Core

Chapters

1: Day One
2: Fun and Games
4: Dash Sucks at Cadence
5: Khakis
6: Ensign Rainbow Dash, USN
3: Could Be Worse

1: Day One

Core
By: totallynotabrony

Chapter 1: Day One

The evening was clear and the stars had come out. The late summer weather in Newport, Rhode Island was pleasant and warm.

A colorful pegasus mare leaned back in her chair, looking up at the dark sky through the trellis that formed a pseudo ceiling over the open-air bar. While the other, human customers had grown used to interacting ponies since the dimensional doorways had opened years previously, it was the first time any of them had ever seen one wearing a military uniform.

A gold belt buckle accented the pure-white trousers. The shirt was made of the same material and sported black shoulder boards with a single gold star each. Above the left breast pocket was a small ribbon colored red and yellow. Above the right was a nametag that read DASH.

“What are you drinking, Rainbow?”

The pegasus in the uniform looked up at a purple unicorn mare who had spoken. She smiled. “I don’t care, Twilight. Surprise me.”

Twilight nodded and walked away to the bar. Rainbow looked around at four other mares who had gathered at the table with her. They were all her friends, and she’d invited them to come.

“Looks like a fancy place,” observed an orange earth pony. She pushed her hat back and looked around. The establishment was located at the edge of the bay between an assortment of yacht moorings. The view was excellent, even if it was nighttime. Somewhere, live music could be heard.

“Yeah, I found this place when we got weekend liberty for the first time,” said Rainbow. She knew that all her friends, including Applejack, who had spoken, rarely visited the seashore. Until coming to Newport for training, Rainbow hadn’t either.

“You’ll have to tell us all about it,” said a bubbly pink pony brightly. “I bet you all partied a lot after spending so long cooped up.”

“Well Pinkie, we had to be back by midnight curfew,” explained Rainbow. She grinned. “But yeah, it was a good time.”

“I see that you’re certainly dressed for it,” observed a white unicorn with a styled indigo made. She ran her eyes over the uniform. “I’ve never had to modify human clothing to fit a pony, but it looks as if it turned out well.”

Rainbow rolled her eyes. It was all about clothing with Rarity. Still, at least she had something that fit perfectly now and didn’t restrict her wings. The slits added to the back of the shirt were neat and unobtrusive.

Twilight returned accompanied by a waiter who was carrying their beverages. The man picked a glass off the tray he held. “Here’s some water for…Fluttershy, was it? I need to see some ID for the rest of you.”

The ponies showed various forms of identification. The man seemed surprised that Rainbow had an Indiana driver’s license.

After everypony was served, the waiter departed. Pinkie took a gulp of liquor and thunked her glass down. Without preamble, she prodded, “So are you going to tell us all about the party?”

Rainbow grinned. “I could try, but it might be easier to start at the beginning.”

Twilight gestured for her to continue. “That would be great. I’d love to hear about the kind of problems they had to overcome to integrate a pony into the human military.”

“Day one was kind of tough,” agreed Rainbow. She took a drink and started to tell the story.

The weather in Newport was beautiful. Summer, 2012 had been warm, but not unpleasantly so. The cloudless sky and comfortable temperature would have put anyone in a good mood. Or perhaps anypony.

A pegasus mare colored the same hue as the sky navigated towards her destination. She tossed her head, clearing her windswept rainbow mane away from her eyes. The heavy saddlebags she wore covered her cutie mark, a multicolored lightning bolt.

It was midmorning on a Sunday, and traffic was light. The pony had no trouble getting to her destination, a three-story brick building. Letters mounted to the outside spelled out Callaghan Hall.

A young man in a khaki uniform stood on the corner. His trousers were pressed neatly over polished black shoes and the matching short sleeve shirt had sharp creases. There was a red and yellow ribbon above his left pocket and a nametag above the right. His hat had a polished bill of black patent leather, a gold anchor, and an odd-looking round top that resembled a pancake.

“Good morning, ma’am. Are you checking into OCS?” The man smiled.

Nodding, the pony said, “That’s right.”

Gesturing to Callaghan Hall, the man said, “Go right in. There’s someone at the front desk who can direct you further.”

The mare thanked him and walked by. He stared after her. As a brightly colored pony with wings, she was used to it. As the first equine to enter United States Navy Officer Candidate school, however, the scrutiny piled up quickly.

Inside the building, a woman clothed similarly to the greeter outside asked for the pony’s identification. The mare presented it.

“Rainbow Dash,” the woman read from the card. “If you don’t mind me asking, how did you get an Indiana driver’s license?”

The pegasus smiled. “Well, I came out of doorway number one, but also that’s where my college was. I had to get a degree somehow.”

The uniformed woman nodded. The first portal to Equestria had been opened in a research facility in Indiana a few decades previously. She handed the card back. “What did you study?”

“Aeronautical Engineering,” answered Rainbow. “I want to be a pilot.”

“The best of luck to you. Head up the stairs to the third deck.”

Rainbow smiled her thanks and followed the woman’s instructions, noticing a blue line of masking tape on the floor. It guided her to where she needed to go.

Stepping out on the third floor, another smiling person in uniform directed the pony to the first of several numbered areas. People in civilian clothes were around, moving through the stations. Rainbow figured they were going to be her OCS classmates.

The dimensional doorways had been open for about twenty years, so ponies on Earth were not a strange sight. Once again, however, finding one at Naval Station Newport, or any US military base, was out of the ordinary.

Rainbow carried her luggage to the first station. She noticed a sign that read HYDRATE. Someone gave her a full canteen that had a sticker with her name on it. She took a sip to comply with the sign.

Another person in uniform inspected the pony’s things. He remarked, “It looks like you studied the list of items required for females carefully. What you’ve got here is exactly what it said.”

“Well, I did leave out the sports bra,” commented Rainbow. She grinned as the man’s face turned red in an effort to suppress his laughter.

The pony’s saddlebags were emptied and her things were placed in a tubular duffel made of heavy green nylon. A sea bag, the man called it. Rainbow carried the duffel to the next station. She noticed more HYDRATE signs.

After dealing with her baggage, Rainbow filled out paperwork for the next hour. A lot of it was medical information. There were other agreements and forms to sign. Her mouth hurt from using the pen.

A couple of civilians from the records department watched over the proceedings. Rainbow had seen a few other people hanging around who looked like they had military haircuts, but wore informal clothes. They only observed.

The next station was a room full of computers. Electronic records were needed. Ponies without magic sometimes used dexterity enhancers fitted to their hooves. The simple devices, usually nicknamed claws, had hooks that protruded for holding onto things. Rainbow had found they worked pretty well for typing, albeit hunt and peck. Even here, drinking water was encouraged.

The next station was the last. A projector connected to a computer displayed a PowerPoint presentation. The first slide read Naval Orientation and Vocabulary.

A group of people were gathered in the room waiting for the presentation to begin. Rainbow took a seat.

A man in khaki walked in and stepped up to the computer. “Good afternoon. This presentation will teach you basic Navy language and terminology.”

He clicked the computer mouse and the next slide appeared with a list of words. “We call things differently than civilians. A wall is a bulkhead. The floor is the deck. A post or supporting pillar is a stanchion. The ceiling is the overhead. A window is a porthole. The glasses on your face are also portholes.”

There were a few laughs from the back of the room. The speaker did not join in. Rainbow thought he was more serious than other khaki-wearers she had interacted with earlier.

The presentation moved on. “There are three people who are very important to you. They are your class team. One is a Marine Corps Drill Instructor. One is a Navy Recruit Division Commander. The last is a Navy Class Officer.”

The next slide came up.

Class 19-12A

Drill Instructor: Gunnery Sergeant Johns

Recruit Division Commander: Chief Valdez

Class Officer: Lieutenant Crossing

The presenter pointed to the first line, Class 19-12A. “This is pronounced ‘Class one-nine-one-two Alpha’. This is your class for the next twelve weeks.”

Indicating the next few lines, he said, “These three people, your DI, RDC, and Class Officer, will be in charge of you. You will address them all as sir. Members of other class teams may be female, so be careful and don’t address a ma’am as a sir.”

Another slide came up. “Upperclassmen at OCS are called Candidate Officers, and will also be addressed as sir or ma’am. I am one of them. We are in the last three weeks of our training. We are responsible for you. Underclassmen are called Officer Candidates. If you complete the first week of OCS, you earn that title. Until then, you are Indoctrination Candidates. Any questions?”

Rainbow wondered if there were abbreviations for those long names. As it turned out, Candidate Officers became Candios. Indoctrination Candidates became Indocs.

A man raised his hand. “Sir, when will we be introduced to all these people?”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll bet you’re a nuclear engineer here to work on submarine reactors, right? I know you were trained to overanalyze things, but just relax. Don’t nuke it.”

Rainbow saw the faces of nearly everyone in the room react to that. Were all of them here for the same thing?

The instructor gestured to the room. “Pick up your sea bags and form a line. A Candidate Officer will take you over to Nimitz Hall to get started.”

As told, Rainbow strapped her bag on and lined up. Considering she had an extra set of legs, her place in the formation was a little irregular. Another person in khaki led the group downstairs. Outside, he suddenly snapped, “Don’t talk, don’t look around!” and set off at a brisk pace. Rainbow had to break into a trot to keep up.

The sidewalk ended and they all shifted onto the street. After passing a building called King Hall that had a very tall flag pole out front, they veered back onto a sidewalk. Out of the corner of her eye, Rainbow saw a building labeled “Ney Hall Galley” and another marked “Nimitz Hall.” The Candidate Officer led them to a back door of Nimitz.

“Put down your bags. Are they correctly labeled with your name? Double Check! Go through that door. Don’t say anything.”

The windows in the door had been covered with black paper. Rainbow and the group she was with filed in to a small alcove at the bottom of a set of stairs. It was small and dark. A few people wearing boots and blue Navy Working Uniforms stood silently.

As soon as the door closed, they came to life, shouting commands. “Put your feet on those tape marks! Stand up straight! Hands at your sides! Tuck your pant legs into your socks! Double knot your shoes!”

Being without clothing, Rainbow was able to ignore most of the commands, and of course had to use two sets of tape marks. After perhaps thirty seconds of shouting, the Candios fell silent. From somewhere above, a slow drum beat started.

Four more people in blue walked down the stairs in time with the drum. Rainbow wasn’t sure if it was serious and formal, or overly silly. She didn’t dare smile, however. The four came to a halt and the drum stopped.

One of the men in the lead began speaking in a loud, commanding tone. “Here at OCS, you will learn to be an officer in the world’s finest Navy. You will be pushed hard, but you must not break. You will be exhausted to your very core, but you must keep going. Everything we do here is for a purpose. Everything we do will improve you. Everything must be done with speed, volume, and intensity. Do you understand?”

There was a general chorus of yes’s from the group of civilians.

“Outstanding! Welcome to OCS!” The drum began again. The four turned and marched back up the stairs. As they departed, a Candidate Officer roared, “Speed, volume, and Intensity! When you speak, you do it with ballistics, which means as loudly as possible!”

Silence reigned. He glared at the group that stood before him. “When I say something, you say something! Do you understand?”

Most of them got the hint. “Yes, sir!”

“Not loud enough! You should be hoarse by the end of today.” His eyes flicked to Rainbow. She braced for a horse comment, but instead the Candios began herding them all upstairs. “Single file! Stay on the right side!”

From the few glances Rainbow was able to catch, she could tell the building was old. The green tile floors were caked with years of wax. The block walls were painted stark white, and many of the ceiling tiles were stained.

More masking tape decorated the floor. A dozen or more blue-clad Candios lined the hallways shouting directions, sometimes contradicting each other. Rainbow’s ears kept twitching back and forth trying to pay attention to everything.

The man ahead of her turned the hallway corner, following the tape. A Candio shouted, “No! You make square corners by pivoting! Go back and do it again!”

Rainbow backed up, giving him room. He planted his foot and spun ninety degrees to make a perfectly square corner. While it was a little difficult for the pony to figure out how to make the same movement with two sets of legs, she pivoted correctly and was not yelled at. Or at least, not for the corner.

A woman started screaming in her ear. “Tell me your name!”

“Rainbow Dash.”

“What?”

“Rainbow Dash…ma’am.”

