I telephoned the vice CNO, Adm. Bill Small, and recounted the problem. I said, “I recommend you quickly pass this on to Secretary Claytor, because there may be serious repercussions over the matter.”
Once the eighteen midshipmen were notified there would be a delay, or worse, in receiving their diplomas, their parents responded with angry calls to their congressional representatives. In turn, the legislators laid into Claytor. To his credit, Secretary Claytor told the lawmakers, “If the superintendent believes this is the right thing to do, I support him.” He was steadfast in backing me despite all the flak.
We immediately commenced the investigation, and because our JAG staff was small—one active duty lawyer and an assistant—we sought supplemental support from JAG headquarters. A commander from the staff came over and was an enormous help. After a month of interviews and considering all the factors of the situation, we decided we did not have enough evidence to charge sixteen of the eighteen alleged offenders.
After making this determination, I directed our public affairs officer to prepare a press release announcing our actions and to distribute it to the media right away.
On an autumn Sunday in September 1978, a day after a Navy football game, the commandant of midshipmen, Capt. Jack Darby, called me. “I’d like to come over and talk to you,” he said, a hint of trouble in his voice. It was not customary for the commandant to have a polite chitchat with the superintendent on a Sunday.
We convened in my study, and he got right to the point. “I’m afraid we might have a charge of rape on our hands.”
There goes a relaxing Sunday.
He went on to explain that a plebe woman had gone to a company tailgate party and apparently consumed some beer or other spirits. This was before the twenty-one-year-old alcohol law which came into effect in 1984. Jack said the girl supposedly had never drunk much alcohol before and became inebriated. A “chivalrous” first classman offered to take her back to Bancroft Hall.
Once there, they ended up in bed together in the male midshipman’s room. After a time, she returned to her quarters and told her roommates she had been raped. They reported this to the officer of the day, and the commandant was immediately alerted.
I shook my head in dismay. “Rape is really bad stuff, Jack,” I said, wondering how we were going to get through this. “We must proceed on the basis this could be a court-martial offense.”
I assigned the deputy commandant, Capt. (later Vice Adm.) Frank Donovan, to immediately contact the girl’s family, to explain what allegedly happened, and to maintain a very close dialogue with the parents. I picked Frank, because he was a Catholic, and we knew the young woman was Catholic and had attended a Catholic girl’s school, which could mean she had possibly led a relatively sheltered life, compared to public high school students. I also directed the public affairs officer to prepare a statement for the press. This was a reiteration of my philosophy that when something like this happens, it’s best to bite the bullet and get the word out to the public.
Ironically, we sent the press release to the Annapolis Capital, and it didn’t even print it. However, this set a pattern with that newspaper, at least, that meant we were completely open about what went on at the Academy regardless of the repercussions; that we weren’t going to hide behind the walls and hope the story wouldn’t get out. It did eventually—several months later—get into some newspapers.
We conducted an Article 32 investigation as a prelude to the court-martial. The astute handling of the situation by Frank Donovan was a huge factor in the outcome of the case. He established a special rapport with the family, and they developed a strong respect for him. He did not try to soft-pedal the male midshipman’s potential guilt. In the end, the parents decided, “Our daughter does not want to testify, and we don’t want her to either.”
In effect we had no case for a court-martial. But we did impose a strong penalty on the young man—a lengthy restriction of privileges. We also assigned demerits to the young woman for her misconduct in becoming inebriated. She remained at the Academy. Thankfully, after a few weeks, the crisis subsided.
Interestingly, three years later, when I was commander Third Fleet, I rode a helicopter from Naval Air Station Barbers Point in Hawaii to visit the cruiser, USS Fox, commanded by Capt. Les Palmer (who later became commandant at the Academy), which was deployed off the California coast. Les met me as I disembarked from the helo on the fantail and led me up to the bridge.
There, he said, “I’d like to introduce you to my officer of the deck,” which he did. The young officer looked at me rather strangely, and the wheels started spinning in my head. There was something familiar about him. I said nothing, and later in the visit I asked Les, “Tell me, what kind of an officer is your OOD?”
Les said, “He’s the best officer on board and definitely the best officer of the deck I have.” I did not tell Les that this particular individual was punished with severe restriction—no weekend liberty—during his entire first-class year for the incident involving the inebriated female midshipman. That was between me and the young officer. No one else needed to know. Apparently, Les’s best officer took advantage of the time available as a midshipman in hack, hit the books, studied his trade, and turned a negative into a positive. Which goes to show you can make a serious mistake, rise above it, and still succeed.
Chapter Twenty-Three
CAMPUS LIFE
“My God,” I thought, “we’ve got a crew of seven midshipmen on a yacht in that race, and we don’t know what their status is.”
