From Annapolis to Scapa Flow : The Autobiography of Edward L. Beach Sr.

by Beach, Edward L., Sr.

• ISBN13: 9781557502988
• ISBN10: 1557502986
• Format: Hardcover
• Copyright: 2003-02-01
• Publisher: Naval Inst Pr

Summary

The author describes his life and career in the United States Navy, from his graduation from Annapolis in 1888 to his launching of the battleship California.

Author Biography

Edward L. Beach Sr. graduated from the U.S. Naval Academy in 1888 and retired from the Navy in 1922 at the rank of captain. As secretary-treasurer of the U.S. Naval Institute, he published the first edition of The Bluejacket's Manual in 1902. He later became a professor of history at Stanford University. Thirteen of his books were published before his death in 1943. Edward L. Beach Jr. graduated from the Naval Academy in 1939 and retired as a Navy captain in 1966 after more than thirty years of service that included command of the USS Triton during a record-breaking, around-the-world voyage completely submerged. In addition to a brilliant naval career, Beach has had outstanding success as a naval writer and has won numerous literary awards. He lives with his wife in Washington, D.C.

Table of Contents

Prefaces	ix
At the Bottom	1	(10)
Changes in Warships	11	(6)
How the Days were Spent	17	(10)
A Midshipman at Sea	27	(10)
An Ensign	37	(11)
Entertaining a Senator's Son	48	(13)
Life Aboard the New York and the Ericsson	61	(12)
A Lieutenant	73	(10)
Davila's Message to the Filipinos	83	(4)
The Battle of Irwin's Boots	87	(12)
A Beach View of the Filipino Insurrection	99	(7)
The Old Navy: Sailing in a Square-Rigger	106	(11)
Carrying Out Regulations	117	(6)
An Annapolis Professor and Back to Sea	123	(11)
Again a Professor and Back to Sea	134	(11)
A Commander	145	(12)
First Command: The Uss Vestal	157	(14)
San Juan De Ulloa	171	(10)
A Captain: The History of the Haitian Republic	181	(20)
The Death of Vilbrun Guillaume	201	(14)
More About Haiti	215	(9)
Coaling Ship	224	(12)
Through Crooked Reach	236	(5)
Santo Domingo	241	(10)
The Wreck of the Memphis	251	(10)
Court-Martialed	261	(14)
Armistice	275	(13)
After Scapa Flow	288	(5)
Index	293

Excerpts

AT THE BOTTOM

Looking back to June 1884, and mentally crossing the continent from my home in California where this is being written, I see myself awaiting dinner formation on the lawn in front of "New Quarters" (demolished long ago) at the U.S. Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland. This was to me an exciting and fearful time. Age seventeen, I had just been admitted as a naval cadet-though in cadet language I was a "plebe," at the bottom of the human, or at least the U.S. naval, scale.

The evening before, three older cadets, scornful, cruel, and contemptuous, had welcomed me to the Naval Academy-forcing me to stand on my head, to crawl sideways like a soft-shell crab, to run on all fours barking like a dog, and to play the fool in other ways-all under a shower of abuse and of threatening imprecation.

"Brace up, mister! Look to the front and wipe that smile off your face! At last you're an officer and a gentleman! Don't you forget that! And the most contemptible thing in the Navy; don't you forget that, either!"

After these three terrible beings had left, I wanted to go home. My boyish soul revolted at the thought of four years in such a terrible place.

That night I had spent in a hammock on the old frigate Santee . The next day, one of glorious June sunshine-the day on which this narrative opens-witnessed the graduation of those who had finished what I was just beginning. But during this great occasion, we of the entering class were left aboard the old ship until noon; then we were marched to the New Quarters, where, huddled in groups, we were waiting for dinner.

The battalion came marching back from the graduation ceremonies. As I looked it was halted; the fours swung into line; and at the order of "Break ranks!" the orderly formation broke into a mob of joyous young men racing toward the spot where we stood awaiting dinner and whatever else might come.

One ran directly to me. I recognized one of my tormentors of the night before. To my amazement, his tone was friendly. "You'll get along all right," he said. "My name is Dutton. I'll spoon on you." (Meaning, "I'll be your friend.") "Come to see me any time."

I was too dumbfounded to answer. It seemed impossible that the ogre of the previous night could be this friendly young gentleman.

Graduation day was almost as important to the new third classmen, who for the past year had been suffering plebes, as to the graduates. During the period of duress they had endured not only the just and strict discipline of the Academy, but in addition had been hazed by the tyrants of the upper classes. Much of this hazing was pure fun, when understood; without malice; amusing at times even to the victims. The upper classmen had exacted an outward respect and obedience that Admiral Farragut of Civil War fame would never have demanded from his juniors. One of the theories of hazing was that it indoctrinated newcomers with the notion of authority; an opposing theory called it a result of artificial imposition of an alien rank structure. Whatever the reality, some form of hazing has existed in most armed forces since the beginning-and in other organizations as well. At Annapolis, though silly brutalities occurred at times, upper classmen as a rule disapproved of them. In extreme cases, a plebe might be ordered to drink ink or eat soap.

