The physical fitness trainer at the academy, a retired gunner’s mate named Ralph Breckenridge, enjoyed inspiring both fear and respect in the entire corps of naval cadets. He still insisted on being called “Chief,” and he believed in the concept that a sound body was equally as important as a sound mind. He had been retired for five years when the class of 1893 arrived on campus.
Most of the physical fitness training centered on calisthenics, which many of the cadets found boring. Chief Breckenridge had an amazing ability to do pushups and had a longstanding challenge to anyone who felt that they could do more pushups than he could. No one ever challenged him, even though several cadets probably could have bested him. They feared that if the Chief lost, he would make the physical fitness program even more onerous to them. The one activity that he wanted to have the cadets engage in was boxing, but the Academy had a ban against this sport. It disapproved of bare-knuckle fighting, as was the custom in the United States at the time.
One morning in May 1892, Chief Breckenridge had nearly finished reading the sporting section of the morning newspaper when an announcement caught his eye. The heavyweight champion of the world, John L. Sullivan, had announced he would be defending his title that September against the challenger James J. Corbett. The fight would be held in New Orleans. Significantly, this fight was going to be the first American championship fight to be fought under the Marquis of Queensbury rules, which would change the face of boxing in America. This event provided the incentive for the chief to schedule an appointment to speak with the superintendent the next day.
A week later, when the second class naval cadets reported to the gymnasium for physical fitness, they found the Chief beaming with enthusiasm and standing in the center of a twenty-four-foot square surrounded by ropes. A layer of canvas mats covered the floor of the square. In his hands, he held what appeared to be oversized gloves. He studied the cadets, clad in the blue gym shorts and gold T-shirts that reflected the academy’s recent adoption of blue and gold as its official colors. After blowing a short blast on the ever-present whistle that hung around his neck, he instructed everyone to be seated. “Gentlemen, welcome to the world of modern boxing. I don’t know if any of you has access to a newspaper, although I’m told naval cadets can read and write!” Several of the cadets burst into laughter. “Anyway, the great John L. Sullivan, heavyweight champion of the world, has announced that he is going to defend his title against Gentleman Jim Corbett this fall in New Orleans. What is significant about this news is that the great John L. has agreed to fight using the Marquis of Queensbury rules. You must realize that this changes boxing in America forever!
“I realize that some of you may not know about the Queensbury rules. Well, I’m gonna give you the skinny. First, no more bare-knuckle fighting. This style of fighting is gone forever. Fighters will now wear gloves like these,” he said, as he held up the boxing gloves. “Each round will last three minutes, with one minute between rounds. A few other rules go along with this style, and we’ll cover them as we go. Last week, I met with the superintendent. He gave me permission to add boxing to our curriculum, seeing as it’s now more civilized than bare-knuckle brawling. So guys, we’re going to take up the art of boxing and self-defense. As a baseline, I wanna see what you guys got. I want a volunteer … say you!” He pointed directly at Jared Russell. “Get your ass up here, Russell!”
Jared Russell jumped into the ring as the other cadets applauded. As Breckenridge tied the boxing gloves on him, he instructed, “Pick an opponent of equal size.”
Russell scanned his fellow cadet until he found Morrison. “You, Morrison, let’s see what you got! Are you up for it, or are you too scared?” The other cadets hooted as Morrison slowly came to his feet and entered the ring. As the Chief helped Morrison on with his gloves, Russell danced around, holding his gloves over his head like a victorious warrior. Finally, the Chief called them both to the center of the ring and gave final instructions. “Okay, you guys, I want a fair fight. No hitting below the belt. When I blow the whistle, you both stop fighting and go to a corner of the ring. You got that? Okay, so touch gloves, and when I blow the whistle, begin this fight!”
As they touched gloves, Russell growled in a low voice, “You’re going down, Jew-boy!”
