Hundreds of heads are already bobbing seal-like above this soggy piece of artificial turf, and the sun hasn't even risen over the Naval Academy.
The sweat-soaked midshipmen count and grunt their way through a round of sit-ups, emitting a low, velvety roar that rises like steam to the banks of overhead lights.
The next instant they're on their feet, dashing in long, serpentine lines a hundred yards to the end of the illuminated practice field, only to return for leg lifts, push-ups, jumping jacks and anything else the booming, disembodied voice on the PA system orders.
If he exercised like this at home, said Brian Nagy, a hulking 18-year-old football player from Detroit, "I'd be lying around for an hour."
But there is no such luxury for these freshmen, better known as plebes. And Mr. Nagy knows what he'll hear next: "Be in formation in 20 minutes."
Monday will mark the end of this annual ordeal known as Plebe Summer, a grueling six-week introduction to academy life. It is an unending series of physical and mental gymnastics so vivid that gray-haired military officers recall them years later with a shudder. Some say it helped them survive prisoner-of-war camps.
Each day an alarm clock rang at 5:30 a.m. For the next 16 1/2 hours they learned how to salute, sail, shoot a .45 pistol, put out a fire and make a military bed, all under the exacting tutelage of grim-faced upperclassmen.
They learned the difference between a CVN and an S-3A (one's a nuclear-powered aircraft carrier and the other's an anti-submarine warfare aircraft.)
They addressed everyone as "sir" or "ma'am" and double-timed through the "passageways" of Bancroft Hall, squaring corners and shouting, "Beat Army!"
And precisely at 10 p.m. -- after singing the academy's anthem "Navy Blue and Gold" -- they collapsed in their beds in sparse rooms, cooled only by small desk-top fans.
"Every night as soon as you fall down, you fall right asleep, mentally and physically drained," said Kenneth Kerr, 18, of Philadelphia.
Cafeteria drill
Plebes stream into King Hall 40 minutes after leaving the practice field.
Bellowed orders from upperclassmen and a collective plebe response fill this spacious, winged cafeteria.
The plebes have traded their shorts and T-shirts for baggy white pants and shirts, along with a long black neckerchief that seems borrowed from another century.
Seven plebes from Charlie Company stand at attention behind their chairs, eyes straight ahead and chins pulled in tight to their necks. They takes their seats as one. Then they each take a bite of food, place a fork on the plate, put their hands in their laps and chew. Some have the wired eyes of small caged animals.
Plebes are peppered with questions from upperclassmen perched at the end of the tables. They are required to read a daily newspaper and be ready to discuss an article. Or they may be asked a "rate," memorized information ranging from the day's lunch menu, the duty officer or the capabilities of a Navy ship.
They never know what they'll be asked. They're trapped. All they can do is eat. And wait.
Midshipman 1st Class William Day, Charlie Company commander from Pensacola, Fla., likes to use this time to talk about current events. "It gets them thinking," he says.
He fixes his gaze on Plebe Jason Rudrud and asks, "What's going on in the world today?" The discussion finally centers on the possibility of military action in Haiti.
"Sir, I think it's the U.S. role to be a big brother," the nervous plebe sputters.
Should the United States first make sure it has the support of the nation, Midshipman Day wonders.
"Sir, yes sir!" comes the response.
The plebes may think such exercises have little worth, said Midshipmen 1st Class Deborah J. Roberge, regimental executive officer from Doylestown, Pa. But one day, when they are a pilot in a cockpit or an officer aboard ship, memorizing procedures will be vital.
"We keep telling them there's a reason for everything," she says, "whether they believe it or not."
Leadership lesson
It is a small amphitheater in Michelson Hall. Midshipman 1st Class David Maruna is trying to turn it into a Vietnamese jungle for a lesson about leadership and loyalty.
Six volunteers join him in front of the long blackboard.
Midshipmen Maruna has transformed himself into an American commander in Vietnam who has ordered Stephany Merritt of New York to move her company to its destination in five hours. There will be casualties, he tells her.