The system of hazing had prevented nearly all friendly contact between plebes and cadets of other classes-though this was not a hard-and-fast rule. Nonetheless, plebes were excluded from the Naval Academy dances, from certain walks and benches in the grounds, from sitting down in the presence of upper classmen, and from drinking milk at meals-this last without protest of the medical staff, although it involved the loss of needed calories. Many things were taboo. For an entire year, two hundred "special policemen" exercised unlimited powers in curbing the actions and speech of the plebes.

Suddenly all had changed. The downtrodden plebe of the day before had become a lofty third classman: in naval cadet or midshipman parlance, a "youngster." The scowling enemies of the past year now showed themselves as smiling warm-hearted friends. To be addressed as "Atkins" or "Reese" instead of "Mr. Atkins!" "Mr. Reese!" or, insultingly, as simply "Mister!" denoted a signal honor. The corresponding joy of addressing superior beings without the preliminary "mister" was deep. Traditionally, aside from that first year as a plebe, "sir" or "mister" were forever dispensed with between persons who had spent time together as midshipmen, whatever their respective graduation dates.

However, each of these new youngsters, as of that day taken into the fold, had been enjoined to "start the new plebes right" for the honor of their own class, and for the good of the naval service in general.

"The Navy will go to the dogs unless the customs of the service are observed." This was the cry. The new upholders of discipline, only recently lowly plebes, were wild to do their duty.

Naturally, therefore, the next person to address me said nothing about friendly calls. He was a scowling, thin lipped, high cheek-boned, blue-eyed member of the class just superior to mine.

"Mister! What's your name?" he snapped.

"Beach," I replied.

"Say, `Beach, sir !' Square your cap! Heels together! Little fingers on the seams of your trousers! And wipe that smile off your face! Do you hear? When you speak to me, end each sentence with a `sir!' Now spell your name with a `sir' after each letter!"

" B , sir, E , sir, A , sir, ITLITL, sir, H , sir!"

How my soul loathed this tyrant! How little did I realize, as I discovered a year later, that he had a kindly, gentle heart.

Near me stood a tall raw-boned plebe. A third classman, or youngster, addressed him: "Say Mister! What's your name? Where're you from?"

"Wilbur is my name, sir. I'm from Dakota."

"Huh! Hereafter, when an upper classman asks your name, you will reply as follows: `I am Magical Mike, the untutored Terror of the wild Northwest, the howling blizzard of the Great Desert. Pray don't look at my feet!'"

People have inquired where Curtis D. Wilbur, the former chief justice of the supreme court of California, and recent secretary of the Navy, got the nickname of "Magic" that was used by his intimate friends. The above tells where, how, and when.

Often names given in this absurd way have stuck. For instance, there was William Hogg: "Hereafter your name is `Billy Pig!' Don't you ever forget it!"

And poor William Hogg never could forget it. For forty long years, except officially and to juniors, he was "Billy Pig."

One of my classmates was "Richard Montgomery Smith, sir, from Mineral Point, Wisconsin, sir." For purposes of identification he was officially required, like the rest of us, to print his name on the front of his white working uniform blouse, or "jumper." After blocking out my own name on each canvas blouse, I looked at the job he had done. On each jumper, in big letters, appeared, "Smith, sir."

Another classmate from Point Coupe, Raccourci, Louisiana, called himself "John Archer Lejeune." I have been told by army officers that if the Great War (World War I) had outlasted General Pershing, who commanded American forces in France, a major general of the U.S. Marines named Lejeune, from somewhere in Louisiana, who had been my roommate at Annapolis, might have commanded American forces in France.

As I write, the muster roll of my class jumps back into consciousness: Aiken, Alexander, Bassett, Baya, Beach, Behse, Benham, Beckwith, Beswick, Bischoff, etc. Their faces are all clear before me.

One was Harris, from Key West, Florida-Jeptha Vining Harris. A man named "Jeptha" can never expect oblivion. But there were other reasons for remembering Harris. As he told me later, he had read, a year previously, of some "brutal hazing" at the Naval Academy, for which twenty-two cadets had been dismissed at one time. While preparing in Baltimore for the entrance examinations, he determined to prepare further by learning to box. He took daily lessons at the boxing academy of Jake Kilrain, a famous pugilist who was then training to fight John L. Sullivan for the world's heavyweight championship. Finding Harris quick and strong, Kilrain became interested in him and trained him as if for a prizefight. In a month, Harris was having daily bouts with the professional pugilist.

On the evening of our first day at Annapolis, Harris and others were standing on the Santee wharf. Several third classmen approached; one named Hurlbut took Harris in hand. Not liking Harris's truculent manner, he lost his temper and slapped him. A moment later, he lay fourteen feet away, unconscious.

Then a slight, earnest-looking youngster accosted Harris. "My name is Wiley. What's yours?"

"Harris, sir."

"Will you fight?"

"If you wish, sir."

A ring was formed. Hardly had Wiley taken the position of guard when he was overwhelmed, like Hurlbut.