The shrill whistle blast initiated the bout. Immediately, the other cadets erupted into catcalls and shouts. “C’mon Russell, kick the kike’s ass!” Other similar taunts filled the air in support of the popular Russell.
Russell slowly approached Morrison with his arms bent at the elbows and his gloved fists in a cycling motion typical of most bare-knuckle fighters of the day. Morrison came toward him with light, nimble steps, his left hand in front of his right. To Russell, he almost appeared to be dancing, and this greatly annoyed him. “C’mon, you cowardly fuck, stop the — ” A sudden crashing jab from Morrison’s left gloved fist hit Russell in the face, sending him reeling back a few steps and stunning him. “What the fuck?” he cried out, as he realized his lower lip was cut and bleeding.
Russell stood three inches taller and had nearly twenty pounds on his opponent, but he didn’t realize that Morrison had many advantages over him. First and foremost, he had been fighting his entire life and often against more than one opponent. He had learned to be very mobile when fighting because he often had to flee when multiple assailants assaulted him. Also, Morrison’s personal physical fitness regimen of nightly calisthenics, in addition to his required physical fitness classes, had resulted in his well-muscled and very powerful build. Lastly, he had his inner rage. Morrison had repressed his fury during his tenure at the academy because he realized that he could be expelled for fighting, even if he was in the right. But now, for the first time, he was being encouraged and authorized to fight, and with the one cadet who seemed to be the source of most of his torment at the Naval Academy. Russell’s invitation to fight was Morrison’s chance to vent his rage.
As Russell approached with his gloved fists again in a cycling motion, Morrison quickly jabbed Russell twice in the face with his left glove. Russell swung wildly with windmill-like punches that missed his opponent and exposed his own head. Morrison countered with a quick left jab to the head and followed with a devastating right hook to the side of Russell’s head, dropping him to his knees. Stunned, Russell remained on his knees while the Chief blew his whistle. As Morrison backed off, he softly taunted his opponent, saying, “You weak little prick!”
Meanwhile, the cadets observing this battle roared with excitement. Most shouted encouragement to Russell, but a number of them began to support Morrison, shouting things like, “You show ’em, Morrison!” and “Go, Morrison, go!”
The Chief began to count to ten; by eight, Russell rose to his feet. Livid that this Jew seemed to be humiliating him, and he knew he had to regain the initiative. As they approached each other, Russell grabbed his opponent and hugged him in what almost appeared to be a bear hug. The Chief pulled them apart, shouting, “Cut that shit out, Russell. This ain’t wrestling!” Russell unleashed another windmill-like blow that caught Morrison on the left shoulder and threw him back a step. In response, Morrison rushed in with right hook that caught Russell in the left side of his ribcage. It knocked the wind out of Russell, just enough so that he momentarily dropped his gloves. That mistake proved to be the opportunity that Morrison needed.
First he hit Russell with a right hook to the head and then a left hook. The wobbly Russell again began to drop to his knees. Before his knees hit the canvas, Morrison delivered another right and left hook in quick succession to Russell’s head. His eyes glazed over as the shrill sound of the Chief’s whistle rang out. As Morrison began to back off, in a loud voice, the beaten Russell spat out, “You fucking Jew bastard!”
The comment infuriated Morrison, and he lost control. He proceeded to deliver three more crashing blows to Russell’s head, and his opponent collapsed to the mat while the Chief grabbed Morrison from behind, shouting, “It’s over Morrison, it’s over! Back off!”
Several cadets rushed to the ring, some of them to help Jared Russell to his feet. However, others ran over to Morrison to congratulate him and slap him on the back. Finally, several of his classmates lifted Morrison onto their shoulders and carried him around the ring like a conquering hero. Some proclaimed him “The Joltin’ Jew” in an odd compliment showing their admiration. He looked back over his shoulder and saw two of his classmates helping Russell slowly to his feet. He also could see tears of humiliation forming in his beaten opponent’s eyes. Morrison felt absolutely no sympathy for Russell. Instead, Morrison felt a great deal of satisfaction as his classmates carried him victoriously around the gym. In addition, he felt oddly exhilarated to have administered a severe beating to another individual, a person whom he despised. Even so, in his moment of triumph, the words of Professor Michelson came back to him. He had won their respect, but he would probably never win their friendship.
