rude, unkind names), but when two of his fingers had nearly been hacked off he gave up and ran away. The "barber" turned round to George and me with an ugly smile and a sadistic chuckle, but at the moment (thank God!) the rain stopped. I can safely say that we never went back to work so quickly.
You cannot laugh at everything in a cemetery, for you must at some time come face-to-face with reality. One mother had lost her three sons in the first World War, all killed in action in France in 1917. one in June, one in August and one in September. aged 19, 21, 18 respectively.
W. G. Grace was buried there and so was the man who "was the last to return up the valley after the charge of the Light Brigade at Balaclava, Crimea, 1855."
One grave I remember particularly well, it was undoubtedly the most difficult grave I had to cut, I could not make out its shape at all. I finished it in twenty minutes. The long grass, brambles, trees, etc., had been cleared away and I read on the headstone, "Dedicated to the memory of - - -, who died August, 1953, erected by his faithful and devoted friends. Gone, but not forgotten."
On many occasions we despaired of getting anywhere, our health had broken and we were both wrecks, mentally and physically. Successful G.C.E. results could do nothing to cheer us up and it was two relieved people who returned their instruments for the last time. Many of the horrors of the work have gone now, though they sometimes return as nightmares, but there are still the scars to prove that I and George fought against the elements.
Of course, there is always the good side to it, if you can find it. Unfortunately we could not, but perhaps you can. What are you doing next summer? Do you want to waste your time and somebody else's money? The job will be there next year. We don't want it., do you?
JAMES. STEPHEN LOWERY was a punctual man, there was no mistake about that. Every morning at 9.15 this timid little fellow would kiss his wife goodbye and start off with a certain self-righteous dignity in the direction of Thornburn station. A one-and-threepenny ticket brought him to his dreaded destination, where he headed, not without an exaggerated air of courage, for the Bank of England.
The cause for this worry was the never-ending feud between him and Mr. Auden, his antagonist and manager. From dawn till dusk their anger never abated, at least Mr. Auden's never, for James Stephen was of a proud and, thought I regret to say it, rather subtle character. For a mere clerk does not improve his position by proclaiming war on his manager. Nevertheless James Stephen was quite content to go on travelling every day to and from the city, and the thought of resignation didn't enter the most nightmarish of his dreams, until Tuesday, 23rd November 1947.
On that morning James Stephen got out of bed the wrong side. His temper, even at more favourable moments, was not what one would call sweet and James was now in an almighty rage.
The stairs cowed beneath him, and even the bitter tongue of his wife was silenced by his stormy appearance. James Stephen would have made Hercules quiver in his birthday suit and Atlas hide behind the nearest mountain. But, alas, James' boot lace, alone, defied him, and broke at the crucial moment . . . .
The fuming form of James Stephen created havoc on the way to the Bank that morning: a troop of his fellow travellers had almost pulled the communication cord because he had given them the rough edge of his tongue; a porter had dropped a valuable set of china because James had "politely" pushed past him. Thus James Stephen reached the bank, though ’10 poorer, ’20 richer at :heart for the thought of his audacity. Kicking open the door he entered, puffing, and purple in the face. Then, unconscious of his small frame, he filled the hall with his indignation. Those who had felt his wrath in the past, shrank from sight; those who hadn't, soon learnt to follow suit. James stormed into the manager's office with hair dishevelled, but nevertheless intent upon his purpose. Then he promptly gave vent to his pent-up feelings upon the sore subject of salary and promotion. His tirade would have done justice to any of the more notorious ones of Gilbert Harding. And the manager's gross body did the only thing possible under such unusual circumstances: it flopped into the red plush chair, and fainted clean away . . . .
The indignant fury of James' outburst was immediately quenched by this sudden and unexpected relapse of the manager. His conscience was assailed by dire misgivings. He fumbled with his collar and glanced nervously around, the few remaining sparks of anger extinguished completely by the utter stillness of his superior's hulk.
Gently he poured a glass of water down his victim's throat, and stepped back, staring apprehensively at the recovering manager.
"Er, sorry, Mr. Auden," he began, "I didn't know . . . ... But with a beaming smile Auden, now fully recovered, cut him short.
"Lowery, my boy, congratulations! You're the first man I've known to be able to brow-beat me and to speak his mind so. We need more men like you on our pay-list. And, as a sign that I'm speaking truthfully, consider yourself my assistant manager from now on ........
When James Stephen reached home, dumbfounded and not a little set back, he fished out his monthly pay cheque, and without so much as a smile handed it to his wife.
She gave it her usual cursory glance of disapproval, but was immediately taken aback by the figures. Her startled eyes registered the amazing fact that something was Different. Instead of the customary sum her husband had been given an appreciable increase in salary. With an exclamation she turned to her startled spouse who was dejectedly huddled in the armchair. At this unwanted reaction he shrank further into the chair and murmured apologetically-"It's my per, dear; it's always getting the better of me."
