Plebes No More

[Arnaude Kubiak]

This year, Midshipman 4th Class Joe McGraw, a political science major, reached the top and replaced the cover in 2:21:21.

According to legend, the plebe who replaces the plebe cover with the midshipmen's cover will become the first member of the class to become an admiral. So far, the legend has not come true.

"I felt like I was on top of the world, but it's all about my classmates and it's all about the team," said McGraw.

The Herndon Climb is considered the capstone of the freshman year at the Naval Academy. Once the freshman class completes the obstacle, they are "plebes no more", a phrase that the class doesn't take lightly.

The Herndon monument is dedicated to Cmdr. William Lewis Herndon, who died in an attempt to save the crew of his steamer ship Central America during a storm off Cape Hatteras, North Carolina, in 1857.

This plebe was in a math class; another was in line at the barber shop; another on watch in Bancroft. The plebes in my English class were scattered all over the Yard when they heard the news on 11 September 2001. They quickly learned that a student pilot had not, in fact, crashed into the Twin Towers.

Before that September morning, the Naval Academy Class of 2005 was like most plebe classes. Plebe summer acne had faded; their shorn locks were growing back. They were no longer sweating in their whites. The semester had been underway for almost a month, so they were oriented to the academic year.

Then, suddenly, they were no longer ordinary. That day blasted them into a riot of questions: Was the Academy the next target? What was the safest place for the mids? Would their education be curtailed?

Weeks later, I assigned an essay asking the students to write about 11 September. They were writing for future generations who would have no idea about 11 September. Their purpose was to capture what it was like to be alive on that day.

As I walked to my seat in the rear of the classroom, I noticed several books and a bag strewn chaotically over the floor by my chair. Turning to the classmate next to me, I asked if they were his belongings. My anger toward the terrorists swelled to fury as he told me the bag belonged to a shipmate whose father worked in the World Trade Center. . . . I imagined my shipmate dropping his bag and sprinting toward the nearest phone in search of relief from the nightmare that must have been developing in his head.

The tiny wardroom was filled to the max, the old, ragged furniture looked as if it was going to break, and people were standing on chairs in the back just trying to get a glimpse of the TV. Even plebes were allowed in there that night, waiting to hear of any breaking news.

A full week after the attacks, I was passing through the wardroom, on my way to the refrigerator to get milk. As usual, CNN was grinding out more footage of funerals. I glanced up at the big-screen television, and the funeral was that of a USNA graduate. In that moment, the full scope of the grief felt by the nation struck me. I had never met this man. He had graduated a full decade before I would, yet I knew him as well as if he had been my brother. I knew that he chopped the same way I chopped. He had rolled his socks in the exact same way I did. He had sweated away countless hours of his life on Worden Field. He had done uniform and rack races. Someone who had been exactly what I was had died in a terrorist attack in New York City.

There have been many times that I have been proud to wear the uniform and be part of the United States Navy, but no such time topped that of September 11, 2001. . . . There has been no other time that I was more thankful to be in the military than on that day.

I was instantly ready to take up my position on the battlefield if summoned at that very moment. It was as if a family member had been attacked, as if my younger brother had been beat up, and I was eagerly seeking revenge.

Exactly 11 days after the attack, as the Brigade marched into the football stadium for a game against Boston College, the Boston College fans came into view. . . . Each fan was wearing patriotic colors on their clothing. Their cheers were not due to the fact that we were midshipmen. . . . Instead, they were supporting us because we had dedicated our lives to serving the country. . . . They entrusted us to ensure justice on the terrorist attacks.

Every year on the anniversary of 11 September, I read excerpts from these essays to my current classes. The words never grow old for me. I save for last one essay, in which the plebe writes of a childhood visit to Windows on the World, the restaurant at the top of the World Trade Center. He writes of a waiter who may or may not have survived.

It took a little over two and half hours on a brisk Wednesday morning, with older midshipmen dousing plebes with water the whole time, for the first-year academy students to finish the task. But considering the record for slowest time currently stands at more than four hours, the newly promoted students were understandably jubilant.