* * *
That night, Morrison fell asleep in his dorm room with a sense of accomplishment and inner peace. He drifted off to sleep and began dreaming of his youth in Lower Manhattan. Suddenly, he was awakened by several intruders pinning his arms to his mattress while they stuffed a rag into his mouth. He started struggling against the intruders, but they easily overpowered him. They rolled him over and tied his arms behind his back. He could hear Jared Russell commanding the four others. “Tie a gag around his mouth! Put a blindfold on him, too. I don’t want a sound from him.” After two of them held his feet together and bound them, four of them lifted him off the bed. “Follow me,” commanded Russell. Morrison, dressed only in his underwear, ceased his futile struggling.
The five assailants carried Morrison down to a basement room in the New Quarters. They pulled out a chair and sat their prisoner in it. They leaned him forward and unbound his hands. Pushing him against the back of the chair, someone grabbed a length of thick rope laying in the corner and wrapped it securely around his waist. The ropes bound Morrison so tightly that he could feel the circulation to his hands being cut off. They left his ankles bound together. After turning the overhead light on, the others stood back as Russell walked up to their prisoner and removed the blindfold and the gag. The sudden burst of light hurt Morrison’s eyes. As he slowly accommodated to the light, he could see the face of Jared Russell in front of him only inches away.
“You think you won that fight, Morrison? Do you really think you won? Well, we all know that you used a bunch of dirty Jew tricks. Right, guys?” Among the affirmations of support, Morrison recognized the voice of the ever-present Parsons. “You know, you humiliated me in front of everyone else with your tricks. I don’t like being humiliated. In fact, I don’t like losing to anyone in anything, especially not to a Jew. You better believe it right now that I am going to be the top graduate in the class, not you. You’re going to have to pay for this, Morrison. What do you think of that?” When Morrison just stared back at him without answering, Russell’s anger seemed to increase. “Just look at those sad, angry eyes of yours Morrison. They speak volumes to me.”
Parsons walked over to Morrison with a small can of blue paint in his hand. “You know, you’re not in the appropriate uniform of the day, Morrison. Heck, we don’t want you to get in any trouble, do we? After all, what are friends for?” He dipped a brush into the can and brought it to Morrison’s bare chest. With great flourish, he painted the word Kike on his chest. “There! It’s perfect!” he cried, as he began laughing uncontrollably.
Russell smiled and he walked over to the corner of the room where he picked up a pair of canvas working gloves from the floor. He slowly pulled each one onto his hands while staring directly at Morrison. With dramatic display, he began his cycling motions with his fists, just as he had in the boxing ring earlier that day. Standing in front of his victim, he began to gently swipe his fists along the side of Morrison’s face, as if to taunt him further. He stopped and put his hands on his hips. “You know what I can’t stand about you, Morrison?” He paused for a moment, but received no reply to his question. “Well, I’m going to tell you.” With that, he delivered a punishing blow to the side of Morrison’s face. “I hate you because you’re a fucking Jew who doesn’t look like a Jew.” He then smashed his right fist into the left side of Morrison’s ribcage, knocking the wind out of him. Russell stood back and watched his victim cough up some blood-tinged mucous and gasp for air. After a moment, Russell continued his tirade.
