There were more surprises to come. Assignment as messman was faced with horror. The messing area was on board the Empire State. The mess tables were made of teak with steel supports and legs and were stowed in overhead swinging racks. Each table weighed about the same as the combined weight of the two messmen who had to lower the steel legs, lift the table out of the swinging supports and place it in the exact spot determined by the master-at-arms, a retired navy CPO with the disposition of a junkyard dog and the personality of Saddam Hussein. The breakfast menu varied from day to day, and the one item the messmen viewed with abject horror was fried eggs. Cleaning a hundred or so plates of dried, solidified fried egg leavings was a soul-destroying job. Stowing the mess tables in the overhead racks required the agility of a tap dancer and the strength of Hercules. These qualities were completely absent from our physical makeup, and the first few months were, at least, interesting. Meals and classes were held on board the Empire State, and the smelly old hulk where we slept and studied was our home away from home.

We became used to the routine, as healthy young men will, and accepted all the aspects of schoolship life as part of the training experience.

We, the Class of ’39, lived on ‘the schooner’ for six months until we became second classmen. We then moved on board the Empire State away from the smell of rotting wood and to the wonderful world of hot showers and secure bunks.

We were the last fourth class for some years. We went from fourth classmen to second. From this exalted station, we looked down on the new arrivals and watched them struggle with half-ton mess tables and dried fried eggs. As I remember, our classroom time was five days a week, eight hours a day with a half day Saturday as a ropeyarn holiday. The off watch sections usually went into New York on Saturday afternoon, went to some club or other, stayed at The Soldiers and Sailors Hotel for 50 cents a night and came back to the ship Sunday afternoon. There was no fear in walking around Harlem or the city at night so different from now.

Then came the first cruise; for most of us the first visit to another country. Any sort of chronicle of the Class of ’39 must include a description of the more memorable personalities among the instructors. The head of the school and master of the Empire State was a retired navy captain, J. Harvey Tomb, known to all the cadets as ‘The Blubby’. He appeared to wander around in sort of a happy fog and had little to say to anyone. The executive officer, Charlie Schutz, ran the ship and the school. He was a good guy; tolerant and strict, but within reason. There were other instructors such as W.T. Coyle, ’Watertight Willie’; Pete Olivet, ‘Pete the Tramp’, so named because he looked exactly like a comic strip character of the same name.

Then there was George Riser, the master-at-arms, NYSMMA’s answer to captain Bligh.George was as salty as a New York ballpark pretzel. He was a little man with a little pot belly, a rolling gait and a secret drinking habit. We all disliked him and dreaded his inspections.

Our first cruise has faded in memory. I remember it as a pleasant voyage to several European countries. There is a hazy recollection of being in France at the time of the Spanish civil war and meeting up with a group of Spanish sailors who introduced us to the wondrous effects of champagne.

Our cruise as upper classmen and the transfer of cadets, classes and quarters to the newly renovated Fort Schuyler were the big events of 1939. The class of ’39 was the first group to move into The Fort. Living in spacious rooms, sleeping in real beds, eating from tables that didn’t jiggle, having showers with hot water were all genuine and wonderful pleasures after "the schooner’ and the Empire State. Along about this time, the State of New York decided to build the Throg’s Neck Bridge. One of the abutments for the new bridge was to be located very close to end of the pier where the training ship was moored. We were told that the building activity would interfere with our marching and rifle drills, which were held on the pier. Hooray! We thought, no more drills. No such luck for us. The drills were transferred to the roof of the fort, The Parapet, as I recall.

This was sort of an introduction to The Fort as it was being refurbished for cadet use and for the moving in of the first class to be quartered at Fort Schuyler, THE CLASS OF 1939. Speaking for myself, the living and studying and eating on board the training ship was appropriate for men preparing for a seagoing career. The college atmosphere and easy living at The Fort was nice and pleasant, but lacked the sense of purpose that was everywhere evident on the Empire State. Every person in the class of ’39 was there because he wanted a seagoing career and all the studies and atmosphere was aimed in that direction. As best I can remember and reconstruct; every man who graduated with the class of ’39 was serving in a ship of the merchant marine or navy within a few months after graduation.

One remarkable event stands out in my memory as a happening on our upper class cruise. I was standing a deck watch in the early morning at Le Havre, France. A delivery truck arrived at about daybreak and the driver brought several cases of fine champagne aboard. I asked him for a copy of the receipt, which I expected to sign, and he explained there was no receipt and no signature. The champagne would go as a hidden charge on the milk bill. The supply officer showed up around 8 AM and had the champagne carted off to the double-locked storeroom. We had a meeting of the first section and decided that action was necessary in retaliation for padding the milk bill so the ship’s officers could drink champagne. The skinniest cadet in the first section was nominated as the principal actor in our planned drama. A few days later, at sea about 2 AM, the thin cadet was crammed into the dumbwaiter that served the locked storeroom and carefully lowered. He sent up quite an assortment of champagne, cognac and wine – maybe 50 or so bottles. The posted lookouts gave the all clear and the thin cadet, Sandbar, was hoisted out of the storeroom, the dumbwaiter door was re-locked and the first section began the planned stowage of the bottles. They were taken to No.2 lower hold and carefully lowered by sail twine into crevices between the large rocks that served as ballast. Then everyone went back to bed.

It was the next afternoon when the PA system announced a surprise inspection of all cadets’ lockers. It was a thorough search, but nothing was found. After the search, the executive officer called me to his office and asked me what had been done to the officers’ liquor supply. I said I did not know what he was talking about, and Schutz said, "If there is monkey business going on, the first section is involved". Many years later Schutz and an ex-cadet of the first section were working in the same room of the hydrographic office in D.C. One day, Charlie Schutz asked Jack Stuart if he knew anything about the champagne/cognac disappearance, and Stuart told him exactly as it had happened and why. Schutz said,"I knew it was the first section".

As to the final disposition of the bottles in the ballast in No.2 hold, they were taken ashore a few at a time in sea bags and luggage after arrival at Fort Schuyler at the end of the cruise.

There is about half the Class of ’39 alive and in various stages of disintegration. World War II and just plain old age account for our diminishing numbers. We all remember with fondness our two years at NYSMMA; the miserable aspects disappear into the fog of time and the good time, good people and good memories remain.