The six weeks that I spent in the Dordogne were by far the most interesting of my stay in France. The region is one of the most beautiful in the country and also one of the most important wine-growing areas. The harvest began about a month before I left and I did about two weeks of it. The work is very hard, especially on the back, but I was lucky enough to be allowed to take a half-holiday when I wanted. The day's work consisted of cutting the grapes and carting around the barrels, and it was only in the evening that the interesting work began; for it was then that the pressing was done, and I saw the crude wine flowing from the press into larger barrels, to be pumped from there into huge metal cuves and left to ferment. I found it most amusing to watch the men washing their hands in it as it came direct from the press, and paddling about in it in wellington boots, as was sometimes necessary. It seemed funny that this product, so costly in England, could, be handled with such scant respect during manufacture. But only half the harvest was pressed directly on the premises. The other half was sent to a co-operative society, which did all the dirty work and sold the finished product, thus enabling the growers to reap the profits without having to bother about the work entailed.
The most famous wine of the area is the Monbazillac, a very sweet drink. To make this wine the grape is left to go mouldy before being cut, for it is then that it contains the most sugar and alcohol.
But the vine isn't, of course, the only interesting feature of the Dordogne. I can think of no other region in France where there are so many old castles and manor houses, memoirs of the Hundred Years' War, which was waged lengthily in the Dordogne. Many places guard souvenirs of the fighting. For instance, Bergerac was taken and retaken time after time, first by the English and then by the French; Castillon saw the last big battle of the war; a hill close by the farm where I was staying, witnessed the death of Lord Derby right at the beginning. These castles, peeping from behind clumps of trees or displaying themselves boldly on steep precipices in the overhanging rock, bore witness to these events and many more of the same kind, and reserve that sense of antiquity so evident in the valley of the Dordogne, which is itself a wonderful setting for these relics of the Middle Ages.
Due to the chalk and limestone of the area, the Dordogne is honeycombed with underground caves and grottos. Stalagmites and stalactites abound at Les Eyzies; a vast underground cavern at Padirac is well worth a visit, which would entail a half-hour subterranean boat trip., and last but not least comes Laseaux and a magnificent set of prehistoric drawings, equalled only by the grottos at Altamira in Spain.
If anybody is considering a trip to France, I know that I have only touched upon the country, but I think I can say that the Dordogne is well worth their consideration and a couple of weeks' visit. All of the people that I met there were very hospitable and were always ready to help.
By the way, the food in France was jolly good!
DEEP IN the forest something stirred, the wind moaned and the leaves swayed. A flash of lightning lit the forest as though it were day, causing the solitary man to be filled with a sudden fear, and he felt the presence of something strange, unearthly and weird. The wind stilled and silence reigned amongst the trees. The forest was filled with a ghostly bluish light, which moved stealthily towards the man.
A figure loomed into view and halted before the man. The creature, silvery white and soft, with the softness of gossamer, was covered with thin, snow-like threads which were wafted into the silvery light of the clearing.
."'Ah!" it said. "This planet holds animal-life. Am I right in saying that you are a reasoning being?"
"Y-you are," the man managed to stammer. "We too," it said. "We have just crossed the threshold of time, we come from the solar system of one of the farthest stars, millions of light years away, and we have passed through Time's countless dimensions, seen myriads upon myriads of stars and galaxies." "Who are you? What are you doing in this place, this world of terror and destruction?"
"Do you mean that this place is unfit for reasoning beings?"
"I do."
"Then its speech was interrupted by the movement of a second being, a little smaller than itself, with a soft body but less flowing covering.
"Meet my friend Asdfghjkl," said the first being. "My name is Qwertyuiop.". Qwertyuiop continued with its interrupted speech. "As this world is unfit for us we will go, but you will come with us, for we would not like to leave you here to destruction."
With this Qwertyuiop and Asdfghjkl picked up the man and carried him off, protesting bitterly. He glimpsed alien worlds through the opening, before the screen closed quietly behind them and the screams of their burden abruptly ceased.
How strange and illogical we are. While hating our very existence we yet fear to leave it, whether it be for a promised land or not.
Gabriel Kampis (IIA)
EXCEPT FOR the two tow ropes of the trek-cart breaking, we began our trek in the typically English county of Hertfordshire without a hitch. That day we covered about 10 miles, our route taking us from our base camp through Borley, Great Chishill and Heydon, to our camp in a field by Park Wood, Chishill.
Our first stop was at Great Chishill for lunch, where Godfrey, our second in command, joined us in his car, which he was taking with him as he had to leave us on the morning of the third day.
After we had finished our lunchtime orgies most of us went and looked round the village church. It is interesting to note that in the 13th century complaints were made to the Bishop of London that the profits of the church were too small. The stipend was £640 p.a., the expenses £128 p.a., leaving £512 p.a. profit! These days many town churches consider themselves lucky to recover their expenses.
When at length we managed to get going again, Godfrey left his mechanised conveyance on the piece of land where we had consumed our food and accompanied us on foot.
We next stopped at Heydon, where we watched its church, which was bombed in the war, being rebuilt. Heydon is a very picturesque village, for until a few years ago it had all been owned by an eccentric squire who would allow no trees to be cut down or modern conveniences to be instituted in his village.