I’VE BEEN ASKED IF I EVER USED WENDY as a “spy” on student activities. The answer is: never. However, I did discover a totally unexpected way to get a finger on the pulse of midshipmen, thanks to Diane. The superintendent’s home at Annapolis is a huge, handsome structure, with four spacious floors, sixteen hundred square feet of living space, and thirty-four rooms. Named after Cdr. Franklin Buchanan, the Academy’s first superintendent (from 1845 to 1847), it has been the superintendent’s residence since 1909. The once-open porches on the north and south sides of the house have been enclosed, and the large open porch on the west face overlooks a beautifully landscaped yard, with an abundance of flowers in season. During the annual commissioning week, garden parties are held here for the members of the graduating class and their parents. The first two floors are used for official functions. Guest bedrooms for distinguished visitors as well as the private quarters for the superintendent and his family are located on the third floor. Additional guest rooms are located on the fourth floor.
Over the years more guests have been entertained at the Buchanan House than at any other official government residence except the White House. Superintendents have hosted presidents, kings, queens, prime ministers, admirals from many nations, and tens of thousands of other guests. Obviously, with just Diane and me in the house, we certainly weren’t crowded.
“We’ve got those three bedrooms upstairs on the fourth floor that we don’t use,” Diane pointed out one day. “Why don’t we let midshipmen have their dates stay there for weekend social events?”
Initially, I hesitated. The notion of young ladies trooping about upstairs didn’t set right at first, but we tried it, and it turned out to be a wonderful experience. We not only got to know the young ladies our midshipmen were dating, but in the course of inevitable conversations because of our proximity, we learned about the midshipmen themselves—how they were doing, what their thought processes were like, were they pleased with their situations, that sort of thing.
When a female student asked if her date could stay at the house, Diane became concerned.
“I’m not sure we want a man up there with girls right next door,” she worried.
“Let them work it out,” I said. “It will take care of itself. They can post their own schedule for use of the bathroom.”
We never had a problem hosting the dates (except when all the blow dryers blew the fuses, and I couldn’t use my razor on the lower floor), and even
developed some friendships that have continued over the years. Diane and I certainly weren’t matchmakers, but we did comment now and then about the suitability of this or that young lady linking up with this or that midshipman.
Through the years, Navy football has engendered spirited support from the midshipmen, especially when Navy was winning. I have always believed participation in—and success whenever possible—on the athletic fields, whether it’s at the varsity level or intramurals, is important. It enhances the image of the school and conveys the sense that we’re turning out well-trained and physically fit Navy and Marine Corps officers. I had the benefit of three fine football seasons when I was superintendent: eight victories against three in 1978, and seven and four and eight and three in the succeeding two years. We won one bowl game in 1978 and lost one in 1980. George Welch was Navy coach until 1981, when he left to coach Virginia.
During my time at Annapolis, the key top executives who reported directly to the superintendent were the academic dean, the dean of admissions, the deputy for operations, the deputy for management, and the director of athletics. I wanted them to have direct access to me at virtually any time. Interestingly, Bo Coppedge, my athletic director, told me his counterpart at West Point needed two week’s lead time to get an appointment with the superintendent. If Bo called me and I wasn’t in conference or out of town, he could be in my office in ten or fifteen minutes. My purpose, of course, was to ensure these individuals knew I had an open-door policy, especially when problems occurred, in the hopes we could work them out swiftly, if at all possible.
Capt. Dick Stratton, a former POW and dear friend (a Georgetown graduate), set up a prototype family service center arrangement that was so heralded it became the model for similar organizations throughout the Navy. He was our director of operations and was ideally suited for the job. His wife, Alice, was also a huge plus, mainly because she had a degree in social work and lent her skills and knowledge to this project. Not only was he an effective manager, but he also gave exceptionally well-received lectures to the midshipmen.
In the summer of 1980, an Academy yacht was sailed across the Atlantic to participate in the Fast Net race taking place in the Irish Sea. A freak storm roared up and damaged a lot of boats in the race. We learned about this on television.
“My God,” I thought, “we’ve got a crew of seven midshipmen on a yacht in that race, and we don’t know what their status is.”
I immediately called Dick and said, “Please set up a crisis management watch system, get in touch with all the parents, tell them we just learned about the storm and we’re doing everything possible to find out the condition of our students.”
Dick took rapid action and explained to the parents we were on the case. Fortunately, a classmate of mine, Charlie Hunter, was on the commander in chief U.S. Naval Forces Europe staff. I called Charlie and asked him to do what he could. He called the British Coast Guard, and in approximately two days, we received word that our midshipmen were OK and the yacht was undamaged.
I suppose this could be called overreacting, but I believed contacting the parents right away—even though it turned out their children were safe—was the way to go. I believe the parents appreciated the effort.
Women had been at the Academy for two years when I got there, and a third group was coming in. Our director of professional development, Capt. Dick Ustick, had purview over three departments—Leadership and Law, Seamanship and Navigation, and the Training Department. I added to his burden by designating him the dean of women, recognizing him as the principal authority on distaff matters at the Academy. In effect, he was the female midshipman’s advocate. I did this for several reasons. Primarily, I wanted to send a signal that I felt strongly enough about women at the school that I made a Navy captain a point of contact. He became the cognizant official with respect to issues relating to integration of women in the student body. This worked out well, I thought. (In succeeding years, after I left, the designation was dropped.)
