Mindful of but undeterred by the regulation, our small syndicate had decided we would risk the wrath of our superiors for the pleasure of watching the Friday-night fights on our own television. We each pitched in ten dollars and bought a used black-and-white television with a twelve-inch screen. We kept the set hidden in a crawl space in our room, located behind a wooden panel. The panel could be easily removed by hand, and we would bring the set out to watch the fights on Friday, Maverick on Sunday, and other popular television programs of the time.
We lived in Bancroft Hall, the Academy’s only dormitory, which at the time had not been changed in any of its particulars since the turn of the century. The floors in Bancroft Hall were referred to, in ship nomenclature, as decks. We lived on the top deck, the fourth. We soon drew considerable numbers of top-deck residents to our room to join our forbidden television viewing. On Friday nights, it was standing room only.
In every hall of every deck, a third-year midshipman served as the mate of the deck. The mate’s job was to receive and deliver messages to the midshipmen in residence there and, generally, to stand as a sentinel for his part of the deck to ensure that nothing untoward happened on his watch. The mate on our hall stood at a podium directly across the hall from my room. We pressed him into service as our lookout on evenings when we were crowded around our television set. He kept an eye out for company officers who would have loved to discover our blatant disobedience and rapped a warning on my door when one approached.
As upperclassmen, we no longer had to worry about being disciplined or harassed by other midshipmen as we had been during our plebe year. We also took comfort in knowing that our indiscretions would be kept confidential within the brigade and not reported to unsuspecting officers. The most sacrosanct principle governing a midshipman’s behavior was the unwritten rule “Never bilge a classmate,” which required midshipmen to overlook any violation of the rules by a fellow midshipman short of honor code violations.
Brigade discipline was supervised by four authorities, the most senior being the officer of the watch, an office that was rotated monthly among company officers. Those midshipmen with the highest grease in the brigade rotated daily as the midshipman of the watch, while a group of the more promising plebes served as their assistants.
My pal Chuck Larson, whose exemplary scholastic record and obvious aptitude for command had won him the highest office a plebe could hold, brigade commander, was serving as the midshipman of the watch. Academy officials would have been disappointed to discover their prized midshipman among those gathered around the television in my room to watch a boxing match, shirking the duties of his office to enjoy a few minutes of illicit fun with some of the more disreputable midshipmen at the Academy.
In the middle of our viewing, the mate of the deck rapped on my door to warn us that the officer of the watch was approaching. We quickly returned the television set to its hiding place and stuffed the midshipman of the watch, dressed in his formal blue uniform and wearing his sword, along with his startled plebe, into my closet. The rest of us opened up textbooks and earnestly affected the appearance of dutiful midshipmen gathered together in a study group. Fortunately, the officer never bothered to enter our room. Had he done so, our atypical studiousness surely would have aroused his suspicion.
A few days later, when I returned to my room after classes had ended for the day, I found a message on my desk ordering me to report to Captain Hart. Hart’s office was five doors down from my room. Responding to my summons, I knocked on his door, entered, stood at attention, and announced myself: “Midshipman McCain, First Class, sir.”
Sitting there with a look of considerable satisfaction, Hart allowed himself a rare smile as he threw a Form 2 across his desk to me and inquired, “Do you want to sign this now?” A Form 2 was the standard notification that a midshipman had been put on report. A midshipman was required to sign the form acknowledging his offense.
I picked up the form and read the line where the offense was reported: “electrical equipment, unauthorized use of,” and on the line below, “television set.”
While all the midshipmen on the fourth deck were at class, Hart had taken the opportunity to closely inspect our quarters. So thorough was the inspection that Hart had entered the rooms’ crawl spaces, which adjoined each other. When he reached our room and discovered the contraband hidden in our crawl space, he must have silently exulted in his good fortune, believing that the day of judgment was finally at hand for the sorriest midshipman in his company.
The penalty for the offense was thirty demerits and seven days’ confinement. The demerits I had already accumulated took me perilously close to the limit, and again I faced certain expulsion. I thought over my situation for a moment while Hart waited contentedly for my response.
“Sir, this isn’t necessarily mine,” I finally replied.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“The television, it isn’t necessarily mine.”
“Whose is it?” the now less content and incredulous Captain Hart responded.
“I’ll let you know in a very short time.”
A puzzled look overtook the captain’s smile, and he dismissed me with an order to report back quickly with an answer.
I returned to my room and called the television’s ten owners together. I explained the situation, and that I had to bring Hart an answer right away. “Only one of us is going to get the demerits,” I said, “and we have to choose who, right now.” We settled the question as we always settled things in those days, with a “shake around.” Over my objection, my friends, aware of my perilous situation at the Academy, excused me from participating.
In unison, each man hit his right fist three times into the palm of his other hand. On the third strike, each stuck out some of the fingers of his right hand. We then counted off the sum of the nine men’s extended fingers, one number per man, with the last number falling on the man who would confess ownership of the television. As luck and fate would have it, the man turned out to be Henry Vargo.
Henry Vargo was a model midshipman. Studious, disciplined, respectful, Henry hardly ever bothered to watch the television. He had joined in its purchase only to help us out, to be one of the guys. Henry did not possess very many demerits, so the punishment he was about to receive wouldn’t pose much of a problem for him. As added compensation, we magnanimously said that Hart would have to give the television back at the end of the year and Henry could keep it.
Smiling with satisfaction and relief, I returned to Hart’s office to reveal the culprit.
“Midshipman McCain, First Class, sir.”
“Well?”
“Sir, the television set belongs to Midshipman Vargo.”
“Midshipman Vargo!” he bellowed in disbelief.
“Yes, sir, Midshipman Vargo.”
Fighting to stop from smiling, I watched Hart’s face flush red with anger. Finally, he dismissed me—“Get out of here, McCain.”
I left him and walked back to my room, much relieved to have evaded, for the last time, Hart’s wrath and his four-year quest to bring me to justice.
A few months later I sat amid a sea of navy whites, fifth from the bottom of my class, listening to President Eisenhower confer our degrees, exhort us to noble service on behalf of the Republic, and commission me an ensign in the United States Navy.