Verhovayak Lapja, 1944 (27. évfolyam, 1-52. szám)
1944 / Verhovay Journal
Page 2 Verhovay Journal August 31, 1944 LET TRUTH BE UNCONFINED Chicago Branch 503 Every great and commanding movement in the annals of the world is the triumph of enthusiasm. Nothing great was ever achieved without it. ■—Emerson From Sardinia, an island off Italy, comes, another interesting letter from SGT. JERKOVICH, with the 432nd Bombardment Squadron. Dated July 16th, his letter in part follows: “The town where I had my picture taken (published in a recent issue of the Journal) is not the capitol of Sardinia. It is an average size little city, and at the present is off limits to «ell Allied troops. As to our shuttle-bombers, oui group is a Medium Bombardment Group. I’m sure that you have been reading in the papers of oui work over enemy territory. My brother Steve is now at Ft. Benning, Ga., training new paratroopers. He likes his new job Recently the folks sent me a new pair of bathing trunks. They mailed them on April 20th and 1 received it on July 1st. I’ve been down to the Red Cross Beach Club four times. I enjoy swimming and diving off the float. I haven’t heard from '‘Dirk’’ Phillips for 6 months. I was surprised and glad to see, in the Journal, that he was promoted to Sergeant for the work he is doing there, and also editing his outfit’s paper on the side. I understand that his commanding officer called him down, because “Dirk” was not giving the various camp USO shows enough reviewing in the paper. Dirk was quoted as to remark that he was surprised that the commandant read his corny stuff—some of Phillips’ humor as usual. That’s what 1 like about the guy. I was pleased to hear of the recent marriage of A1 Jozik and Margaret Vargo.” Fire away again, soldier! Those post cards of the town of La Maddalena are beautiful, and we also appreciate the snap-shots of Frank Dohányos and Ernie Virág—your buddies from Lorain. * * * * FRANK HUZIANY, serving on the U.S.S. Van Buren somewhere in the south Pacific, writes a brief note: “Have just received a few letters today and I am trying to answer them all now. I suppose brother John is having a good time in England. It is impossible to get pictures out here; there’s no towns anyway, just little native villages all over, which have all been evacuated. We go on liberty for an hour— sometimes, as there’s work to be done. I must cut this short as I have to go to church for today is Sunday.” Okeh Seaman, let us have a little more news the next time and the best ©f luck to you! * * * Readers will note the different letters received from all parts of the world—to show where our Verhovayans are fighting. And now we have a letter from NORMANDY, in France, from PVT. JULIUS NAGY, of Detroit, who is serving with a Tank Destroyer Battalion, arid who has undergone extensive and intensive training for the task in which he is now participating; 'Tt took s while to receive your letter because we moved around quite a bit. After spending a year in England, we got over to sunny France. I have been in action and in a few rough spots. I’m writing this letter next to my fox hole, and inhaling plenty of dust from the road. Oh, for the life of a soldier! But don’t get me wrong. We’re not kicking, because we know that we are on the winning side, fighting for what is right. I haven’t had any chicken paprikash and could go for some of it now! Above me are a flock of P-47s ... I’m glad they’re on our side.” Good luck to you, JULIUS, and the Lord ke'ep you safe and sound. Write us again! * * * PVT. JOSEPH HODITS, now at Ft. Riley, Kansas, writes this several weeks ago: “Many times I’ve wanted to write but I have been very busy since they discharged me from the hospital and sent me back to this camp. Now I get shipped soon to a line outfit, and maybe soon I’ll get my chance to do what I joined the army for. Maybe when I get to my new outfit it will make up for all the bad luck I’ve had. I spent a little over 13 months in a hospital and, believe you me, that’s a life-long time for anyone.” We are glad you are up and around, Joe, and we hope you will let us know more about yourself later. * * * STAFF SERGEANT GEORGE POZSGAY, JR., with the 611th Army Air Forpe, sends us greetings from New Orleans. In a brief note he writes: “I’m in old new Orleans. What a town! At Eglin Field we boil from the heat: here we get cooked. After a hectic hunt, I finally landed this “oasis,” (hotel), and it is nice, clean and, what is most important, air-conditioned., Will write later.” * * * And now, from JOHNNIE HUZIANY, somewhere in England, we have the following: “I’m sitting on my cot out in the open as I write these lines. How’s everything at home, the. garden and the new fence must look nice! I am feeling fine arid dandy now, but two hours ago I felt and looked like a bum, with a beard that looked like Rip Van Winkle’s, and as dirty as a Madison Street (in the Windy City!) bum! And I wasn’t the only one taking a cold shower. There were other teeth