For the first time in its 180-year history, the Naval Academy has nominated a marine, LGEN Michael Borgschulte, to be superintendent, replacing VADM Yvette Davids in a move consistent with the administration’s approach to norms and women. In 1988, VADM Davids was a firsty (a senior, the class that runs things day-to-day) and lived in 8th Wing, while LGEN Borgschulte was a youngster (a sophopmore, the one year at USNA you just try to work on grades) with a good view of T-Court.

Ever been in a riot? Ever instigated one?

1988 had already been a year

Whether you think of them as “leadership laboratories” or “the inmates are running the asylum”, service academies are designed to be uniquely rigorous college experiences. For the Class of 1992, it started with a record-setting Annapolis heat wave and continued when the Brigade returned to start the academic year.

Our upper class — particularly ‘90 — were on a mission to have a legacy, to be remembered for something special. I’m referring, of course, to wanting 2-man rooms. Bancroft Hall is the largest dormitory in the world, but at the peak of the Cold War buildup, it was tight, so even some upperclass had bunks and were packed in.

Fortunately, there was an easy solution: run out more plebes and free up space. They did their best and the pressure continued to build. Then it was November.

Army-Navy Week

The tradition dates to 1890. A football game for bragging rights between sister services. For the week leading up to the Army-Navy game, all the rules go out the window. You don’t sleep, pretty much ignore classes, and do lots of really dumb stuff.

You also have to get ready for the march-on at Veterans Stadium. In particular the march-on maneuver, aka “The Stupid Plebe Trick.” Like the displays a marching band puts on. In our case, a missile chasing a target.

There we were — most of the class of ‘92 milling about while the few who were the missile and target kept practicing the maneuver over and over again. We were tired, cold, and — most importantly — not guarding our rooms.

Watching 8th Wing, we could see room lights snapping on, windows slamming open, and the distant sound of laughter as upperclass tossed mattresses out the windows. Starting with 32nd company, but rapidly spreading throughout the 4 floors of 8th Wing, mattresses, bedding, and pillows went flying out.

Mutiny

We could see exactly what was happening. We started cursing and yelling at the firsties who were there. That went on for a minute or two, the tension building, and then it started:

“We can take 8th Wing!”

There was a feeling like a breath being taken in. It became a chant. “Take 8th Wing! Take 8th Wing!” Suddenly, we were running, charging 8th Wing. You could feel the anger and energy building through the running mass. We were the head of a monster built out of more than a thousand angry, howling plebes.

Starting with the upperclass and continuing for the hour or so, many young Naval officers learned a very important lesson: never give an order that isn’t going to be followed

It became a blur. Screaming, yelling, shoving, we hit the back stairwell and charged up, trying not to get trampled. Upperclassmen met us on third deck and sprayed us with CO2 fire extinguishers — not pleasant, it slowed but didn’t stop us — we charged into rooms and just started causing damage. Stereos, books, civilian clothes went out windows.

Another group went to the Rotunda and took over the main office and PA. We eventually converged on T-Court chanting and yelling, the energy burning out. Then we returned to our rooms, not quite carrying on, not exactly eyes in the boat either.

The aftermath

No fires were set, I don’t believe anyone was seriously hurt, but 8th Wing and other parts of the Academy had been hit by angry tornadoes. We went around finding and return mattresses and bedding for each other. Upperclassmen sat around stunned. Some second class returned our room nameplates they’d swiped to camoflage and protect their room. The Deputy Commandant did a whole lot of yelling.

We started swapping stories of the experience. The madness, the exhilaration, the freedom. Mild curiosity about the consequences.

The entire Brigade was put on lockdown. Freedom after the game was reduced — which didn’t really matter to the plebes — and there was more yelling. We lost the game.

But it was a different feeling around the Yard after that night. We still got yelled at for the rest of Plebe Year, we still had chow calls, come arounds, the whole nine yards. 32nd company got their two-man rooms. But the Class of ‘92 took a little less shit and handled it better after that day.

As far as I can tell, very little about the event was ever written or documented. I’m sure my memories differ from other people’s. It’s miraculous nobody got seriously hurt.

I’ve been hyper aware of the dynamics of crowds ever since. I’ve been to a lot of demonstrations over the years and I always have my escape route mapped, always have a guess at where there will be less pressure from charging people or arriving police — like Sam says:

I never walk into a place I don’t know how to walk out of

While every class believes their class had the last real experience, ‘92 really did break the mold.

Go Navy. Beat Army.