At last we staggered to our site for the night, and while a one-man party went to recover his car, the rest pitched camp.
When we went to get water at the nearby farm we were informed that the wood, 90 acres in extent, contained every kind of English wild animal (also millions of mosquitoes) except badgers and campers. The latter deficiency, unfortunately, was not remedied during our stay. Among these denizens of the wild were about 30 deer, over seven fox families, and a large colony of red squirrels. As an added attraction a few dozen people each year are reputed to get lost in it.
When this interesting and enlightening conversation had finished we went back to the camp, which had been waiting nearly half an hour for water. After the unfortunate water-carriers had narrowly escaped death at the hands of their irate brother trekkers, they were forced to cook the supper and make the cocoa.
While we were all getting pleasantly drunk on cocoa our tranquil (or otherwise) thoughts were rudely interrupted by a sound somewhat like a dustbin rolling downhill. When we rushed out to the hardened mud track we observed that Godfrey had returned. After he had descended from his car and got his hands round a dixie of cocoa, he informed us that he had found his most treasured possession in an even more dilapidated condition than he had left it. The doors were open, the headlights on, the bonnet open and the leads disconnected. It was generally agreed, except in one irate corner, that the miscreants must have thought it had been dumped. At length, when we had all finished our frugal supper we walked through the wood by the track to Elmsdon. As it was a dark night and Elmsdon has over four pubs, we were, unfortunately, unable to keep track of every adult member of the party. In spite of this fact we all managed to return safely.
The next morning, after thanking the land's owner, we left. As the farm nearby was a poultry farm we managed to take 15 eggs with us when we departed.
Our route that day took us through Duddenhoe End, Duddenhoe Grange, Upper and Lower Langley, to New England, where we camped not far from the lake. Although our site was only 41/2 miles from Park Wood we trekked 11 to reach it.
After leaving Park Wood we divided into two parties. Most people went via Elmsdon, while one small, self-sacrificing volunteer group took the trek cart by the road. Those selfish, self-centred, inactive, unwilling and sensible people who went via Elmsdon saw little but pubs and houses, while those martyrs who took the trek cart saw much of interest, including an extremely large dried up moat surrounding nothing, not even ruins, Chrishall Church, which is of the Early Perpendicular style and contains Rubens' picture "Adoration of The Magi", and last, but not least, a dead rat.
When we all joined up again we continued along the road with our usual brisk efficiency until lunch-time, which came conveniently upon us when we were outside the Bull Inn, which had the village green nicely situated outside it. Upon this we consumed our meal. While most of us recovered from stuffing our capacious stomachs to their uttermost capacity, the rest, in number, one, discovered that the metal boards of the signpost would, with a little assistance, revolve.
We left the vicinity of the Bull Inn at 2 o'clock and reached our site a little after four.
"It is quite a good site except that we have to go a short way for water," said our leader - (two miles there, two miles back.) "Its main asset is the fact that it has plenty of dead wood handy." he continued, and after we had pitched camp, sent us off through a natural row of thorn, holly and blackberry bushes into the "forest" to get the required quantity of this necessary commodity. It was not until an hour later that we had gathered sufficient wood and rediscovered the camp. Round the campfire a set of misguided oafs wanted to walk the nine miles back to camp that night, and have a lovely midnight walk (they forgot the trek-cart), through the freezing, cold night, after trekking 11 miles that day, and have the fun of striking and repitching camp in the dark. Eventually, however, common sense prevailed, and most of us managed to get our regular eight hours' beauty sleep.
Next morning we said goodbye to Godfrey, and after he had disappeared in a cloud of smoke and dust, we packed up everything except our washing and bathing kit, and went down to the lake for a swim. After a while orthodox amusements began to pall, and as campers have a crude sense of humour we got much enjoyment out of pushing each other in. The fun, however, ceased when Bob, our leader, pulled those who were pushing him in (all of us) with him. Then we got dressed and departed for our home camp at "Half-Moon Wood."
After a short stop at Borley to revive our flagging spirits with a bottle of coca-cola (which refreshes and revives), and with our remaining provisions, we carried on in two groups. One party went by road with the trek-cart and reached the rendezvous first; the other party took the short cut across the fields.
Nothing else eventful happened except that three inert cadgers got a lift in a Jaguar Mark VII.
After that we entered camp in what we called a state of triumph, and what the rest of the camp called the last stages of decrepitude.
Barry Phelps (IVB)
"Any for me, Bert?" O'Riley's slap-happy voice rang out. "Only one; looks business-like en'all," he chaffed, handing the letter to him. O'Riley opened it and in very large print was written:
"The 4.45 afternoon train will be one hour early.
H. P. Poole, Esq." Walking back to his office O'Riley collected his newspaper. The headlines at once caught his eye.
"Crash on Cheltenham Line."
"Some idle creature,' mused O'Riley. "Ha, but they won't catch me napping."
After a fairly heavy dinner O'Riley returned to the signal-box and went about his normal routine.