chattering and knees knocking. Aw heck! We engineers, can take anything! This afternoon the Red Cross came and passed out donuts and coffee while we were working. They sure do a swell job for us boys out here.” You engineers certainly got big jobs to do, eh, Johnnie? Anyway, here’s hoping you are making the best of it—for Engineers always do! * * * For the following information we are indebted to Mrs. Frank Grebenar, 2943 N. Mason Avenue: CPL. E. S. TALABER, now somewhere in France, recently sent his mother a 16 ft. long Nazi flag, captured in the fighting in Normandy. (The picture of his mother and that of a neighbor was published in a recent issue of the Chicago Herald-American. ) PVT. JOSEPH MARKOS is on combat duty in France. His brother FRANK MARKOS was home on a furlough recently, when he was graduated from the radio school. He is now Seaman The Ferret Sez . . . By Mrs. Jcian Lucas mUiti.... Ä j!lll»IIBllilllllllll'!ll!iB*IHHIItlÍÍ«l»i “It is work which makes fibre; which gives balance to life.” * * * Sure have been finding out that the guy who thought up the above remark must have had two jobs to do. Finally got in the swing of working part-time at the Post-Office, and then coming home to do a full-time job in the Lucas Domain. Somehow, it’s being managed, but good thing it isn’t going to last forever... » * * As it happened, it wasn’t Gladwin the Lucas Foursome visited on their annual spree. It was a little half-horse town, north-west of Detroit, about 173 miles, by the name of Mecosta, tucked between Big Rapids and Mt. Pleasant; surrounded by thousands and thousands of acres of second growth timber and heavy underbrush—the backwoods of Michigan, so to speak, and a more forlorn, God-forsaken place just ain’t.” However, if a fella wants to get back to Mother Nature, the region around here is the place to lose oneself in. Miles between villages, and more miles between taverns—those places where they sell that cool, brown liquid—when they can get it! Saw my first trout stream; saw my first trout, in fact! The Little Manistee River is no more than a casting rod in width, but the water is swift, and cool, with deep holes for those vigorous fish to play hide-and-seek in. Here is where pike bait, or chubs, which are small fish and look like over-grown sardines, 1/C; and he is awaiting to be assigned to a ship. My brother also has been promoted—from CM 3/C to CM 2/C. He doesn’t have much to say outside of the fact that he is in good shape. My husband is still in Italy. Recently he sent me a beautiful cameo. He had a three day pass some time ago but still hasn’t been able to tell me where he has been. * * * Just as this was going to be sent to the editor, another letter arrived from PVT. JOSEPH HODITS, mentioned earlier in this column. ‘T’ve been transferred to Camp Gruber, Oklahoma, with the 22nd Cavalry outfit. Tho’ this place isn’t half bad, it’s too hot down here. There is no shade or any relief from the heat during the day. The closest town of any sort is about 35 miles away. This is a line outfit I’ve joined, and some say that at any moment we’re ready for a little ride.” * * * We are glad to announce that ATTORNEY ANDREW PETTINGER has joined Branch 503— although he has had a rather sad experience with another Verhovay branch member in matters relating to business. But Mr. Pettinger thinks a whole lot of the Verhovay family and Secretary Frank Balogh signed him up. Mr. Pettinger is an aggressive and very capable Attorney-at-Law, known to Hungarians of Chicago for many years. We encourage Branch 503 members and other Verhovay Chicagoans to consult with Mr. Pettinger when they have need of legal advice. Office: 1 N.„ LaSalle St. Telephone: Central 5627. Tuesday, August 15, 1944. THE SRIBE OF KŐSZEG. abide in plentiful supply, if one doesn’t mind wading downstream with a fly-rod and a worm. In the woods surrounding these trout streams, the country is so wild that maybe only a handful of people stir the solitude annually, and then only temporarily. Little Larry saw his first snake, and he was a wow of an example—a long five-foot black snake, and a lazier creature never existed. Luke told us that these big snakes take their good old time getting out of a fella’s way as they aren’t afraid of anything. Talk about your wild-life! Gathered a list of the small animals inhabiting these woods —for instance there are muskrats, jack-rabbits, bob-cats, snakes, small black bears, deer, partridge, pheasant, porcupines, wild geese and ducks; and the lakes are full of fish, although August is a bad time for the large northern pike. As the nature stories go, pike and ‘muskies” lose their teeth between the last of July and the first of September. It takes about three to five weeks to shed their teeth and acquire a fresh set— a double row of small ones, and long fangs in front like a dog wears. During this shedding period, the big babies sulk at the bottom of the lakes and only come up when they become too hungry, or their gums get