During my time as commandant, a question often posed to me was, Why should our nation invest so much in service academies and the young men and women who are chosen to attend them? My reply was simple: The support and defense of the Constitution of the greatest nation in the world demands a cadre of handpicked men and women who, without distraction, are rigorously prepared morally, mentally, and physically for this challenging but sacred duty. Our country deserves nothing less.
There are always those who doubt. They opine that America’s youths are increasingly incapable of shouldering the challenges we face as a nation. They believe that the next class will somehow be less capable, less honorable, and less willing to make the sacrifices necessary to defend the nation and fulfill the call to duty. Nothing could be further from the truth. In the history of the United States, our Navy and our Naval Academy have always, without hesitation, answered the call of duty. No graduating class has failed to inspire us with its honor, courage, commitment, and sacrifice. Graduates willingly leave the comforts of home to patrol the world’s oceans and defend our nation and our way of life. It is a dangerous undertaking. Many give their last full measure.
On September 11,2001, as I sat at my desk in the “Dant’s” office, I recall vividly watching the al-Qaeda attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon and the plane crash in Pennsylvania. When the images reached the Brigade, and the uncertainty of the events rapidly became reality, I asked myself, Are these men and women, these young patriots, ready for the challenges that most certainly lay ahead? A decade of war has proven that they were more than ready. Fortunately for us all, they remain ready today. We are extremely proud of all they have accomplished and thankful that we chose the right men and women to lead the next great generation.
ADM. SAMUEL J. LOCKLEAR
Commandant of Midshipmen, 2000–2002
There are many reasons to seek an Annapolis diploma. Some dream of glory, to be the next astronaut to explore the final frontier, or perhaps to be a senator, representative, or even president of the United States. Others want to further a legacy because their fathers or mothers served with distinction. As the price of a college education continues to skyrocket, many are driven by a desire for a free education. Though all are conscious of the fact that the Annapolis experience imbues characteristics that support success, each midshipman’s intent is unique.
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.”
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.
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 Parris 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.
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 youngsters, 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.
Senior year is not an electives cakewalk. While most colleges require 120 credits to graduate, the Naval Academy piles on professional development classes so that 150 credits are needed, and with very few exceptions, one must complete them within four years. On top of ongoing physical requirements, military obligations, mandatory extracurricular activities, and classes, every semester has a course devoted to professional development. The courses include seamanship and navigation, naval heritage, naval leadership, military ethics, naval law, weapons systems, and strategy. The results factor heavily into a midshipman’s military order of merit and academic grade point average. Of importance, these courses provide, bit by bit, comprehension of future responsibilities as junior officers.
Professional education is not, however, limited to the classroom. In fact, midshipmen are required to attend monthly Forrestal Lectures, where the speakers typically are Medal of Honor recipients, Supreme Court justices, retired four-star generals, Nobel Prize winners, influential diplomats, renowned authors, or captains of industry. They offer, firsthand, a glimpse into their rise to prominence, their setbacks, and personal values. The professional and academic educations provided by the Academy overlap each other. Although the ubiquitous demands of both compete for a limited time and can result in many caffeine-induced, sleepless nights, the densely packed educational program elevates thought processes and compels one to learn more in less time.
FIRST CLASS YEAR: COMPLETING THE TRANSFORMATION
The Naval Academy has been described as a leadership laboratory where midshipmen can experiment with different styles leading peers and subordinates. Another popularized description refers to the Academy as “a quarter of a million dollars in education shoved up your ass one nickel at a time.” First class midshipmen, having survived three years at the Academy, ultimately assume the role as the leaders of the Brigade, and all the sacrifices are worth it to take charge as the senior midshipmen on deck. Each semester, an individual is tasked as the Brigade commander, the highest-ranking midshipman, who sets policy for all 4,400-plus midshipmen. Other opportunities for hands-on management exist at the company commander level, leading 140 midshipmen, or as a squad leader, overseeing 12. Others are selected as varsity team captains or presidents of various extracurricular activities.
First class midshipmen are responsible for leading and upholding the Honor Concept of the Brigade. As the leaders of a Brigade-owned concept, first class midshipmen are ultimately responsible for its integrity, effectiveness, and longevity. Supporting the Navy core value of honor with constant reinforcement, the Honor Concept, in the simplest terms, states that “Midshipmen are persons of integrity: They stand for that which is right.” This statement provides the framework and backbone for midshipmen’s four years of training, from the moment they take their oath and don the cloth of the nation.