“I hate you because you’re taking up a place here at the academy, a place that belongs to a real American, a Christian.” Again, he threw a crushing blow to the center of Morrison’s face. Morrison started to lose consciousness. Russell leaned over and placed his face inches from Morrison’s face. “And you know what else I hate about you, my silent friend? It’s the fact that you don’t know who you are or who you want to be. Are you a goddamn Jew, or are you an American? You don’t seem to know where your place is in this world. What the hell are you?” Seeing Morrison beginning to slump over, Russell grabbed his hair and jerked his head up. “Don’t pass out on me now! Answer my question! What are you? Are you another one of those fucking Jews who wants to take over the world or just a fucking Jew who is pretending to be a Christian? Tell me right now, you piece of shit!”
Morrison’s swollen lips seemed to be moving, attempting to form words. “That’s good Morrison, tell me,” taunted Russell in a patronizing tone. “What did you decide?” He placed his ear up to Morrison’s lips so he could clearly hear the answer. His colleagues had also gathered around and bent forward to hear the answer.
In a weak but clear voice, Morrison spoke so that all in the room could hear his reply of three words: “Go fuck yourself!”
Russell stood up in a fury and drew back his right fist. Suddenly they all heard the sound of the outer door to the basement being slammed shut. “Oh shit,” cried Parsons, “it’s the duty upperclassman making rounds. We gotta get out of here!” He grabbed his roommate’s arm and screamed, “C’mon Jared! If we’re caught, we’re screwed. Just leave him here!”
Russell looked at his colleagues and then looked at the window in the back of the room. “There!” he cried as he pointed. Parsons ran over and turned off the light. Within seconds, the five cadets had climbed out the back window. Russell was the last one out the window. Just before he shut it, he stuck his head back in and spoke. “Fuck you, Morrison!” he said with a smile. He slammed the window behind him shut.
Naval Cadet First Class Neville Anderson had the duty that night. He despised these watches just because they bored the hell out of him; nothing ever happened. He had been walking around the periphery of the New Quarters when he thought he heard some noises coming through the basement window. He had to walk around the front of the building and go in the main entrance to access the basement stairs. He slowly checked the doors of each room; they all seemed to be locked. It startled him when he came to the final room found the door unlocked. Turning the knob, he slowly pushed open the door and shined the beam of his lantern into the room. His eyes focused on the back of a chair in the center of the room where someone appeared to be sitting. “All right, what’s going on here?” he asked, as he walked around to the front of the chair. The shock of what he saw when he flashed the light beam on the seated man’s face caused him to drop the lantern. He, too, spoke three words: “Oh, my God!”
* * *
The following afternoon, the superintendent, Captain Phythian, arrived at the Naval Academy Hospital. “Attention on deck!” shouted by the corpsman at the ward desk brought the entire staff to attention when he walked out of the stairwell. He informed the corpsman that he wanted to speak to the attending physician, Commander Claude Fitchett, immediately. Within a minute, Commander Fitchett arrived at the nurse’s station to meet with Captain Phythian. “I want to know exactly what happened, Commander,” barked the superintendent.
“Well, sir, it appears to be a rather nasty case of hazing, one with some pretty serious religious overtones.” He explained about the painting on the patient’s chest. Phythian had heard about the boxing match that had taken place earlier that day. Most people on campus had heard about Morrison’s humiliating defeat of the popular Russell. Phythian had a good idea what the whole incident implied, and it made him livid. “What is the extent of Cadet Morrison’s injuries?” he inquired.
“He has a broken nose, which I was able to set without much difficulty. His face is a mass of bruises. And he has bilateral periorbital ecchymoses; that is, black eyes. His eyes are almost swollen shut. The left side of his jaw is swollen and tender, but I don’t think it’s broken. In addition, he may have a cracked rib or two on the left side. He was unconscious when he was brought in here last night, but he’s beginning to come around now.”
“His father is a United States congressman. At least he was until he had a stroke recently,” said Captain Phythian, thinking out loud. “When can I speak with him?”
“Sir, I’d recommend no sooner than tomorrow. Let’s give him a little more time to wake up. Say, tomorrow afternoon, if that’s okay.”
“Tomorrow it is. I’ll be back at 1300 sharp!” Phythian paused for a second and looked at the doctor. “He is going to live, isn’t he?”