too red and raw in the tooth-losing process, at which times they are fighting mad and the lucky angler takes home a prize. Luke must have a lucky star over him, as he got a beaut of an eightpounder, which the Skipper had to hit over the head with his Boy-Scout hatchet before he could be landed in the boat. That was a day Larry and I decided to visit a gem of a beauteous lake—School Section Lake, where the Mecosta County Park is located. You can’t possibly imagine a more heavenly lake— twisting about like a languid snake, edged up to the sandy shore-line with tall, second-growth timber. A large portion of the park is virgin evergreens; spruce, balsam, cedar, pine and fir trees grew in profusion. Walking along the shore-line, ankle-deep in pungent pine needles, where the sun never crept, looking out at the peaceful blue lake, imagin ing what kind of wild-life existed on that honey of a mysteriouslooking island in the center, never hearing the raucous cries of a human voice, jumping at small noises made by more timid animals... well, it all sort of relaxed the “tired business woman.” Walked back to the wonderful sandy beach, which is visited by few people, and just floated peacefully on that large, truck inner tube, which the Skipper found on Whitmore Lake last summer. There must be a lake at every road turning in this section— Blue Lake, where the boys caught their pike; Lake Mecosta, which is reached by a channel from Blue Lake, which leads to Round Lake by another channel. Round Lake—will I ever forget it! One evening about six bells, we decided to' try this lake which promised big pike if one had the patience to angle for them. All four of us in the boat, with a bit of refreshment, Luke’s pre eious tackle box, and expectant hearts wondering what this lake held. Well, it was anything but fish! Set out with anticipation— but was warned by the “Boat Lady” that it looked like rain, and she hoped we’d get some of it as it was melting hot. Found an intriguing looking spot in a small cove, with lily-pads just a little way off, and settled to the task of fishing. Larry liked worms on his hook, Skipper found crickets to his liking, Luke liked his dry-lures on the fly-rod, or chubs, with which to try for another pike, and I stuck to good old, reliable minnows. Everyone was getting a bite of something or other; even I got bitten by; flies and giant-size mosquitoes! Kept getting darker and darker, that big black cloud was coming closer and closer, the kids and I were getting more frightened by the minute. A short, snappy gust of wind made a pass at us, and whistled away through the tops of the trees. Another playful gust rippled the ugly-looking water with more than a jesting snort, and brough t the black cloud nearly over-head. Then Papa Wind decided to try his hand at this exciting game of playing with mere mortals in a tiny boat, on a fairly good-sized lake, and let out with a big blast. The wind rustling in the large trees nearby intensified to a .loud roar; the ripples developed into waves and on to surf-like proportions. We all rushed to gather in our lines; the dark cloud was over-head, the wind was bellowing like an angry bull, and the waves grew bigger and bigger and was tossing our little boat like a cork on a mad sea. We were more than frightened now —Larry and I got panicky and hysterical with gnawing fear; Skipper tried to be. brave, poor little Boy-Scout, and Luke had his hands full trying to keep the boat headed with the wind, and trying to lessen our fears. “Quit that yelling for help; we’ll make it,” sez Luke, “a rowboat doesn’t capsize in wind, and we are being blown towards shore.” But Larry and I huddled in the bottom of the boat—as the babe said afterwards, “Boy, Mummy, I prayed so hard for God to save us and get us in to shore, and Daddy helppd a little, too.” The wind kissed the tops of the angry white-caps and sprayed us with icy-cold water, and we wallowed deeper into the waves. How we ever managed to reach shore is one of those miracles that my tiny, human mind cannot understand, but WE DID IT. A few cottagers were waiting at the dock to lend a helping hand, and they said for a little while there our chances looked pretty slim. All four of us great “outdoor men, and woman,” were shaking like the leaves in the trees when we finally trod on good old “Terra Firma.” Of course, it’ll be some little time, before the kids and I are brave enuf to tackle another stormylooking lake. Finally, the Day of Homecoming arrives. “How the devil did we ever get all this junk in the car at home?” queries Luke. Qld Mike, our landlord, puts in his two-bits worth of suggestions and the trunk lid is gaspingly locked. One last glass of beer with Mike grid off we start, with a bit of sadness in our hearts at leaving this jewel of a section, were adventures are part of one’s everyday life. Driving due-east, through miles and miles of Michigan’s wastelands—oil-wells, outside of Mt. Pleasant in the woods, add a (Continued on Page 3)
