I was reading the article by Vice Admiral Jeffrey Fowler in the October Proceedings—the one in which the new Naval Academy Superintendent lays out his plan to tighten the rules governing meals, liberty, and extracurricular activities—when I experienced an unsettling flashback. Suddenly, it was 0400 on 9 December 1992, and the amtrac I was riding in splashed into the Indian Ocean from the USS Juneau (LPD-10) and headed for the beach in Mogadishu, capital of Somalia. I was wedged by the rear hatch, enjoying the ambiance, when water began to pour through the seal of the top hatch directly above me. In no time I was drenched. Like a jackrabbit in a hailstorm, all I could do was hunker down and endure a ride to the beach that seemed to last an eternity.
I was miserable. I readily recognized misery because I had spent four years being miserable at the Naval Academy. The crowning lesson of my matriculation there was: It doesn't take any practice to be miserable.
Reveling in the misery of others seems to be an affectation shared by some military officers, many prison guards, and most football coaches. True achievement can only be measured in terms of the amount of misery inflicted. A central element seems to be "Quien es mas macho?" as measured by how many days one can spend in the bush in combat, or the number of days at sea without a liberty call, or the hours spent on the practice field without water.
We used to joke about the "system" at the Academy. Some described it as "age regression." You entered the Academy at age 17 or 18 and by the time you graduated you were 16 again. You could finally drive a car, go out on a weeknight, and stay up late. Making choices and decisions for yourself is the norm for the maturation process, unless you're at a service academy where the system makes all those choices for you. Yes, young folks sometimes make the wrong decisions, but that's part of growing up.
I think time spent with the Fleet is good. I learned more about leadership from Petty Officer Bello on my Youngster Cruise than I learned in four years inside the Yard. Dining together in the Mess Hall can be very constructive. It was also the most miserable part of my Plebe Year. Study hour is a good thing, too, but why limit it? Staying up late to get work done is what the rest of the world does. The officers commissioned from ROTC and OCS get every weekend off and somehow they turn out fine.
Let midshipmen manage their own time. If they fail at it, better it happened at school than in the real world. If extracurricular activities are bad because they take midshipmen away from their studies, then maybe the travel schedules of the varsity sports teams should be reviewed. Time is time, whether for a football player or a Glee Club member, but both activities teach teamwork and self-discipline.
There was a war on while I was at the Academy. During my 47 months there (July 1966 to May 1970), 21,738 Americans died in Vietnam. We were constantly reminded of the war's cost by the boards in the Rotunda at Bancroft Hall on which were posted the yearbook photos and bios of alumni lost in Southeast Asia. All the men on the boards were strangers when I arrived; by the time I graduated some of those newly gracing the boards were good friends. In 26 years as a Marine, I lost a lot of friends.
The young men and women of the Academy today are just that: Young. They are watching friends go to war. They have suffered losses. They'll suffer more. There's no need to pile on more suffering now.