by Tom Baugh
I didn't even consider joining the equivalent of the band, which didn't interest me that much anyway. My high school attraction to the subject was primarily the chilly bus rides with cuddly clarinettes rather than the music itself. Worse, my female classmates at Annapolis seemed puggish or bullish and had screechy, mannish voices. All of these attributes, selected mostly by their choice rather than by nature, held not the same charm.
As I decided that I couldn't afford the luxury of either varsity sports or the band, a new obstacle arose to reinforce these decisions. I soon discovered that I had a total and surprising incapacity for swimming, a failing which almost caused me to get kicked out during plebe summer. I shouldn't have been surprised at the need for swimming since there was the word "Navy" scrawled all over the place along with pictures of ships and storms and stuff. Mostly wet stuff.
Swimming started out to be even more of a challenge than running, which I was able to stumble through well enough to do even a little better than passing. As a child in rural Mississippi, one learned to swim through two routes. If you were rich enough to have a pool or regularly pay admission at a pool clean enough to see the bottom, that was the easy route. The only option open to me was to dunk myself in any number of swimming holes in the shallow river downstream of the particle-board plant.
Throughout childhood, none of the ginormous cottonmouth water moccasins I had seen had ever heard of the idea that they were more afraid of me than I was of them. On the contrary, these snakes were usually pretty much aggressive. Watching their behavior, I rightfully assumed that they had an appetite for penguins. One kid dropped off the rope swinging above the creek and swam up under the overhang right into a nest of them. When they pulled his body out it looked like he had been wrapped up in quadra-fanged barbed wire. I opted out, reasoning at the time that I would rarely, if ever, need to swim. The Navy had other plans, as I discovered splashing around that summer wondering if one needed to swim in the Air Force. Fortunately for me, the Navy has processes for everything, including teaching stubby midshipmen how to swim. The student just has to decide that he wishes to learn and better himself, and set aside all his preconceived notions. The Navy's ability to teach stems from the realities of shipboard life.
Life aboard a warship is a unique experience which any aspiring entrepreneur needs to experience at least once. All services have preventative maintenance programs and formalized curricula for the various specialties, but nothing approaching the intensity of the Navy. You can walk away from a broken tank or jump out of a broken plane, but if the ship breaks there is another entire set of problems which suddenly faces you. Imagine the embarrassment of having a missile hit you because you forgot to lubricate the surface-to-air missile launcher. Or choosing not to fire that surface-to-air missile because you aren't sure whether you have the authority or responsibility, when in fact you did.
The military maintains curricula which keeps these massive machines of destruction afloat and ready. Along with tanks and planes and radars and refrigerators, ships are maintained using procedures evolved over years of practiced effectiveness forged in the accumulated lessons of war. The American military is often criticized by the left as a model of inefficiency. This claim is more properly placed on the defense contractors who supply it for hire from safety behind a desk. But the military itself has evolved training techniques which are capable of bestowing more knowledge upon its students faster than any other organization on the face of the planet. As my Uncle John, a war veteran Navy Master Chief, once told his newly minted Second Lieutenant nephew, "it is a crime to send untrained men into battle". In my experience, the Navy and the Marine Corps would not once commit this crime, offering able instruction to all who would learn.
And so, I set aside my shame at past failure, and opened my mind, and learned to swim, well enough to at least not be a liability in combat. Later, the Marines would add to that sufficiency by teaching how to form a two-man gunboat floating atop intertwined packs of socks and food, one firing while his counterpart propels. The Marines at the Naval Academy also taught me how to shoot in order to prepare me to be the second half of that deadly combination. Again, I had to set aside my preconceived notions of my skill and ability, tainted by hours spent torturing pine trees with rifle and shotgun as a child.
The Marines took a plinker and turned him into an expert with rifle and pistol. I learned my lessons so well that I would eventually take first place in rifle and pistol marksmanship among my Marine officer class, Fox 88, at Quantico. This honor would later be twisted into an investigation against my loyalty. I would also eventually become qualified as a rifle and pistol coach in both the Navy and the Marine Corps.
I learned to teach not only others, but also myself. Each instructor at the academy was required to prepare a written plan of instruction for each course taught. This lesson plan was then provided to the students in the first session. So, for example, the student would know that on October 17th of that year what topics would be on the agenda for that lesson. The student would also know what homework would be assigned for that day, and when tests would be given. This turned out to be a valuable resource I would mine to give myself a fighting chance to stay afloat.
I attacked my studies, reading through and working two days' assignments while my classmates worked one. I cleaned my room well enough to get a passing inspection, but no better. The rule books didn't allow expulsion for minor infractions such as misplaced socks, but required it for academic or athletic failure.
Most of my superiors were barely shaving, and in terms of intimidation could hold no candle to my father's drunken oilfield rants. But I complied with their instructions and demands, trying my best to wipe the smiles off my face. I failed at suppressing those smiles often enough to be tagged as "The Happy Plebe" by some of my firstclassmen (Naval Academy slang for seniors). These future war heroes and leaders of industry recognized my cheerful approach as meaning no disrespect to them. After all, I was careful to not defy them in any meaningful way. And I genuinely admired them and their ability.
