THE HARVARD SCUTTLEBUTT
Company Easy, small but select, finds itself deep in the heart of Harvard. Coming into this sanctum of erudition from culturally sterile waste lands ranging from Chicago to the South Pacific was quite a shock.
But ours, the youngest class to enter Communications School, has the resiliency of youth to carry it through the necessary adjustment. What the beefing lacked in experience was replaced in force and vigor.
Eager faces turned toward Boston with a set of preconceived conceptions--beans, cods, Cabots, Scollay Square, Cocoanut Grove, some place called Radcliffe, life overlooking the "Yahd," steeped in scholarship--but we soon discovered that we were still in the Navy.
A comparatively small number of the student officers are as yet unblessed by connubial bliss, so many pairs of ears pricked up significantly at Lt. O'Neill's mention of the social opportunities available to us and at Lt. O'Connor's praise of the Recreation Officer as what euphemistically might be called a "provider."
Company Commander Ira Reese, with several years of active service in the Navy behind him, is the sea-dog among us. Sub-Commander Matt Stacom and Adjutant Clair Merritt, along with a majority of the men in this company, were classmates at Abbot Hall, Northwestern University.
A pall was cast over a considerable portion of the class which arrived clad in Khaki when the categorical imperative was delivered decreeing the wearing of the gray. Most of this suffering minority would prefer that the warships be painted light brown.