SAN DIEGO — The U.S. Coast Guard Academy sits high on a bluff overlooking the Thames River in New London, Connecticut. A group of colonial, brick, Georgian buildings, trimmed in white moldings and shutters, sit serenely among tall trees and a pampered lawn that goes on forever. Pyracantha bushes with bouquets of pouting red berries line the driveways and keep order. Midshipman in their crisply pressed black and white uniforms walk briskly from class to class for four years of nurtured perfection, until they graduate. The rewards are shiny gold ensign’s bars designating them as the next generation of leaders.
In the rear of the complex, slightly down hill, invisible to impressionable visitors, sat a two-story, dark brown, wood stained, cheese box building. This barracks housed eighty-one members of the officer candidate class of October, 1955, of which I was a member. Twenty-seven members of the class were brand new lawyers, having just graduated from hallowed institutes around the nation. Four months hence in February, we would become Ensigns, equivalent in rank and prestige it takes a midshipman living on the hill above us four years to achieve. For morale, purposes, the “middies” and our 120 day wonders were kept separated. I think they didn’t want us to corrupt them .We went to class in separate buildings, ate separately, walked different paths, and unlike the dandy attired midshipman, we wore enlisted man uniforms with bell-bottom trousers and middy blouse pullovers. The only occasion on which our paths crossed was at the Exchange, which was like a general store. We had absolutely nothing in common; there was no rapping, or discussions about mutual experiences.
Upon our arrival at the academy, the Commandant of the Coast Guard addressed our class. The stunner of his speech was when he told us that, “Fifty percent of you will go to sea upon graduation. Sea? Twenty-seven lawyers, a whole bunch of liberal arts graduates, engineers, business school majors and future teachers moaned, “What sea?” We thought the Coast Guard only had little boats motoring around city harbors and navigable rivers. Not so! We were told about Ocean Station vessels. One sailed to the middle of the North Atlantic and one to the South Pacific Ocean. Upon arrival at a predesignated position, the ship sailed ten miles in one direction, then turned 90 degrees and sailed ten miles in the new direction, and continued this pattern twenty four hours per day for thirty days. These ships acted as fixed navigation points for ocean-crossing airplanes using loran navigation equipment. In those days conventional navigation instruments did not have the range to reach across the ocean and satellites were only thoughts of a rare few dreamers. It didn’t matter what the weather was, these ships had to be in place. The North Atlantic station in the winter was worse than a jail sentence to Devil’s Island. Hurricanes and cyclones were the burden to bear in the Pacific. The Commandant also informed us of isolated duty stations on land where the normal tour of duty was one year. These little outposts were located in remote areas of the world for the same air navigation reasons. One of these stations was French Frigate Shoals a four by one mile island in the Pacific.
At high tide, twenty five percent of the island was under water. The other station, Baffin Island in northern Canada, could only be resupplied once a year in August by one ship in the ten-day ice free forecast in Baffin Bay. Ten months of the year, the temperature never climbed as high as zero degrees Fahrenheit and it could average 60-below zero for a month.
Our first introduction to military logic had to do with haircuts. Fortunately, there were no skinhead cuts for enlisted recruits. We were required to have a haircut trim every week, which was ridiculous. Moreover, we had to pay the barber out of our own pockets. When we inquired why the unnecessary trim which was a waste of time and money, we were told the barber had an annual contract with the academy. The only way he could be compensated was for us to pay him to go through the motions of unneeded weekly haircuts.
Shortly after arriving at the school we underwent a physical exam. We marched in undershorts, from X ray, to stethoscope, to blood letting, and finally to the famous rite of passage, “The short arm inspection.” “Drop your shorts, turn your face and cough!” I was waiting in line for my turn with the doctor seated on a stool performing his ritualistic finger poking. A wise guy in line to the rear of me (heir to the Quaker Oil fortune) whispered, “Spector here’s your chance for a section eight (psychiatric discharge). When it’s your turn bend down and kiss the doc.on the neck.” This led me to fantasize about the conversation the doctor would have with his wife when he came home in the evening. “What did you do today darling?” his lovely spouse would inquire. “I stuck my finger into eighty-one guys balls honey, what’s for dinner?” he would reply.