“Not loud enough! Speed, volume and intensity!”

“Rainbow Dash, ma’am!”

“We don’t care about your first name! You are an Indoctrination Candidate, and will speak in the third person! Try again!”

“Indoctrination Candidate Dash, ma’am!”

One by one, all the Indocs were filing through a storage room and emerging with various items clutched in their hands. They were quickly ushered down the hallway. When it was Dash’s turn, she stepped in.

“Face this whiteboard,” ordered a Candio. “Read it.” Dash began to look at the words written on it. “Out loud!”

Dash opened her mouth. “At OCS, you will speak only when spoken to. When a senior says something, you say something. Your responses will be Yes, No, or Aye Aye. ‘Aye, Aye’ is used as a term of understanding and compliance.”

“Keep moving down the line. That’s Aye, Aye Sir!”

“Aye, aye sir!”

The next Candio gave Dash a green jumpsuit and a fiberglass helmet with faded silver paint. “This is your poopy suit and your chrome dome, do you understand?”

“Yes sir!” She thought, poopy suit?

Carrying the things, she was directed down the “kill zone,” or main hallway, once again accompanied by shouting voices. She made a corner, still following the blue line. She was directed, “Go down the passageway, the p-way, until you find the door with your name on it. Put on your poopy suit, leave your chrome dome, and pick up the gouge pack on your desk. Bring your canteen.”

Dash hurried down the p-way, following the blue line and looking at the names taped to each side of the doors. This part of the building resembled a college dormitory. Each room had two each of desks, chairs, beds, and wardrobes. The sea bags they had carried over to Nimitz had been placed on the beds.

She found her room. The nametag read:

Dash, Rainbow

1390 - Pilot

Class 19-12A

The other nametag had the name Leest, Tamara on it and the mysterious code 1160 - SWO(N).

The pony entered her room as ordered and put down the helmet. She unfolded the old one-piece jumpsuit, noting a few rips in the legs. Dash never wore clothes save for a party dress now and again. This looked like it would be very restrictive, clinging close to her body—not to mention being made for a different species! There was no provision for her wings or tail and she glumly flattened them against her body as she pulled the suit on. The legs were too long and she had to roll them up.

On her desk was a small booklet. It appeared to contain important facts about the military. Since it was the only thing on her desk, she figured it must be the gouge pack. She picked it up, slipping it into the hip pocket of the suit before going out the door.

“Don’t cut the deck!” shouted a Candio as Dash stepped out of the room and tried to cross the p-way. “Go all the way to the end and wagon wheel around. Do not leave the blue line.”

Dash did as ordered, wondering why she had to do something so silly. It seemed like a waste of time. When she finally reached the kill zone, she was ushered into a room marked NAPS Classroom where a group of people wearing green jumpsuits sat on the floor. They were all reading from the little booklets.

A Candio handed her a plastic Ziploc bag. “This is to protect your gouge pack. Now sit down and study your knowledge.”

He looked around as Dash took a seat. “For those of you who just showed up, study as well as you can. By your fourth week, you need to know that knowledge verbatim. Who knows what that means?”

A man near Dash raised his hand and was pointed at. “Sir, verbatim means—”

“Stand at the position of attention when you speak!”

The Indoc quickly got up. “Sir, verbatim means being able to recite something word for word.”

“You sound smart; are you a nuke? Don’t answer that. Sit down.”

“Aye, aye sir!”

Dash opened her gouge pack. It contained the Navy and Marine Corps hymns, a chain of command consisting of fourteen people that ran from her section leader to the President of the United States, ranks, warfare devices, chow hall procedures, leadership traits, Sailor’s Creed, and dozens of other small pieces of information. I have to memorize all this?

Time passed slowly. Occasionally a Candio would order them all to take a drink. Dash could hear more shouting as another group of Indoctrination Candidates were ushered through.

Eventually, one of the people in the room raised his hand. “Sir, I need to use the restroom.”

“First of all, you didn’t request to speak. Second, you are not yet allowed to say ‘I’ at OCS. Third, this is the Navy, we call it a head. Say, ‘Sir, this Indoctrination Candidate requests permission to speak to a Candidate Officer’. After I tell you to speak, you say, ‘Sir, this Indoctrination Candidate requests to make a head call’.”

The Indoc managed to stumble through the proper lines. Nodding, the Candio said, “All right, all of you get up. If one goes to the head, we all go.”

Dash rose with the others. A bathroom break sounded simple, but what would the Navy do to complicate it?

All the Indocs were made to line up on the blue tape. They separated by gender and filed into their respective restrooms.

“Five minutes, and then get out of the head!” shouted one of the Candidate Officers.

Dash had spent enough time on Earth that human facilities were no longer a mystery. There were showers, toilets, and sinks. She used the time to introduce herself to the other female Indocs.

The woman she had been assigned to live with, Leest, was tall and thin with shorter than average hair. She made a point to mention her home state as Texas. Her chosen duty was Surface Warfare Officer with a Nuclear designation—SWO(N). In fact, all the women were on that career path. Dash felt a little more separated from them, not just with species but now also with job.

“So why did you join the Navy?” asked Leest.

Dash had been asked that a number of times while doing the massive amount of paperwork it took to get such a feat accomplished. Her practiced reply was a nonchalant shrug and, “I just wanted to be the first.” The truth was somewhat more murky, and while Dash had put in a lot of effort, she'd started to have doubts, especially now that she'd seen what OCS was like.

A fist slammed into the outside of the door. “No talking!”

The five of them fell silent for the next few minutes. From the other restroom, they heard a shout, “Say the Discipline Ditty!”

A crowd of male voices faintly responded, “Discipline! D-I-S-C-I-P-L-I-N-E Discipline is the instant willing obedience to orders, respect for authority, and self-reliance. Freeze, Candidate, freeze!”

“Not loud enough, not fast enough, and not together! Let’s see if the females can do any better.” Someone beat on the door. “Say my ditty!”

The Discipline Ditty was printed on a piece of paper that was taped to the wall. The five females recited it, although still not good enough to meet the standards of the Candio. “Get out of the head!”

Once the class was regrouped, they were given orders. “Go back down your p-way to your hatch and stand on line in front of it. Prior enlisted, help out.”

A few older-looking men seemed to know what that meant and the rest followed their lead. They took the class back to the rooms where they would be sleeping and stopped beside where their respective names were taped to the wall.

Dash looked around. Everyone stood on the blue line facing towards the center of the hallway. She realized that her body was blocking the p-way and considered turning sideways, but eventually decided to rear up on her back legs and stand still.

From the end of the hall, a Candio called, “Indoctrination Class one-nine-one-two Alpha company, upon receiving the command of execution move you will fly into your hatches, dump out your sea bags, and bring them into the p-way with your war belt and chrome dome. Whenever you are commanded to move, you say kill. Ready, move!”

“Kill!” Dash turned into the room with Leest. She didn’t know where to dump the contents of the sea bag, and just upended it on the bed. After collecting the rest of her gear, she left the room again.

“Indoctrination Class one-nine-one-two Alpha company, upon receiving the command of execution move you will put on your sea bag and war belt, put your canteen in your war belt, and carry your chrome dome. Ready, move!”

“Kill!” Dash did as she was told, wondering if all orders would come in such complicated language. After reporting back on the line, all the Indocs were made to face to the right and follow the blue tape in a maneuver that was called a wagon wheel. It was more organized than if they were all crowding towards the door at once. So that's why they wanted me to do it.

With more shouting from Candios, the group was led outside. They were all ordered to put their chrome domes on when leaving the building. The helmet didn’t appear to fit any of them well, least of all Dash. There was no lining or chinstrap, which made it sit on her head like a loose bucket.

The class was led to King Hall and given instructions before going in. “No ballistics in front of civilians! Hydrate before entering.”

Dash was grateful for the opportunity to stop shouting for a while. She followed the line of green-clad people through the door and down a flight of stairs to a basement shop. Clothing, toiletries, and other items lined the shelves. Each Indoc was required to hold their sea bag out in front of them and proceed down the line to get all the required items. Blue sweatshirts and pants, blue shorts, yellow t-shirts, socks, undergarments, and everything a Candidate would need for basic hygiene and attire. The sea bag was nearly full by the time Dash was done.

Next came haircuts. Males were required to have their heads shaved. Females were allowed to have hair no longer than their collar.

“I’ve never given a pony a haircut before,” said the plump older woman with the hair trimmer. “Er, manecut?”

Dash sat in the chair. Her mane was not really long. Unlike a person, however, it grew all the way down the back of her neck. She heard a suspicious amount of trimming going on as the woman worked. Her fears were confirmed when a pile of multicolored hair landed in her lap.

“Er, sorry,” said the woman. Dash stared at the mirror in shock. Her distinctive vibrant mane was no more than two inches long. She started to get up, but the barber called her back. “I should probably do your tail, too.”

Barber? More like butcher, thought Dash as more hair was hacked off. Hers was added to the growing pile on the floor. Also, they made her pay for the cutting. The woman wasn’t sure if a mane and tail counted as two haircuts or one. Regardless, it was only a couple of dollars from the money every Candidate was required to bring to OCS, cheaper than a civilian haircut because it seemed that price was directly related to quality.

Dash joined the rest of the class and studied her gouge, occasionally drinking water as ordered. Leest glanced at her, and looked like she was trying to suppress a giggle at Dash’s haircut. When her own turn came, however, she walked out of the barber shop sporting an even shorter style.

Leest ran her fingers through her meager hair and grinned. A Candio commanded, “No smiling!”

It took a while, but the whole class received their haircuts. They were marched back to Nimitz Hall, where the full sea bags were dropped off. After that, it was back outside for evening chow.

Each of the Indocs were made to put down their chrome domes and war belts in a convenient place on the grass beside Ney Hall Galley. Candios herded them into a line facing the entrance. There, they ran through a rough practice for the marching maneuver they would be required to learn soon. The formation twisted ninety degrees to the right in a dancing shuffle while shouting the Discipline Ditty.

There was a hand sanitizer dispenser on the wall next to the doors. “Indoctrination Class one-nine-one-two Alpha company, upon receiving the command of execution move you will apply hand sanitizer. Ready, move!”

“Kill!” Following orders, each Indoc dutifully pumped a squirt of sanitizer. Dash had to stand awkwardly to rub it on both forehooves.

The first two Indocs in line held the doors while the rest trooped in. The interior of the building was well-lit, with large windows that faced the bay. The carpet was new, although incredibly ugly.

“Ears!” shouted a Candio. “Listen to me! This is no place to get quiet! You want the whole chow hall to hear you.” He pointed to a couple of long tables. “When you get through the chow line, go here. Do not sit down and do not eat until ordered to.”

The class began to move through the line. The servers were civilians, and looked at the new Indocs with sympathy. Dash wondered how many classes they had seen come though OCS.

The mare had never used silverware in her life, and neglected to take any. On her plate, the servers piled rice, potato wedges, sliced carrots, and something that looked like a vegetable quiche. Others around her got chicken. She followed the line back to the tables. There was a large bowl with lettuce available for the taking, but Dash decided she had plenty of food already.

At her place, Dash set the tray down and stood awkwardly with the others. As the rest of the crowd arrived, one of the Candios explained standard meal procedures. “After arriving at the table, you will study gouge by holding the packet with your arm straight out in front of you. You will put it away and take your seat when ordered. You sit down by approaching your chair from the right, and get up to the left. Take one bite at a time, and take a drink between each bite. We will teach you how to eat by the numbers later.”

Dash looked at the two glasses that had been set in front of her place. One had water in it, the other contained some kind of sports drink. She sat when told to, only to be ordered back up. One of the other Indocs had sat from the wrong side of the chair. The process was repeated, and they all got it right this time.

A few of the people sitting around Dash stared as she casually took bites directly from her plate. Among the military order, it seemed strange to have one member of the group out of sync.

As told, Dash took a sip of the blue-purple liquid in front of her. It had an indeterminate artificial flavor, and had been mixed thickly. She had a hard time keeping her face from puckering due to the syrupy taste.

The food wasn’t bad overall. Dash wasn’t sure what she had expected from the military, but she could get used to this. There seemed to be plenty, too.

“You have fifteen, that's one-five, minutes left to eat,” called a Candidate Officer. “The time is now seventeen thirty, five thirty p.m. civilian time. The next time you eat is six in the morning. Make sure you eat everything.”