If a midshipman is reported to have engaged in plagiarizing, cheating, using a fake ID, or even giving a false answer to a harmless question—all honor violations—the honor staff, led by first class midshipmen, conduct a thorough investigation and convene an Honor Board of his or her peers before which the accused must appear. Honor was, and remains, an essential quality that permeates every facet of midshipman life. Because of it, midshipmen strove to be responsible, accountable, and trustworthy.
SEPTEMBER 11, 2001
The morning of September 11, 2001, began like any other during the academic year. Most midshipmen woke up around 0600, maybe some slightly earlier to exercise or finish a last-minute homework assignment. The reveille bell rang at 0630 as it always does, accompanied by the same morning announcement from Main Office. Plebes began their chow calls at 0650, a cycle we were growing tired of after four years. Thirty commanders called their companies to attention at precisely 0700, and the Brigade filed down to King Hall for breakfast and then shuffled off to first period classes. We had no idea that this day would be our coming of age, the day our lives and careers would be irrevocably changed. One of our classmates recalled that morning:
I had first period off and was headed through the bottom floor of Bancroft Hall towards second period in Luce Hall. It was probably 0830 or so. I wanted to stop and say hi to my friend who had just graduated and was working in Bancroft Hall. I saw the news footage of the plane hitting the first tower on the TV in his office . . . when they were still reporting that it might be an accident. Another friend I passed on the way to class stopped me to ask if I had heard that a plane crashed into the Pentagon. . . . I corrected him, saying I had just seen it on TV and it was the World Trade Center. When I got to class, everyone had heard about it, and we realized it was both the Pentagon and the World Trade Center. We turned a TV on in the classroom and watched the second plane hit. Surely this wasn’t an accident . . . but our teacher said that we needed to focus and he conducted class as usual. Needless to say, I can’t remember anything I learned that day, or even what class it was.
We furiously tried to call friends and family members, even if they were nowhere near New York City or the Pentagon. We needed to know that our loved ones were safe. Busy signals and “could not connect” messages flowed from cell phones. It wasn’t until around 1400 that Jeff Schwab, from 16th Company, learned that his father, who worked in the Pentagon, had survived and had ridden his bike the twenty-five miles to their home in Northern Virginia because traffic in the D.C. metropolitan area was completely gridlocked.
The Academy suspended classes after third period. Instead of eating lunch as usual as the Brigade, we went by battalions, one by one. We were told this was to ensure that the entire Brigade could not be targeted. The rumor mill was working overtime. Tarek Elmasry, from 29th Company, recalls, “I was the company duty officer on deck 8-3. Two things stand out from my CDO experience this day. First, the rumor of the day happened to be that the Naval Academy was on a ‘top 10’ list of Osama Bin Laden’s targets. Second, the plebes and youngsters assigned as company mates of the deck were ordered to carry the dull bayonets in order to protect the rest of us.”
September 11 was as personal for the Class of 2002 as December 7, 1941, had been for the USNA Class of 1942. Some of our friends and family members perished; all of us would eventually go forward in retaliation. If any doubt remained as to the purpose of our service and our education, those reservations disappeared that day. Life at the Naval Academy changed after 9/11. The training continued, but our individual anxieties and the pulse of the Brigade increased. Obviously, as a military installation, there were modifications in gate security for pedestrian and vehicle traffic. Grades in the professional courses, seamanship, tactics, and weapons systems became more important than other courses. We felt closer to combat and would graduate in wartime.
GRADUATION DAY
Of the 1,231 civilians who started the journey with the Class of 2002 on I-Day, 965 sat in ranks on the field at Navy-Marine Corps Memorial Stadium on May 24, 2002. We were ready to take the oath of office and begin our next chapter as commissioned officers. There is ultimately no difference between the person graduating first in the class and the one who holds the prestigious honor of being the “anchor man,” a title of the individual who graduates with the lowest scores in military conduct, academics, and physical aptitude. After commissioning, both first- and last-ranked graduates warrant military salute, share the same title, and are addressed as “Sir” or “Ma’am.”
Our Commandant of Midshipmen, then-colonel John R. Allen, USMC, recently turned over from Sam Locklear, recounts the following:
In 2002, I was nearing the end of my third decade of service in the Marine Corps and the start of my third tour at our beloved Academy. My first tour was as a midshipman, my second tour was as a political science instructor, and my third tour was as the Commandant of Midshipmen. Throughout those tours, totaling nearly a decade, I literally spent thousands of days on the Academy’s grounds, met thousands of midshipmen, and amassed countless memories that sustain me and make me proud to be associated with an institution that is a shining beacon of honor and pride for our nation.