The instructors were a diverse bunch, all commissioned officers of various ranks. Quickly we assigned them names related to their physical appearance and personalities. An Ensign recently graduated from Harvard, initially impressed me. He was the epitome of an Ivy leaguer in appearance, bearing, and slight aloofness. However he lost all accumulated points with his duck walk. His toes headed twenty-five degrees to port and starboard with every stride. He also lost all respect of the class when we discovered he was a lousy volleyball player. The class dubbed him, “Jerry Lewis.” Commander “Pig Eyes” was the meanest and most feared instructor. We purposely rammed the volleyball as hard as we could at him when he played in our games. He countered by giving us demerits at every opportunity. His favorite trick was catching students studying after hours in the shower. Four demerits in a week and no weekend liberty.
A salty, old grey haired warrant officer with 40 years in the service regaled us with sea stories as we rowed longboats up and down Connecticut’s Thames River in two degrees below zero weather. Another old salt lieutenant who came up through the ranks taught us CIC (combat information center) We learned in simulation to sink submerged submarines with depth charges. If the sub got us first, he would kick the sheet metal partition wall, which made a hell of a racket, to signify we were torpedoed.
Then there was the commanding officer of the school. “Captain Light House” as he was dubbed by the class. The epitome of buffoon leadership. He got off to a bad start with us on the occasion of the first weekly inspection. In late October the uniform of the day was still a white thin cotton summer uniform. The temperature was already in the thirties, with the wind blowing at twenty knots on the hill. The unconcerned captain was forty five minutes late while we stood at parade rest and froze. More than half the class came down with colds or flu. Captain Light House’s next act concerned Mathematics, a designated minor course. We were told there were major and minor courses. The only courses counting toward graduation were major courses. Two-thirds of our class didn’t pay much attention to the math course and failed, myself included. The captain, an electrical engineer was upset and announced, “Math is retroactively now a major course, and I will give remedial instruction myself for those who failed in the auditorium in the evening.” This ticked us off royally, because we needed every evening hour studying other subjects.
The first night of the captain’s remedial instruction, he started drawing lighthouses on the chalkboard to illustrate a concept, hence the moniker “Captain Light House.” He gave two lectures and we took another test. Half the class failed again myself included. Again he gave the remedial sessions at night, and by that time we were so angry, hardly anyone listened. At the conclusion of the third test, there were still twenty-four of us who had not passed. In my case, I had always received superior grades in math throughout my school career. I was so blind with anger at his idiotic edict, that I mentally blocked all reasoning to successfully pass his test.
The revengeful captain decreed, “That all those who failed would not be able to go on leave for the approaching Christmas vacation.” We would be given further remedial math lessons by our instructors, who would also not be allowed on leave. Then the most bizarre set of actions occurred. One of our classmates, who had failed the math test and was disgusted with the shenanigans of the Commanding Officer, went to his office and resigned from the school. When the captain asked, “Why?” he replied, “My wife is expecting a baby momentarily and needs me.” He was granted leave. When he returned to the barracks and told us the news, a steady stream of twenty-three math barren officer candidates knocked on the captain’s door one at a time announcing their resignation with remarkable and varied tales of woe why they needed to be granted leave. My fictitious story was, “ I was going to my engagement party which had been arranged previously,” (by my mysterious fiancée whom I had not yet met). One by one we were granted leave, but for some unfathomable reason, four men were not. The four spent the Christmas holiday on base with the entire instructor staff, except for the captain who went home on leave. The instructors were so angry with him that no math or any other instruction was given to the men. They just kept busy doing menial chores for ten days. After Christmas leave there was never any further mention of math instruction or another test given. It was as it had never existed, and it did not prevent any of us from graduating.