Well, if that was the case, the meal might not be enough after all. Dash was unused to going so long without at least a snack. She ate a little faster.

Most of the class had finished eating when time was called. They were marched to the scullery—the tray return—and then back outside. After collecting gear, it was back to Nimitz.

They were all gathered back in the NAPS classroom. Dash still didn’t know what that acronym might mean. For the next few hours, the class was grilled on proper marching and basic knowledge. It was so much at once, like trying to drink through a fire hose.

The sun had gone down when a Candio finally announced that it was twenty-one hundred. Dash did a quick mental conversion, nine p.m.

The class was herded back into their p-way to collect a change of clothing and hygiene items. After that, they were given ten minutes to shower. For the whole class.

There were only five showers per head. For the small number of females, that wasn’t a huge problem. Leest commented that the guys were probably “nut to butt” over in their respective showers. Dash washed quickly, although taking the time to explore the unfamiliar sensation of a shorter mane.

Some of the women kept going right up to the deadline. The subject of modesty was a little difficult with mixed species. Even if she didn’t usually wear clothing, Dash gave the women space, glad to have learned from a few minor embarrassments in college showers before arriving at OCS.

While she hadn’t shown up wearing anything, the Candios had insisted Dash start conforming to uniform regulations. After drying off, she put on a yellow t-shirt and blue shorts, both with silver reflective NAVY tags on them. This was the standard uniform for physical training and sleeping, and would be worn under the poopy suits.

The clothing did not fit particularly well. Dash was reminded of some of the more conforming clothing that her friend Rarity had created in her dressmaking shop. The shirt had to be tucked into the shorts, so her tail was once again pressed down flat with her body.

Once again, there was a pounding on the door and another request to say the Discipline Ditty. Like before, no one was loud enough the first time. Dash knew she was screaming as loud as she could, so she figured the request for more volume must be just another indoctrination thing.

Within a few minutes, the whole class was posted on line outside their hatches.

“Well, that’s one day down, twelve weeks to go!” shouted a Candio.

Dash gulped. Three more months.

“Tomorrow you will all be going to Naval Health Clinic New England, or NHCNE.” He pronounced it nick-nee. “You will sit there doing medical evaluations for hours, so don’t miss the opportunity to study your gouge. You need to know it verbatim.”

Continuing on, he said, “Everything you did today was terrible. It was nasty. You will learn to be more organized, and the sooner that happens, the better. You will meet your Drill Instructor and Recruit Division Commander at zero-five Wednesday morning, and then things get serious. The better you are in front of them, the less they will punish you.”

The monologue went on for several more minutes, explaining policies and procedures. After that, the lights in the p-way went out and the Candidate Officers left.

Slowly, the Indoctrination Candidates gathered in the center of the hallway. Unwilling to be heard, their voices were kept low. One man took charge.

“Good evening everyone, my name’s Oberta. I’m prior enlisted, so I know a little about what’s going to happen here. OCS is a little different than boot camp, but a lot of it carries over. All of us Indocs need to stick together. They’re going to make it so that we have to rely on each other and build teamwork, so we might as well get started now. Get to know everyone, but make sure you get a good night’s sleep.”

Dash had a few short conversations. She learned that there were a few different types of people in the class. Prior enlisted were sailors who were becoming officers. There were only a couple of them. The rest of the class was largely made of recent college graduates, although a few people had held jobs for a few years before signing up for OCS.

Most of the men in the class were going to be Submarine Nuclear officers, with a few Surface Nukes thrown in. Dash met a small handful of other pilots, for which she was glad.

A man named Rodriguez was friendly and assured Dash that they would be awesome pilots together. She kept the conversation friendly but short, due to the late hour.

It would be difficult to memorize so many names so quickly. Dash only learned a few before the long day and dim light of the p-way forced her to yawn. Everyone seemed to want to talk to the interesting pony, but agreed that it was time for bed.

Dash talked a little more with Leest as the two of them prepared for sleep. “We’re probably supposed to make our beds,” suggested the woman.

“They’ll just get messed up by us sleeping on them. I’ll just get up a little early and tuck in the sheets,” Dash told her.

“How are you going to do that? None of us have a way of telling time.”

That was true. Dash remembered seeing a clock in a small alcove off the kill zone. With as much water as they had all been drinking, getting up in the middle of the night to use the restroom was a possibility. She could check the time then.

Dash had very rarely been up at five a.m. and knew that with the additional stress of training it would be no fun at all. There was no point in putting it off, however. She sighed and climbed into bed.

Source

2: Fun and Games

Chapter 2: Fun and Games

Source

“That sounds terrible,” remarked Rarity. “And that was just the first day?”

Rainbow laughed. “Looking back on it, things weren’t so bad. The next two days seemed easier, probably because I learned what to expect. Wedneday during the first week was a turning point, though. Everything got a lot harder from there, until Saturday when they promoted us to Officer Candidates.”

“So the first week is kind of like initiation?” asked Twilight.

Rainbow nodded. “That doesn’t mean it gets easier after that, though. It’s just difficult in different ways.”

“How did they compensate for you?” asked Fluttershy. “Surely there are only certain things a pony can be reasonably expected to do.”

“All the Candios went through a special course before I showed up and my class team got even more training than that. None of them really made a big deal about me, and kept things professional.” Dash shrugged. “Yeah, sometimes I got off easy because none of them were sure how to handle a certain situation. Other times, I got the short end of the stick.”

“And knowing you, you weren’t about to let them know they got the best of you,” observed Applejack.

Rainbow laughed. “Yeah, there were a few times I got hurt. Nothing too serious, though. I guess it wouldn’t have been a big deal if they pulled me out for three weeks to heal up so I could join the next class, but luckily it never came to that.”

“There’s a three-week gap between classes?” asked Twilight.

Rainbow nodded. “My class, 19, came in three weeks after 18. We had a few people ‘roll in’ to our class from 18 because they had medical issues.”

“Wow, that doesn’t sound fun at all,” observed Pinkie.

“Well, not while we were Indocs.” Rainbow smiled. “We were entertainment for those in charge, and it sure wasn’t fun and games for us.”

The zero-five wakeup call was the sound of someone kicking open the door at the end of the p-way and shouting, “Reveille, reveille! Get up!”

All the Indocs were quickly shuffled through the head to brush their teeth and prepare for the day. After that, they donned poopy suits, war belts, and chrome domes before being ushered down to the front of Nimitz Hall to a waiting bus.

“Eyes forward, no talking!”

The bus trip was relatively short. In only a few minutes, the bus reached the base’s front gate and turned into the parking lot of NHCNE located just outside.

The medical building was sleek and modern with lots of glass. The Indocs were not allowed to look at it, and were told to study their gouge in the waiting area.

A blood test was the first thing scheduled. Dash had never been a fan of needles, especially those that weren’t guided by precise magic. The civilian nurse seemed to do a good job, however, despite unreassuringly commenting that it was the first time she’d had a pony as a patient.

Dash went back to her designated seat and began studying again. Time passed at a snail’s pace. With nothing but a booklet of dry information to memorize, it was a mind-numbing wait.

Dash’s name was called. To her surprise, a stallion wearing a lab coat was waiting for her. He stood beside a man who wore a Navy doctor’s uniform.

The two of them walked Dash back to an exam room. “I’m Doctor Feather,” said the pony. “I’m on the board of pegasus health at Canterlot General. I was asked to come for your special case.”

The man nodded to Dash. “I’m Commander Hawkins. I’m the flight surgeon for OCS.”

The mare spotted a silver rank insignia on the right collar of his blue uniform and a Medical Corps gold oak leaf on the left, both things she remembered from the gouge.

Talking to the two of them, Dash was asked to review her medical history. Feather helped Hawkins translate a few Equestrian civilian records to United States military ones. It all went into a thick folder with her name on the front.

“We’ll keep the records and give them to you after graduation,” explained Hawkins. “In the meantime, you’ll be here for the rest of the day and probably be back for a few follow-ups over the next twelve weeks.”

Deciding that she could be a little less formal around the doctor, Dash said, “It sounds like a lot of paperwork for you, sir.”

Feather chuckled. Hawkins smiled. “You’re going to have to help me with most of it. If you want to be a pilot, that’s just part of the deal. It’s one of the most medical-intensive careers in the military.”

Dash had heard that before, but figured it was worth it. What was a little paperwork compared to twelve more weeks of being shouted at?

She was escorted back to the waiting area. The boredom set in again. Cold meals were brought. Sandwiches, chips, and fruit. Even in the air conditioned building, Candidates were still ordered to hydrate. Occasionally some of them would be called for procedures.

Dash was put through eye exams, hearing checks, reflex tests, an electrocardiogram, x-rays, and other things she had never seen before. By the time the Indocs were herded back on the bus late in the afternoon, she felt a little envious of the easy life lab rats must have.

Some members of the class had received glasses from NHCNE. Contact lenses were not allowed, and civilian glasses were generally not as sturdy as issued spectacles. The unfortunate Indocs who needed them were given giant-sized eyeware made with brown plastic frames. The Candios referred to them as BCG’s—Birth Control Glasses—because they were so ugly. They were also—ironically—called "fancy portholes."

Before going to dinner, the class was taken back to the NAPS classroom and given a demonstration of eating by the numbers. A female Indoc that Dash hadn’t seen before ran though the procedure for the benefit of the rest of the class.

She wondered where the new person had come from, and why she seemed experienced. Later, during a head break, she found out that the woman, Lambert, had been a former member of Class 18 before getting a skin infection. She had been held for three weeks to heal as part of something called H Class before rolling in to join 19.

Dash found out later that H Class was where Candidates were held while waiting for a new class. It was generally regarded as being basically Indoc Week, but three times as long and more boring. It was run by Gunnery Sergeant Cothic, a man who had an almost-legendary presence. While it was a fact that he was trained as a Scout Sniper, other stories ran wild. It was said that he sometimes dropped out of trees to scream at unsuspecting Officer Candidates. There were whispers that he had once put on a poopy suit and covertly gone through Indoc Week for fun. Another popular tale involved a crossbow that he supposedly kept in his office.

Lambert refused to speak about any of that. She did seem to be very proficient, her time in H Class providing extra experience. Eating by the numbers was relatively simple, yet incredibly irritating to do. It was a series of steps that Indocs would be required to perform while eating. Head down, pick up the utensil, take a bite of food, put the food in the mouth, put down the utensil, head up, chew, swallow, drink. Repeat.

“You should look like a robot! That means you’re doing it right!”

That was not encouraging. At dinner that evening, the Indocs practiced, with advice shouted at them from all sides. Taking time for each individual step slowed down eating considerably, and several in the class found that the allotted twenty minutes was not enough to eat a whole meal.

Dash, of course, would never let herself be too slow at anything. Being allowed to skip silverware also helped.

The entrées were different, but the rice, potatoes, and starchy foods were the same as the previous day. The glass of water and glass of thick sports drink were also familiar.

After time was up, the class was ordered back to Nimitz. Dash couldn’t believe the day wasn’t over yet, but there were still hours to go.

The first stop after dinner was the armory. Each Indoc was issued a deactivated M16A1 rifle. Ugly welds on the sides of the weapons showed their status as harmless.

“You will lock your weapon up in your war locker. You will never leave it unsecured. Ever. Twenty five demerits await if you do. Make sure to memorize the serial number. And never call it a gun.”

Demerits could be handed out by the class team for nearly anything. All demerits had to be worked off before graduation. The way to pay back one demerit was to find a DI or RDC and ask them for ten minutes of supervised pushups and situps.

The issue of drill, maneuvering the rifle in sync with the rest of the class, certainly wouldn’t be easy for Dash to accomplish without fingers. That was where Claws came in.

Ponies requiring enhanced dexterity could get a set of hooks that fastened to their forehooves with a band. They rather looked like blunt claws. Dash had brought a set along.

The rifles wouldn’t be used for a while, however. The wardrobes—called war lockers—in their rooms were secured with combination locks the Indocs were issued.

The rest of the night was spent with marching practice. With a large group of people, some of them terribly uncoordinated, it took hours just to get in step.

