My Life in Review: Have I been Lucky or What?

Midshipman's School

Some thirteen hundred young men converged on the Notre Dame campus that Sunday afternoon and evening. They came in all shapes and sizes but had three characteristics in common: an A.B. or B.S. degree, a successful physical exam and an aspiration to be a commissioned officer in the U.S. Navy. Taken altogether they presented many variables. Some came from small private colleges (like yours truly), others from large public and private universities. Virtually all of the different academic majors were represented from anthropology to zoology as were all sections of the country from California to Maine. Those who were successful in completing the program would later be tagged with the sardonic sobriquet, "Ninety-Day-Wonders." The assumption underlying the Navy V-7 experiment was that college graduates with a liberal arts education were the most likely prospects for coping with an accelerated, rigorous learning regimen and becoming competent Naval "officers and gentlemen." The program was designed to produce quickly several thousand officers to help man the hundreds of ships being built. In retrospect it was remarkably successful and, in validating the assumption, provided convincing evidence of the value and importance of a liberal college education.

The term, "Ninety-Day" Wonder is somewhat misleading because the program stretched over four months. The first month, called Indoctrination, the candidates were apprentice seamen, wore the traditional "middie" uniform with big-collared blouse, bell-bottom trousers with umpteen buttons, and a crinkled sailors cap over a severe brush-cut. They (we) were subjected to a rigorous—at times tortuous—routine from reveille (0600) to taps (2200). It was a testing, probationary period consisting of four academic-type courses all of which the trainee must pass to become a midshipman plus a strenuous physical fitness program, watch duties and countless inspections. Any lapses: failure to meet any of the standards or to live up to the regulations brought "demerits." As our battalion officer, Lieutenant Brown, a feisty Texan, continuously reminded us, "You guys know what demerits mean. Demerits mean a train ticket home or to the Great Lakes and boot camp." The principal motivational strategy was to engender the feeling that we were always under "the sword of Damocles" and any slip we made would bring it crashing down on our heads. It seemed to work. Most of us were running scared and running hard.

The four courses were Indoctrination, Math (spherical trigonometry), Naval Ordinance, Seamanship and Navy Customs and Regulations. Moreover, we were confronted with a partially new language consisting of a new vocabulary for familiar objects and, of course, the names of all the nautical accessories and appurtenances with which we were totally unfamiliar. Thus we now walked on a "deck," not a floor; down a "passageway," not a hall or corridor; hollered "gangway" not excuse me; looked up at the "overhead," not the ceiling; leaned against the "bulkhead," not the wall; went to the "head," not the bathroom; listened to "scuttlebutt," not gossip; went "topside," not upstairs; "sacked out," not went to bed, at "twenty-two hundred hours," not ten p.m. Further, we had to distinguish a chock from a bit, a capstan from a winch, the foc'sle from the fantail etc.; all of this and more before getting near a real ship.

Of the four courses only Navy Customs and Regulations did I find quite easy. By far the most difficult was spherical trig. Unless one was a math major the problem of mastering the spherical concepts and managing the logarithmic calculations was intimidating. The math instructor assigned to our platoon had graduated from Georgia Tech in business administration and had barely passed high school geometry. The class followed a departmental syllabus and took departmental exams. His only contribution was to conduct the class in a strictly military manner (he made us stand at attention when reciting, address him as "sir" and begin our recitation by saying, "Seaman Crandall, reporting"). After going through the formal protocol at the outset of the class session he would select the number of seamen coinciding with the number of assigned problems, ordering them to write their calculations and solutions on the chalk boards. Then he would point to the work on the first problem saying, "Are there any questions?" Hands would fly up. As he recognized each hand-waving seaman the pattern of comments went something like this. "I did it the same way but got a different answer." Next, "I did it a different way but got the same answer." A bewildering debate was ignited leaving us in a state of utter confusion. Our class had only one math major. We besieged him with frantic requests for help, driving him to the point of having to turn us down. We became panicky as we were failing the weekly departmental exams and would sneak into the head after taps (risking possible demerits) to try to get help from each other.

