In the halcyon fall of 1940, the Class of 1944 arrived on campus. Almost all the men were housed in the cavernous rooms of Encina Hall, where they lived three to a room, blissfully unaware that war would soon disrupt their college plans. Beyond Encina, the golden grass fields spread east and south unblemished by the Stanford Industrial Park. To the west loomed the new and impressive tower of the Hoover Library, clad in wooden scaffolding almost to its top.
Class consciousness was rife in those days. Sophomores roared past Encina in cars, yelling, "To hell with Forty-Four." Freshmen, if they were quick enough, pelted the passing invaders with water balloons.
Two newly acquainted roommates--the late Ferris Boothe and the late Ted Eberle--conceived of a way to make the Class of '44, if not long remembered, at least quickly recognized. Together, they slit in half one of Ferris's laundry bags and, using black shoe polish, wrote "44" as large as possible on its surface. That night, under cover of darkness, they climbed the bare scaffolding of Hoover Tower and nailed their flag to the southeast corner of the building.
In the morning, freshman men cheered as they spotted the flag on their way to class.
The flag did not long survive, of course. Nor did Ted and Ferris long escape punishment, which consisted of yard work at the Convalescent Home. They had forgotten that Ferris's name was neatly stenciled on the laundry bag.
--Carl Heintze, '47