"Now after this, there isn't another train until 4.45," he thought as the 2 p.m. thundered by. "Ah, for a rest."
He lay down and dozed.
Two hours later, true to form, he awoke.
"Sun still shining., I'm in time for the 4.45 express too," he thought, glancing at his watch casually. He looked round the room; his gaze fell upon a screwed-up piece of paper lying on the table. At once his mind flashed back to the letter. He looked at his watch again anxiously.
"The train," he thought. "O God, the train!" At that moment the familiar heavy tread of a policeman was heard outside.
FROM THE Bows of an approaching liner, Gibraltar looks like a crouching lion. The southern tip is the paws, the hill rising to a point is the head and the beginning of the mane. The ridge is the rest of the mane, which gradually slopes to the north front, which gives the impression that the rest of the lion has been cut off.
The town itself is on the western side. It has only one main street, which is one-way only. Most of the shops are in the main street, but some are in the back streets.
The castle is Moorish and is said to have been built in 3,000 B.C. It has no mortar, but the Moors used packed sand. From the castle you can see the road to Spain, the Customs. the harbour and La Linea, the adjoining Spanish town.
The water-catchments are on the east side. The water is purified and then run into the tanks in the rock, These tanks hold one million gallons each. There are eight of these tanks, which are connected to the water-mains.
There is a cave inside the "Rock" with an underground lake. The lake was used for swimming until quite recently. The water is fresh, but unfit for drinking. The lake has to be reached by clambering down several hundred-foot drops. But for all that it is worth while.
From the air the "Rock" is a wonderful sight. The north front, rising sheer from the low ground in the sunlight signifies what it really is - a fortress.
PAT DANIELS, the young, 17-year-old Middleshire cricketer, just could not sleep, the reason being that he was the team's "night watchman" and tomorrow's innings might well decide the match.
At midnight Pat was still not asleep. At first he had thought of scoring centuries and hitting well-placed balls for six, but later, as he dozed off, he had a nightmare. As he took his stance, everything seemed to be all right, but as the bowler came up, Pat found he could not lift the bat, and the ball, spinning in, somehow seemed to pass through the stumps.
The next ball he played in an ordinary fashion, but as the third ball came down Pat felt the bat in his hand grow smaller and, looking behind him. he saw that the stumps were much taller. The biggest shock came, however, when he looked at the ball, for it appeared to be coming straight for him and growing slowly larger. Instinctively, he tried to duck, and to his horror, he found his body would not function. Closer and closer floated the ball until suddenly everything faded out.
He was awakened by a tap on his door and the voice of the captain saying: "Don't worry about the match. Play's impossible today 'cos it's pouring with rain."
"HEY! BILL! Look at that squashed body on that post. Looks as if a tank's run into him. Look! There's one climbing on the roof. Throw a brick at him. Good shot! He's fallen down and part of him is stuck to the brick. There's one crawling along the edge of the static water tank with one leg missing. I've pushed him in. Let's watch him struggle. He's given up now. I suppose he's dead. Watch out! One's coming in low. He looks as if he's dive-bombing us. Squirt him with your pistol. Well done! That's 478 killed today. But what I'd like to know is, where do these pesky crane-flies come from?"
ONE'S FIRST view of the Cathedral comes while crossing the bridge over the river which flows between two steep, tree-lined banks. It is an impressive sight, this huge edifice of aged stone, which has dominated the town for over ten centuries.
The road which winds steeply up to the Cathedral is devoid of the insane rumble of traffic. Its cobbled street and narrow pavement ring to the sound of the cathedral bells as they laboriously toll the hour. A steep rise in the pavement and momentarily one stands quite still. The silence of this grass-covered hill-top is broken only by the cooing of pigeons. Parked cars resplendent in gleaming chromium and shining glass, appear incongruous as they stand around the grass square.
One's gaze travels up and up; there is the cathedral. The stones, yellowed with age, enhance the beautiful upward-sweeping lines of architecture. The sun mellows the stones and puts others in dense black shadow, the whole standing against the backcloth of a blazing blue sky. One steps into the gloomy cathedral, leaving all mundane things behind. A choir is practising, the exhilarating liquid-like notes soar up to the rafters, echoing the length of the nave. One begins to walk in between darkened pillars. At regular intervals coloured glass windows stain the dim interior with jewel-like colours. Dust floats on the beams of the sun. Footsteps ring on the bare worn paving. The chapel of the Durham Light Infantry, dim, dusty and festooned with stained, tattered flags, suggests memories of bloody battles in far-flung corners of the earth.
Further on, set into a wall, is the shrine of Saint Cuthbert. As old as the cathedral itself, this shrine, recently renovated in resplendent red, blue and gold, was the objective of many ancient pilgrims as shown by the worn paving around where pilgrims knelt to kiss the shrine of this great saint.
Then the centrepiece of the church - the altar. Delicate, golden tracery entwines its way to the rafters; exquisite gold embroidered tapestries and vestments, gold and silver candelabra and a large chalice gleam softly in the light of flickering white candles. The pulpit, in intricately carved marble, completes this magnificent scene.