The instructor kept reminding us that failure to pass the course would bust us out of the program but also that he was pleading with his superiors to replace him. Finally his pleas were heeded. The last ten days a former high school math teacher, Lt. Tefft from Rochester, took over and pulled most of us past the 2.5 minimum grade level, giving some twenty-five aspiring and perspiring seamen a chance to become naval officers. The irony of that harrowing experience was that while the rationale of subjecting us to the esoteric intricacies of spherical trig was to provide us with a theoretical background for celestial navigation we never used the stuff we learned in that course. In actual practice celestial navigation was handled by consulting tables which contained the products of all of the necessary mathematical manipulations.

A "Boot-camp" regimen constituted the nonacademic part of the program from reveille to taps. Failure to be punctual at the first muster in the morning (or any other), failure to be in the sack with lights out at taps, failure to be in the designated uniform (uniform requirements changed during the day, sometimes on very short notice), failure to heed any announcement, failure to have a clean room and clean sink ("a wet sink is a dirty sink"), failure to pass personal inspection, failure to fill out any form properly—all of the above resulted in demerits. Failure to hear an announcement (not getting the word) was no excuse. Thus we were always on edge, fearful of missing "the word." We all had periodic duty as Mate of the Deck of our deck in the dorm. The M.O.D.'s principal responsibility was to pass the word to his mates on his deck. Occasionally some sadistic seaman would run out into the passageway and holler, "All who have not done so do so immediately" sending us all into a state of panic.

The physical dimension of the program focused on close order drills and rigorous calisthenics conducted by "drill sergeants"—actually chief petty officers. They were an integral part of the daily grind. Northern Indiana winter weather is chilling with the wintry blasts sweeping across the flat frozen terrain of the Notre Dame campus. I still remember with a shudder of lying on the cold, cold ground doing endless leglifts wondering whether my legs would fall off before they were infected with frostbite. I lost fifteen pounds that first month.

The climactic events each week were the Saturday inspections and tests. Each room was occupied by two seamen. Responsibility for the condition of the room rotated each week. Any deficiencies were charged against the "Captain of the Room" that particular week. Bill Cox from Graceville, Minnesota and a graduate of St. Johns College was my roommate. He was a fine person, conscientious and competent, and didn't deserve demerits but had the misfortune to be captain on those weeks deficiencies were discovered. I really lucked out in the demerit category except for one instance. I signed the G.I. Insurance form in the wrong place and had to work off the demerits by toting a rifle around the campus on Saturday afternoon during the Notre Dame-Michigan football game.

Eleven hundred survived the one-month probationary period while two hundred busted out. The end of Indoctrination was marked by celebration. Several of the survivors who had experience as entertainers staged a Happy Hour show featuring much scatological humor and irreverent jibes poking fun at the "ridiculous regulations" and the idiosyncrasies of members of the instructional staff. It was an effective way of relieving the tensions accumulated during the long four-week grind. But the first "liberty"—from Saturday at 1300 'till Sunday at 2200—provided the best opportunity for letting off steam. Some went to Chicago; most took hotel rooms in South Bend (I went into town but did not stay overnight). The shenanigans and hi-jinks of that first midshipman's class at Notre Dame on that occasion and subsequent liberties resulted in a ban on overnight liberties for unmarried men in the classes that followed. Later when, as Naval officers, we would meet graduates of those classes they would accuse us of being the culprits who had ruined liberty weekends for them.

Now we were proud midshipmen with the appropriate dress uniforms which closely approximated those of naval officers but the rigorous routine remained. However we had to deal with a new academic curriculum. Navigation replaced Indoctrination Math; Ordinance was augmented by Damage Control; Seamanship became more than knot-tying sessions and a detailed study of the Watch Officer's Guide and Manual rounded out the curricular requirements. Navigation seemed to me to be the most important subject and the most challenging. The fundamental task was to learn to do a day's work in celestial navigation. In a recurring assignment we were given all of the relevant data: sextant readings, the velocity of the winds and currents, the ship's position at 0800 and the ship's average speed. We had to execute the necessary calculations, apply them to the chart using compass and parallel rulers plotting the exact location of the ship at 0800 the next day. My lack of manual dexterity caused me considerable anxiety. My ineptitude in manipulating the compass and parallel rulers with precision and in drawing razor-thin lines created horrendous possibilities. In plotting the exact location of the vessel at the specified time a skewed ruler and fat lines could place the ship several miles from its correct position—on a large sale chart—even if the mathematical calculations were correct.

