Page 38 - 1966

At one time pacifism may have had a chance to win, but that was at a time when kings and emperors determined the destinies of nations by pitting their armies against each other with their sole purpose being the attainment of the spoils and glory of war. Today, however, with the mushroom cloud which rose over Hiroshima still remembered, the glory of war is not readily dis- covered. It is the horror of modern-day warfare which causes the often meek and mild individual to become a pacifist, don the armour of hypocrisy and ignorance, cover it with the shield of idealism and charge forth into the picket lines.
There is one crucial fact which these civic-minded citizens do not seem to be aware of and that is that war has become a necessity! By this statement I by no means intend to leave the impression that I think it is time for World War III. It would be ridiculous for anyone to think along those lines. At present it would be impossible to predict the outcome of such a war accurately but it is almost certain that World War IV would be fought with bows and arrows. What I mean, rather, is that the important 'little' wars which are taking place all over the world are a necessity for the simple reason that the causes of war have changed. As I have already said, kings led nations to war mainly for glory, plunder, and the strengthening of national images. Today, however, these small factions have evolved into two sides which are fighting to preserve two totally different ideological beliefs, and it is because I am on the side which believes that communism must not be allowed to grow that I think these battles must be fought and they must be won. ,
Peace in our time is unquestionably impossible because the communists are not prepared to quit and if peace were declared by our side all the soldiers who had fallen on the fields and hills of Korea, Laos, and VietNam would have died in vain, and the spectre of communism would grow until its icy hand had squeezed the life from free people the world over.
Senior Third
THE OUTCAST Deborah Worrad
A cloud of dust mixed with the odour of the nearby nut-shop as the damp, impatient wind swept the litter of the streets before it, and tore at the trousers of a man. He sat huddled against the front of a store while the crowds tramped by in the rhythmic rush of a busy intersection. Unperceived and disregarded, he stared at the passing feet, all with a destination, a goal, a home. Only the bits of coloured paper, pushed on by the wind, seemed to notice him. They danced in his honour for a few seconds before continuing their journey to the gutter.
Two yellowish crutches were tucked beneath his one foot. From under the battered cap at his side, the handle of a tin cup peeked shyly, as if ashamed to show itself and the frustrated existence of which it spoke. His trousers were streaked with the filth of years and the blackened flesh of his foot was barely distinguishable from the leather as it protruded from the holes in his mudcaked boots. A rough hand holding a few pencils, his wares, kept the lapels of his tattered jacket together. With his other hand he stroked the back of a stray dog that had wandered up. His bloodshot eyes gazed around him at the stores which displayed their wealth in artistic window arrangements. His
face was raw with cold, and lines about his toothless mouth told of the ravages of hunger and loneliness.
It was five o'clock and the crowds thickened. He pulled his cup from beneath his cap and held it out to the passing legs clothed in stockings of silk and in carefully pressed trousers. The hems of coats brushed by him, and blind boots kicked his crutches and muddy shoe. Oh, so seldom could the ring of a copper coin be heard as someone threw it into the tin cup. A child, skipping by, grabbed at his pencils, skipped on and disappeared into the crowd with a shout.
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