However, despite the many noteworthy memories I have of my time at Annapolis, three specific days stand out as truly memorable. The most memorable day, as it is for almost every graduate, is the day I arrived as a midshipman to join the Class of ’76. The next most memorable day was the day when, after Four Years by the Bay, I graduated and was commissioned a second lieutenant. My third day . . . well, my third day was that beautiful, warm day when the Class of 2002 was commissioned.
Why that day? Simply put that day marked the convergence of several firsts, both for me and for the Academy. For me, the day was my first Graduation Day as the commandant of midshipmen, and since I was the first, and so far only, Marine officer to hold this position, I was particularly concerned that everything go smoothly. For the Academy, it was graduating its first class since the horrific attacks of 9/11—attacks that thrust our nation into a war that still continues over a decade later. Indeed, little did I know on that day at Annapolis . . . 11 September 2001 . . . that ten years later, on the anniversary of 9/11, I’d be in Afghanistan commanding the entire war effort.
On that Graduation Day, I remember looking across the stage at the hundreds of midshipmen about to be commissioned and who would soon complete their initial training and report to their respective Fleet and Marine Corps units. I distinctly recall thinking of the “sea change” that had occurred in the expectation of our graduates. The Academy has long been known as a bastion of leadership dedicated to producing leaders ready to lead our nation’s forces in combat. It is an institution famous for grooming men and women of integrity and service.
Yet, on that day, looking out upon those bright faces, I knew that there were members of the class who would soon lead troops into battle and who would offer what President Lincoln referred to as their “last full measure of devotion” in defense of our nation. I knew that there were members of the class who would stand the watch with distinction in the face of challenges normally handled by those more senior. And, I knew, there was a core, not yet identified, who would, in uncertain times and in unknown places, perform decisive actions whose impact would have as much strategic importance as they would have impact on the tactical situation at hand.
In hindsight, it seems certain that the wars we have undertaken have not evolved the way we might have expected them to unfold. Instead of large ground wars through Europe’s Fulda Gap, we found ourselves involved in counterinsurgency campaigns reminiscent of the brutal, communist-inspired wars of national liberation following World War II. Instead of conventional force-on-force battles at sea, we find ourselves conducting antipiracy operations that hearken back to the eighteenth century. Yet, we also find that those fundamentals . . . those immutable principles . . . that were true 237 years ago are still true today: that a nation, served by patriotic volunteers, dedicated to the principles enshrined in our Constitution, will stand as a beacon of freedom and liberty to the world.
I recall standing on the stage, in the bright morning sun, when I turned to the Chief of Naval Operations, Adm. Mike Mullen, and presented him 797 midshipmen ready to assume duty as ensigns in our great Navy, and then turned to the assistant commandant of the Marine Corps, and presented 162 hardened midshipmen ready to assume duty as lieutenants in our great Marine Corps. Each of them raised their right hand, listened to the oath of office, and in conclusion roared forth with a heartfelt, “I do!”
We did it. As individuals and as a class, we committed ourselves to service as commissioned officers. We sang “Navy Blue and Gold” for the last time together, hands over hearts. We threw our midshipman covers into the air. As a sea of white rained down on our heads, we laughed, cried, and celebrated, barely believing that we had made it through.
The Marine Corps required 16.5 percent of our graduating class. These new Devil Dogs would spend six months at the Marine Corps Basic School to prepare to become infantrymen, logistics specialists, intelligence officers, or aviators. Surface warfare officers would spend six months in Newport, Rhode Island, for professional seamanship training before meeting up with ships around the globe. Submariners had a two-year academic and practical nuclear educational timeline before attending their boats. SEALs and explosive ordnance disposal officers departed to begin the famed mental and physical training of their intense community, BUDS. Two hundred twenty-seven naval aviators entered the “cradle of naval aviation,” Naval Air Station Pensacola in Florida, to begin a regime of more than eighteen months of written tests, training flights, simulated drownings, and POW training prior to entering the fight.
The global war on terrorism, catalyzed by the 9/11 attacks, created a ripple that took America into an extended conflict, a tidal wave of military activity not likely to be seen by it for many years. In March 2003, with military operations still under way in Afghanistan, the United States invaded Iraq. There was no turning back. The Class of 2002’s time in service would be defined by war.
The Blue Angels fly over the graduation ceremony of the Class of 2002. (Courtesy U.S. Naval Academy)