A few nights before our commissioning ceremony there was a party at the Lighthouse Inn, a quaint historical tavern. Liquor flowed generously. Monty, one of our more uninhibited classmates, almost lost his commission and probably his freedom when he approached the captain from the side, and mouthed every conceivable four and five letter word he could expel in one breath. Fortunately we grabbed, gagged him, and hauled him away before he was overheard.
Our daily routine started with reveille at six. Ten minutes later we were running around the campus in the dark for twenty minutes followed by a half-hour of calisthenics. After breakfast, we marched to class and furiously took notes on the 40-millimeter gun, then onto the wonders of navigation with all its tables, angles of declination and parallax corrections. This went on all day until dinner and afterword one precious hour of freedom to write letters, or buy a candy bar or shoot-the-bull. Compulsory study began at seven until lights out at ten. Motivation to study was not a problem. There were huge amounts of material to digest in class and read at night. The problem was not having enough time to finish when lights out was announced over the loudspeaker. Some guys read under their covers after hours with flash lights, some studied in the showers and toilets. This was a problem if caught, you received many demerits.
One night there was a sanctioned Christmas tree lighting on the Academy grounds. We were allowed an hour off from studying to attend the ceremony. I had a girl friend, a dazzling redhead, who attended Connecticut College for Women, conveniently across the highway from the academy. We skipped the tree lighting and wandered off to my car parked outside the academy grounds and necked instead. I returned to the barracks flush from the loving arms of the flaming redhead. I was faced with the absolute necessity to study for the Communications final the next day. I had to read after lights out. The problem was “Pig Eyes” was on duty, and he was notorious for catching guys studying in the shower. There was a student officer of the deck also assigned to patrol the barracks at night. I told him I was going to study in the broom closet at the end of the corridor by the stairs. If I cracked the door open slightly, there was enough light from the stairwell bulb to read by. I arranged with him to warn me if “Pig Eyes” was approaching. This procedure worked for an hour and a half. I ground it out. Suddenly I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. I quietly closed the door and held my breath in the dark. The footsteps stopped in front of the closet and my heart pounded furiously. The door slowly opened. Oh Christ! I thought. I’m dead. He’s caught me, Mega demerits! Then the grin of the student officer stared at me. “I just wanted to see if you were still here,” he said. Bleary eyed, I passed the exam the next morning.
One guy in the class never took a note. Turns out he had a photographic memory. He read the books at night, Once he read a page it was lodged in his mind forever and did not need to be reviewed again. He finished academically at the top of our class with ease. He was a Princeton graduate in Arabic languages. We had a big laugh at that in 1955. Boy was he ahead of us! His father was a senior vice president of Aramco Oil Company. His family was old money. I had a car, and one weekend I dropped him off at his grandmother’s estate in Fairfield. We drove through the entry gates, past the gatehouse and the private airstrip, until we reached the huge three-story mansion where I left him
The snows came early and frequently that year. The academy grounds splendid in fall colors were incredibly even more so in a winter coat of white draping the trees and lawns. After four weeks we got liberty every Saturday at noon until lights out Sunday evening. One Saturday a carload of us in my Plymouth headed for New York in the snow by way of the majestic, heavily traveled Merritt Parkway. Tollbooths interrupted the drive along the way. As we approached one booth at 35 mph. I hit the brakes and the car skidded in a ninety degree turn. The car headed sideways toward the protective three-foot high concrete barrier in front of the booth. We were headed for disaster at a good clip. At the last possible moment, without my help the car miraculously turned itself around, and slid safely between two booths, and I paid the toll with trembling hands. God must have known how badly the Coast Guard needed officers that year!
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Ira Spector is a freelance writer based in San Diego. This selection, with slight revisions, was republished from Spector’s 2011 work, Sammy Where Are You? An Unconventional Memoir … Sort of. It is available via Amazon.