Golten, Nanci

English

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Hit the DeckRobert DugdaleTHE United States destroyer Henderson, DD645, was steamingtoward Wonsan Harbor, which is located on the East coast ofKorea. It was returning for more bombardment duty from aroutine patrol at Hungnam, where it sank a North Korean san panattempting to lay mines.I, Bill Wilson, quartermaster third class of the United StatesNavy, had the visual communication watch on the bridge, along withquartermaster striker, Tom Anderson.It was 5 :30 a. m., and although we had been on watch for an hourand a half, neither of us was quite awake. "You hold a sweep downand I'll put on a pot of mud," I said, as I started for the ladder.The sea was calm, but the sky was overcast, and the barometerhad been dropping-a good sign of a storm."Where are we going to hit first when we get back in port?" Tomasked, as he dried out the swab."Oh, I don't care. After forty clays at sea I'll be able to have agood time anywhere," I replied."Sure is good coffee you make," marveled Tom. "How come younever drink the stuf f ?""It's one of the few bad habits I haven't gotten into yet," I toldhim."Tell the Officer of the Deck it's a half an hour before sunrise,"I reminded Tom. With only fifteen minutes before dawn alert, Iwanted everyone to be prepared."Combat reports an unidentified plane, bearing zero six zerodegree true, distance fifty miles," Tom said, as he hurried out of thewheelhouse. "The skipper told the OOD to sound general quartersso it looks like trouble."The alarm sounded and within seconds the ship became alive withmen running to their battle stations. "What's the trouble?" askedfirst class quartermaster, Don Taylor, as he headed for the wheel-house to take the helm."An unidentified boogie," I answered, as I put on my life jacketand helmet."All stations manned and ready," came the report over the phonecircuit. Phone talker, Jack Peterson, informed the captain alongwith a report from combat that the plane's bearing was remainingconstant, hut the distance had closed to ten miles."Attention all hands," came a report from the loud speaker. "Thisis the captain. Combat reports an inidentified plane. The relativebearing is about three hundred and thirty degrees, distance ten miles.I don't have to tell vou to keep a sharp lookout. Make all reports toail- defense." .MANUSCRIPTS 51"Think it's a Red?" Tom asked, as he scanned the starboard bow."It must be," I replied. "Or he would have identified himself bynow. I'm sure glad we've got that blanket up there," referring to theovercast. "He'll have to come in low, and these gunners aren't thetype that miss. Not when the chips are down."Then from mount one came, "Plane three hundred and fiftydegrees relative, position angle ten, closing fast." Mounts one andtwo opened fire, and we watched the flack getting closer, but none hit.The plane commenced strafing, and as it pulled out of its dive, let goits bomb."Hit the deck," I yelled, as I knocked Tom over with a flyingtackle. "Sightseeing will get you nowhere in this league," I warnedhim. Then came an explosion that shook the ship, but luck was withus, and the bomb hit about twenty-five yards off starboard beam.We looked up just in time to see mounts three, four, and fiveopen fire. Flack was bursting all around the plane, and for a coupleof seconds it looked as if he might get away, but after months oftraining, the gunners weren't going to let their first bird get away.What followed looked like the Fourth of July. The next instant theplane burst into flames and plunged into the sea."We got him," yelled Tom, as he jumped to his feet. "Yes, buthe came too close to please me," I answered. "If it never happensagain, it'll be too soon.""All hands, secure from general quarters," came a report over theloud speaker. "Let's get some chow and hit the sack," I said to Tom."We've got the twelve to four watch this afternoon.""That's all right with me," he replied. "I can use a little relaxa-tion.""Relaxation," I thought. "How can you relax when up ahead liesWonsan and there lies the enemy?"It's for the BirdsNanci GoltenIDON'T like birds.The professional ornithologist is hard enough to understand,although I do give him his due credit. But I don't comprehendthe amateur or the true bird lover-the tree climber.I appreciate the people who put food out of doors in snowyweather so that through the long bleak winter the air may be filledwith the melodious songs of their grateful friends. I know manyan invalid's day is cheered watching the hungry guests at a windowsuet tray. I have been told that young children learn not to mistreatpets because at even more tender ages they have been instructed inthe system of attracting birds to rustic feeding stations, purchasedthrough courtesy of House Beautiful Mail Order Service, at theincredibly low price of twenty-nine ninety-five.52 MANUSCRIPTS lVIAN USCRIPTS 53But I do not understand the tree climbing urge.A tree climber, when in good form, rises at four in the morningto be on his way before the birds begin winging about in search ofinsects and undernourished field mice. Bleary eyed, he starts theday cooking a mammoth breakfast to sustain his energies ;vhiletracking down a tufted titmouse when the titmouse has better Judg-ment than to be out tracking down the tree climber. He wears bootsweighing twelve and a half pounds each and a coat so heavy it knocksover