After a shower, Dash fell into bed, skipping the informal meeting of Indocs in the hallway. She’d been awake for seventeen hours straight, which might be close to a personal record. While it had mostly been sitting around in a health clinic, she still felt tired.

Wait, that was only this morning? It feels so long ago… Not having access to a clock was messing with her perception of time. The Candios advised that the days would pass like weeks, but strangely the weeks would pass like days.

Leest came back to the room shortly and filled Dash in on the news that had been passed around. The medical testing had been to clear all of the Indocs to participate in the Initial Strength Test, which was to occur in the morning.

Dash’s ears perked up. Athletics? Finally! She fell asleep, a little happier than before.

In the morning, the door was kicked again. “Reveille, reveille!”

Dash had woken up in the middle of the night, the consumed water needing release. In the alcove in the kill zone, a blue-clad man was stationed. His hat was pulled low, and Dash couldn’t see his eyes. He ignored her.

She noticed the clock that was usually hanging on the wall was facedown on a desk. There was no way to tell what time of the night it was and whether she should bother going back to bed before wakeup. It was slightly frustrating to be denied time, something she had taken for granted.

This was only the third day at OCS, and not knowing what time it was had begun to grate on Dash’s nerves. She said as much to Leest as the two of them hurried to finish their preparations in the head later that morning.

“I know,” agreed the woman. “I don’t think we’re allowed to have wristwatches for a couple more weeks. I never thought I’d say this, but I really wish Flava Flav was here right now.”

“That rapper with the clock around his neck?” Dash laughed.

Bang, bang. “Quiet in there!”

After only a few minutes to get ready, all the Indocs were taken outside, carrying along their canteens. There was a field of grass behind Nimitz Hall. At the edge of the field was Narragansett Bay, the waterway that reached far into central Rhode Island. At such an early hour in the morning, the sky was still dark and the two-mile-long suspension bridge that spanned the bay near the Navy base was illuminated with white lights and a single red beacon atop each tower. It was actually rather scenic, and Dash caught herself staring.

The class was put into a blocky formation and stood on the road between Nimitz and the athletic field for a few minutes. This morning, the Candios were wearing the same blue shorts as the Indocs, but had shirts printed with a fancy custom design. Dash thought perhaps that each class got them when they graduated to being Candios. That would be a long time for 19-12A.

Speaking of classes, 19-12B was present this morning. It was the first time the two Indoc classes had seen each other. It was nice to know that they weren’t alone. Any sense of camaraderie was quickly dispelled, however.

“Both of you, one-nine-one-two Alpha and one-nine-one-two Bravo, will compete to be the better class! Remember, it pays to be a winner!”

Dash barely suppressed a smile. I like the sound of that.

Each class was led onto the field and arranged around a table. Upper classes, 18-12 and 17-12, were also there. Dash could see a few people in those classes wearing knowing smirks as they looked at the new Indocs.

A Candio jumped onto the table. “Good morning!”

“Good morning, sir!”

“The first morning exercise will be toe-heel rocking.”

“Toe-heel rocking, aye, aye, sir!”

“Begin!”

It was certainly a good thing the upper classes were there or the Indocs would have been lost. It was simple enough to follow the person on the table through various exercises, although Dash had a few problems. She didn’t have toes or heels, for example.

She soon realized that these were merely warmup stretches. The real test would begin soon. After the exercises were done, the Indocs were taken down the block to a brightly lit athletic track. It had a red rubber surface and a football field with artificial turf in the center. It was there that the Initial Strength Test took place.

Each Indoc was tested on how many pushups they could do in two minutes, how many situps in two minutes, and how fast they could run one and a half miles.

Dash had no problem with pushups. She naturally used her front legs for walking, so they were already used to holding up her body. The situps were another story.

Each Indoc was paired with another. Leest held Dash’s back legs as she crossed her hooves over her chest and began to do situps. The pony was at a disadvantage because her legs didn’t bend like a human, and she had to sit up further each time.

Dash had practiced the exercise before coming to OCS, and couldn’t believe that she wasn’t doing well. She had far surpassed the minimum required number of pushups. In fact, her score had been one of the highest in the class for female or male. Her pitiful amount of situps was just barely over the minimum and left her abdominal muscles in agony.

"You better work on your core strength, Dash! How can you improve the rest of your body if you've got a crappy foundation?"

There was plenty of opportunity to redeem herself on the track, however. Ponies were naturally faster than people, and Dash was especially fast for a pony. She easily finished a whole lap ahead of any other runner, barely breathing hard.

The class’ canteens had been placed in a block formation where the Indocs had been standing previously. Dash was told to get hers and begin marching around the formation while sipping water. She did so for several minutes all alone before other members of the class began to show up. They all marched until the last Indoc was finished running.

“There are a couple of you who are going to be getting orange belts,” said a Candio. Glow belts, made of reflective nylon material, were passed out. Most were bright yellow. Dash noticed that a few people—those who hadn’t met standards—received orange ones. The glow belts would be worn constantly for the next nine weeks with all uniforms until Class 19 became Candios.

The class was taken back to Nimitz and given ten minutes to shower and change clothes. After that, breakfast, and on to the rest of the day.

Most of the time was spent on marching, along with a few basic rifle drill maneuvers. Dash was clumsy with the weapon, and got yelled at several times.

Through the course of the day, the Candios managed to introduce the class to a few places they would come to know well. Kay Hall was next to Nimitz. It was a large gymnasium with a wood floor. It was where most of the drill would be practiced, and also where the graduation ceremony would eventually be held.

Also of interest, for completely different reasons, were three sand pits. Next to Nimitz was the original SUYA, or “Sand Up Your Ass.” Near the bay was the Rose Garden. The smallest pit next to the chow hall was referred to as the Cookie Jar. Visiting all three in rapid succession was called “getting triple crowned.”

“This is the worst way to get RPT’d,” explained a Candio. “It’s harder to do everything in the sand, plus it gets everywhere on your body, which is why we gave you a plastic bag for your gouge pack. And if it’s a really bad day, they’ll bring out the water hose to make mud.”

RPT was Remedial Physical Training, a punishment the class team could give. Candios talked big and loud, but they were not allowed to do anything of the kind.

The day ended with a talk about what was to follow. Each member of the class would get a chance to be the Section Leader for a day, the one who vocalized orders for the rest. The day’s Section Leader had responsibility to make sure the class was doing the proper thing. That duty would begin after Indoc Week.

The biggest point of the Candio’s talk that evening was “Wakeup Wednesday,” the class’s introduction to their team. It would be loud, and it would not be pleasant.

Navy OCS prided themselves on the moniker, "Navy owned, Marine Corps trained." It was a technique to add a little fear of the unknown to the Candidates, but also promote inter-service cooperation.

After another hurried shower, the Indocs were allowed to rest. And they needed it. Dash stayed up just a little later, doing a few situps. The only way to get better was practice.

At 0500 Wednesday morning, the door at the end of the p-way was not just kicked open, but slammed against the wall so hard that Dash practically felt the reverberation.

More than a dozen angry, ear-splitting voices filled the air, demanding that the Indocs get out of bed and stand on line now.

Without letting up, the whole class was ordered to do pushups and situps, and then directed to run out into the kill zone. Not once did the shouting let up.

The group of antagonists consisted of DI’s and RDC’s. The Marine Drill Instructors each wore a tan camouflage uniform, black patent leather belt, and a hat that Dash had heard called a “Smoky Bear.” The Recruit Division Commanders were dressed in the blue digital pattern Navy Working Uniform, with red braided cords around their left shoulders.

For ten strenuous minutes the workout continued. Dash kept up, but felt that she might be getting singled out. She had four separate people get in her face about some minor complaint, for instance not doing pushups fast enough. She was sure that nobody was doing them faster, but it seemed that there was no pleasing these people.

“All of you get back to your p-ways and make a hygiene call, then get ready for PT!”

Didn’t we just do PT? thought Dash. It seemed that physical training was going to happen every morning regardless of how much RPT beating they had received.

The rest of the day was not any more pleasant. It was just like how the Candios treated them, except somehow with even more shouting. And RPT. Furthermore, they were even more picky about Indocs screaming at the top of their lungs when they said anything. Somehow, impossibly, the class team was able to overpower their combined voices. Dash wondered if superhuman screaming was a requirement to get the job.

“You aren’t giving enough effort! You aren’t coordinating your efforts together! All I see is individuals instead of a group!”

Class 19-12A’s introduction to their DI left a lasting impression. Gunnery Sergeant Johns was not very physically imposing, in fact there were several people in the class that towered over him. If Dash had to guess his appearance based on attitude, however, she would have thought he was twenty feet tall. From his tan boots to the top of his shaved head, everything about him demanded respect.

Or, in his words, “I’ll RPT you all until your friggin’ hearts explode!”

Chief Valdez was not a polar opposite, nor was his attitude a likeness. He was a thickly-built man who said little but observed everything. There was very much a good cop-bad cop dynamic at play between he and Gunnery Sergeant Johns. When needed, however, his voice and actions were just as loud and commanding.

Meals were somehow even less enjoyable than before. Not only with the enhanced shouting, but the class team was also much better at spotting discrepancies than Candios. Not a single Indoc escaped without some kind of tongue-lashing. At least they weren’t allowed to get RPT’d in the chow hall.

The class was also organized into their official formation. It would stay the same for the remainder of OCS. With a critical eye, Gunnery Sergeant Johns put each of them in the place that he liked best. It was organized into four squads. Squad one was always closest to the DI. It seemed that the tallest person in the class was made the leader of the fourth squad and height descended towards the front of the formation and the back of the squads. Being the shortest, Dash was put at the end of squad one. That meant she had no one to hide behind and any mistakes she made were fully visible to the DI. Consequently, the next few days were not fun at all.

Bravo Company was occasionally seen around the base with their DI, Gunnery Sergeant Salucci. Every time Alpha’s DI saw them, he would scream about being better. Dash detected a good-natured rivalry between the Marines, and it seemed clear that they enjoyed pitting their classes against each other.

There was a brief respite on Thursday when all the Indocs were marched to the uniform shop on base to get fitted for the clothing they would be wearing later. They all carried empty sea bags over. Each member of the class was issued three complete sets of NWU’s, two sets of khaki, and one each of Service Dress Blues, Summer White, and Dress White uniforms.

In Dash’s case, the other uniforms would be sent away to a tailor used to fitting for pony anatomy—specifically her friend Rarity in Ponyville. The NWU’s would be required the next week, however, and their fit was a little more forgiving anyway.

The rotation of Indocs through the fitting rooms went slowly. Those that were not occupied, were of course ordered to study gouge.

Dash picked up the small package of name tags that would be sewn to the NWU blouses and trousers. If she wouldn’t have gotten in trouble for it, Dash would have smiled, seeing her name spelled out in gold embroidery. Despite the challenges she had faced so far, there was no way she would quit OCS. Sure it was difficult, but surely things would be better when she got to wear a proper uniform.

Thursday was far from over when the Indocs were marched back to Nimitz, their sea bags full. Most of the evening was spent with rifle drill. It was much more demanding now that the DI was in charge. After a little practice, Dash found that it wasn’t too difficult to lift the rifle, pull the charging handle, set the bolt release, inspect the chamber, release the bolt, and lower the rifle, all on command. The difficult thing was doing it in sync with so many others who had different anatomy.

“Week five! That’s when the drill competition is!” shouted Gunnery Sergeant Johns. “If you do not beat Bravo Company, you are in for a very rough rest of OCS!”

He had been saying things like that for quite a while, and every time the Indocs were required to acknowledge with “Aye, aye, sir!” Every time, they were harangued about not answering loudly or quickly enough. Of course, then they were required to respond again. It was a feedback loop of screaming and RPT.

That evening at chow, Rainbow took a sip of the thick sports drink and the sugar in it scorched her raw throat. She had shouted so much that every word made her head ache as if her brain was being rattled, but she had no idea that so much volume could actually cause physical wounds to her esophagus.

In telling that story later, Leest agreed. The woman’s own voice had changed pitch over the last few days, enough that she hoarsely joked that it would be impossible to sing The Star Spangled Banner because her voice wouldn’t go that high anymore. Then she tried for fun and realized it was actually the truth.

The Candios kept the class up a little later that night. Friday was another milestone. In the morning would be an event called Outpost. Sea bags stuffed with many of the things the Indocs had been issued would be carried around the base for a strength and endurance test.