“Yes, sir, but he’s going to be pretty sore for a while.”
The following afternoon, Captain Phythian returned and the Command Senior Enlisted Leader escorted him to Morrison’s room, along with Commander Fitchett. Seeing the superintendent enter, Morrison made a feeble effort to get up before they ordered him to remain in bed. Phythian asked the doctor to leave them so they could speak privately. The doctor walked out of the room and closed the door behind him. The superintendent pulled up a chair next to Morrison’s bed and sat down. He studied the young man lying in the bed who stared back at him through bruised, swollen eyelids. He had heard unofficially that Morrison was having a tough time throughout his academy tenure, despite his excellent academic record. Phythian had turned a blind eye to the harassment, but one look at the brutalized cadet told him that he could no longer ignore the hazing. It had to stop.
“Cadet Morrison, I can’t tell you how sorry I am, and how disgusted I am, that this happened to you. I want you to know that this type of hazing, no, this torture, is going to end at the Naval Academy. Can you understand me? Can you speak? Dr. Fitchett says you may have a broken jaw.”
In a soft voice, Morrison replied, “Sir, I can both hear you and speak.” Phythian could see that it was painful for the young man to move his jaw. “But please don’t ask me to box with you.”
Phythian smiled at the young man’s cynical sense of humor. “All right, Cadet Morrison, we’ll cancel tonight’s bout.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Cadet Morrison, I want to know who did this to you. I think I have an idea. Give me the names. There’s going to be hell to pay.” He scratched his chin and repeated more forcefully, “Hell to pay!”
Morrison looked directly into the captain’s eyes and stared for a few seconds. “Sir, it was too dark, and I couldn’t see who it was. I really couldn’t.” Through his swollen eyes, Morrison saw the stunned look on the captain’s face when he finished speaking.
At first, Phythian was speechless. Morrison could see his face redden with anger. Finally, he spoke again. “What do you mean it was too dark? Didn’t any of them speak? I can’t believe you. In fact, I don’t believe you. Cadet Morrison, this is serious business, and I expect your full cooperation! Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir, I do,” replied the young man. “I am just not able to identify my attackers. It was dark, they had me blindfolded, and they didn’t speak to me. That’s all there is to it. I can’t give you any more details. I’m sorry, sir.”
Captain Phythian leaped up from his chair, barely able to control his anger. “Young man, this is a violation of the honor code here at the Academy! You are not cooperating with an official investigation, and that is a serious honors violation. I can have you expelled for this behavior. I will have you expelled for it!” He paced back and forth along the side of the room. “Unacceptable! I will have you expelled if you do not give me some names!”
“Sir, I don’t think you really want to expel me,” replied Morrison in a quiet voice. “I’ve had a bit of trauma to my head, and I believe that Dr. Fitchett will tell you that sometimes amnesia can occur after head trauma. Perhaps that explains why I can’t recall who the attackers were, or maybe it was just too dark. In either case, you’ll be left to explain why you had a beating victim at the Naval Academy and why you decided to expel him when you couldn’t identify the perpetrators. I don’t think that will be easy to explain.
“Also, the cadet you decided to expel happened to be the son of a very popular and influential congressman. Even though he is ailing, he still has a lot of influence on Capitol Hill, as well as friends on the Military Affairs Committee. So you see, I just don’t believe that you will be expelling me. I’m sorry I can’t help you identify any attackers. I’m afraid it was just too dark.”
Captain Phythian stood up and looked at the battered young man in the bed. He had to admit, the kid had guts. He was right. There was no way he could expel Morrison for not cooperating with his investigation. He sighed and cleared his throat. In a calm and reasonable tone he said, “You realize, Morrison, that unless someone confesses to this beating, I can’t charge anyone without your identification of them. Your attackers will get off scot-free. I can’t believe this is what you want. I really can’t. I’ll ask you one last time. Who did this to you?”