One steps down from the precincts of the altar through a massive oak, studded door and into the sun-bathed cloisters. One can picture brown-hooded monks pacing the square pillared path, murmuring fervent Latin prayers; or sitting by the fountain in the centre of a grass court expounding upon the qualities of obscure and long-dead languages, while the world and its troubles continued unheeded around them. A flight of stairs from the cloisters leads up to what was the monks' dormitory and library. It is a long room with bare wooden floorboards and one fireplace. Huge leather-bound volumes of every phase in world history line the walls.
A case of illuminated manuscripts relieves the monotony of these ponderous volumes. Beautifully penned, these manuscripts of music, poetry and prose glow in neon-like colours, as fresh as when they were still wet on the paper.
Other beautiful examples of penmanship illustrate how hard the monks were trying to set an example and break the chain of ignorance which fettered the world.
Another case holds ancient, intriguing documents, some with a seal as large as a saucer attached to a faded ribbon. A tiny Bible rests on a half-crown, each word and each minute letter legible. One walks once more into the main cathedral and in a gloomy corner by the Infantry chapel an attendant stands by a small door. Dropping the admission fee into a box one begins to climb one of Durham Cathedral's smaller towers. The stone staircase is fairly wide at first but after a hundred or so steps it becomes extremely narrow. Passing is only possible on the several larger steps which come in between each steep, narrow and tortuous flight. Light is admitted by narrow slits in the wall of the tower.
After about the next hundred and fifty steps, one sways across a wooden plank in a musty loft full of ancient, rotting beams, the carvings on them looking forlorn and out of place, covered in cobwebs and left to rot.
One ascends the last fifty or so steps and is greeted by a blast of fresh air and the sun shining brightly through a narrow wooden doorway. One edges cautiously round the high parapet. Durham of the Black Country unfolds itself before you in an irregular yet sweeping panorama. A winding river glints below in the dying sun. Scenes rush into one's imagination; and the tower, a rock of so many ages vibrates as the bells clash out the passing of yet another day.
IN THE EXAM ROOM all was quiet, the only noise being that of rustled paper and scratching pens. Outside a road drill was at work. Its incessant chatter just penetrated the walls of the room. Suddenly on one of the windows a fly buzzed, then was still. The boy looked at his question paper then back at the side of work he'd just started. "H'm, yes, now," he thought, "273/8, 273/8?" What was that doing there? He couldn't remember writing that down.
It didn't correspond with the question paper. How did it get there? "273/8, 273/8, 273/8" Why couldn't they shut that drill off? Today of all days the council had decided to repair the road. "Buzzz ." Fly go away. He looked at the paper. The 273/8 began to grow. Re blinked and looked again; but still it grew.
Couldn't people get less scratchy pens? Why do flies buzz? Hadn't the drill gone wrong making that noise? 273/8, 273/8, 273/8. No, it wasn't the drill, it was the fly. Why did flies do maths out loud? That paper had been almost empty, now 273/8 covered it completely.
The room began to swim. He sat up and rubbed his eyes; no difference. It only made a wave of 273/8 come rushing towards him. 273/8, 273/8, 273/8. A noise of rushing water; 273/8, 273/8, flies in his ears, a drill in his head. 273/8, 273/8. It was in his head, growing bigger. 273/8, big, 273/8 bigger! his head was going to burst; 273/8, 273/8, 273/8 EEEEEK!
The Examiner arose and walked to where the mad boy lay, foam on his lips, papers all round him. Heads that had been raised, lowered and work went on.
Outside the drill had stopped. the fly had flown out. The Examiner picked up the papers and on the corner of a fresh sheet was the number 273/8.
SIXTEEN YEARS AGO, on September 1st, 1939, the German armoured divisions invaded Poland - the Second World War had begun, and six years of blood-thirsty war were to follow.
The Polish Air Force was outnumbered by more than four to one, but the Luftwaffe's claim to have destroyed it on the ground in the first two days' fighting was not true.
The Polish High Command believed, as did most of the other Western Nations until too late, that a World War was unlikely to begin before 1941 or 1942, and so plans for expansion and modernisation were laid accordingly.
Therefore, when Germany attacked, Poland's Air Force consisted of only four hundred combat aircraft, a large majority of which were obsolescent with the exception of a few bombers. There were eighty-six bombers, a hundred and sixty fighters, seventy general purpose aircraft and eighty army co-operation aircraft.
All these were very much out of date. The P.11, one of the types of fighters used, could go only about a quarter of the speed of the modern Messerschmitt 109 or 110, and it looked more like the Auster A.0.P.6 than anything else. The British and French sent help . . . but it did not arrive. The P.11and its ancient companion 'planes were therefore left to fight it out with the swift well-equipped German 'planes of which there were four to every Polish antiquity. After seventeen days of fighting the number of' German aircraft shot down was 175, quite a large number considering the circumstances, but only a mere handful of Polish 'planes was left, so that most of the pilots escaped from Poland and joined other Air Forces all over the world.