Boots were turned upside down and placed near top of the load. That way, the toes would act as an edge that the Indocs’ arms could use to support the bag. Dash felt worried. She would be required to carry thirty or forty pounds of gear clutched to her chest while standing on two legs. Along with situps, it seemed like ponies were simply not built for such exertion.

In the morning, the Indocs were allowed breakfast and then a short break to make sure everything was packed properly in the sea bags. After that, DI’s and RDC’s slammed their way into the building and the event was on.

Each Indoc picked up their bag and was ordered to walk down the stairs and out the front of the building. The path set by yelling voices directed them around the building to a piece of grass beside the galley. All the bags were dropped, and RPT was applied.

Dash was grateful for the chance to let go of the bag. Strange that getting beat was actually more enjoyable for once. Soon, however, the Indocs were ordered back to the bags. They made another quarter revolution around Nimitz, ending up in front of the Rose Garden. Once more, it was beating.

Dash kept her head up slightly, watching two DIs look off in the distance towards the bridge as if admiring the scenery. They checked their watches, seeing that Outpost was going according to schedule. She realized that to them it was just a job. Their assignment was to do this to Indocs. While they might be passionate, it wasn’t personal. That made things a little more bearable.

The cycle of carry the bag, drop it, and do RPT went on. Dash’s back felt like it was on fire and her front legs were fatigued from constantly supporting the loaded bag. After leaving the Rose Garden, the Indocs were beat in the parking lot behind Nimitz, the athletic field, and on the sidewalk in front of Nimitz. Dash sighed with relief as the group was pointed toward the building’s entrance. Then she remembered that there were still stairs to contend with.

Gasping for breath, the mare finally made it back to the p-way where she had started. When told to drop the bag for the final time, Dash nearly fell forward on top of it. Her muscles twitched after being asked to do so much. While she was in excellent shape, a stallion or an earth pony would have had a much easier time of it. If there were going to be no concessions for species, then Dash certainly wasn’t going to make excuses for her race or gender.

The Indocs were given a break, only as long as it took to get their poopy suits laundered. They had all sweat a lot. The class spent the time in the p-way studying. The mood, even if no talking or smiling was allowed, was generally upbeat. Those that had passed the test were through the hardest part of the first week. Those that hadn’t were rolled back to wait a few weeks for the next class. The only thing left of Indoc Week was Welcome Aboard, the next morning.

The rest of the day seemed to fall into routine. Drill, marching, and quality time with Gunnery Sergeant Johns. The man was slightly less scary now that the class had been exposed to him, but none of them slacked off, or at least not for very long.

When he was in a good mood, the DI would point to an Indoc who had made a mistake and order them out of the formation. Chief Valdez would then take them out of the room for ten minutes of RPT. When the DI was not in a good mood, the whole class would suffer for the mistake of one. It was clearly unfair, but none dared say so.

That evening, the class was organized by Candios to have elections. They needed bodies to do various jobs. Medical Body, Mail Body, Religious Body, Laundry Body. Some positions, like Adjutant and President did not have “body” tacked on to the end of the title. Dash thought President sounded like a good job for her.

Each Candidate wishing to run for a position was allowed to make a short speech. Dash watched as the elections played out. When it was time for Mail Body selection, a Candidate named Meyer stepped up. He listened patiently to others who listed their various character qualities before simply stating, “I used to work in a post office.”

As it turned out, experience and a simple speech was worth more than any amount of blustering. Meyer got the position by a landslide.

When it came time to run for President, Dash tried to copy his style. “I know a lot about leadership from the times I’ve talked to Princess Celestia about it.”

That turned out to be exactly the right thing to say, and Dash was elected President of Class 19-12A. A tall man named Oberta was elected as Vice President.

That evening, she dropped into bed tired and sore, but the happiest she’d been all week. Her new title was a great accomplishment, and so early. She was somewhat concerned about a warning that a Candio delivered to her. “Don’t feel bad if you get fired. No first President ever lasts, and your DI might fire the next couple, too. Sometimes they do it for fun.”

Dash told herself that she wouldn’t slip up and let that happen.

As she lay in bed, Dash shifted uncomfortably. Outpost had been hard for many of the Indocs, but her especially. She didn’t think anything was permanently injured, however, so she didn’t mention it.

It didn't help that the bed was rather uncomfortable. All the Indocs had learned that it was easier to simply sleep on top of their already-made beds and just touch them up in the morning, rather than making them every day.

When the door was kicked in the morning, Dash was stiff and in pain. She managed to get her poppy suit on and stand at attention with the rest, but she was suffering.

Welcome Aboard was similar to Wakeup Wednesday, only about twice as long. The Indocs were “introduced” to everything around their training area.

“Get on your faces for pushups! This is your p-way! Get up and run! Get on your backs for situps! This is the kill zone! Get up and run! This is the DI p-way and you never come here without permission! Get up and go out the door! On your faces! This is the SUYA! Get up! Get down! This is the athletic field! On your feet! Get back in the building!”

The event was not the hardest thing the Indocs had done during the week, but with the aches from the day before it was still more difficult than it seemed. Dash made it back to the p-way with the rest of the class, breathing hard but with a sense of satisfaction. They were all ordered outside again, through a door they had never used before.

Outside, in a cove-like area between two wings of the building, stood three classes. 17 and 18 were formed up on the sides, with the Candio class facing the Indocs. For once, the DI’s and RDC’s were not screaming. It seemed surprisingly quiet and somber.

The Indocs were told to sit. They were given granola bars and bottles of water. The Regimental Commander of the Candio class stepped forward. “Class one-nine-one-two, you came to us as Indoctrination Candidates. Over the past week you have shown that you have what it takes to be successful. You are now Officer Candidates and we welcome you to the OCS regiment.”

He followed up with introductions of the major Candio staff as well as the Presidents of the two upper classes. By this point, the new Officer Candidates had finished their refreshments and were ordered to stand. The whole regiment began to sing the Marine Corps Hymn and Anchors Aweigh, two songs from the gouge pack. Dash was still a little shaky on the words, but it was the first time she had ever felt truly united with those around her. There was no music, most of the voices were rough and hoarse, and the walls around them had terrible acoustics, but to a tired Class 19-12, it sounded beautiful.

Dash took stock of the class as they retreated back to their p-way. Forty two had begun the week. Four had been lost, but two from H class had appeared, bringing their number to an even forty. Bravo class had similar numbers.

Now that Indoctrination was over, the real fun would begin.

4: Dash Sucks at Cadence

Chapter 4: Dash Sucks at Cadence

Source

“I’m so sorry!” sobbed Pinkie, throwing herself across the table.

Rainbow pulled backwards. “It’s okay! Nothing bad actually happened because of your package. And please get off me; this uniform is hard to clean!”

Rarity helped drag the sniffling pink mare away, wiping at a few tear stains on Rainbow’s white shirt. Fortunately, they shouldn’t leave a mark.

“So you got through two big events,” said Applejack. “Sounds tough. Did things get any better after that?”

“Well, yes and no.” Dash considered the question for a moment. “It got more interesting. Since we didn’t have to prepare our rooms or practice drill anymore, there was more time for other things. And of course, there was more responsibility. They were preparing us to take over the running of the regiment. Still, there were a few interesting things. You might be surprised what turned out to be a good time.”

“Like singing and dancing?” asked Pinkie, her tears stopping instantly.

“Well, singing while running maybe.” Dash laughed. “The lyrics were not great, though. The real fun was during high-risk training. Anything you had to sign a waiver for was awesome.”

The mystery of the “Blue Bowel Syndrome” was solved shortly after the Officer Candidates gained the privilege to pick their own beverages. Those that decided to stop partaking in the sports drink found the dye had disappeared from their systems.

Other, real medical conditions appeared. One candidate with Sick In Quarters, stuck in his room for three days to recover from a case of pinkeye. Rodriguez, however, was diagnosed with something much more serious. He returned from a trip to NHCNE looking somber. Dash asked what happened.

“I have a blood disorder. My platelets are low.”

Dash tried to remember what that meant. “Is it a clotting problem?”

“I’ve never had an issue, but the tests say I’m out of regulation.” He heaved a sigh. “I’m disqualified from being a pilot.”

It was hard to believe that something like that could be taken away so easily. Dash felt bad for him, but other than sympathy there was nothing she could do.

The program for pilots generally had a high disqualification rate for medical issues. Receiving an all-clear letter from the Navy Aerospace Medical Institute was an important step for a pilot at OCS, and held the Candidates in fear until it arrived. It was actually not unheard of for NAMI letters to show up only hours before graduation. Rodriguez, however, would never get one.

Besides that, life after fifth week generally was more pleasant. They had reached the halfway point, and while the class was still a long way from being done, the light at the end of the tunnel was in sight.

While initially considered a blessing, Gunnery Sergeant Johns taking a few days’ vacation after the drill competition turned out to be a decidedly low point. Their substitute DI was Gunnery Sergeant Raikes. He did not have a reputation like Gunnery Sergeant Cothic, and seemed determined to forge one in the few days he had control of 19A.

It felt like Indoc Week had come back to haunt them. RPT was constant, and there was zero leniency. Rainbow was almost glad that she was no longer President.

Gunnery Sergeant Raikes seemed to be slightly insane. Dash decided that while he was torturously RPTing the class and screaming enthusiastic and exaggerated battle plans.

“The bad guys won’t know what hit them because we’re going to drop on them like ten tons of bricks and kill them all! We’re going to knock over their capitol building and replace it with a McDonald’s! We’re going to invade their homes and set up Starbuck’s in the living room. Democracy is awesome! Say it with me! I want to hear you scream! Veins better be popping out of your necks!”

There was something interesting, however. Gunnery Sergeant Raikes demanded that they sing their own cadences during morning PT. Priors like Oberta knew some, and a few people who were good at thinking on their feet managed to come up with cadence while running.

Bespectacled Officer Candidate Lambert had a good contribution.

My fancy portholes are the best

I got them at OCS.

Some people call them birth control

Or say that I look like a mole.

My fancy portholes are so neat

They always get me beat.

My DI RPT’s me

He’s just got porthole envy.

Of course, when Dash tried, it didn’t turn out so well. As the class ran behind Gunnery Sergeant Raikes, she glanced across the cove towards where the old carrier was moored and a few ideas drifted into her mind. When a new cadence caller was requested, she stepped out of formation. Dash filled her lungs and started to shout.

I like running from dawn to night.

I love running, makes me feel alright.

I could run all the way to Saratoga—

“Oh really?” shouted Gunnery Sergeant Raikes. “Let’s do that.”

When the class finally returned to Nimitz much later, they were all sore and tired. Of course, being OCS there was no room for those two feelings.

“At least we got an up-close look at the ship,” muttered Leest as she and Dash hurried to shower and get ready for breakfast.

When Gunnery Sergeant Johns returned, something like a feeling of relief went through all of them. “Better the Devil you know” definitely applied.

Later in the week, Class 18 began training them to take over menial tasks. This involved standing watch and working behind the scenes with Candio supervision. A new class of Indocs would be coming in sixth week.

The final step between Officer Candidate and Candidate Officer was the Victory Run.

A call for “gargoyles” went out.

“If you look big and scary, we want you,” explained a Candio. “We want the meanest looking people to line the hallways to make it look like there are more of us. The Indocs won’t know the difference.”

Dash realized the same trick had been played on her, and was eager for the opportunity to pay it back. She was unfortunately turned away for lack of height. Also, her bright coloration would be more of a distraction than anything.

Instead, she was tasked with helping out at Callaghan Hall, moving around the baggage the arriving Indocs brought with them. She stayed out of sight, but did get to observe an interesting perspective of how things worked. To her surprise, she recognized several DI’s and RDC’s hanging around and wearing civilian clothes.

We first met them on Wakeup Wednesday…but they were watching us incognito since day one! Such a revelation made Dash wonder how much went on that she hadn’t seen yet. If anything, it made her even more respectful of the OCS process.

With Candios busy dealing with the new class the first week, their previous duties were filled by Class 18. Class 18’s duties were passed down to Class 19. And so, Dash found herself standing watch.

