August 15, 2005 - Making the Grade

August 15, 2005 - Making the Grade

November 4, 1963 was a Monday, one of the most significant days of my life, though it would take a lifetime for me to appreciate its value. I was still 17 years old, fresh out of high school—I graduated in June—and it was like I was returning to school after an extended summer vacation. I would turn 18 at the end of November. The immediate significance of this day was somewhat apparent to me. Many of my classmates were sailors who had enlisted for a six-year tour of duty to be allowed to attend this school. Many of them were destined for the Navy's newest fleet of nuclear submarines. I couldn’t qualify for subs because I wore glasses. Unlike my classmates, I had joined the service before turning 18 which meant they had to discharge me when I turned 21, three years and a few days from now. I happened to be here because of a computer making the assignment, a human would have realized that my short enlistment time would preclude such special treatment without a commitment of reenlistment for two year when my first tour of duty was over—I’ve always view this event as Catch 22, the mirror image.

The school I was entering was one of the longest the Navy offered, 38 weeks, and 20 percent of the class would not make it. Some would drop back a class or two. Others would just not be able to keep up or refused to do so. In either event, they would end up scrubbing decks for a taskmaster of a Bosun’s Mate. He was the boogie man that kept me applying myself throughout the time I was in school, far more effectively than any threat or promised reward had done when I was in high school. I began to apply myself to learning, as I had never done before. I quickly learned that for me to retain anything I heard in lectures, it had to be written down. Everything that entered my head had to go through my right hand. It was how I reined in a mind that like a bee seeking pollen flitting from one thought to the next as if dwelling on any one was forbidden. I would apply the discipline I learned grasping electronic theory and practice to every aspect of my later life.

Of all the instructors I had during that 38 weeks, I remember the first one, CV, the one who took us through the first 11 weeks of theory, which was largely physics that I had not applied myself to during my senior of high school but managed to pass. CV was a tall—easily six feet, thin, and ungainly—his shoulder were slightly hunched. He had cross-cropped straw colored hair, hazel eyes that seemed not to focus on you when you spoke face to face. They rather appeared to be viewing a spot just behind you. He spoke with a midwestern accent—Iowa, Nebraska, or Ohio. He gave off a scholarly air as if he were pondering some problem when he sat behind the desk watching us during a test or pop quiz. He had an open door policy if you needed help after hours, and I was a frequent visitor when we had word problems for homework, the bane of my school life.

In our class there was one guy, BK, who had a commanding presence that made you take notice of him, though he never drew attention to himself—on the contrary, he was always reticent to speak. You didn’t have a conversation with him but rather asked a question and received an answer in the least amount of words possible to convey a thought. He was just shy of six feet tall, a nonplussed expression fixed on a slightly rounded face that resembled Jim Morrison, close-cropped dark chocolate colored hair. He was also the brightest member of the class effortlessly passing every pop quiz or test. The class was a chore for him because it gave him no challenge. What BK did to offset this was create his own challenge. He organized the continuous poker game that began when he arrived on Treasure Island and lasted until he graduated. He was continually leaving a poker game in the early morning hours well ahead of the others at the table. His earnings were so lucrative and predictable that he rented an apartment in the Potrero District of San Francisco near Marisposa Street. I was invited there once. He and his friend were walking toward us on Market Street in mid afternoon and his friend, a classmate, recognized me and another classmate and asked if we wanted to come to BK’s place for a party. Both had their arms around attractive girls so we readily accepted. When we arrive the house was full of people only a handful of sailors from Treasure Island, the rest from the neighborhood or elsewhere in the city. I was completely out of place in this gathering. After trying to engage other partygoers in conversation with only a minimum of success, I left walking back to Market Street. It was late afternoon and I suspected the party would go on through the night. I was struck by the ability of people like BK to cruise through life effortlessly, gifted with a quick mind, charisma that attracted both women and men who wanted to be around him, and the instinct to succeed at whatever he applied himself to—he graduated top of the class, though I never learned what assignment he got when he left school.

BK attracted men who aspired to be like him but lacked his natural ability. Two of them, LS and HG were regulars at his poker games, neither one a consistent winner, tending to have hot and cold streaks. Both were struggling in school largely because they seldom put the time into studying, preferring the poker table or evening in the city barhopping when they had the money. I suspected they were cheating on most of their exams and pop quizzes possibly getting answers from the class that was a week ahead of ours. They weren’t getting them from BK who kept himself in the corner seat farthest from CV’s desk. CV quit calling on BK with questions because he always had the right answer. LS and HG sat in the middle of the back row next to one another.

As the end of the first 11 weeks of training came, we were all to be given our final exam, a long two-hour affair that began as soon as we entered class at 800 hours on Friday January 17th 1964. We had to turn in what we had completed exactly at 1100 hours. We were then given a long lunch and expected back in class at 1300 hours for instructions on starting the next phase of our training on Monday the following week for those who passed the exam. When we returned to lunch instead of going into the classroom, CV ordered us into formation at parade rest in the yard outside class. Something didn’t seem right. As soon as we were assembled and accounted for, he announced that some of us had cheated on the exam. It would be better for their records if the guilty parties would announce themselves rather than be called out. No one stepped forward though everyone to a man in the class knew the guilty parties. I think we were all worried that some of us might be implicated because of our ties with the two culprits. When no one fell out of ranks and followed CV into the classroom after what seemed like a long time, CV returned and called for LS and HG to report to his office. He then ordered the rest of us back into class and to await his return.

CV returned an hour later without a word about LS or HG and simply stated that cheating in class would not be tolerated and anyone caught would be dealt with severely. He then went on to describe what we would be expected to do in our next 10 weeks of classes. He said grades would be posted at the end of the day and those who didn’t make a passing grade would be notified and informed as to what would become of them. It was a long afternoon, but at the end of the day, I had made the grade and would move on with the class. Another underage classmate and I made our way to a small bar on Grant Avenue near Chinatown in San Francisco. The bartender would serve us without asking for an ID. It was typically half full on a Friday night with locals, the occasional tourists, and sailors like us, most of them legal. Back then Scotch and soda was the only drink I knew by name and that's what I drank. We sat and drank all the pent up tension away as we talked about the fate of LS and HG. We both realized that we were on a fast moving train and we had to stay on for the entire ride.