A few pilots, however, did stay, and when only Warsaw remained to be defeated by the Germans, two ancient P.11 fighters went out each day against the German hordes until first one didn't return, and then a few days later, the second was also shot down. Germany, however, had not seen the last of the Polish pilots. Fourteen Polish squadrons were situated in Britain and there were many others formed in different parts of the world.
THE JOVIAL TUNE Of "Summer in the Valley" filled the air as Dr. Reid reached the gate of the drive which led up to his small but cosy cottage.
He was feeling very happy, for no special reason - perhaps it was the beauty of the day. But his happy countenance changed to a look of startled amazement when he was about twenty yards from the cottage. A drunken youth was lying on the step and his house-keeper was trying to push him away.
"What is this hooligan doing on my doorstep?" he demanded. The housekeeper, Polly, replied indignantly, "He came here looking for you, but I saw he was a good-for-nothing so I tried to send him away."
At this point, the young man who had been quiet until now interrupted, and in between hiccups stammered, "Remember, Clifton Market Square 1821?" The Doctor, looking surprised, as if trying to recollect something, suddenly changed to a deathly white. He spoke very softly now, "Go and make dinner for two, Polly."
The young man carried on in a loud voice as if he didn't care whoever knew his business. "I happen to know that in a certain brawl at Clifton Market Square you killed a Mr. Smith." The doctor whispered hoarsely, "What do you want of me?"
"Why money, of course, and if you decide not to give me what I want I shall have to spread the news and that would ruin your practice besides dragging your family name in the mud."
Just at this moment Polly called out that dinner was ready. They went in, and began eating. The young man was soon fuddled with wine and dropped off to sleep. Suddenly Dr. Reid jumped up and put out the light. A scuffle followed and then a ghastly scream rent the air.
The house-keeper came rushing in and found the doctor lying, on the floor - dead, with a knife in his chest, and beside him was the young man fast asleep.
She immediately called the police who took the young man, into custody on a charge of murder. At the time of the trial the public asked, "Why didn't he flee?" "Because he was too drunk," was the answer. But it never occurred to anyone that Doctor Reid might have taken his own life .....
Christoher Prendergast (IIA)
In the way of equipment, one will need several setting boards (long pieces of cork with a groove in the middle, and a wooden base, covered with white paper) of varying sizes, also some entomological pins, some killing fluid, some relaxing fluid and a relaxing tin, a pair of forceps, a setting needle, and a roll of special transparent tape.
To kill a butterfly, one makes a pad with some cotton wool about one inch thick and puts it in the bottom of a large jam jar. The pad should then be hinged to the side by strips of gummed paper. Pour a few drops of killing fluid onto the cotton wool. Now carefully put in the butterfly. If it flutters for more than a minute, the killing bottle is too weak, and some more, fluid must be added. The butterfly will fold its wings over its legs. Now take a relaxing tin and pour in some relaxing fluid. Leave it for about an hour and then put in the butterfly. It must be left for two hours at least; then it may be removed. Hold the insect by the thorax very gently and blow down the wings. If it is relaxed enough they will part easily. Push a pin through its thorax to come out between the legs. A setting board is now required. A suitable setting board will have just enough room for the wings. Push the pin into the centre of the groove. The wings should now be flat on the board. Next take some thin card and cut it into long thin strips. Pin one end of a strip to the board above the wing leaving about an eighth of an inch of the base of the wing uncovered. Then pin the strip to the board at the other end. This will hold the wing in position.
Next take the setting needle and push against the base of the wing with the point of the needle, and the wing will move. Set the wings so that they look quite natural. Now a strip of transparent tape should be pinned down over the uncovered part of the wing. (Remember not to stick pins in the wing, but in the board.) This will guard against shrivelling. All one can then do is to wait for three weeks. After this period the specimen may be removed with pride and placed in the collection.
THE TWO-TIMER (after E. Hemingway)
IT WAS DARK. There'd been a lot of rain about that afternoon. The wet sidewalks shone under the street lamps. It was quiet. Two small guys came round the corner. They were moving at a brisk walk. A drunk lurched up out of the gutter in front of them. The, one on the left slapped him down with a black-jack. The drunk lay still in the gutter. The two little guys hurried on. They came to a big grey block of flats. They stopped outside. They looked round a bit and went in.
"Hey, Al, you sure this is the right place?"
"Yeah, guess so," from the little guy on the right.
"You reckon he'll be in here."
"Yeah, guess so."
"Two-to-one, he's drunk."
"Yeah, he'll be tight."
They got to the fourth storey and stopped outside a dingy, brown door.
The little guy called Al took out a key. He fiddled about with the lock a bit.
"Hey, Luz, it's hookey, won't budge."
"Have another go."
"Guess I will."
This time the door opened. They went in quietly. But quietly. Al first. They were in a small apartment, kind of cob-webby and cheap.
"Guess things ain't so good with him," whispered Al.
"They're gonna be worse."
"Yeah, they're gonna be worse."
A light came out from under a door a way down the hall. They went towards it. Al tripped over a mat lying in the shadows. He didn't make much sound as he regained his balance. He was light and quick on his feet.