And so, I focused on the issues which mattered most, the combat-related skills, my physical conditioning such as it could be, and the academic instruction. I left the spit-shine and football rah to others while I loaded and readied my primary weapon, my mind. I did try my best at some of these other distractions in the interest of peace with the more unfocused. Inevitably, the pointlessness of those lesser activities resurfaced and relegated them to falling off the to-do list. This assignment of priorities paid off, not just academically at the academy, but later when I applied in war the military history and tactics I had studied.
My first year I racked up two 4.0 semesters in a row. I would add a third my sophomore year. I would also do well enough on the physical courses to earn the Superintendent's Star, reserved for those midshipmen who excel in both academics and athletics. I received some criticism about this, peppered with references to my mis-assignment of priorities and barely clean room, but that was kind of the point, you see.
Others, struggling, would ask me how I did so well in these difficult courses, and I would lay it all out for them. For many, the self-investment to read two assignments instead of one was just too much for them to ask of themselves. A mere paragraph ahead would suffice to start the ball of accomplishment rolling, but even that was a burden they would not bear. I soon learned to turn a deaf ear to their complaints, having tried to help enough of them to help themselves to no avail. Some wanted a magic pill, but all they really ever needed was their own effort. Some of them, haven't having started with my disadvantages, never learned to try harder in the face of adversity. Most of those wound up being weeded out by the rigor of the system. I felt no pity for them as they left.
The real secret was the self-study in advance. This strategy paid dividends as soon as I walked into the second session of each course in each semester. Having read ahead, I knew not only what the subject was, but where my misunderstandings lay, and how the material of to
day tied into the material of tomorrow. And so, while some of my peers were struggling to stay awake and keep up with the newness, I was listening intently to fill the gaps in what I already knew. And I learned how to find the gaps, and trained my subconscious mind accordingly. Soon, there were fewer and fewer gaps, I having learned to fill them in for myself. And I effectively finished each of my courses halfway through each semester.
My second year, recognizing that staying afloat was no longer an issue, I began to load my semester with more courses, freed from the background responsibilities of a plebe (freshman). I would eventually run out of required courses my senior year and had to add additional hours to my plate. This was the result of the academy having a minimum hour load each semester regardless of your status. I wound up graduating with about twenty more hours than required, and still in the top three percent of my class.
My ranking had been weighed down somewhat by those dirty sinks and the occasional wrinkled trouser. And the delights of having imported The Audrey, who would become First Wife the day after graduation. Thermodynamics would have to wait as she and I fought the cold Annapolis winters. At least they seemed cold from the point of view of a pair of Mississippi snuggle-bugs.
This habit of working ahead soon presented a dilemma. The last month or so of each semester was absolutely slack for me since I had worked through the course work by then. But, the regulations of the academy prevented me from wandering off into town to enjoy my free time. And so, I turned to mischief for the simple entertainment of it.
The best mischief was finding how I could push the regulations to the edge without crashing over the cliff. So, I began figuring out ways to game the system, having nothing better to do with my time. My roommate was not so fortunate, that future Navy Top Gun war hero spent all but a few months restricted to the campus for one infraction or another.
One diversion I amused myself with involved the importation of a functioning CAR-15 assault rifle, the little brother of a fully automatic M-16, to my dorm room. I filed down the firing pin, rendering it nonfunctional and thus meeting the regulations precisely. I then used it for training my plebes in how to field strip the M-16 blindfolded, a skill which they would otherwise never obtain officially as a midshipman. My possession of this weapon was challenged by upperclassmen or the Navy or Marine officers who would from time to time discover it during inspections. So challenged, I would innocently point to the regulation book at the previously book-marked section and strip the rifle down to show the disabled firing pin.
I, of course, never pointed out to my inquisitors that I had tucked away two undamaged firing pins, hidden in one of those poorly folded socks. And two hundred rounds of ammunition, genuine yet undiscovered contraband, stacked behind the neatly aligned toiletries. These were the only items in the room arranged in military perfection, and should have been obvious in retrospect.
In a crisis, though, such as attack by the Soviets or other bomb-wielding liberal anarchists, I or any of my plebes could have easily restored the weapon within seconds. And in the dark, including loading the magazines from the stripper clips tucked behind the shaving cream. The Marine officers who inspected would smile and nod knowingly, for reasons I would only understand fully later. But the Navy officers would exasperate, a distinction which made a lasting impression on me.
I decided to broaden my horizons. I, my future Top Gun roommate, and a classmate from down the hall, the son of an American hero of Vietnam, formed a company, Zogco, to sell firearms. For an official address we used The Audrey's Boss's law office.