If the dean heard about a disciplinary offense involving women, he took immediate action to learn all the particulars so that we could take proper corrective action. This precluded certain problems from festering and, perhaps, from getting worse with the passage of time.
Still, a rather subtle form of harassment of the women manifested itself slowly and perhaps inevitably at the school. I began to hear about pranks played on the women. At lectures during question-and-answer sessions, a woman might ask a question, prompting derisive rejoinders from the men. There were instances of pies being pushed into the faces of females by men—just for fun, so it seemed. Regardless of the pranks, the subjects of such debasement felt helpless to respond. Generally, these occurrences were kept under wraps by the students themselves. Possibly the victims shared their experiences with classmates, but they were never reported formally.
Interestingly, Diane found out about the pie incidents when Midn. 1st Class Liz Belzer came to the quarters one Sunday afternoon to use an upstairs study room, which we kept as an informal retreat for Midshipmen to get away from Bancroft Hall. When the time came for Liz to return to the Hall, she appeared reluctant to leave. Diane approached Liz and asked if there was a problem she should know about. Hesitantly, Liz told Diane that several times when she returned to the company area, her company mates formed a gauntlet as she walked by and, one by one, threw pies in her face. As soon as Liz left, Diane reported this troublesome incident to me.
Liz had high visibility within the brigade: she had been plebe brigade commander during the summer of 1979 and, during her senior year, the first female brigade commander. It certainly could be that her stellar performance gave rise these chauvinistic attacks.
Yet, during my term at the Academy, no problems related to women I would describe as severe came to the surface. I’m very glad about that. But I didn’t like the course the subtle harassment was taking in those early days of my tour.
The Naval Academy had not only been a men’s school for 131 years, but it also was a domicile for type A, aggressive, and, yes, macho personalities. After all, the whole purpose of the Academy was to train warriors, people who would be willing and able to go in harm’s way and put their life on the line for their country. The “intrusion” of the female sex into their midst and supposedly degrading the masculine image of the school simply didn’t set well, even though the women were also supremely motivated, fit, and determined individuals.
Consequently, after about six months in the job, I decided to let everyone know where the “Supe” stood on such matters. At various classes and gatherings, I rendered a spiel on my policy.
I stated in the clearest terms I could muster: “I will not tolerate at this school any group or person being treated in an undignified manner. If infractions of this nature take place, I’ll be very tough on the perpetrators.”
To my staff I said, “There should be no doubt in anyone’s mind that the chief public affairs officer (PAO) at the Naval Academy is the superintendent.” This in no way denigrated the assigned staff PAO. But we had to be very media conscious at the time, and it was important that the superintendent be the chief spokesman when it came to situations that sparked negative potential beyond the borders of the campus.
In 1979, for example, the first women were on the threshold of becoming seniors (class of 1980) and would hold leadership positions, particularly with respect to the incoming plebe class. We knew this would draw lots of attention, and sure enough, a reporter from the Washington Post came over wanting to interview some of these ladies.
There happened to be three women in the class of 1980 who were standouts. Not only were they smart, self-confident, and enthusiastic (all were cheerleaders), with promising futures, but they also were also very photogenic. They were Sandy Irwin, Tina D’ercole, and Laurie Ramp, and I selected them to meet with the reporters. Beauty is vanity, I know, but I wanted the Post’s readers to know that competent women midshipmen could be strong leaders as well as being very feminine.
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The mother of Ensign Carrie Jones called to tell me that Carrie’s graduation diploma stated, “Having met all the requirements of the Academic program, he is awarded. . . .” I immediately ordered replacement diplomas for all the women of this class and had them mailed to their new duty stations. (Carrie Jones was later killed in a T-45 training accident in Corpus Christy, Texas.)
Nonetheless, when selected women from the class of 1980 were interviewed by the Naval Institute’s top historian, Paul Stillwell, for his oral history archives, they were nearly unanimous in their belief that they felt unwelcome at the school.
The class of 1979 was the last all-male class at Annapolis. Their rings were inscribed with the phrase “All-Male.” As graduation drew near, someone dreamed up the idea of filling their hats with ping-pong balls. This gesture would declare to the world the class’s status as the final one anatomically equipped with you know what. I got wind of this and pondered what to do about it. I asked myself, “Should I hit this head on or be subtle?”
A graduation rehearsal, held one day before the actual exercise, is a must. It was designed primarily for the first classmen to ensure, among other matters, that they knew the procedure for lining up, moving forward to get their diplomas, and returning to their seats.
I was on the platform and practiced giving some of them their sheepskins. I took this opportunity to give the class a brief philosophical talk that would be totally separate from the speech I planned for the actual event.
In this talk I said, “Your class has a good reputation. You’ve done a good job here. But I can tell you that if you do something dumb at the ceremony, you will put a stigma on your class that will take years to overcome. So don’t do something you would be ashamed of, something you would have to live with for a long time.”
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