by Joshua Welle
The United States Naval Academy was established under Secretary of the Navy George Bancroft in 1845. Bancroft envisioned and ultimately succeeded in creating a center of excellence charged with providing future naval officers a scientific education centered on mathematics, navigation, gunnery, steam power, and chemistry, complemented by humanities courses in English, French, and philosophy. The Naval School, the Academy’s first incarnation, was established at Fort Severn, a ten-acre Army post. Its first class consisted of a mere fifty midshipmen taught by seven professors. The curriculum’s scope evolved as the United States grew in strategic importance and as technology progressed from tall sailing ships and coal-powered ironclad vessels to nuclear-powered submarines and sophisticated marine amphibious forces. The Naval Academy has consistently produced graduates prepared to become experts in the latest technology.
By providing a true liberal arts education in the classical tradition, the Naval Academy has been heralded among the top schools in the country by U.S. News & World Report. Although academically impressive, a USNA education extends beyond books. As set out in the Academy’s mission statement, its goal is also “To develop midshipmen morally, mentally and physically, and to imbue them with the highest ideals of duty, honor, and loyalty in order to graduate leaders dedicated to a career of naval service.”
INDUCTION DAY, 1998
The humidity and simmering heat felt like someone breathing down the necks of the thousand-plus plebes converging on Alumni Hall. The transition from civilian to military life had, for most of us, finally come to fruition. We were a hodgepodge group of seventeen- to twenty-three-year-olds representing every state in the Union as well as Bahrain, Cameroon, Croatia, and Turkey. Among us were high school standouts in debate and music, scholastics and student government, volunteer work, and athletics. While a few dozen were exceptional enlisted men and women, the morning of July 1, 1998, leveled the playing field and made each of us a member of one team.
Induction Day, commonly known as I-Day, transformed this rag-tag group of young men and women into crisply dressed and shorn midshipmen equipped with everything they needed to begin their journey. I-Day is a mix of excitement and foreboding, the first of many such days to come during the next four strenuous and tumultuous years. While high school friends basked in the freedom of their summer vacation and prepared to attend civilian colleges, this small cross-section of American teenagers opted for a more rigid lifestyle, defined by regulations and abject obedience to orders.
One by one, we entered Alumni Hall armed only with our unique talents, ready to join the team that would become the Naval Academy Class of 2002. Each of us carried a manila folder with identification forms and a single, authorized duffle bag containing a toothbrush (but not toothpaste), seven pairs of “tighty-whitey” underwear, one pair of running shoes, and five white t-shirts. None of the accoutrements of a normal dormitory were permitted, and family members were told to wait outside. A barrage of unique accents was heard; distinctive ethnic backgrounds were apparent in the winding corridors of Alumni Hall. In short, a look out upon the class reflected America’s demographic tapestry.
Blue-chip varsity athletes, who chose to attend the Academy after being recruited to play one of the NCAA Division I sports, were sprinkled among the group. The male athletes, standing 6 feet 3 inches or taller and with massive muscles, were easy to spot. They were basketball or football athletes assuredly, all trying to be the next David Robinson or Joe Bellino, Navy’s first Heisman Trophy winner. With slight embarrassment or unabashed honesty, some came because they could not afford college and judged four years of relative pain to be a small price for a free education and five guaranteed years of employment following graduation. Many others were still discerning their intent, but nonetheless answering the same call of duty as those who from an early age knew it was their destination.
Whether a person’s reasons were self-centered or selfless, no one was judged on their past; all were accepted on the precept that they were now in this together. All held in common a humble appreciation for the prestige of the institution and the challenging journey on which they were about to embark. The only thing that truly mattered was how well the class performed and whether its members could work as a team.
