In the Shadow of Greatness

by Joshua Welle

  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 shi
ning 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)

  PART II

  THE LEADERSHIP LABORATORY,

  FLEET TESTED

  Leaders are made, they are not born. They are made of hard effort, which is the price which all of us must pay to achieve any goal that is worthwhile.

  VINCE LOMBARDI

  It is by no means enough that an officer of the Navy should be a capable mariner. He must be that, of course, but also a great deal more. He should be as well a gentleman of liberal education, refined manners, punctilious courtesy, and the nicest sense of personal honor. He should be the soul of tact, patience, justice, firmness, kindness, and charity. . . . In one word, every commander should keep constantly before him the great truth, that to be well obeyed, he must be perfectly esteemed.

  AUGUSTUS C. BUELL, reflecting on John Paul Jones in 1900, Reef Points, 2003-2004

  Some call the United States Naval Academy a “leadership laboratory.” The Academy exists to make naval officers, forming them “morally, mentally and physically” to exemplify “duty, honor and loyalty.” While most of the midshipmen accepted to the Academy have received a fair dose of moral fiber from parents, teachers, and mentors along the way, the institution promises to take these lessons a step further. It accomplishes this by increasing the burden of leadership and raising the bar for personal and professional integrity.

  At the epicenter of this leadership laboratory stands a building dedicated to Stephen Bleeker Luce, an American hero. Luce was a midshipman in 1848. He graduated and went to sea, later returning to the Academy to become commandant in 1865. He focused his efforts on educating men in the art of gunnery, seamanship, strategy, and most important, leadership. Today, Luce Hall overlooks the Navy’s sailing marina, with its sailboats named for various midshipman virtues, such as courageous, fearless, dauntless, and so on. In front of this building stands a statue of Admiral James Stockdale in a fighter pilot uniform, honoring his service as senior officer while a POW during the Vietnam War. He later received the Medal of Honor for his leadership.

  Classes in Luce Hall include ethics, navigation, strategy and weapons, and naval law. The curriculum incorporates case studies from real-world scenarios, discussion forums with junior officers, lectures by respected world leaders, ethics roundtables, and hours of homework. As with any laboratory, some of the experiments at Luce produced unintended results. Heightened idealism about one’s ability to affect change as a junior officer may be a consequence of time spent in Luce Hall and the cause of some disenchantment. There are some things, however, especially pertaining to leadership, that can only be learned in the school of hard knocks. The Naval Academy was certainly that at times, but then again, it was called a leadership laboratory for a reason. As the first class graduating post-9/11, we stepped into a military requiring more advanced ethical leadership skills than the Naval Academy had had time to teach us.

  Honor at Sea

  Will Carr

  Our Honor Board hearings were he
ld in a stately conference room next to Smoke Hall. Inside the room, there were three long mahogany tables, where I sat alongside twelve other midshipmen. Directly ahead of us was a smaller, detached table behind which sat a distraught second class midshipman who had been accused of plagiarizing a term paper crucial to his final grade. Presumably he had been struggling with his grades for months, and when faced with the prospect of failure, he had copied entire passages verbatim from other sources to get a passing grade. “Guilty” or “not guilty” were the only conclusions the board was allowed. If guilty, the Commandant of Midshipmen, Adm. Sam Locklear, would decide the punishment. No one held any illusions; a second class midshipman found guilty of an honor violation had an excellent chance of being expelled from the Academy.

  I was the honor chairman, and it was my duty to make sure this man’s peers asked the tough questions and ultimately made their decision according to the words of our Honor Concept. I felt the knot in my stomach tighten as I imagined myself in the accused’s shoes: What would I have done if faced with that potent mix of pride and fear of failure? Integrity is a virtue that is talked about in most leadership seminars as a critical trait. It is an attribute that defines a person’s character and behavior. It goes beyond not lying, not cheating, not stealing to serve as a guide to doing the right thing wholeheartedly. In short, it is an individual’s ideology. At the Academy, we tried our best to nurture integrity within ourselves; the honor education focused on the “me,” the individual, and my development as a person of integrity. Two sea tours in the Fleet, involving hundreds of watches for thousands of miles of ocean steaming, gives one time to think and to make a few big mistakes. What I learned from this experience is that successful leaders bring out integrity in others. Such leaders create a culture where the truth can readily be told.