"That you, Honey?" said a big voice from behind the door.
"He thinks we're his girl," said Al.
"Yeah, the sucker, the big lousy two-timing sucker."
"Shall we go to see him?"
"Yeah, let's go to see him."
"Hey, baby, got some bourbon out there?" said the drunk voice inside.
"No, but we got somethin' just as lethal," whispered Luz.
"Yeah, guess we have," said Al.
They opened the door and went in. A big guy lay sprawled on a divan by the wall. He was big. Must have had plenty muscles once. They were running to fat in some places now. Guess he could still pack a punch though. The big guy was tight. He was ugly when he was tight. Ugly most of the time but more so when he was tight.
"Guess you're drunk again, big boy."
"Huh?"
"Guess you're just damn tight, you flootin' slab of alcohol."
"Whatcha say?"
"Aw shuddup!"
"Sorry, baby."
"He's so blind drunk he don't know us from his girl."
"Got some rye, honey?"
"Aw you're hell drunk already."
"Huh?"
"You're hell drunk already."
"Who says so?"
"Listen two-timer" - Luz this time - "You're going places."
"The hell I am."
"Yeah, guess you'll go there, you won't make the grade upstairs anyway."
"What's that?" the big guy wasn't too cock-eyed to know when something was wrong. He was scared.
"Guess he came in blind and I guess he's going out blind."
"Yeah, he always was tight."
"Yeah, guess so, even when he was two-timing us."
"Guess so."
"Come on, Al, let's get going quick, the girl may be coming back."
"Yeah. let's jerk this blind greaser and go."
They took a razor out each. Handy slick lethal razors. They both had gloves on. They both looked matter-of-fact. Like they were doing an office job. When they went over to the big guy he was sleeping heavily, he was dead, blind, drunk. As they went briskly down the side walk he was sleeping peacefully. Only he wasn't drunk.
GEORGE, THE BAKER'S boy, got off the bicycle at No. 26. He opened the gate, went up the path, knocked on the door and waited.
Mrs. Elner was an old, kindly woman, she was waiting for him to come, as he did on a Friday, to collect the week's money for the few loaves and buns she usually bought.
"Lift the latch," she called down from upstairs, "the money's under she tea cosy, on the dresser."
"Thank-ee, Mrs. Elner. It'll be 2/6 this week." George lifted the tea cosy and found £2.10s. He took it all!
Three years passed and George now knew his business better. He lived in an expensive flat in London, and loved the girl in the next flat.
One day he came home from "work" and found his tax collector, gas man, electricity inspector and other similar uniforms folded up neatly, instead of in the usual jumble. He went next door and found the police waiting there, with Grace, his girl-friend!
"I was tidying-up in your flat and found a book. It had amounts of money, underlined in black ink, and names. The first amount, £2.10s was dated 1950, and, next to it was written the name "Elner". Mrs. Elner, the person whom you robbed, is my grandmother!
TRUNK-PACKING AT THE END OF TERM
"OKAY BOYS, upstairs and get your clothes out of your lockers," says the matron about a week from the end of term, "Your trunks go in a few days' time."
"Please matron, where's my best suit?" says a small boy.
"I'll give it to you sometime to-night or first thing in the morning," she replies.
"Matron, I left my games clothes over at school," another wails. "Oh you silly boy. You'll just have to take them in your hand-case next week," she replies angrily.
"Matron do you think you could press my trousers for me?" "You'll have to do them yourself because I haven't enough time." Saying this she leaves the room.
Later the matron reappears with a bundle of clothes under her arm. "Now then, listen boys. Have you brought all your personal gear and clothes down from upstairs and put them in a neat pile with your games kit on your bed?"
"Oh, did we have to bring our games kit back from school? I've forgotten all about mine," exclaims a small boy in the far corner who never pays much attention to anything but books.
"Matron, when are we going to pack?" asks yet another small boy.
"You're not going to pack at all. I'm going to do it for you when you are at school."
Just then a prefect comes in. "Lights out," he says, "lie down over there, and you there, put the cards away."
A little while later the matron yet again appears.
"Here's your suit.. Have you been up for foot treatment yet?" pointing to another boy.
"No matron," he replies timidly. "Well go up and do them then."
"Matron, may I press my trousers now?"
"Yes, and don't get the cloth too wet," she advises knowingly. Next morning, right from the start, work begins. Coat-hangers and dressing-gowns have to be laid on the bed and shoes have to be cleaned and lockers emptied.
As we walk over to school we feel glad and thankful to be away from it all for at least ten hours.
But at night when we return the usual routine starts for the last time.
"Tie and lock your trunks up and then carry them outside. Have you all got labels?" asks matron. "If so, check them."
"I haven't got one," a small boy wails.
"Well go and get one; and what's wrong with you?" "My label hasn't got Hackney on it," moans a boy.
"Its got E.5. on it which does just as well. Okay, all got labels?"
"Yes," the boys chorus.
"Take them outside then."