Bancroft Hall is the world’s largest dormitory and home to the Brigade of Midshipmen—all 4,400 of its members. It boasts 1,700 rooms, 33 acres of floor space, and 4.8 miles of hallway, and is warmly referred to as “Mother B” or the Hall. Bancroft is large enough to have its own zip code, 21412. The building, designed in the eighteenth-century beaux-arts architectural style, is completely self-contained and functions like a small city. The Hall houses a cobbler shop, uniform store, tailor shop, laundromat, travel office, barbershop, bank, general store, medical and dental facilities, gymnasium, post office, and a dining facility that can feed every midshipman in one seating.
From Bancroft Hall, we were ushered in groups to Tecumseh Court, the main entrance to and gathering area outside the dormitory. We stood nervously at attention in our newly fitted white sailor uniforms or “whiteworks.” All 1,231 of us had made it as one unit through the overwhelming process of I-Day and stood ready to tackle the rigors of plebe summer and the challenges that lay beyond.
We were directed to raise our right hands to swear an oath to the Constitution of the United States and to discharge the duties of a midshipman. Some followed the direction uneasily, some with timidity, most of us fearfully, but all voluntarily. Perspiration collected on our foreheads and streamed down our young, taut faces as we stood rank and file among the strangers who would become our shipmates and most committed lifelong friends.
Within hours of arriving on Induction Day, Midshipman 4/C Richard Ferrari and other members of USNA 2002 learn how to render a salute. (Courtesy U.S. Naval Academy)
PLEBE SUMMER
Anyone who fails to pass plebe summer is expelled from the Academy. The program is the ultimate equalizer, spanning seven gut-wrenching, tearful, and draining weeks of military instruction and training. During this time, midshipmen become ingrained with valuable skills and enduring habits and characteristics that will help them persevere for the next four years.
The boot camp experience of plebe summer has two objectives. The first is to break individuals to a point where they are no longer encumbered by self-doubt, fear, and poor habits. They are taught a new way to stand, walk, talk, and think and are pushed to their limits. For some, the breaking point is physical, for others mental, and for some even spiritual. Most of them discover a reservoir of inner strength that keeps them of sound mind and body and allows them to soldier on through the trials of the summer. Inevitably, some do not, however, find it and are compelled to reconsider their oath. Some simply quit.
The second objective of plebe summer is to prepare young men and women to join the Brigade of Midshipmen—the military reference to the four thousand men and women who attend the Naval Academy at any given time. Rather than put plebes into the hands of active-duty personnel with extensive Fleet experience, upperclass midshipmen serve as the gatekeepers of the Brigade, the largest fraternity in the world. In other words, the more experienced midshipmen discipline, teach, and mold those who follow in their footsteps. In this way, the Academy uses plebe summer as a leadership forum for honing the command skills of upperclassmen on the path to graduation.
At the start of plebe summer 1998, everyone was assigned to a numbered platoon, two of which formed a company, which was assigned a letter. Each platoon was divided into four squads of nine to twelve individuals. These layers of companies, platoons, and squads provided support as well as motivation. We were reminded of our responsibility to each other by recitation of the Fifth Law of the Navy.
On the strength of one link in the cable dependeth the might of the chain.
Who knows when thou may’st be tested, so live that thou bearest the strain.
Our days began long before sunrise. The detailers, upperclass midshipmen pretending to be Par
ris Island drill instructors, yelled down hallways, abruptly kicked in doors, or banged metal rods against the tile walls to wake us at the hour of 0500. Within five minutes of reveille, we were standing outside our rooms in squad ranks, dressed in gym gear, holding canteen bottles in one hand and bed sheets crammed inside a pillowcase in the other.
Following a brief look of distaste from our detailers, we would be dismissed to our rooms to make our racks so precisely that the hospital corners could be measured with a protractor and so tightly that a quarter could be bounced off the top sheet. Mere minutes later, we would form up again and march out to Farragut Field for ninety minutes of physical training that increased in intensity and became more challenging as the summer progressed.
