My dear Admiral Sellars,
Against the advice of everyone, I should like to talk with you about my son, Arthur Barton Cross, now a midshipman in his plebe year. He is the third of my sons to enter Annapolis. . . .
To most civilians, you are simply the austere trainer of men, but I am presuming you also possess that trait of sympathy given the youthfulness of plebes. My son went into his recent examinations ill in body and I fear subnormal in spirit and mind. No boy was ever braver than he—he knows about hazing and expects it—he learned that at The Citadel, I can assure you.
Barton has not written or spoken a word of this to me or to his father, but a classmate of his mentioned the cruelties he is undergoing to his older brother in Washington. Through devious means unknown to either the older brother or the lad himself, news has reached me.
This “youngster” [3rd classman] has peculiar tendencies—almost sadistic one might think. To beat a boy until blood appears, to force him to hold heavy objects of furniture on his bare head while balanced on billiard balls—all to the breaking point. He was forced to crouch and do knee bends, and this youngster told him he will see to it he cannot study and will fail his examinations.
To continue torturing devices for two-hour periods—is this necessary to make officers? This youngster’s name suggests Germanic extractions, I believe.
Both older sons, my husband, everyone, says, nothing can be done, and I would only hurt Barton by publicizing it. In fact, my husband says that even if he fails his examinations, he must never know that we know.
Naturally I would not go to my Senator who appointed Barton to report it, but surely there is some remedy for this. Will the Service lose this splendid young man because of petty, vicious, contemptuous persecution? I know you do not condone this.
Yours Sincerely,
Helen C. Cross
Barton would never tell his parents what really happened that terrible night—or on so many others nearly as bad. No good came of ratting out fellow mids, despite nominal rules against hazing. His suffering was all thanks to the intractable grudge of one Midshipman “R.,” who had no family wealth or navy legacy to tout and resented those who did. His determination to settle the score with those more fortunate than himself was insatiable.
Returning from the showers to continue studying, Barton had been summoned by R. to his room once again—this time the evening before his Steam Enginery exam. But the hours-long torture that night left him physically and emotionally shattered. He stood on two billiard balls and, per orders, lifted and balanced R.’s desk while R. playfully jabbed him in the ribs with the business end of a wet broom, demanding answers to a string of obscure nautical questions. At some point, the towel dropped from Barton’s waist and the torture continued while, wet and naked before a growing throng of revelers, he struggled to stay balanced. When it was over, his ribs were bruised and he was bleeding from the repeated jabbing.
In the end, Barton didn’t cry; he didn’t “break.” But he could not return to his studies after R., in mock disgust, finally released him. Miserable, humiliated, pained, and exhausted, Barton collapsed on his hard, narrow bed and slept until morning bells. He awoke to a pounding head, every inch of his body aching. Completely unprepared, he dressed to face the dreaded Steam exam.
It was unclear whether Helen’s comment regarding “my Senator” was a veiled threat, but Admiral Sellars responded to her letter promptly, assuring “drastic and summary” action. The admiral wasted no time broaching the topic with a much-surprised Midshipman Cross. Barton stood at attention in Admiral Sellars’s office until he was gently told to stand at ease. Then, with a stunning degree of specificity, he inquired of Barton whether the incident had taken place. Barton never altered his facial expression; he just listened to the admiral describe his own nightmare in remarkable detail.
When allowed to speak, he said, “I’m sorry, sir. I’ve had it rough here and there, but no, sir. It never happened.” He repeatedly denied the incident, refusing to rat out his tormentor. The commandant impressed upon Barton the importance of his obligation to tell the truth, but Barton responded evenly that he’d “been asked a few stern questions from time to time,” but not physically abused. He was sure this was a case of mistaken identity, sir.
Admiral Sellars wrote Helen again, asking for the name(s) of the accused. He wanted to get to the bottom of it for his own reasons and was becoming insistent. At this, she balked, realizing that if Barton refused to cooperate, she stood alone. She wisely deduced that if she took the matter any further, she would bring her entire family down on her head. Midshipman R.’s identity would not be hers to reveal, she decided reluctantly.
To Admiral Sellars, she replied:
My dear Admiral Sellars,
I should hate you to think me a silly, hysterical mother. My only aim is that Barton should have had freedom of mind to pass that Steam examination . . . We have never been able to get corroboration from him except, “I am having it rough but I can take it.” You see I must not hurt his pride and of course shall not mention our correspondence on the subject, EVER, to anyone.
In my eyes the Naval Academy can do no wrong, and I already have two fine sons to prove this. Therefore I have complete confidence in your wise handling for the situation. It has distressed me deeply—I think interfering mothers are most disagreeable.
In Sincere Appreciation,
Helen C. Cross
Barton could not figure out how Admiral Sellars had learned of the incident, but he held firm that he would not be a tattler. Helen retreated back to New Jersey, realizing that many a Naval Academy mother before her had tried and failed to gain exceptions for their sons. Perhaps Admiral Sellars had her in mind with his often-repeated response to the question of why barbed wire was strung atop the school’s perimeter. It was not, he would reply, to keep midshipmen in, but meddling mothers out.