The alcove in the kill zone was manned continuously through nights and weekends. It was the position of Battalion Officer of the Deck, or BOOD. The shifts were four hours each, which was more difficult than it sounded. Not only did the Candidate have to be on duty, they had to check the building’s water and heating gauges, fill ice buckets, note any activity whatsoever in the Deck Log, but they also had to ignore Indocs. It was another part of making them feel isolated, and Dash recalled how she had received the same treatment. The hardest part, once she realized she would have to be acting gruff and surly, was trying not to smile as she stood at parade rest with her hooves crossed behind her back and patiently ignored Indocs that went to the head in the middle of the night.

The other difficulty in standing watch was the obvious lack of sleep. The 0000-0400 shift, nicknamed “balls to four,” was the worst, especially since PT was still at 0500.

However, standing watch was kind of exciting to be one of two Candidates—besides the Candio acting as Officer of the Deck down at the quarterdeck—in the entire building who was awake. It was also another responsibility added to the pile.

Speaking of things piling on, there was another inspection during the sixth week. It was merely a uniform inspection, letting the Candidates practice wearing the khakis, but it could still be failed.

The class lined up in the NAPS Classroom. They had practiced the formation beforehand and each OC knew their place. The process was like the uniform inspection at the beginning of RLP, but quieter and more extensive.

Dash’s other uniforms had returned from being modified at the Carousel Boutique. Rarity, as usual, had done an outstanding job. The polyester-wool blend of the khaki material was not the easiest cloth to work with, but the tailoring job was flawless.

Dash had gotten special permission to have wing slits and a tail hole added to her uniform. It was reasoned that the NWU was a protective working uniform and should cover as much of her body as possible, but other uniforms would be fine.

Neither Rarity nor Dash had taken the regulation white undershirt into account. The morning before the inspection, Leest had helped the pony hurriedly slice the back of her shirt with scissors. They had been careful to make sure the uneven cuts would not be visible from under the khaki.

A group of RDC’s, also wearing khaki, came in. They moved through the class, performing the inspections. Also included were a few knowledge questions thrown in at random.

Dash’s polished black shoes were on display beside her. She could wear boots because they were tall enough to fasten around her fetlocks. Shoes were not, but that didn’t mean she was exempt from polishing them.

Her uniform was relatively unadorned, with just a nametag and a National Defense Service ribbon. The small piece of red and yellow cloth was for military service during wartime. The United States had technically been in a war on terrorism since September 11, 2001 and every member of the military had automatically received the award.

The priors had more decoration, carrying over their awards from previous service time. Oberta had several ribbons of various colors and a silver pin shaped like wings. He told Dash that he was Air Warfare qualified, having previously served on the flight deck crew of an aircraft carrier.

“And now you want to be on submarines?” she asked, dumbfounded.

Oberta shrugged. “A change of scenery is sometimes nice. That’s also why I wanted to be an officer.”

The inspection went well for the whole class. When Dash took off the khaki uniform afterwards, she hung it in her locker, reminded that only three weeks remained until she would be wearing it for real.

The class began to receive more information briefs as the days progressed. These came from a multitude of people; civilians, ranking officers, and their own class team. Gunnery Sergeant Johns was rarely seen in the briefing room, but Lieutenant Crossing was a mainstay and Chief Valdez appeared a few times.

While the Chief did not command admiration through fear, he had his own way of earning respect. His voice seemed to carry authority no matter the volume, but his actions spoke louder.

In one of the rare sessions when the class was allowed to unlock and talk freely, a Candidate complimented the Chief on the shine of his boots. The man nodded. “How could I tell you to polish your boots if my own looked terrible? Never tell anyone to do something that you aren’t willing to do yourself.”

In addition to wisdom, there were also plenty of sea stories to be told. The Chief’s previous assignment had been to a fighter jet squadron, and Dash listened with rapt attention to every detail.

Lieutenant Crossing’s stories and advice tended to be a little more colorful. “Never go to Guam if you can help it. There’s a strip club, an Outback Steakhouse, and a bowling alley. Besides those, there’s absolutely nothing to do on the island.”

However, the best stories usually came from people outside of the class team. The other military personnel and civilians were generally pleasant and sympathetic to the weeks the Candidates had been isolated from entertainment. Although, sometimes entertainment would happen spontaneously, like one rainy night when the quarterdeck flooded. Class 19 was called out of bed to bring sandbags to the entrance and block the water.

The briefs continued. A chaplain had been summoned to talk about tolerance. Dash thought the class was already well versed in that regard. Not only was it a assorted group of people, but they’d accepted her readily enough. Even her failures at RLP and presidenting had been forgiven. Of course, it helped that just about everyone had done something that resulted in punishment for the entire class.

The lesson turned out to not be as redundant as she thought, however. Furthermore, it provided a little more insight into how the support structure of the military worked.

Chaplains were meant to facilitate religion, but also morale, cooperation, and mental well-being. God(s) were only a small part of their total job.

“Mostly, it’s about helping you help yourself. I might not be qualified to help you directly if you aren’t Christian, but I can find a different chaplain or some other service.” The man continued on with an example.

When he was assigned to Marine Corps Recruit Depot Paris Island, a group of Wiccan Marines came through. Being a Christian, the chaplain knew nothing about their religion but was committed to help. He asked what they needed, and a list of items was drawn up. It included things like rocks, candles, and a knife. Personal weapons, however, were not allowed on base, so the chaplain went to K-Mart and purchased a plastic dagger from his own funds.

“They don’t actually use the knife for cutting anything while performing their rituals, so the fake one was acceptable. I find it’s interesting to learn about other religions. Take Nordic Pagans, for example…”

While the military was active with many different cultures and backgrounds, a few things remained rigidly constant. Certain skills were taught to everyone. In the Navy, all members, regardless of job, were trained in damage control and fire fighting.

As with OCS, there was a purpose for everything. In the 1960s, USS Forrestal had been damaged by explosions that killed more than one hundred people, including the on-board firefighters. No one else was prepared to take their place to control the flames. As a result of the tragedy, rules were instituted that made every sailor a firefighter.

The Candidates received basic instruction in damage control. They were taken to the on-base Wet Trainer, nicknamed USS Buttercup. The facility in Newport was supposedly the Navy’s best, with an artificial ship that floated in a pool and could be “sunk.” The simulation was complete with loud, shuddering “missile impacts” and water spewing everywhere.

Below Buttercup’s decks, jagged holes were ready to be patched and plugged. Bending support beams required reinforcement and mangled hatches needed to be battened. As a lightweight pegasus, Dash found that it was next to impossible for her to keep a grip on the deck while up to her neck in water. If there wasn’t something heavy in her grasp, she would float away. A better position for her was topside running pumps and transferring damage control equipment to those who needed it. Through teamwork, the class figured out where everyone was best suited.

Despite the long classroom instruction, the chilly pouring water, and instructors purposely adding to the confusion to simulate being in the heat of battle, the whole class agreed that it was an interesting and useful skill to learn. Buttercup was salvaged.

Firefighting was at the opposite end of the training spectrum, being hot and dry rather than cold and wet. It also involved a lengthy classroom session, but after that the candidates were—under supervision—allowed to burn things.

There were several scenarios in the training area. Electrical, fuel, and other kinds of fires were dealt with. They got up close and personal with the flames in small dark spaces, once again simulating damage control inside a ship.

There were typically no fire suits or breathing masks available that fit Dash, but a set of protective gear had been ordered specially, so she got to use all-new equipment. Breathing compressed air through the mask’s regulator was uncomfortable to get used to, but it was certainly preferable to inhaling smoke. The heavy fire suit felt like a weighty winter snow suit, but was insulated so well that even being within a few feet of a roaring fire felt only a little warm. However, her natural body heat made wearing it a little warm anyway.

Once again, teamwork played a big part in the training. The heavy hoses and high pressure water required several Candidates at a time to operate them. A lot of water flow could whip the end of the hose around dangerously if it wasn’t kept under control.

The diverse training didn’t let up even when the class wasn’t filling out high-risk waivers. As week eight began—one week until Class 19 became Candios—they began training to take over.

The Candio class was busy practicing for their graduation ceremony. After a training period of UI—under instruction—Class 19 was left to assist the class teams in running PT for the under classes.

They did not yet have their custom shirts, so each almost-Candio wore their glow belt diagonally across their shoulder to differentiate them from the others. Most of their task was standing at the edge of the athletic field or track, doing exercise at their own pace, and standing by if anything happened. It was slightly disconcerting to hear and see DI’s screaming, but not be on the receiving end.

Week eight was also the second RLP. The difference was that the Candidates would be wearing their Summer White uniform, the room inspection would be limited to their desk, and the exam would be conducted by class officers. It was still a rollable evolution. Dash resolved that she would not fail, especially so close to Candio Phase.

The knowledge questions had remained fairly constant so far, but now there would also be quizzes about ships, aircraft, and weapons from an appendix of the OCR. Dash already knew a lot about airplanes, having studied her chosen field with interest. It was hard to get her mind to wrap around surface vessels. Leest was the opposite way, and they helped each other study in the days leading up to the inspection.

The event went smoothly. Not having to shout or do RPT for the inspecting officers made it much easier to remember the answers to questions.

The inspector had very few negative things to say about Dash or her room. He checked the white shoes that went with her uniform, commenting, “Not bad for polish. At the Naval Academy we used to use gloss white spray paint, but that’s contraband here.”

He also commented that if she was going to wear her wings out, it might be a good idea to straighten her feathers. Flustered, Dash agreed. Rarity had also modified the white uniform for her, but she had spent so long wearing NWU’s that her grooming habits had fallen off in favor of saving time in the head.

The last important event of week eight was the final PFA. It was designed to see how much the Candidates had improved since arriving. This time, Dash got max scores on situps. If any members of the class had not worked off their orange glow belts for low scores by this point, they would be rolled. Fortunately, that was no one in 19A.

The running was a little different, because NAPS had reserved the track and OCS was forced to use a triangular street course arranged around the chapel, Kay Hall, and on a hilly street. Dash was already so fast that it didn’t matter much to her, although the more nerdy Candidates were calculating exactly how much time the uncertain distance and elevation cost them. Dash rolled her eyes. Nukes.

Candio phase was so close the class could practically taste it. They would not take over until Wednesday of week nine, however. It would only be Friday, when the previous class graduated, that they would truly be running the regiment.

There was also one final inspection to go. It would be uniforms only—their graduation dress whites. Also, the Candidates would be inspecting each other.

The dress whites were the same as summer whites from the waist down. Above, the short sleeve shirt was replaced by a jacket with a high collar—referred to as a choker. Each jacket had a hidden zipper in the left side seam, meant to accommodate a ceremonial sword belt.

The inspection was held early in the morning. Any later, and the heat of the day would make the candidates sweat right through their stifling jackets.

RDC’s were present, but in an adversarial role. Each Candidate inspected the next in line. Dash, being at the end, had to go all the way to the front of the squad, to six-foot-five OC Oberta. Even standing up on her hind legs, her nose was only about halfway up his chest. Dash spread her wings and hovered up to his level. Oberta shifted a little in surprise.

“Minus one for bearing,” Dash said, holding back a smile. She checked his ribbons and Air Warfare pin with a ruler an RDC handed to her. After checking his back for contraband, she went on with the rest of the uniform, aided by suggestions from the RDC.

After the inspection, Dash went back to her place at the end of the squad and waited for the series of inspections to reach her. Soon, OC Lambert was turning to her.

Lambert found an IP on Dash’s cover, but nothing else. She returned to her place, and the squad waited for the rest of the company to finish. The self-inspection had turned out to be more than just a formality, but still not too difficult.

After the inspection, the class returned to Nimitz to change clothing and go to a brief in Callaghan Hall. It was mostly about paperwork that they would face in the fleet. All of them found it terribly boring, and during one of the breaks, Weisowitcz glanced out the window. “Hey, check it out, there’s a cruiser out there.”

Weisowitcz was the designated "kid with the awkward Polish name." There was usually at least one in every OCS class.

The class quickly gathered around the window to see what he was pointing at. Out near where Saratoga was moored, a sleek modern ship had tied up. Weisowitcz squinted at the window. “Hull number fifty-six. It’s USS San Jacinto.”

“‘Jacinto’ has a hard J sound,” said Leest. “It’s not Hacinto.”

“It’s not a Spanish word?” asked Weisowitcz.