The Plebes No More ceremony, a greasy and chaotic US Navy tradition that symbolises the end of the midshipmen's first year, has been a point of pride for aspiring naval personnel since the Second World War.

The monument is a tribute to Commander William Lewis Herndon, whose heroism while captaining the 280ft steamship SS Central America in September 1857 helped save the lives of 149 of the 572 people on board.

As the boat began to sink, Cdr Herndon calmly took control of the situation. He organised a line of people to bail water in an attempt to delay the sinking and ensured women and children safely made their way to the ship's five lifeboats.

US Naval History and Heritage Command wrote this of the naval hero's actions that night, saying: "As one of the last boats left the sinking ship, Captain Herndon gave his watch to a passenger with a request that it might be delivered to his wife.

"After this, he went to his stateroom, put on his uniform, removed the oilskin covering which concealed the band around his cap, threw it on deck, took his stand by the wheel-house, holding on by the rail with his left hand.

Before the event begins, plebes take off their trainers so they can be donated to charities through the Midshipman Action Group, a programme focused on community relations, providing opportunities for volunteers to take part in educational, environmental and social service projects.

He looked about the same now, whenever I caught a glimpse of him in the press of bodies surrounding the base of the monument. I winced, watching yet another midshipman scramble sock-footed onto the human pyramid. Zain was helping form the second layer. His back bowed for a moment with the added weight, before he heaved himself up again, clinging to the mids around him.

A female mid in a navy-blue swimsuit made it to the third layer of the pyramid, within feet of the top. The crowd roared, and then groaned as the base beneath her wobbled and collapsed. My gasp of fear was inaudible even to me. I went on my toes, trying to spot Zain again.

Bringing his other foot up, Bradley teetered and gripped the corner of the monument for balance. Someone threw him one of the all-important upperclassman hats. He caught it. The crowd gave a cheer, and then seemed to collectively hold its breath as he looked up at the very pinnacle above him. The base of plebes trembled again, but held.

It went straight up, getting the height it needed, then fell right back into his fingers. A massive groan came from the onlookers. Bradley did it again, and again it fell, this time all the way to the ground. He grabbed the slick stone and twisted around, reaching his free hand out. A second hat was passed into it.

She sat beside him at the table, sipping an iced tea and telling us all again how proud his father would be. Bradley had looked shocked to the core when she said that the first time. Now he just seemed secretly pleased, even as he kept insisting the guys at the base did all the work, not him.

After eating, we walked as a group to the gate of the Yard to drop the mids off. The Commissioning Week traffic made driving anywhere in Annapolis difficult. I was happy Mom and Dad had thought ahead enough to get us a hotel room downtown way back when Zain was still applying for admission. Theo and I would stay the night with them before catching the bus up to New York tomorrow afternoon.

About 2,000 parents, siblings and significant others traveled to the rockbound highland home of their plebes to get a sneak peek glimpse into their daily lives and enjoy a weekend of gatherings to celebrate their first big milestone within the 2022-23 academic year.

The second day offered a few major events during the day and evening that started with the plebes receiving their National Defense Service Medal during a ceremony outside their individual barracks, followed by an open house opportunity to see the barracks and the inside additional buildings. One of the annual events, the Plebe Review, was cancelled due to the weather. As the day ran into evening hours, it was capped with the banquet in the Cadet Mess Hall with guest speaker Command Sgt. Maj. Ruth Drewitt, from U.S. Army Garrison Aberdeen Proving Ground, Maryland, and a hop for the cadets and guests to dance and enjoy refreshments in Eisenhower Hall Ballroom.

Bellows was excited to show his dad, Peter; mom, Melissa; and fiance, Carmen Chan, what his world is like every day and what he has gotten used to over the past eight months in this academic environment, especially at the open house at the Electrical Engineering Department.

Scott was most excited about the banquet over the weekend where he got a chance to show off his full-dress uniform, and then the hop where he was able to spend time with his fiance, who was excited about the whole experience.

Scott Bellows talked about the visual of seeing the crest now, which makes it permanent and exciting to one day wear it on his finger once he receives his ring in two-plus years. But, more than anything, what the motto means to him and his classmates.

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