IN PREVIOUS ENVIRONMENTS, BARTON had survived on varying degrees of cleverness. He had done well in group dynamics, too, from which he had drawn personal strength. But he was finding it more and more difficult to get by on these assets at Annapolis. The atmosphere, in his view, was emphatically not collegiate.
Rather, it was designed to train and mold men to a specific shape and culture. While Bill and Benny had toughed it out—and became misty-eyed over Academy traditions and monuments—Barton was intimidated and irritated by them. Every building, every road, and every structure was named after one or another of the navy greats. Reverence for past naval icons was ubiquitous. Nowhere on the grounds were monuments to the likes of Barton Cross, overwhelmed and undersized.
The summer after his first year was spent on the midshipman cruise, a weeks-long training in practical seamanship. To Barton, the cruise mostly meant cold saltwater showers, bad food, and grueling chores. With trousers rolled, he scrubbed teak decks with sandstone by day and served endless midnight watches shivering on deck or in the suffocating boiler room. He studied marine engineering, turbines, boilers, and the ship’s auxiliary machinery. He hated every minute of it and rejected the notion that some sort of hallowed bond would develop through a round-the-clock regime of punishing duties aboard a ship.
Nonetheless, Barton returned to Annapolis for a second year of personal and academic crucifixion, with the new perils of naval tactics, gunnery training, and increasingly rigorous mathematics. He made it through the fall semester, landing near the bottom of his class. But things got tougher in the spring. Barton failed the final mathematics examination; and though he was allowed a reexamination, for which he studied hard, he failed it, too—by seven-hundredths of a point.
If hazing was a factor in his fatal academic stumble, he never let on. No exceptions were made at the Naval Academy for those who failed a course, despite Barton’s good standing in other subjects (particularly English literature and history) and his legendary voice in the Academy choir. He was compelled to withdraw, in shameful comparison with his two brothers. Helen and Arthur were crushed.
> Helen poured her heart out afterward in a five-page letter to the Academy’s new superintendent, Admiral Wilson Brown. Her tone had decidedly changed from her last letter to Admiral Sellars:
My dear Admiral Brown,
I realize that you are a very busy man and there is nothing to compel you to answer civilian criticism.
I do agree with your intimation that mathematics did not come easily to my son, Ex-Midshipman Barton Cross. However, he has a brother who fell to 1.9 percent on one occasion in the same subject at Annapolis. He got through by a fair reexamination or perhaps by virtue of his luck, drawing a particularly good instructor when he needed one. When he left the USS Lexington’s engineering department, his Captain remarked, “I hope Annapolis will send us a few more like you!” Someone saw through his fractional mark and gave him a chance to develop speed and facility.
Unless of outstanding brilliance, getting through the Naval Academy is largely a matter of luck. Grant and Pershing [at West Point], and many Admirals at Annapolis, including William Halsey, were near or at the bottom of their classes, and the country is grateful for this element of luck, this avoidance of the fatal fraction!
Your methods appear unpedagogic. You permit enrollment of 740 or more Plebes, knowing that half of them have to be failed, rather than build up 370 good candidates with proper instruction. Some of those you fail go on to distinction in the very subjects you fail them in. One boy I know led his class in Mathematics at Brown University, another at Cornell. Are we to conclude that the great universities of this country are inferior or that your product is superior? Neither is true but the universities do have civilian instructors who can teach, not bewildered young lieutenants.
In Barton, I believe you had a lad of considerable latent ability, who stood number 12 in a Citadel class of 400, and whom [Citadel’s] General Summerall spoke of as “fine officer material with exceptional ancestry and fine family naval tradition behind him.” The reexamination that he took failed 21 of the 28 who took it! Was this fair or just an ouster to necessarily reduce your numbers? Barton’s loyalty and love of the Service, and good marks in other subjects counted for naught against 7/100 of one point in one subject? Yet you have boys there right now skimming in several subjects, and many more who intend to quit the Service as soon as allowable and a free education obtained—I know because I’ve heard them talk on many occasions.
For this, crushing humiliation has been brought on his two brothers in the Service who wanted so to see him with them and who know his abilities, a feeling of abasement, and a loss to the Service of one worth keeping. Your Academic Board must be made conscious of the unfairness of that reexamination.
Yours Sincerely,
Helen C. Cross
Before filing away the letter—alphabetically under the letter U for “Unpedagogic Methods”—Admiral Brown penned a note to his subordinate, ordinarily charged with responding to these sorts of letter: “We won’t answer this one,” he wrote, “but the point of view is interesting.”
A DEFEATED BARTON CROSS returned to Lilac Hedges, feeling all the worse that his own wounded pride and humiliation extended to his family. Unable to endure forced conversations with his shell-shocked parents, he made plans to go into New York. He said he might just quit school altogether, damn it, and get a job in the city. At a rare loss for words, Helen and Arthur raised no objection.