Our instructor, Lieutenant Hussong, gave no partial credit. If the plotted spot was more than ten miles off (just a "silly millimeter" on a large-scale chart) we were charged with a wrong answer. Although 2.5 was passing in the Navy grading system. he used only two grades 4.0 and flunk. He used his procedure, which we thought to be excessively harsh by contending, "I don't want to be aboard a ship that has a 2.5 navigator."

Anyone who failed any exam was placed "on the tree" for the next week. Those on the tree were assigned extra study hours which were deducted from "liberty" time. All grade information was posted on the bulletin boards so we knew where we and everyone else stood at the beginning of each week. We were told that our grade point ranking would be a critical factor in determining our duty assignment upon graduation. That was simply a motivational ploy. Over half of our class went to the amphibious forces, including the front-runners. Except for that traumatic time in Indoctrination Math I managed to stay off "the tree" and ultimately finished 142nd in a graduating class of 1,050.

Thanksgiving brought a break in the action and Jill to South Bend. We stayed at a first-class hotel, The LaSalle, ate thanksgiving dinner at the Oak Room of the Hotel Hoffman, another fine hostelry with live pipe organ music enhancing the festive atmosphere, toured the campus and went to the movies. Although she was impressed with the sparkling new dress uniform she was a bit dismayed at my general appearance. My weight loss and quasi-skinhead haircut made me look like a scrawny, plucked chicken rather than the plump, chubby-faced husband with wavy locks she had known.

The rigorous regimen resumed in the post-thanksgiving period. Each day was crammed with tightly scheduled activities with no down time until Saturday afternoons. Except for a couple of hours of pick-up basketball in Rockne Memorial Gym we were busy doing our laundry, reviewing our notes and preparing for the next week's work. I never took time out to read a newspaper or listen to the radio. It seemed like a treadmill experience, engendering ambivalent feelings of wanting to get off and, at the same time, fearing that any lapse or diversion could bring dire consequences i.e., falling behind and busting out.

I did experience an unwanted interruption and several days of deep anxiety. Victimized by an unknown "bug" I reported to sick bay and was placed in the hospital. My illness remained undiagnosed. I tried to persuade the nun/nurses to give me a physic but they demurred. Roger came down from Camp McCoy, Wisconsin to visit while I was still in a hospital bed but, since my "disease" had not been identified, they wouldn't let him come in. I talked to him from the second-story window. Soon I showed signs of recovery and was released to resume the grind. Bill Cox clued me in on the material I had missed and I was able to catch up without serious grade point damage. That incident might be called "a successful damage control operation."

Christmas came and so did Jill. We bought a little tree. The maid at The LaSalle Hotel collaborated in our preparations. It was one of my most memorable Christmases. We saw the film, "Holiday Inn" which introduced Irvin Berlin's "White Christmas" and later dined at the Oak Room of the Hotel Hoffman where the organist played that stirring sentimental song. That holiday, the last we were to spend together for three years, was idyllic in every respect.

Now the first midshipman's class at Notre Dame was coming down the home stretch. One afternoon early in January the staff passed out form sheets asking us to state our preferences for duty assignments. We took this "opportunity" seriously and it generated spirited conversations regarding the best strategy to employ in filling out that form. Some said, "Put down Coastal Defense; that's the safest duty." Others contended, "No, write in Bomb Disposal; they'll say ÔHe's too brave to die and assign you much safer duty.'" The fact of the matter was that the whole exercise was quite irrelevant. None of the classmates that I knew got a duty assignment which matched their stated choice.

January 28, 1943 was Graduation Day. Mother and Dad came out for the commencement ceremony which was held in the new Navy Drill Hall. The final exhortation in the commencement address was "Come home with your shields of honor untarnished or come home on them."

We were now Ensigns in the United States Naval Reserve ready for active duty. My orders directed me to report to the amphibious force at Norfolk, Virginia after a two-week leave. I journeyed back home with my parents. We rode all night on the New York Central to Buffalo without sleeping accommodations.

The fortnight at home flew by. Jill had been forced to move from our half-house which had developed a bad case of frozen pipes (those exposed bathroom conduits). She was living next door in a house rented and occupied by Andy Haynes, his wife and the owner, Pearl Torpey. Andy asked me to speak at Rotary about my experiences at midshipman's school. We attended a Valentine's dance at Fillmore Central, giving me a chance to show off my naval officer's uniform in front of my former students and colleagues. My self esteem was restored. No longer would people wonder whether I was sitting out the war (my situation during that long, hot summer of lost records).

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