“Well it is, but that ship is named after the Battle of San Jacinto in the Texas Revolution against Mexico. We won that battle, so we get to pronounce it our way.”

It pays to be a winner, thought Dash. She and the rest reluctantly went back to their paperwork brief.

Wednesday of week nine finally came, when Class 19-12 finally “won” their Candio phase. The two companies lined up in front of Kay Hall to do their victory run. As one, they right-faced and began to double time.

Candidates with strong voices and good memories had been picked to lead cadences. There were a few familiar ones, but a few new tunes made their debut.

Rodriguez was first. Dash watched him step out of line and run beside the formation. There was a hard look in his eyes, and his shout was heard by all.

I want to be a pilot

Got to get those wings of gold

Flying for the Navy

Gets me dates with the young and old

I want to be a P-3 pilot

I want to take it nice and slow

I want to have fuel to spare

Gets me anywhere I want to go

I want to be a helo pilot

I want to hunt submarines

I don’t need no ejection seat

Safety’s just not for me

I want to be a fighter pilot

I want to fly an F-18

I want to fly with my cockpit open

I want to hear Al-Qaida scream

Dash again felt bad for him, but at least he had decided to finish OCS, get a new designation, and play the hand life had dealt. Rodriguez stepped back in and other Candidates began to cycle through, each calling their own cadence. Arriving at Kay a while later, they filed in and took their places.

The ceremony went off without a hitch, and each Candidate received their shirts. The design was emblazoned with Uncle John’s Band, and depicted the DI “conducting” an RPT session. Bravo Company had their own shirts with a different design.

Despite the different shirts, the two classes were now effectively one company, and would work as a single unit of Candios. Any differences they might have had were now put aside. Between the DI’s and Bravo, it was one more lesson; sometimes you have to work with people you don’t like.

There was too much smiling and laughing after the ceremony, and Gunnery Sergeant Johns lived up to the caricature of him on the shirts by beating both classes. Dash didn’t mind. It was only a piece of colored fabric, but a shirt with her name on the back was a surprisingly powerful symbol of belonging.

And the next uniform she wore would be khakis.

Source

5: Khakis

Chapter 5: Khakis

Source

“Let me guess,” said Rarity. “Candio phase was more fun, but also more work.”

“Yeah, that was kind of a common theme at OCS,” agreed Rainbow. “Overall, though, this was almost like we were real people. We could still get RPT’d, but we didn’t have to go to the position of attention or shout when talking to the class team. In fact, it was kind of fun having Indocs do that to us.”

“And dessert, did you get dessert?” demanded Pinkie.

Rainbow chuckled. “Yes Pinkie, one of the Candios started making pie for us all. We were also finally allowed to have dessert in the chow hall. And coffee.”

“I never thought you were much of a coffee drinker,” said Twilight.

“You get less sleep in Candio phase. You have to be up before the rest of the regiment and go to bed later. It’s true that I’m not a caffeine addict like some, but occasionally a cup of coffee during a rough morning was nice.”

“And what about checking out the city?” asked Applejack. “You had to find this bar somehow.”

“We didn’t screw anything up too badly, so they allowed us one evening of liberty every weekend.” Rainbow nodded and smiled at the memory. “After so many weeks locked up, it was great.”

“Speaking of great, did you get my second care package?” questioned Pinkie.

Rainbow nodded. “I did. It was more than enough to share with the rest of the class.”

After the previous Candios had graduated on Friday morning and moved their things out of the hatches in the west wing of Nimitz, Class 19 moved in. The new rooms offered a great view of the bay and the bridge. There was a nice breeze that kept the wing cool, but the new Candios had to tie their curtains with boot blousing straps to keep them from blowing around.

Assignments for running the regiment were handed out. The two class teams had gotten together and decided where each Candidate would work best. Oberta was picked over Bravo’s President to be Regiment Commander. Dash was made H Class staff, and Public Affairs Officer. Her duties consisted of supervising the underclassmen and taking pictures, respectively.

Each Candidate got new collar devices depending on their position. They were “railroad tracks” as most of the pins consisted of parallel gold bars. As PAO, Dash got two bars. As REGCOM, Oberta got six.

The devices were handed down directly from the outgoing class. The pins Dash received were well worn, having spent much more time at OCS than her. She dutifully affixed them to her collar, feeling the new weight.

Friday afternoon, they were allowed to go to the King Hall mail room and get unrestricted packages, called Candio Boxes. It was a widespread practice for friends and family to send them once their Candidate had entered the final phase. Some were larger than others, and Dash’s was the biggest.

“What, is there a desktop computer and monitor in there?” asked Leest. Jokes about lack of internet had been circulating among the Candidates for weeks.

Dash checked the return address and grinned. “No, it’s something better.” She opened the package to reveal a giant frosted cake from Pinkie. Small icing figures of Marines beating Indocs decorated it.

While her package contained the most excellent confection, most other Candios received some sort of goodies from home, generally candy. A few enterprising mothers had baked cookies and stacked them in tubular Pringles cans to keep them from being crushed. Most of the class had descended into a sugar coma by that evening. Dash, however, had to restrain herself. She was first to stand Officer of the Deck watch.

It was similar to the BOOD position, except she was in khakis and there was no roving. Dash had to stand in one place for four hours. At least this time her shift was only 2000-0000.

She saw the King Hall rover making the rounds. The King watch was manned by ODS. The rover checked the pool, the utilities, the class buildings, and Riley Hall. He stopped by Nimitz to check with Dash. She had nothing to report.

His visit gave her something to think about for a while, at least. Would she rather be bored? Certainly not, but wishing for something to happen would probably not be advisable. Dash thought back to the flooding incident.

After turning over the watch, Dash went to bed. The gentle sound of waves from the nearby bay lulled her to sleep. At 0400 her alarm clock went off.

It was only after becoming Candios that the class was allowed to have alarms. Dash was pleased to see that hers worked. She and Leest put on their PT gear and went to set things up for the lower classes.

Being under instruction with the last Candios had taught the now-unified Class 19 their jobs. Dash helped check out equipment from the BOOD and set it up outside. Standing on the other side of the curb with her new PT shirt on, Dash was finally beginning to feel her change in status. The other classes formed up in the street, standing stiffly and trying to appear invisible to the drill instructors. It was interesting to see things from another perspective.

A full day of herding the other classes around was somewhat hectic, but Dash figured that it would become easier with practice. A few of the OC’s were tasked with helping Candios get things set up for the arrival of the next class of Indocs.

Half the Candio class would get an evening of liberty on Saturday Evening, and the other half would be off Sunday. It had been decided that Dash’s surprising appearance would be best used to keep the Indocs on their toes after they arrived. Instead of having her around on Sunday, she would get her night off then and get the opportunity to terrorize Indocs later.

The work party at Nimitz was busy laying blue tape. Dash was in charge of the small group of OC’s, but was also doing her part to apply tape. She was in NWU’s for the work, but stood apart from the others as the only one without a glow belt. That was something else pleasant about being a Candio.

The workers seemed to be enjoying themselves, probably remembering their own Indoc experience and glad it was about to happen to someone else. Dash knew how they felt. It was fascinating to get a behind-the-scenes look, to finally learn how and why things worked the way they did.

Before anyone was allowed liberty, Lieutenant Crossing and Chief Valdez gave the class a lecture. It pretty much boiled down to using their heads and not being stupid.

“Don’t let any civilians borrow your cover, and it’s not advisable to let them take pictures with you,” said the Lieutenant.

“Do not get in any fights,” added the Chief. “If it happens though, make sure you stick with your buddies for strength in numbers. End the fight as quickly as possible and then leave.”

“Avoid a place called Slots. It’s just outside the front gate and it’s bad news.”

“And don’t go to The Rhino. DI’s hang out there.”

Lest had been given Saturday off and came back late smelling of alcohol. As she removed her summer white uniform, she recounted a few stories of the evening. The small group of Candios she was with had gone to the movie theater to catch up on what they had missed.

“Was there a lot?” asked Dash.

“There was tons of stuff—not just movies—that slipped by while we’ve been here,” said Leest. “I picked up a newspaper, and after reading it I feel like a time traveler.”

Leest pulled out her phone. The Candios had been allowed to have them for the trip into town. “I heard that the Guinness Book of World Records just recognized this song as the most liked video on YouTube. I downloaded it when I got to a place that had WiFi.”

She played it. Dash frowned at the lyrics. “What the heck is Gangnam Style?”

“I know, right? This came out in July, just after we got here.”

Dash decided that liberty was going to be a rather strange experience after being locked up on base for nine weeks.

Sunday morning was quiet. The show was about to begin. Dash picked up the PAO camera and took a few photos of candid Candios getting ready for the show they were about to put on. All of them seemed nervous, despite the fact that they were supposed to be the intimidating ones. It was hard to believe that their own Candios had only had the job for a couple of days before meeting Class 19. Still, trepidation was easy to hide behind a veil of shouting.

The Candio Lounge was located in a part of the building off limits to lower classes. It was good for having meetings and posting messages. There were refrigerators and coffee makers. Taylor had been sent ingredients in the mail to make pies, and graciously donated a few to the whole class. Dash took a few pictures of Candios taking a break before the Indocs arrived.

She was standing in one of the hatches near the top of the stairs when the first group came through the doors. She heard the drum beating and a Candio giving the welcome speech. Then came the clamor of confused, too-quiet voices. Hard to believe that was once me. I’ve changed so much.

The shouting carried all through the building as the day wore on. Dash stayed out of sight. When the evening finally came, She put on her white uniform. The polyester cloth seemed rather fragile compared to the burly NWUs she was used to, but she doubted there was RPT to be done in Newport.

Dash piled into a car with Oberta, Rodriguez, and Lambert. It was Oberta’s, as the rest had shown up without vehicles of their own. After passing through the front gate, they entered the city. After carefully avoiding Slots, Oberta pointed the car downtown.

Newport was built along the southeastern edge of the bay, and the late summer weather had attracted plenty of tourists. After finally locating a place to park, the four Candios set off to take in the sights. The sidewalks were crowded, and they had to be careful not to get separated. The white uniforms helped.

The downtown strip ran for half a mile along the bay. It was dotted with restaurants and drinking establishments, with many expensive yachts anchored close to shore. It was there that they found a place called The Landing. It was mostly open-air, with a decorative trellis over the bar and a small stage where a casual band was playing.

Dash had never been a heavy drinker, but she had been thirsting for something other than canteen water for a while. The four of them settled in to relax with something pleasant to sip.

The bar was not very crowded, but there was a fairly large group over in one corner. A somewhat inebriated man stumbled away from them and towards the bar. He stopped, staring at Dash. “Huh, and I thought I was far from home.”

He spoke in accented British English. Dash nodded to him. “I joined the Navy. What brings you to Newport?”

The man gestured over his shoulder. “My best mate is getting married to a girl from Texas. Logically, Rhode Island was halfway between there and England.”

“What part of Texas?” asked Rodriguez.

“I don’t remember. Why don’t you go ask her?”

As it turned out, Rodriguez and the bride had grown up in neighboring cities, and before the night was over the four sailors had been invited to join the wedding festivities. Despite the huge differences in background, nationality, and lifestyles, they all had a great time. Dash was sorry to leave, but the midnight curfew was not negotiable.

Dash had never been the most outgoing of ponies, but perhaps being thrown into Class 19 and meeting so many new faces all at once had made her a little more open and interested in the variety of life choices there were. She was on track to be a pilot, but that didn’t mean there weren’t interesting things to learn about other careers.

On Monday morning, Dash found herself escorting a member of H Class to King Hall Medical for treatment of some kind of sinus infection. While the Candidate was being taken care of, she struck up a conversation with a few people in the waiting room. There was a nurse going through the ODS program, a junior enlisted Marine from the on-base detachment, and a NAPS student.

Between them all there was almost nothing in common, but that made the conversation all the more interesting. It seemed like each had questions about the other groups that they had seen around the base, but never got the chance to interact with.

ODS wore khakis and NWU’s. Their training was only five weeks, and was generally reserved for doctors, nurses, and lawyers entering the Navy. Just from watching them around base, Dash could tell that they had it much easier than OCS.

The Marine detachment could be seen working out often, but no one really knew what they did. Dash got a little bit of explanation from the Marine she talked to.