The three of us, The Audrey or The Boss excepted, applied for and received a Federal Firearms License, and were in business. In return for the use of his office for transacting sales and receiving shipments, The Boss was given list pricing on whatever weapons he desired for himself or his lawyer friends. His first choices were a Galil assault rifle we sold to his buddy, and a nice shotgun for The Boss himself.
We took pains to stay within the letter of the BATF regulations and state gun laws. I used the space under my bunk at the academy to store the long boxes of shotguns, assault rifles and bulky ammunition we sold in town. After all, with my virtual imprisonment there most days, and my skill with the assault rifle I maintained there, which was the safest storage location for miles around. As for myself, I upgraded my CAR-15 to a newer A2 model with a forward assist.
We soon discovered that our midshipmen customers were in need of additional service. So, I fastened my press set to my academy desk and reloaded 9mm pistol rounds with half charges of smokeless powder. The elevator shaft above our top floor dormitory provided essential background noise, and cast off, worn out mattresses from the garbage of the academy facilities shop the backstops. The Zogco Pistol Range was opened for business in the walking attic above the top floor. We posted a youngster (sophomore) on guard at the entrance to the attic stairwell in case of surprise inspections. We paid him and our plebe range assistants in concessions of snacks, beverages and Daddy-Fried chicken nuggets bought from a wholesaler in Glen Burnie. Our gun shop business license and tax certificate sufficed to gain us access at that and other wholesalers.
These concessions were also available to late-night study hounds who weren't in the know about the pistol range or the gun business. But even these outer-circle customers, invited unawares by key inner-circlers, provided excellent cover for the additional floor traffic. We made more in fun than in profits, but it was worth it.
I also revived my interest in chemistry. One incident required unofficially evacuating about a hundred midshipmen from our wing after an experiment went awry. That day clouds of chlorine gas boiled out of our room when my electrolytic sodium chlorate cell stirrer stopped stirring during an unexpectedly longish formation outside. Other experiments were more satisfying, various craters in the lacrosse and soccer fields attesting to their success.
Also, our Average White Guy Studies Group was popular for a time, mostly among minorities and women. Some of those women weren't quite so pugish. Those women and the interested minorities were surprised at the hospitality they encountered there when they arrived as spoilers, snacks from the concession larder available to all. In that group, we studied and critiqued various illustrated gentlemen's periodicals, that being our shared cultural heritage. My five-foot rebel flag hung from my closet door as a dignified backdrop to many debates about Southern heritage, federalism, and the true history of the injustice of slavery. The more small-minded of them stuck to their cultural biases, but ate our snacks anyway.
It wasn't all just fun and games, though. One extra-curricular activity which I really sank my teeth into was the naval combat simulator, known as NAVTAG. An acronym for NAVal TActical Gaming, NAVTAG was growing more popular and sophisticated in the early computer age.
Since, after all, the taxpayer was paying me to learn to fight wars, I saw this system as a way to hone my tactical thinking. This simulator would allow students to pit ship on ship or force on force, using the classified capabilities of actual weapon systems, friend and foe. And, so, short of actual battle with real equipment, there was no better way to test the tactics and weapon systems we had been learning in the classroom. A few times a week, midshipmen companies would compete against each other, with the losing teams eliminated along the way, tournament-style.
My third year, Top Gun and I found ourselves under the direction of a senior, a chemistry major, who thought the way we did. As a condition of being on his team, our team captain assigned some additional reading. This reading included "Fleet Tactics", by Captain Wayne P. Hughes, Jr., an excellent scholarly treatment of the role of effective scouting and attack throughout the history of naval warfare.
The chemistry major, known here as Oscar, would eventually become a nuclear submarine officer. He had studied the characteristics of the Soviet ships as well as our own, compared these to the rules of engagement, and had a plan. To implement his plan, we prepared some special transparent overlays to assist with targeting.
Horrifyingly well.
In the meantime, we prepared our minds with the background material and doctrine which would ease communication in the heat of contest. Our plebes became experts in Soviet ships, rattling off their specifications to us every morning instead of the usual news or sports articles or menus of the day. We listened intently, looking for holes in the theory. We found none.
On the opening match of that season, Oscar won the coin toss and chose the Red team. His choice gave us the Soviet ships, which we needed for his strategy to work. Had we lost the coin toss the outcome would have been the same. Since the Soviet choice normally proved suicidal in the first round, the opposing team captain would have left us those ships anyway. Smirking, our opponents slunk away to their destruction.
The normal cat-and-mouse of naval warfare requires that you find the enemy's ships before they find yours. Normally, using your radars is counterproductive as your own searching signal is like a flashlight in the night forest. Active radars give your own position away more easily than it assists you in finding your far-off opponent. So you never lead off by turning on that flashlight of your radars. Unless you fear nothing in the forest. And we didn't fear those two American warships out there in the dark.
While reading the narrative to follow, recall the quote from John Paul Jones: "Men mean more than guns in the rating of a ship." This story is best set to music, so:
