Verhovayak Lapja, 1940. július-december (23. évfolyam, 27-52. szám)
1940-07-11 / 28. szám
July 11, 1940 Page 3 Verhovayak Lapja acknowledged by Mr. Jozik, as he summarizes Dr. Birinyi’s latest ivork, “Why the Treaty of Trianon is Void.’’ Mr. Jozik treats each chapter, noting its contents. Those who are interested in the history of the peace conferences and in that of Hungary should immediately procure a copy of this book. October 26, 1939 — THE ONE-SIDED PRESS The majority of the press of this country habitually releases colored foreign news, prejudicial not only because of insufficient knowledge, but because it is guilty of a heavy bias. Hungary is wrongly categorized by reporters as everything but what she is—a representative democracy. Mr. Jozik stresses his point by quoting from Dr. Birinyi’s book, “Why the Treaty of Trianon is Void.’’ November 30, 1939 — THE LIES CONTINUE Mr. Jozik discusses briefly the slandering article, “Stalin Over Europe,’’ which appeared in The Saturday Evening Post and which attacked Hungary’s reoccupation of part of her territory that west GRABBED by the Czechs in 1920. The writer of the article, Demaree Bess, compared Polandfs and Hungary's regimes with that of Stalin’s “paradise.’’ Mr. Jozik disproves this statement and suggests protest letters from members direct to the publishers. February 15, 1940 — WILLI AM EDGAR BORAH i The passing of this great statesman is a deep bloio to every American. The “Lion of Idaho,” as he was known, was a champion of justice and truth, who saw the grave harm of the despicable treaties of Versailles and Trianon, and rightfully not only condemned them but also fearlessly worked against them. These are but some of the noteworthy contributions appearing from Mr. Jozik. They deserve our compliments and praise. Although he is a true champion and defender of Magyar tradition, Mr. Jozik is also a firm and loyal adherent of the principles of that Americanism upon which our nation was built. (In the next issue, MORE. The works of other contributors.) —Zero Hour!—i by ROB STORM. then turned to fire at some hapless soldier. “That gun’s just ahead—in a pile of rocks,” muttered Peter Hastings. Jim nodded. “We’ll have to get that before we can advance. You have a grenade?” As the other pulled a bomb from a pocket, Jim added: “We’ll wait till the firing passes again—then when I give the word, we’ll go after it.” Guns still continued to blaze away furiously in the shell-holes which scarred the terrain. Again the machine gun clattered in their direction. Fountains of earth spurted as the slugs hammered into the ground. Again it passed. “Now!” yelled Jim grimly. And he rose from the ground in one bound, clearing the edge of the hole. His left hand gripped the rifle, and in his right hand he held a grenade. Like madmen they ran into the fire which the gunners directed at them. Jim puffed as he rushed along the muddy, uneven ground. His feet slipped once and he fell; but he jerked himself erect only to dash on. Weaving from side to side, their legs pumping like pistons, panting for breath, they raced. Then Hastings fell, clutching his shoulder. Jim tumbled into a hole, dragging his companion. “Hurt bad?” he queried. Bullets dug into the dirt, sending it splashing into their faces. “Just my shoulder, Jim,” he murmured, pain contorting his features. “But let’s go on. They’re close-by now.” Their faces scraped the dirt as they crawled slowly, cautiously out of the hole. Hardly daring to breath for fear of attracting the notice of the gunners, they wriggled on their stomachs until they could see the men behind the breastwork of stone. They slid into a hole. Jim smiled at the unsuspecting gunners before them. “What a surprise they’re going to get in just a moment. You slip to the right,” he told Hastings, “and I’ll go to the left. When you’re within throwing range, let them have it!” He stared ahead. “Let’s go!” Grenades ready in their right hands, the two men wriggled out of the shell-hole. Luckily, the ground was undulating and ripped and torn, and there were pockets to hide their crawling bodies. Jim’s heart pounded intensely, and he prayed that the men would not see him. A hundred feet from the nest, Jim glanced carefully in the direction Hastings had taken. He was advancing slowly, still undiscovered. Jim raised his hand stealthily. Then, fastening his teeth on the pin of the bomb, he made ready to leap. Legs tensed beneath him like huge springs. ——(a Verhovay Member)—-............... ■ As the shrill whistle knifed through the gray mist of dawn, Corporal Jim Garrity gripped his gun. His breath came in short, jerky gasps as he hurled himself over the edge of the trench. Zero hour! Shells screamed and burst over the shadowy figures of running men. Barbed wire loomed ahead, entangling legs, tearing at clothes. Jim swore as he tumbled into a hole. He jumped up, plunging ahead of the men. Bayonets flashed in the fingers of sunlight which stole from behind a cloud. A machine gun, hidden somewhere ahead, began to spray lead towards the men. A soldier clutched at his spurting throat and crumpled to the ground. Another was literally cut in two as though with an axe. “Get down!” Jim screamed. Men dropped all around him. He leaped into a torn shell-hole, half-full of mud, landing on his stomach. Water seeped through his uniform and he shivered. Rat-tat-tat-tat... tiny geysers of dirt leaped around the hole, and Jim huddled closer to the ground. As the shots passed, he lifted his helmeted head cautiously. A shell whined. Instinctively he leaped backward, rolling over and over in the sticky mud. A mighty explosion tore the air; fragments of steel plucked at his clothing. Mud splashed into his face. An enormous hole appeared magically where he had lain. “God! That was close,” he gasped. A man slid into the hole beside Jim. His face was terribly pale, and a line of dirty blood smeared one side of his face. But when he recognized Jim he smiled with a curious parting of set teeth. Before they could speak, the machine gun chattered ominously close, and they hugged the ground. Bullets crackled threateningly near, Together the two men left the ground in great leaps, to land running, like sprinters. Rat-tat-tat... Jim saw flame burst in Hastings’ direction, and he swore as the man threw up his hands and crumpled to the ground. “The devils!” he ground out between set teeth; then they turned the gun on him. It was pointed straight at him, belching flame and steel. Bullets plucked at his clothes. One slug bit into his left shoulder, another into his left calf. Gritting his teeth, he rushed on amid screaming lead and pungent smoke until he was upon the nest. Then, savagely, he jerked at the pin with his teeth. One—two—three—he counted up to ten! His arm flew back, snapped forward. The bomb flew end over end in a lazy arc, landing behind the masonry of the nest. As he crashed to the ground, Jim heard a cry of surprise. Then the air sighed deeply. The earth trembled in the rocking explosion. Orange flame and black smoke mushroomed. Fragments of steel and stone and dirt rained down from the sky. Smoke drifted away from the huge hole in the midst of the wreckage. Somewhere a voice moaned for a moment, then was still. The gun was silent! (The End.) BRANCH 366 TO HOLD ANNUAL PICNIC CLEVELAND, OHIO The Annual Picnic of Branch 366, Cleveland, Ohio, will be held on Sunday, July 28, at Kalo’s Farm, Forbes Road, Bedford, Ohio. The program will be attractively varied to suit the picnickers. There will be gate prizes, races, contests, a ball game between the Verhovays and the Jesters at 2 p. m., several kinds of games, etc. The music will be furnished by the Primrose Orchestra. BRANCH 434 South Bend. Indiana Another month. Another meeting. After the close of the minutes the general trend of discussion rolled around to our las social affair during the month of June, our weiner roast of the 29th. Some of the officers of the branch were unable to attend, but that didn’t stop us from having a grand time. No sir-ee! Weiners... buns ... mustard ... marshmallows ... beer ... songs ... jokes... who would ask for more? Elizabeth must have spoken out of turn because the boys suddenly decided that a ducking in the nearby creek was as good a way as any to quiet her down Wonder what changed theii minds? Frank Hoffer proved himself to be a No. 1 ape man (Tarzan personified) when he climbed the tallest tree in sight, just to chop off a limb for kindling. The fire wasn’t the only thing burned up that night. Some one else was. It seems her beau left us at 9:00 p. m. to go back to town to return with two more couples. We waited, waited and waited. At 11 we were still waiting, eventually deciding that either he had lost his way or had forgotten all about us. At the meeting his excuse was: “My car broke down.” Shall we believe him? Anyway, better luck next time. Who taught Joe Sagi to cackle like a chicken? He asserts Rose Ross did ... who knows? Mike and Martha were absent from the meeting Monday evening. Did their car break down, too? To bring up the rear, I’ll just say that I hope we have a larger attendance at our next meeting than we did at the last. Maybe it's the weather (who said summer was here?). Till the next issue, THE TERMITE. Free transportation to the picnic grounds will be available. To get to the grounds follow Ohio Route 8 or 14 to Forbes Road; then go north on Forbes Road and watch for signs giving further directions. The admission to the Annual Picnic is 30c. Everyone is invited to attend this grand day sponsored by Cleveland’s Branch 366.
