Part 4 (of 6) of the narrative "What happened to Ace on that day?" Back to the beginning of the narrative Back up to earlier in the narrative

I was groomed to follow in my father's footsteps, to become a Navy officer like him--and like two uncles of mine, Ace's younger brother (Uncle John) and my mother's older brother (Uncle Fred). Like all of them, I needed to attend the U.S. Naval Academy at Annapolis, Maryland. We were a Navy family.

Since my Annapolis graduate father had been killed in the war, I was in the "Sons of Deceased Veterans" category and would be given special consideration for an appointment to the Academy. The special consideration was further enhanced by two of my uncles being Annapolis graduates as well.

My mother saw no other future for me, and, obsessed with keeping up the military traditions of our family, she was determined that I embrace this future as well. I did embrace it heartily, happy with the attention.

We got a television in 1954, when I was twelve. Except for The Twilight Zone, almost all of my TV viewing was about the Navy: Victory at Sea, Navy Log, and, of course, Men of Annapolis. I didn't miss a single episode.

When I was fourteen, just into high school, I was required to take a strange one-semester course called "Orientation," taught by Mr. Leo Milanowski. At the end of the first week, he told us what the most important assignment of the semester would be: Write a detailed research paper about your chosen career. At fourteen, I decided on my life's direction: Navy officer, like my father. I sent away for U.S. Navy catalogs, and for brochures from Annapolis. I cut out pictures of warships and sea battles from the National Geographic and other periodicals, and I carefully pasted them into my illustrated opus. I made tables showing how I would climb the ladder, rating by rating, from Ensign all the way up, and I imagined being an Admiral one day, directing a fleet of awesome sea power. Mr. Milanowski gave me an A.

I did my best to identify with a father I never knew. I wanted everyone to call me Ace. All my friends and even some of my teachers complied.

But what about the flesh-and-blood father I had right at home, my stepfather, my Pop? There had been some discussion a few years before about Pop adopting us. Though we loved him, Christine and I had concerns--hers that she and I would have a different legal status from Janna, mine that I might have to give up my Edmands surname. Our concerns were moot, however; there was a practical reason to stay unadopted: Adoption would have made us ineligible for the Veterans Administration benefits we were allotted because of our "war orphan" status. So Harry and Mary Ashbrook's children were Christine and Allan Edmands.

Odious and cruel comparisons were inevitable between my two fathers: Ace had been an Annapolis graduate and a commissioned Navy officer, my Pop had finally graduated from high school three months before his twenty-first birthday. My real father had flown planes, my stepfather worked nights for Kraft Foods, stirring vats of cottage cheese. While gallant Ace had been risking his life continuously in combat, my Pop had spent most of World War II in a TB sanitarium. The more I focused on Ace, the more distant I grew from the only father I ever really knew.

My mother had a loving, affectionate relationship with my Pop. But with all her grooming of me for Annapolis--her exhortations about how a man's place was to defend his country, even her encouraging of my reading and scholarship to ensure an appointment--she was consciously or unconsciously participating in the comparison game. Such an impossible rivalry with a ghost hero must have deeply hurt my Pop, but he never showed it.(1)

I, too, was measured up against Ace: Performing well, I was told: "Your father would have been proud of you." When I disappointed or aggravated, I was told: "Your father would have been ashamed of you." In perspective, from my current age of sixty, I attribute such domestic dysfunction as just one more example of how World War II impacted almost all American families for years after the 1945 "peace."

During my Junior year in high school--encouraged, directed, by my mother--I began writing letters, petitioning for an appointment to Annapolis. Letters to Congressman Russell Mack, to Senator Warren Magnuson, to Senator Henry Jackson--to President Dwight D. Eisenhower, for heaven's sake. A year in advance of any possible appointment, I needed to get their attention:

Dear Sir:

On January 23, 1960, Senator Magnuson became the first of those I had petitioned to appoint me as his principal candidate for admission to Annapolis, solely contingent upon on my passing a physical examination. Here is the telegram I received: "HAVE SELECTED YOU AS MY PRINCIPAL CANDIDATE FOR ANNAPOLIS. OFFICIAL NOTIFICATION AND INSTRUCTIONS WILL COME TO YOU FROM NAVY WARREN G MAGNUSON USS" The article to the left has all the details (click the picture to enlarge it and to read the text of the article). Four other guys were listed as my "alternates": The list was headed by William McNeely from the town of Opportunity.

I was a celebrity at school; some classmates saluted when they saw me and addressed me as Admiral.

The only hurdle in front of me was the physical, scheduled for March. I had been practicing pushups and chinups, and I was certain I could satisfy the requirements for them and for the other tests of physical aptitude: I needed to be able to do a duck walk (hands on hips, squat deeply with knees spread, and walk ten paces) and arm hang (full length and relaxed, hang for 3 seconds with each hand on a bar). I also needed to do three of the following: (1) one pull-up from a full hang until until my chin was over the bar, (2) 15 situps in 30 seconds, touching elbow on alternate knee each time, (3) 10 pushups with feet supported chair height, chin touching floor each time, and (4) 6 "burpee" movements in 20 seconds. (I did the first three of the preceding.)

What worried me--and worried my mother even more--was my vision. In those days incoming Midshipmen were required to have 20/20 vision, and I was already nearsighted. Probably from all that reading and scholarship my mother had been encouraging.

Now she encouraged me to practice the "Bates method" of eyesight improvement: Hold my palms over my eyes for a minute, then take my hands away and stare wide eyed. Gaze for several minutes at a remote horizon. Avoid reading as much as possible.

Unfortunately, the "Bates method" failed me during the physical. My uncorrected distant vision was not sharp enough for the Academy: 20/30 in the right eye, 20/40 in the left. Apparently, William McNeely now had his opportunity.

On the long drive back home, my mother was utterly silent, deeply disappointed. My feelings were mixed: some disappointment after all the effort, some embarrassment after all the "MAY BE MIDDIE" publicity, and some relief.

When autumn came, I entered a state-supported school, the University of Washington in Seattle, majoring in mathematics, minoring in history and drama. I had scholarships that my "war orphan" status had helped me qualify for, and I collected Veterans Administration payments every month.

But I no longer tried to be a copy of my deceased father. For my Reserve Officers Training Corp (ROTC) program at college, I wore an Air Force uniform for the required two years at the weekly drill sessions and the biweekly classes in "Air Science." And, by the end of that time, I had dropped the nickname Ace.(2)

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