After daily physical training, there was a morning’s worth of work to accomplish in only minutes. In Bancroft Hall, the three individuals (on average) assigned to each room would sequentially shower and choreograph the morning rituals of shaving, preparing a uniform, polishing shoes, applying edge dress to soles, “brasso” (shine) name tags, read three newspaper articles on sports and current events, memorize the menus for the next three meals and the plan of the day, learn the names of the on-duty leadership, and prepare the room to be inspection ready. All of this had to be done in a mere twelve minutes. Meanwhile, the detailers—who were somehow faster, smarter, and more capable—would pound on the door and yell at us, reminding us that they were ready and wondering why we were not. It was frustrating, confusing, and demoralizing. Perfectionists bristled with agitation, and those who were unaccustomed to having their failings made public lamented silently. Over time, as intended, we came to appreciate just how much one can accomplish in a little more than ten minutes.
No matter how hard we worked individually or tried to help each other, it was impossible to satisfy the detailers’ ever-increasing requirements of fastidiousness and their demanding nature. It seemed that even with their backs turned, they could spot an errant thread or nearly unnoticeable blemish on a uniform, a scuff on a shoe, or a quirk in a facial expression. Something always caught their attention.
One might think that mealtime would be the one activity offering a shred of physical satisfaction or comfort, but even this most basic ritual of consuming food was transformed into a tormenting and dissatisfying ordeal. We ate while perched on the front three inches of wooden chairs, sitting ramrod straight, with our “eyes in the boat”—focused straight ahead—and our hands on our knees, only removing them to eat one bite at a time. Variations to the ritual included a defined number of chews and putting one’s fork down between bites.
We soon became a team, first as squads and then as platoons, companies, battalions, and as a regiment. We also learned to march in these units to display team unity. We spent hours in the hot sun learning marching techniques and practicing formations. Those of us already motivated to join the Marine Corps perhaps relished these evolutions more than others because we needed to perfect the skill to someday march as a Marine. Even for future sailors destined for ships, submarines, and aircraft, marching developed rhythm, reinforced discipline, emphasized meticulous attention to detail, teamwork, and leadership as well as followership. We marched not only on the parade and athletic fields, but also to the sailing center and even to religious gatherings. We often ran in formation, barking motivating cadences.
Strangely, the days felt longer than the weeks. Each day brimmed with physically challenging and mind-expanding activities. The detailers ran us ragged, leading us to every corner of the 338-acre campus and across the Severn River to the Naval Weapons Station. We participated in weapons qualifications, obstacle courses, swimming, sailing, wrestling, and parade practice. No day was easy, and rare was a second that passed unnoticed. Our detailers kept us engaged from 0500 to 2200. They scolded us, yelled at us, and noticed every minor deficiency. No matter how hard we tried, we were never perfect. Despite feeling as though we were giving 100 percent, it never seemed to be enough.
PROFESSIONAL TRANSFORMATION
The end of each plebe summer is marked by the return of the Brigade of Midshipmen, tipping the plebe to upperclassman ratio from 10:1 to a threatening 1:3. With every second of the day planned for us under the watchful eyes of our detailers, we wondered how we would juggle all of the tasks required if left to our own devices. After plebe summer, however, we would be forced to balance the military requirements of being a plebe with the rigors of the academic classroom.
Despite the military uniforms, countless formations, and relentless physical training, the Academy is actually a four-year college, though at the time none of us would have called it that in comparison to friends we knew at other civilian universities. Attendance at academic class was mandatory and closely monitored not only by the academic faculty but also by the officers and senior enlisted leaders charged with our supervision in Bancroft Hall.
The Naval Academy faculty is a talented and eclectic mix of civilian professors and military instructors. Unlike at civilian institutions, there are few publication requirements for obtaining tenure, therefore instructors can focus the entirety of their intellectual energy on imparting knowledge to midshipmen and are encouraged toward tenure almost exclusively through in-classroom performance.
The Academy was the only home we knew as plebes. We were not allowed to go outside its walls at any point during the week; on Saturdays, we could exit the grounds for about twelve hours, but we had to be dressed in an authorized uniform and remain within a twenty-two-mile radius of the chapel dome. Thanksgiving leave was the first time that we were allowed to remain away from the campus for any extended period of time, drive cars, wear civilian clothes, and feel like regular college students. These short-lived five days of relative freedom came to a halt as we experienced our first taste of December at the Naval Academy.