Barton felt awkward in the first civilian clothing he’d worn in some time, and it may have added to his discomfort with incipient manhood. In fact, he was still a struggling postadolescent. A bullet of a young man, Barton was now presumably full height at five feet nine inches. His face radiated a boyish pink hue and his cheekbones were high and prominent. Cropped brown hair went this way and that, as resistant to conventional taming methods as he himself had been growing up. A high, broad forehead gave him a likeness to his brothers, though his eyes were a playful green instead of blue.
He trudged out the front door, down the painted porch steps, and headed toward the train station. His parents were working in the vegetable garden that day, desperate to appear normal and busy. But the angst on their faces revealed that the alkaline balance for growing perfect tomatoes was the furthest thing from their minds.
From Grand Central Terminal, Barton walked the brief distance to Radio City Music Hall. He proceeded to fill out an application for a spot in their chorus, a fantasy he had quietly entertained for some time. The Radio City Christmas Spectacular had become an annual family highlight since the hall’s opening in 1932—his mother especially loved it. Until now, Barton’s young life had been defined by the expectations of others and by their criteria for success. Perhaps this offered a unique opportunity to please both his parents and himself.
Barton had shown considerable musical talent throughout his life, despite his parents’ efforts to interest him in more “acceptable” pursuits. Maybe now they would see fit to let him chase his own dreams. That night, he followed up with a letter to Admiral Brown, requesting a reference. The Barton Cross letter file in the Academy superintendent’s office would grow thicker still:
Dear Admiral Brown:
I have taken the liberty of referring a prospective employer to you, as a character witness, in order to help me obtain a position in New York . . . Having had much choral experience prior to Annapolis and also in the Academy Chapel Choir, there is perhaps an opportunity for me at the Radio City Music Hall.
Naturally I showed my prospective employer my Academy resignation, feeling that he would not be concerned over the fact that I fell just short of the required grade in mathematics. As a reason for my resignation, I told him that I was perhaps unsuited for a naval career. If this particular is referred to, I trust that you will realize that this was not my heartfelt sentiment, only an answer to an interviewer’s question. In view of the circumstances, I feel you will do all in your power to help me get started in civilian life.
Respectfully Yours,
A. B. Cross Jr.
The letter displayed a combination of determination to pursue a career that matched his abilities and absence of guile in approaching the Naval Academy commandant to recommend him for a singing career. It was both courageous and refreshingly naïve. Before Admiral Brown received any follow-up inquiries from Radio City Music Hall, however, Barton’s parents regained control of the situation.
A chagrined Arthur made a telephone call to the University of North Carolina’s president, Frank Porter Graham. It took only this gentlemanly phone conversation to ensure Barton’s acceptance and transfer to Chapel Hill. Helen and Arthur were weary from the struggle and hoped that North Carolina’s southern graces would be a better fit. In any case, they were determined to short-circuit any further talk of a singing career.
Barton did indeed take to the easier manner of Chapel Hill and flourished there. Ironically he declared a math-heavy major in business and commerce and did well. Helen savored that this richly proved her point about the Academy’s “unpedagogic methods” versus other fine universities. Still, Barton’s departure from Annapolis had stung and left her feeling rejected herself.
Bill wrote to Barton at Chapel Hill regularly with newsy discourses on his newlywed life, including the proud arrival of Adam Sutherland Mott, his firstborn child. He also ventured the occasional navy update—to the degree he thought it would be tolerated, if not appreciated. He ended each letter with the same refrain, which he knew would be unpopular but was increasingly urgent: despite his Annapolis experience, Barton must enter Chapel Hill’s Naval ROTC program; war news threatened, and he wanted Barton poised for reentry into the military as an officer should the country go to war.
Benny wrote to Barton too, sharing lengthy news about his own navy man’s life on the West Coast. But from Barton’s pleasant perch at Chapel Hill—where he happened to be having the time of his life—Bill’s domestic bliss and Washington career trajectory and Benny’s colliding worlds of marriage and life at sea sounded more like weighty, joyless commitments.
GRADUATING CHAPEL HILL IN June 1940, Barton prepared for a career in the mercantile world. By then, however, Britain, France, Poland, and other European Allies were at war with Nazi Germany and its new ally, Fascist Italy, and his and every other young American male’s future was clouded by it. Since derision of the army was a favorite pastime of his family’s, that option was out of the question—but he didn’t have the appetite for more torturous rejection by seeking a naval officer’s commission. The matter was thus deferred again.
Instead, Barton chose to participate in the war effort on his own terms: as an iron and steel procurement officer at the British Purchasing Exchange, located just off Wall Street. His academic background had actually prepared him well for the position, and he quickly mastered the accounts amassing American scrap iron for Britain’s fight against the Nazis.
Respected and well liked at BPE, Barton worked hard. Being in the city energized him and restored his sense of potential. He and his father took the train into Grand Central Station together each morning, and, after a brief walk down Madison Avenue, they turned toward Rockefeller Center and parted under the statue of Atlas on Fifth Avenue. The rest of Barton’s route to Lower Manhattan was by subway, but he frequently exited several stops ahead of Broad Street station, preferring to walk the rest of the way.
The Jersey Brothers Page 11