With a sigh of relief we watch the end of term trouble disappear. Now we decide we can relax; until we sorrowfully realise that there, under that lid so firmly tied with cord we shall find a boy's washing kit. And off we go again.
THERE WAS something queer about the old ruin at the end of the street. It was once a famous church, erected by the Normans on the river's edge, with the fresh sea water splashing against its north wall. Now, all that was left was an old ruined church, submerged under three-feet of water. The church itself had no windows left and a huge bell which was incapable of ringing because there was no rope attached.
The people in the village were having some very peculiar experiences lately - the church at the bottom of the road echoed with the ringing of the great bell. The old innkeeper, Joe, an elderly gentleman, was the first to take notice of the noise, since he had been living in the village for thirty years and never once had he heard the bell ring.
He quickly opened his back door and ran to the tool shed at the bottom of the garden. The moon was shining with silvery brilliance over the river, but as he reached his shed the moon was hidden by a cloud, and feeling his way he caught up his old lantern, and set off down the lane to the church.
On reaching the graveyard a mist arose and Joe lit his lantern and waved it around - the ringing had stopped.
He walked up to the great door and opened it; it creaked and groaned, then swung wide open. After staring into the gloomy depths he walked in, immediately finding himself up to this thighs in water. The splashing echoed all over the church as he made his way towards the belfry staircase. His lantern had gone out, due to the splashing of water, when he finally reached the narrow staircase.
Just then the ringing began again, and it echoed louder and louder making his knees give a little, but determination made him continue.
Round and round - up and up he went until he was dizzy but he persevered and finally reached the belfry. Slowly he staggered up onto the small platform and dropped exhausted to the floorboards.
He raised his head and looked up - he saw a man, or what seemed to be a man, staring at him. His eyes were bloodshot and his teeth like fangs-his cheek-bones were highly set and were covered with ugly scars. He was nothing but a maniac.
The innkeeper crawled to his knees and under his sweaty brow watched for the maniac's first move; the waiting seemed like hours but all the time the innkeeper was edging his way toward the bell hammer lying on the floor-once he had the bell hammer he thought, he would surely win the battle once and for all.
Yes! he had gripped the handle firmly and was now ready to spring, but too late, for the maniac had already sprung and secured a firm grip on innocent Joe's throat, and was forcing him to the wooden railing which was the barrier between life and death.
Inch by inch he was forced to retreat, and the maniac was now muttering under his breath, "You shouldn't have come-fool! You shouldn't have come."
Joe was panting like a dog and as he stretched out his feeble hand and felt that hairy iron stomach, he rammed home the hammer. It was not very effective but it gave him time to make a dash for the, staircase. To Joe's astonishment he could not feel the stairs and rather than face the maniac, he jumped - and a faint splash was heard in the murky depths below.
The following morning the villagers found Joe lying face down- wards in the shallow water with a bell hammer lying only a few feet from his body - his spine was broken. They turned him over slowly and saw on his face the sunken eyes of a maniac and that long- lasting expression of fear!
THE SHORE of Java became a blur on the horizon, and Hayes, first mate of the "Maid of Perth" in the service of the Honourable East India Company, turned with a sigh from the rail, and went below to his bunk.
During the night he awoke with a cold sweat on his brow. and tossed and turned, dozing fitfully for the rest of the night.
In the morning he staggered on deck, only to be told by Captain Sims that he had malaria and was excused duty until he recovered. "Thank you, sir," he stammered, and dropped in a heap of blissful unconsciousness on the deck.
He came to at Cape Town. He was thankful he wasn't on board the "Black Devil", a rival in the same firm, for Captain MacDuff, of that eminent barque, would have had him surreptitiously dropped over the side long before during a storm and casually entered his death in the log book as misadventure, and proceeded to forget about it. Three people on one voyage was his record.
He went up on to the bridge when they had just passed St. Helena, having recently recovered. He rubbed his eyes, thinking he was still delirious, but no, there on the port quarter was a sail.
He duly reported this and went back to his rail, but as they drew nearer, heard the captain cry, "It's the 'Black Devil."'
This was Hayes' first voyage on this ship, so he would not know what it meant, but the windjammer immediately became a hive of activity. Men crowded on sail, more sail, and yet more sail until the masts seemed to be groaning under the weight. Merryweather, the third mate, and the best man in the company with a wheel, took over the steering.
The "Maid of Perth" responded nobly, breasting each wave as if she personally realised the urgency of the moment. The next two days saw them cover five days' ordinary journey. But the conditions were too good to last. A gale overtook them in the May of Biscay and swept them off course. When they emerged into the sunlight and were rounding Cape Cherbourg, they sighted the "Black Devil" about a mile in front of them.
Again all sail was crowded on and Merryweather took the helm. Slowly "Maid of Perth" crept up on "Black Devil," but all too slowly.
Round the Isle of Wight they swept, and then in the Solent. MacDuff tried his last trick. The "Black Devil" swung round and made as if to ram the "Maid", but MacDuff had miscalculated.
"Black Devil" stuck fast on a shoal, and "Maid of Perth" sailed triumphantly into Southampton, the first in of the season.