Between the bustle of the holiday season around us, the end of classes, the antics and pranks of Army Week—culminating in the boisterous excitement of the Army-Navy football game in Philadelphia—and final exams, we found ourselves exhausted and definitely ready for an extended holiday break from the Academy. During the winter and spring semesters, we endured the Dark Ages, a period of bleak, cold weather and long nights in the Nimitz Library studying for hellacious chemistry and calculus exams. When flowers began to bloom in spring, hope appeared on the horizon. Plebe year would soon be over.
Before we could celebrate the graduation and commissioning of the Class of 1999 and the completion of our plebe year, we had two more tasks to complete as a team. The first was to get through the newly established Sea Trials, a challenge modeled after the Crucible in Marine Corps basic training. It is a day-long test of teamwork and stamina, consisting of obstacle, endurance, and confidence courses and other physical activities designed to challenge personal strength and unit cohesion. Next we had to participate in the time-honored tradition of climbing Herndon, an obelisk-shaped monument in the middle of the Yard, to retrieve the blue-rimmed white “dixie cup” cover (cap) worn during plebe summer and replace it with a midshipman cover, symbolizing our passage from plebes to full members of the Brigade. The monument is covered in lard, and the dixie cup is affixed with superglue and duct tape to make achieving success more challenging.
The Class of 2002 worked as a team to climb the 21-foot gray monument in two hours and twenty-six minutes. (Courtesy U.S. Naval Academy)
YOUNGSTER YEAR
After summer cruises, during which we were exposed to Fleet-style military training, we returned to the Yard in August 1999 to begin the challenge of our sophomore or “youngster” year. Although each of us had already selected a major course of study, the core curriculum still dominated most of our credit hours; thus, we collectively took two more semesters of calculus and differential equations or statistics, two semesters of physics, and American history. Aside from academics, we also played a unique role in the training of the new plebes, the Class of 2003. Although the Class of 2001 took on the more ruthless role of “trainers,” we, as y
oungsters, formally third class (or second-year) midshipmen, could assume the role of guide or mentor. Each morning, the plebes could come to us for a final check of their required rates and tasks before being inspected by the 2/C (a second class, or third-year) midshipman. In addition, we had the responsibility of setting an example for the plebes. Though there was no longer anyone constantly looking over our shoulder to ensure that our uniforms were perfect and our shoes shined, we still had to make sure these things were done while also guiding the plebes in the right direction.
The end of youngster year was marked by important training for us as midshipmen, in large part because we knew that after the summer, we would be committed to serving as officers in the Navy or Marine Corps. Our summer training to become 2/Cs, therefore, carried a significant amount of weight when it came to our decision-making process. The most ambitious midshipmen looked to break from the relative ease of youngster year and compete to be a plebe summer detailer. Although challenging and exhaustive, the task of being a detailer that year would define the way the entering Class of 2004 would evolve; our detailers made lasting impressions on us, and there was a great deal of pressure for us to live up to the example set by those who had trained us. During summer training, we would also be exposed again to the Fleet, learning a particular warfare community within the military and ultimately determining if that was in fact our desired career path.
2/C YEAR: EYES ON COMMISSIONING
Prior to the first day of classes of a 2/C year, a midshipman can choose to leave the Naval Academy at no cost. After that day, a midshipman who decides to separate from the Academy must reimburse the government for his or her education to that point, dollar for dollar. Military service requires a commitment entered into with a clear head and open eyes. A two-year “free” exposure period to the Navy and Marine Corps ensures that only the most committed and motivated junior officers will be commissioned. Second class year allows midshipmen to transition from followers to leaders. During 2000–2001, no longer responsible only for ourselves, we became accountable in the training of the Class of 2004. The academic program is tailored toward fulfilling requirements for majors, but courses in electrical engineering and thermodynamics are mandatory.