But the other plebes, portraying scouts and junior officers, suggest a safer route that will add three hours.
Midshipman Merritt must decide whether to obey the order, improvise or ask to be relieved of command.
The 18-year-old struggles with the dilemma and finally decides to follow the order.
Midshipman Maruna, of Cleveland, asks the plebes what they would do. Twenty say they would follow the order, eight would improvise and 11 would ask to be relieved.
The scenario actually happened, he tells them. The real-life company commander decided to improvise. The resulting delay forced the scrubbing of a B-52 carpet bombing mission and the loss of a chance to take out a North Vietnamese regiment. The commander was relieved of duty.
"It's obviously a tough decision. It's even tough in a classroom," says Midshipman Maruna. "But there is an important lesson here: Mission accomplishment is the No. 1 priority in a combat situation.
"You need to start thinking in a larger context," he says.
Always polishing
Bancroft Hall is echoing. Plebes rush up the dormitory's stairs and yell, "Good afternoon, sir!" before pivoting into their rooms with a "Beat Army, Sir!" It is fast and breathless, sounding more like "GOO-AFT-SER!!" and "BEE-ARM-SER!!"
In the small rooms, some of the crew-cut plebes are sitting at their desks brushing up their rates or polishing. Always polishing. They rub shoes or belt buckles to a high gloss.
"The hardest thing is training your mind in a pressure environment," says Midshipman 1st Class Spencer Abbot from Newport News, Va., the 21-year-old regimental commander, as he strolls down the wide corridor. "By the end of plebe summer, I could look at a list of information, memorize it and spit it out."
Midshipman Abbot, who hopes to fly an F-18 fighter for the Navy, admits that several times the rigors of plebe life left him with thoughts of resigning. "I think everybody re-evaluates what they're doing," he said with a slight smile. At such times he would think about the importance of what he was doing and the traditions of the academy, he said.
A corner is turned, and a plebe is standing ramrod straight against a wall. Midshipman 2nd Class Tom Wolter of Boise, Idaho, a watch in hand, is quizzing him on his rates.
Midshipman Wolter, pacing back and forth, fires a flurry of numbers and acronyms, denoting Navy aircraft.
"Sir, I'll find out, sir," the plebe says, when stuck for an answer.
"S-3?" asks Midshipman Wolter.
"Is a Viking, sir," the plebe replies.
"TH-57. Crew?" presses the midshipman.
"Five, sir. One pilot, four students."
"Outstanding!" shouts Midshipman Wolter.
Liberty at last
They have been gathering for more than an hour outside Bancroft Hall, looking like refugees from a lost tour. Scores of these relatives are toting cameras and video camcorders. "NAVY" is emblazoned on many shirts and caps.
They crane their necks toward the dorm, watching for any movement. This is the plebes' first liberty.
Soon they start to spill out. "Here they come!" shouts a woman. White uniforms embrace summer colors. There are kisses, back slaps and poses.
Midshipman Kerr sidles next to his mother for a picture. "It's tough," he says. "A lot of times I had second thoughts. It's just the indoctrination. A lot of people tell me [plebe summer] isn't what the academy's all about."
He likes the challenge of the academy, he said, and what he calls "the total education."
Some plebes have decided this regimented life is not for them. Officials said 101 plebes -- including 18 women -- dropped out as of Thursday, roughly 8 percent of the 1,207 plebes who were inducted July 1.
That figure is higher than the 5 percent who usually leave by the end of Plebe Summer, but officials are not concerned by the elevated rate. One reason may be that the service commitment after graduation was increased last year, said Deborah Carroll, an academy spokeswoman. It is now six years rather than five.
Stephany Merritt, who several hours earlier portrayed a Vietnam-era commander, finds her family and falls into tearful embraces.
Although it is difficult adjusting to military life, "I never thought about quitting," she said. She hopes to become a a helicopter pilot.
What did she learn in that lesson when she "commanded" the troops?
"That I have a lot of responsibility," she said, "and accountability."