The other youngsters present hastily sent for Fitzgerald, the best boxer of the class, to fight as its champion. He lasted as long as his predecessors did-and no longer.

Some days later, several of us walking with Harris on the beach at Fortress Monroe met two third classmen, "Freddie" Moore and "Jonah" Cloke, both noted football players and good athletes.

"We'll have to fight," said Moore. "Mr. Beach here will be your second, Mr. Harris. I'll fight first. Mr. Cloke will second me. After you lick me, I'll second Mr. Cloke while you lick him."

Third classmen felt honor-bound to engage Harris, who, during the next few months, was constantly forced to fight, though always the winner. Wiley went up against him three times. Wiley was a bundle of grit. Eighteen months later he fought a terrific battle with Naval Cadet Gray-twenty-eight rounds. Gray was big and strong, and fifty pounds heavier than Wiley, whose face was battered into a pulp. But Wiley was like John Paul Jones. It was Gray who gave up and spent the next two weeks in the hospital, while Wiley never missed a recitation or a drill.

I, too, had a fight with Harris, over what I can't now remember. When I came to he was doing everything for me, and most earnestly apologized for hitting me so hard. Former Judge Jeptha Vining Harris, attorney, is now fighting for his clients at Key West, Florida.

* * *

In 1939, only a few months graduated, in my turn, from the U.S. Naval Academy, I found myself aboard the destroyer Lea in Key West, and obeyed Father's directive to call on Judge Harris. I rang the doorbell at his imposing brick house, the "southernmost house in the United States," stated my business to the woman who answered the door, and discovered he had died only a week or two before.

* * *

A year after I entered Annapolis, Wiley was court-martialed for hazing. He was convicted, and dismissed. He left for his home in Texas, and, by law, was forever disqualified for further service in the Navy. If Wiley had not been dismissed at this time, he would never, I believe, have become commander in chief of the U.S. Fleet. But that (as Kipling did not say first) is another story.

* * *

At this point, a reader may well ask, "How can someone dismissed from the naval service become commander in chief?" and "Why doesn't Beach tell the tale right here?" During the 1930s and 1940s, when Father was putting pen to paper, everyone in the Navy knew who Wiley was, as did many non-Navy people. To avoid altering Father's storytelling style, I will not interrupt with the tantalizing details. Rest assured that Father continues the story later.

* * *

The day after graduation, my class and the new first and third classes sailed aboard the USS Constellation on a practice cruise. After tacking down Chesapeake Bay, we spent several pleasant days at Fortress Monroe, where Jeptha had a few fights, and we all bought wonderful dinners for seventy-five cents each at the old Hygeia Hotel. "Wonderful" is no exaggeration. Few places in the world have equaled the Chesapeake Bay region of fifty years ago in excellence and profusion of food. Canvasback ducks were everywhere. Fine oysters in the shell were bought by the bushel; diamondback terrapin, by the dozen. Ten cents would buy all the soft-shell crabs a family could eat at a sitting. Turkeys, wild and domestic, abounded. Cellars were always stocked with Smithfield hams. And in spite of America's temporary condemnation of alcohol, I have happy memories of Maryland mint juleps, brandied peaches, and eggnog.

This portion of the narrative was probably written before 1933, when the Twenty-first Amendment repealed Prohibition.

* * *

But certainly none of this good cheer reached us aboard the Constellation . Here was discomfort, violent and sudden. We had to learn how to eat naval seafood and yet stay alive. Our meats were salt pork and salt beef (that we called "salt horse"). With these were served beans, hardtack, rice, dried peas, pickles, butter, sugar, coffee, and tea-no canned fruits or vegetables.

Drinking water was kept in rusty iron tanks, and after a shaking up at sea was a deep rich red, with a compound of all flavors. The worst of all discomforts was having only salt water for washing, since the few gallons of fresh water served to cadets for this purpose were appropriated by the first classmen, except for a little allocated to the youngsters for washing their teeth. We plebes got none whatever. Ordinary toilet soap used with salt water forms a sort of glue that fixes dirt and perspiration on the skin. This thin, sticky coating is unremovable, but it served one useful purpose. Mosquitoes would die in the attempt to pierce it; cockroaches would run from it; and other bugs, nameless here if not on the Constellation , would spare gluey sleepers.

My first impressions of ship life were far from reassuring. Sleeping in a curved hammock is not all it might be, especially if hammocks are slung in dense proximity. During the day it was "all hands on deck to work ship," and at night, "watch and watch"-meaning half of us on watch at any given time. After a day of incessant maneuvers, our rest at night would always be broken. One night I would sleep in my hammock until nearly midnight, go on deck for a cold middle watch, and sleep again from about 4:15 until an early reveille. The next night I would have only the "mid-watch" in my hammock, snatching what other naps I could on the windy deck.

The "turning out" of a watch at night was always accompanied by a wild uproar.

Continues...

Excerpted from from Annapolis to Scapa flow by Edward L. Beach Sr. with Edward L. Beach Jr. Copyright © 2003 by Edward L. Beach Jr.
Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.