Through his swollen eyelids, Morrison looked at the superintendent and replied, “Captain, I’d like to help you, but it was too dark.”
“Very well, Morrison,” he said as he walked to the door. “I’ll check on you in a couple of days. I hope you feel better.” As he pulled the door shut behind him, he thought to himself that this Morrison was one stubborn, unreasonable young man. He really wanted to help him, but Morrison didn’t seem to want his, or anyone else’s, help. Phythian just didn’t understand.
The following morning, Captain Phythian ordered Cadet Russell to report to his office at 1000 sharp. Before calling the young man into his office, Phythian pondered his dilemma. Without a doubt, Russell was an outstanding cadet and had tremendous potential for a great naval career. In addition, he liked the young man, as did everyone else at the Academy. He did not look forward to this session. With a sigh, he stood up, opened the door, and ordered the young man to enter and sit.
“Cadet Russell, I’m sure you heard about what happened to Cadet Morrison the other night,” he began. “What do you know about all of this?”
“Sir, I first heard about it this morning, and I was quite shocked. In fact — ”
“Don’t you dare insult my intelligence, young man!” shouted the superintendent, rising from his chair. “Do you think I didn’t hear about the boxing match? Do you think I really didn’t know about the harassment over the past years? Do you know that I can have you thrown into the brig for a long, long time? Now, what do you have to tell me?”
The young man just hung his head and said nothing. The superintendent slowly walked around the young man, who continued to stare at the floor saying nothing. “Jared,” said Phythian softly, “you’re off the hook. Morrison is refusing to identify who administered the beating to him. I have no idea why, but he insists that it was too dark, and he flat out refuses to identify his assailants. Without his testimony, I am powerless to do anything. This is purely his choice and certainly not mine.
“You’re getting the rare second chance, Jared. Make the most of it. You have a brilliant career ahead of you, an absolutely brilliant career. Even though I can’t prove you did this, I’m telling you, no, I’m ordering you, to cease and desist. Leave Morrison alone. If there are any further incidences of violence, if anyone lays a hand on Morrison, I will blame you. I know the influence you have over the rest of the cadets. As much as I admire you, consider this the final warning. Am I perfectly clear, Cadet Russell?”
In a faltering voice, Russell replied, “Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now get out of here and get back to class.”
That evening, when they returned to their dorm room, Parsons immediately began questioning his roommate. “How did it go? What did he say? Are you in a boatload of trouble? C’mon, tell me, Jared! Quit screwing around!” He watched with irritation as Russell just stared out the window. Finally Russell sat down with a grin on his face and folded his arms.
“The truth is, I got off kinda easy. The old man chewed my ass a bit, but there will be no charges against me or any of us. The damnedest thing is — and this I can’t really figure out — we’re getting away with it because of Morrison! Can you believe it? He refuses to rat us out! Captain Phythian told me that Morrison steadfastly refuses to identify anyone. Says it was too dark to see who assaulted him.”
The astonished Parsons sat there with his jaw dropped. “I don’t get it. Why isn’t he pressing charges against us all?”
“Hey, who the hell cares?” snapped Russell. “The truth is I thought that Phythian would have turned a blind eye. I mean, who the hell cares about a lousy Jew? He surprised me. He must know what’s been going on and, by his inaction, I say he’s condoned it. I’m disappointed with Captain Phythian, my friend. Very disappointed.”
“So I guess we cease and desist,” sighed Parsons.
“Well, maybe not,” shot back Russell. “I’ve been ordered to refrain from any physical harm or harassment in regard to Morrison. And I will obey that order explicitly, but I’ll tell you this, roomie, I will be the top graduate in our class. You can bet on that! Yes, I’m going to lay off Morrison for now. You know, I’ve been thinking of a way to get the upper hand and still obey Captain Phythian’s edict. Rest assured, Derek, your roommate is a genius!”