It seemed like a normal lunch. All of the midshipmen stood around their assigned tables, waiting for the command at the anchor, “Seats,” that would allow us to sit down and commence operation Stuff-Yer-Faces. Nothing out of the ordinary happened. Of course, some youngsters smashed the Styrofoam cups, and the plebes poked holes in the uncrushed ones to prank the upperclass (their goal was to have a stream of raspberry iced tea spewing on the table.) All of this was normal.

“Brigade, seats!”

The thunder of four thousand chairs sliding under midshipmen echoed throughout King Hall. Noon meal had begun.

As per standard protocol at my table, I asked the plebe “fire-team leader” to announce the topic of conversation for the day. It was his job to provide engaging, thought provoking topics to discuss as a squad. He banged his fist on the table three times, shaking a few forks off and knocking over the mustard. “Squad, attention to announcement! The topic of conversation for noon meal is: if you could be a sumo wrestler, what would your name be?”

The squad mumbled in approval. Each person would get a chance to answer the question. Some of them started smiling at their own ideas.

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At that moment, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up, expecting to see just another mid, but it wasn’t. It was none other than the man, Captain Klunder, Commandant of Midshipmen! “Do you think you could spare a seat? Who’s in charge here?”

I am, I thought. “I am,” leaked out of my mouth, hardly confident.

“Can I sit with you? Do you mind?” He sounded so pleasant.

Yes please! Thank you for joining us, sir! Let me stand up and take you to your seat! Would you like anything to drink, sir? How may I help you?

“Uh, yes, sir.” I didn’t take him to his seat.

He sat down at the far end of the table. As he did, the entire squad stood up to show respect. He waved us to sit and start eating. So there we sat, normally harsh, abusive midshipmen, following the table manners we learned at our etiquette and protocol lessons plebe summer. Imagine polite midshipmen asking the Commandant to please pass the Catalina dressing. It’s right there, sir. Yes, under that smashed Styrofoam cup.

I decided to be bold. “Sir, we were just about to start our discussion.”

“A discussion sounds good!”

I explained the sumo wrestler topic, but he didn’t hear me, so those at the far end of the table echoed what I said. He politely nodded and told how he had been stationed in Japan.

As he talked, I nudged Midshipman On-top-of-it and motioned towards Captain Klunder’s cup. It too had been smashed. “Get him a cup!” I exclaimed through clenched teeth. We all searched wildly while remaining inconspicuous for a non-abused cup. Where have all the cups gone!?

At that moment, Midshipman Not-thinking-so-hot-today proudly produced a cup, “Here you go, sir.”

The earth’s rotation slowed to half speed, and time nearly stopped. Not that cup! I wanted to scream. But I couldn’t stop him. The Commandant of Midshipmen, the man who decides who stays or goes, graduation or expulsion, liberty or duty, happiness or sadness, poured raspberry iced tea into his vandalized Styrofoam cup.

A steady stream of liquid spewed onto the table and around his food. “There seems to be a problem with my cup,” He said.

“I’m going to die,” I groaned.

As everyone around the mess began to pad it down with napkins and plug the hole, I tried to change the subject.

“Gilbert [that's not his real name], why don’t you start us off–what is your sumo wrestler name?”

“Peaceful singing, sir.”

“How interesting.” I wanted to cry. This was a terrible idea. The Commandant was still cleaning up the mess. But I trudged on. “What about you, Franks?”

“My name would be Gilbert’s mom!”

Great. Insult someone’s mom in front of the Commandant.

“Classy,” I fought the tears. I’ll just ask one more. “And you, Johnson?”

“I’d be Gilbert himself!”

The chances don’t get any slimmer. I would have expected to be trampled by a herd of mongooses before watching my squad prank my Commandant and blatantly make fun of someone’s mother in front of him.

The rest of the meal went pretty normal. Not much was worse than the prank and the fat jokes; however, the complaint session about the food made us sound like little whiners. Also, I passed him the entire basket of salad dressing, setting it right next to his plate. When he didn’t touch it, we all yelled with our eyes, “Bring it back! bring it back!” which was all more embarrassing than might appear. I wish I hadn’t been so socially clumsy. I had nothing interesting to say, so it made things feel awkward. The Commandant was great–he kept the conversation moving. Plus, he avoided commenting on how poor of a host I was.

All in all, I am proud to say the Commandant sat at my table. When he left, I shook his hand. He looked me straight in the eye and said “You’ve got a great squad there. They’re real comfortable with each other.”

I nodded, just wishing we had plastic cups that day. “Thank you, sir. Thank you.”

***artistic license was taken in this reporting***