As senior pranks go, I think ours was one of the more creative ones I have ever heard of.

At Grosse Pointe South High School, there was already a kind of unofficial standard for graduating-class mischief. One class had somehow managed to get the body of a Volkswagen onto the roof of the school, close to the tower the school is famous for. That was not merely a prank. That was engineering. That was logistics. That was a criminally inspired public art installation.

So the bar had been set fairly high.

If we were going to leave our own mark before departing South forever, we had to come up with something that had a little flair. Something with danger, timing, costumes, surprise, and just enough cinematic grandeur to make it memorable.

So we chose our theme: The Dirty Dozen.

The caper had everything a senior class prank required: a secret mission, a band of unlikely commandos, a target list, questionable judgment, and the possibility that not everyone would make it back without being outed. The stakes could have been high—possible expulsion just days before graduation.

Our version, of course, would not involve any real danger to our targets unless they slipped chasing us down the halls. Our weapons would be the most advanced squirt guns then available: Soakers. In 1972, these things seemed like cutting-edge water warfare. Compared with the little plastic pea shooters of childhood, Soakers were serious equipment. They could deliver a sustained cold stream of water with range, volume, and authority.

The mission was simple.

We were going to break into classrooms and offices, interrupt teachers and administrators in the middle of teaching or administering, and blast them with continuous streams of cold water.

That was it.

That was the plan.

With graduation coming up, we already had our caps and gowns in our possession. That turned out to be an inspired piece of camouflage. What could look more innocent than a group of seniors in caps and gowns? What could be more ceremonial? More dignified? More harmless?

Of course, the pantyhose pulled over our heads robbed the whole thing of any dignity we might otherwise have had.

On a day in early June of 1972, the twelve of us met at a co-conspirator’s house near the high school. There was nervous laughter, bad ideas becoming real, and the intoxicating feeling that comes when a group of teenage boys—soon to be men, realizes it has crossed the line from talking to doing.

There is a moment in every conspiracy when someone could still say, “This is ridiculous. Let’s forget the whole thing.”

No one said that.

Instead, we pulled pantyhose over our heads, robbery-style, donned our caps and gowns, armed ourselves with Soakers, and made our way to the school.


The Dirty Dozen

It must have been quite a sight: twelve graduating seniors, faces distorted under nylon, dark blue gowns flapping, caps on our heads, water guns in hand, marching toward Grosse Pointe South like a deranged academic militia.

Each of us had our targets.

One of mine, along with two other members of the Dozen, was Principal Jerry Gerich. He happened to be sitting in his office when we arrived in the building, working diligently at his desk. He may have been reviewing graduation details. He may have been signing something important. He may have been enjoying one of the last peaceful moments he would have that day.

We burst through the door. 

The three of us rushed in, aimed our weapons, and proceeded to soak him where he sat. His look of stunned and utter disbelief is still burned into my brain to this day.

The boldness of it still surprises me.

But we did it.

There was no speech. No manifesto. No list of grievances. No formal declaration from the Class of 1972. Just three masked seniors in caps and gowns blasting the principal of Grosse Pointe South High School with cold water in his own office.

Then we ran.

Jerry gave chase, but he did not catch up with us. If memory serves, his yelling had a sputtering quality to it as he came after us down the hall. It could have been the result of him being totally waterlogged.

Other targets in the building that day included football coach George Duditch, swimming coach Carl Schoessel, math teacher Tom Berschback, and many more. Those are the ones I remember most vividly.

Coach Duditch was not going to take it lying down. He came charging out after us and nearly collared one of the Dozen, grabbing onto his arm before our compatriot broke free and escaped down the hall. Duditch had done some boxing in his earlier days, and you could sense that he was not merely reacting as a teacher. He was reacting as a man who had once known how to throw punches and absorb them.

But by 1972, he was not especially fast on his feet.

That saved us.

Coach Schoessel came running after us, having what can only be described as a hissy fit. In later years, the only comparison I could come up with was C-3PO from Star Wars, although, of course, C-3PO had not yet entered the world in 1972. That comparison arrived later. But the tone was there: alarmed, mechanical, offended, and somehow theatrical.

Then there was Mr. Berschback.

Tom Berschback was different. He took it with grace. He saw the immense humor in the mission.

I can still see the surprise on his face when we burst into his second-floor classroom at the end of the hall overlooking Grosse Pointe Boulevard. For one instant, he looked genuinely startled, as anyone would be when a squad of masked seniors in graduation gowns comes charging into a classroom with water guns.

Then came that wonderful, infectious smile he was known for.

He got it.

He understood that this was not rebellion in any serious sense. It was not vandalism. It was not cruelty. It was a farewell, delivered by idiots, with water pressure.

Of all the reactions that day, his is the one I remember most fondly.

The whole operation depended on speed. If you do not want to leave prisoners behind, you have to get in and out like professionals. There could be no lingering. No laughing too long in the doorway. No celebrating at the scene. You hit the target, completed the mission, and moved on.

We left no prisoners.

Somewhere in those halls, the normal order of Grosse Pointe South had broken down. Teachers were reacting. Administrators were chasing. Students were probably trying to figure out what in the world was happening. And through it all moved the Dirty Dozen, faces hidden, gowns flying, Soakers blasting, convinced for a brief and shining moment that we were the most daring class ever to pass through those doors.

After the mission was complete, we returned to the same place where the conspiracy had commenced and debriefed.

There was enough adrenaline flowing through us to lift a school bus and pull someone out from beneath it. We had done the unthinkable. We had invaded the school, soaked the authorities, escaped capture, and returned to headquarters intact.

The identity of the Dirty Dozen has officially remained a secret except for me now—by choice.

None of us gave anyone up. None of us were pursued by the school authorities. There were no tribunals, no confessions, no public shaming, no last-minute expulsions before graduation. Somehow, the thing just vanished into legend.

I suppose if it really was a crime, one could say we committed the perfect crime.

My father-in-law, Edward Powers, helped solve the 1950 Brink’s robbery with only days to go before the statute of limitations was to run in 1956. I am fairly certain the statute has run on our offense after fifty-four years, which gives me the gumption to tell this story before I take leave of this heavenly orb.

Still, my c0-conspirators will remain anonymous.

There are some secrets worth preserving, even when the danger has long since passed. The boys under those pantyhose masks grew into men, with families, careers, disappointments, triumphs, ailments, regrets, and stories of their own. For one day in June of 1972, though, we were united in a mission so foolish and so perfect that I cannot think of it without smiling.

We did have a full weekend reunion about forty years ago at a hotel in Ann Arbor. It involved a lot of poker, horsing around, a Wolverines football game, and golf. It was an epic weekend. For a brief time, the old conspiracy surfaced again. The years fell away. The boys were still in there somewhere.

Since then, we have all gone back underground.

I hope some of them get a chance to read what may be the only official telling of this story. They will know who they are. They will remember the house, the pantyhose, the caps and gowns, the Soakers, the chase, the laughter, and the magnificent absurdity of being young enough to think such a thing was not only possible, but necessary.

For Grosse Pointe South High School in June of 1972, the Dirty Dozen came, struck, escaped, and disappeared.

No prisoners were taken.

No names will be named.

No case was ever opened.