small furniture as it is tossed around casually while binocularsand field guides are located. Rarely is he awake enough to s~e ~1~athe is doing, so he drops cartons of eggs and pitchers of fruit juicewhile trying to kick shut the refrigerator door. A tree climber alsomakes more noise putting the skillet on the stove than a navy cook.The final affront to a sleeping household is to leave everything as is:"1 didn't clean up the kitchen-'fraid the noise would wake you."Tree climbers never drive their own cars. They are always pickedup by other tree climbers whose cars, perhaps not really as dilapidatedas they appear, have suffered the ravages of swamp and prairie.Tree climbers are never waiting for these free rides. They mustalways be honked for. If it is Sunday, tree climbers never leave thefunny papers for the family but take them along to read in the car,together with the magazine section and the sporting pages. Theywrap sandwiches in the society sections.To be good, tree-climbing territory must be well stocked withpoison ivy and berry bushes. Thorn trees are not to be overlookedin hunting the ideal place since it is against the rules of the gameever to be comfortable. There should be a plentiful supply of strongvines, close to the ground, well covered and hidden, which provehandy contrivances for tripping the novice.At the drop of a mating call, someone speaking in a stage whisperbegins the rumor that there is a downy woodpecker close by. Imme-diately the speaker is the center of attention as all follow the directionof his arm indicating the white oak over there-second branch fromthe bottom, out near the end, and hidden in that clump of dead leaves.Up go field glasses and out come pencils and record sheets. Every-one seems capable of seeing the bird, and through field glasses, too.This is no place for the uninitiated. All are satisfied with the huntexcept one frustrated little man who voices his opinion that it wasn'ta downy woodpecker but a red-headed woodpecker. I-lis binocularsarc the best that Abercrombie and Fitch list in their Spring Catalogue.Understanding, wiser heads calm down the party with sugges-tions of hot coffee. This is a fine idea except that the ruggednaturalists have brought along neither cream nor sugar for the sissiesin the crowd, and the coffee is too hot to drink from tin cups. Bythe time it has cooled enough to swallow, everyone is gathering him-sel f together, anxious to be 0 f f hecause there seems to be a barnowl in that hickory tree.The advanced stasre 0 f tree climbing is evident in severe cases nolonger able to traipsd" through the me.a~lows looking for bil:ds. Theystand silently, in uncomfortable positrons, rooted to ': given sl~ot,listening. These are the p~o]lle who after years .of bird watchingare now capable of recognizmg, by the song, the clif ference betweena yellow breasted chat and a rose breas~ed gross-be~k at one hund_redfifty yards. Perseverance gradua.lIy increases t!l,lS. t<~ the all-timehigh record of two hundred m.ld fi ft~en yards. I'his IS the goal 0 fevery tree climber as his arteries begm to harden.Aside from myself, the only gro~lp o! people I k~10W who don'tlike birds are entomologists, who clal!l1 ~)Irds cat tl.le insects. r nowrecognize it as a futile bat_tle, so I. don t fight tree climbers any longer.I'm considering learning taxidermy.A Struggle for ExistenceJean JoseT 11E e rcatest struevle for existence tha.t. the human mind must""to . f I' . . I'fencounter is not directly the preservation o t IV1l1g,moving 1 e,but rather a more basic preserving of the ideas that arc the verybreath of life. Life is ideas. No conflict that ever has to be facedon earth is any harder fought than the batt~e t? save 311li(~ea fromobliteration and to mise it instead to a realization. 1he fiercenessof the struggle results f rom the fact that the idea, by its actual nature,originates, "fives, fights to secure a pe;'manent foothold, a~ld eitherdies or is fulfilled within the boundaries of the human 111111d.Al-though expressions of thoughts are released con~tantly through \v~)l'dand action. the actual thought or idea must remam concentrated with-in the individual. Considering the millions of ideas that arc formed.how few of them are ever realized. This would indicate that thereis a variance of importance placed on th~lt1ghts; only those that ~lreof the highest importance gain the nttcntion ne~essary to. even hnngabout an attempt to accomplish them through tireless actions.The struetzle for existence bczins the moment all idea is born andcontinues m~~~ desperately as th~ idea incre~ses in !l11p~)rtance, Thisdesperation for the existence and consequential realization grows outof fear. Once something or someone has become of great import-ance, a fear arises of 10si;lg that which we prize so highly. TI;c r~10stdetrimental of all obstructions to the fulfillment of our ideas is tune,the indestructible enemy 0 f existence whether it be bodily or mental.Time brings with it stumbling blocks, sometimes so lI;an)' that v~e arcunable to raise ourselves again to the task 0 f acc0111p~lsh1llg 0111:](~cas.Conseq1lently, the str1lggle of ideas for existence lS, rnost dlf flcultbeca1lse, in addition to being within 1lS, the stumblll1g blocks areforever coming.

It\u27s for the Birds

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It\u27s for the Birds

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