NAPS were distinctive with their black uniforms. Their course was one school year long, to academically and physically prepare students for entry into the Naval Academy. In effect, it was like an extra year of high school, or perhaps pre-college. NAPS had their own sports teams and sometimes played local schools.

Realization hit Dash as she was talking with them. I really have gotten better at cooperating with others. It worried her slightly that she’d barely noticed her personality being molded and shaped during her time so far at OCS.

Luckily, she got to put those thoughts on hold that afternoon with a good shouting session. It was the first time the new class of Indocs had been introduced to Candidate Officer Dash, and she made sure to leave an impression.

“Speed, volume, and intensity!”

“Aye, aye, ma’am!”

“You can do better! I’m louder than you all put together!”

Dash was able to press her intimidation even further, able to get in the face of even the tallest Indocs. She knew that some people didn’t take a rainbow-colored pegasus like her seriously, and it was amusing to watch them sweat and try to maintain their bearing.

On the PT field, a couple of them made the mistake of referring to her as “Candidate Officer Cupcakes,” based on her nicknamed Candio shirt. Dash quickly straightened them out.

Speaking of amusement, the Candios were allowed to visit San Jacinto in small groups. Many of them would be assigned to surface ships after OCS, and a bit of familiarization went a long way.

They were driven out to the pier where the ship was docked. The cruiser was smaller than Saratoga, but lack of rust and a few crew members on deck made it look much more lively. The small group of Candios stepped to the bottom of the gangway, trying to remember the lessons they had received about going aboard ships.

As usual, Oberta’s prior experience paid off. He strode up the gangway, stopping halfway and turning towards the ship’s stern where the stars and stripes flew. After coming to attention and saluting the flag, he proceeded to the top of the gangway and presented his ID to the Officer of the Deck. As the two of them traded salutes, Oberta said, “I request permission to come aboard.”

One by one, the rest of them repeated the process. A young Lieutenant Junior Grade from the ship greeted them and led the group on a tour.

“I was in OCS a little over two years ago,” he said, laughing. “As we were pulling in, I got a little nervous when I saw the bridge. You spend twelve weeks staring it, waiting for the day you get to cross the bay and go home, and the yearning will just about drive you nuts.”

The tour circled the decks, showing off the pair of five-inch guns and more than one hundred missile tubes that were aboard. It was interesting to actually see some of these things after studying them in class.

After visiting the helicopter hangar, the guide led the group down to the Combat Information Center, the central area where the ship was run. The air conditioning was turned up to protect the computer equipment crowded inside. There were glowing screens everywhere, including four sixty-inch flatscreens mounted to the bulkhead. The compartment was lit by a dim blue glow. It actually looked more high-tech and futuristic than the movie Battleship had portrayed. Dash had seen it before leaving for OCS, half hoping she might learn something.

“In your classes, you’ve probably heard about the Aegis Combat System,” said the guide. “Cruisers and destroyers have it. Basically, it integrates all the sensors and weapons aboard into one package to track all targets within two hundred miles and kill every single one of them if necessary.”

“I was meaning to ask,” said Weisowitcz, excitedly. “How does the radar work? I know it’s phased-array, but I’m not sure on the specifics.”

“Stop nuking it. That’s top secret compartmentalized information. I don’t know all of it, and I couldn’t talk about it if I did. But rest assured, it’s PFM.” The man grinned. “Pure freakin’ magic.”

Despite being designed in the 1970s before the dimensional doorways opened, Aegis ships were still among the best in the world. Dash wondered idly what might happen if they let a magic-wielding nerd like her friend Twilight take a look at it.

The tour continued up to the bridge. There was a great view of the bay from up there. Nothing was going to budge Dash from going to flight school, but she had to admit that sailing might not be too bad.

After disembarking, the group stood waiting for their transportation to return. The weather was pleasant, and Dash took a moment to stretch her wings, hovering a short distance above the concrete surface of the pier.

Weisowitcz appraised her for a moment. “Something I’ve been meaning to ask, how exactly do you stay in the air? Your wings are proportionally smaller than a bird’s and don’t seem to move very fast.”

Leest broke in. “PFM – pegasus freakin’ magic.”

The next few days passed as uneventfully as OCS could. Dash mostly did her job supervising H Class. About once per day, a random DI would come in and start a session of RPT. Usually, the class was rescued by rapid intervention from Gunnery Sergeant Cothic. Rainbow began to suspect that it was a tactic to endear the class to him, perhaps similar to how her own DI had “saved” 19A from Gunnery Sergeant Raikes. Everything for a purpose… Even in Candio phase, she was still learning.

Dash’s position of PAO kept her doing new things. The possibilities of aerial photography seemed to entertain the class teams, and she was called on often. At the drill completion, for example, one of the grading DIs asked her to fly over the assembled classes to see which candidates would keep their bearing. It was also a rare picture to see a formation from directly above.

Speaking of drill, Dash had thought she was done with it. As graduation drew nearer, the class teams began grabbing Candios whenever they weren’t busy and making them practice the graduation ceremony. That required precise marching movements and timing. Each new Ensign would go up on stage to be formally recognized. The OCS Commanding Officer would be there, as well as some random Admiral brought in for the event.

“The Admiral will probably give a speech that will be long and boring, but if you fall asleep, I’ll make sure your heart explodes,” promised Gunnery Sergeant Johns.

There was also a Pass in Review the day before graduation for friends and family that attended. It was a drill demonstration and parade march. The practice was almost more urgent than for the drill competition. After all, they wouldn’t want to look bad in front of their loved ones. A few Candidates with special offices learned how to drill with swords instead.

Dash reluctantly returned to practicing with her rifle. She had thought she was clear from drill, and found that her muscle memory had degraded somewhat from lack of use. It was yet another lesson.

Late in Candio phase, the class was taken to the firing range in the basement of Perry Hall. The class had used the building a few times for instruction, but nothing about the classrooms indicated that there were live weapons around.

They were given instruction on the M9 handgun by an older man with unusual insignia on his uniform. Dash tried to remember her gouge and realized he was a Chief Warrant Officer Five.

Oberta seemed amazed. “I’ve only seen a few Warrant Officers in the fleet, and never a Five. Savor this moment, Dash. You might never meet another one.”

Dash had known for a while that pistol training was coming, and gotten her friends to send her a special set of claws. It seemed ridiculous, but she could theoretically hold and fire a handgun with them.

There were a crowd of other instructors, including class officers and RDC’s. All of them seemed excited. Dash had noticed a particular passion among some people where firearms were concerned.

Safety was stressed again and again. While Dash could sometimes be a daredevil, guns were nothing to be trifled with. She was given a plastic holster and strapped it to her thigh. The instructors paid special attention to her, and she was grateful. This was not something she wanted to screw up.

Dash found that the pistol did indeed fit the claws’ grip. She was able to reach the trigger, magazine release, and safety, and pull the slide back by hooking the rear sights. It wasn’t very easy as the gun’s internal parts were stiffer than she imagined, but Dash managed.

Each Candidate was given four magazines with five rounds each. With a paper target seven yards away, the shooter would draw and fire two rounds, do it again, draw and fire one shot, reload, and fire one more shot. After that, draw and fire two shots, change to the opposite hand and fire two more. By then, two magazines would be empty. The target would move to fifteen yards and the exercise would be repeated, except the last four rounds would be fired from a kneeling position.

If this were a real qualification rather than practice, the shooter would receive a ribbon for qualifying. A bronze S or silver E could be added to the ribbon for Sharpshooter or Expert qualifications, which required better accuracy.

Dash wasn’t focused on uniform baubles as she stepped up to the firing line. Mostly, she just wanted to not kill anyone. Guns thundered on either side of her, still somewhat loud through the earmuffs she had been given. Her own weapon roared and jumped in her grip as she pulled the trigger.

She now realized the purpose behind the enthusiastic DI’s like Gunnery Sergeant Raikes, and the reason why the Candidates were always screaming kill. The military’s ultimate purpose was to defeat the country’s enemies, and they wanted the Class to be comfortable with that. Unlike other lessons, this one was somewhat jarring.

Dash was not a particularly good shot, but managed to at least hit the large piece of paper every time. Her competitive streak wanted her to practice and get getter. Some other part of her consciousness wondered if that was a good idea.

Luckily, Taylor had made pie again and there was something else to think about when she got back to Nimitz.

The last week was hectic, with training the next class and getting prepared to graduate. They all kept practicing with the rifles and rehearsing their movements. Dash was present to take pictures of the last uniform inspection of the upcoming class. Shortly after, she was training the next class's PAO.

It all culminated on Thursday afternoon. The combined Class 19 assembled in Kay Hall for one last unofficial competition between Alpha and Bravo.

The gym was decorated for the graduation. An audience made of friends and family members had been invited. Some had elected to skip Pass in Review in favor of only attending Graduation the next day, but the chairs set out were still nearly full.

Each Candidate brought their rifle. That morning, they had been given time to make sure their boots were polished and NWU’s were squared away.

The Regiment Commander, and both Battalion Commanders that served under him stood out front of the two companies. Instead of rifles, the three of them carried parade swords.

With commands from REGCOM, the classes alternated back and forth with drill commands. It was a standard Inspection Arms. Bravo, threatened with beatings on top of beatings, had improved to match Alpha. To untrained ears, they sounded exactly the same.

The classes were ordered to parade rest. One of the Class Officers invited the guests to take a few minutes to capture some up-close pictures of their Candidates.

It was somewhat difficult to stand perfectly still while ponies Dash hadn’t seen in twelve weeks stood only a few feet away taking photos of her. She allowed herself a small sideways glance. Her parents had come, as had Applejack, Fluttershy, Pinkie Pike, Rarity, and Twilight Sparkle.

After pictures, the audience went back to their seats. Class 19 executed a right face and marched in a box formation to music, passing in front of the crowd for their review before exiting the gym behind the curtain.

There was a lot of talking and excitement on the way back to Nimitz. They were only a short while from actually getting to spend time with their guests. That would be in the evening, at the Hi Moms event.

The Candidates lined up at the armory to return their rifles. Dash discovered that she had actually grown somewhat fond of her weapon. Not that fond, though. She glanced at the serial number one last time before turning it in.

The class changed into their Summer Whites. As their last duty as Candios, they each handed over their collar devices to the upcoming class. After that, it was time to party.

Twilight had gotten her U.S. driving permit, and while nervous at being behind the wheel of a large rented van, managed to get Dash and all her guests to the hotel in downtown Newport where the event was being held.

“It’s good to finally see you again, Rainbow,” said Applejack as they drove.

It took a moment for the blue pegasus to realize she was being spoken to. Disuse of her first name for several months had left a strange impact.

“Think how happy I am to see all of you,” Rainbow laughed.

“You’ll have to tell us all about it,” said Rarity.

“I sure will,” Rainbow assured her.

Twilight gave Rainbow a small package with two silver dollars in it. It would be used for the ceremony the next day.

Hi Moms was a simple affair. Hors d'oeuvres and beverages accompanied by a slide show created from various PAO photos taken over twelve weeks. Rainbow was easy to spot when she appeared in pictures. After the presentation, the guests were introduced to the two Class Teams. Several other DI’s, RDC’s, and Class Officers were in attendance, hovering in the background. Many of the Marines only seemed to be there for the alcohol.

The food hadn’t been very filling, and plans were quickly made for dinner afterwards.

“We’ll leave you all alone to catch up,” said Rainbow’s mother. Her parents headed back to their hotel while the six mares went to look for a restaurant. Rainbow’s bank account hadn’t been touched in twelve weeks, and she found a pleasant surprise waiting for her. She offered to buy for all of them but was turned down. This was her party, after all.

They found a restaurant called The Red Parrot. It was three stories tall with a bar on each deck—civilians call it a floor, Rainbow reminded herself—and lots of wood and polished brass. She noted that right next door was The Rhino, but didn’t see any DI’s.

Dinner was pleasant, and Rainbow caught up on a lot of things she’d missed. Her friends explained the mysterious phenomenon behind Gangnam Style, and Pinkie demonstrated the associated dance. It was lucky that she did it near the end of the meal so things were only slightly awkward while the bill was being paid.

They wandered down by the water, and Rainbow spotted The Landing. Feeling up for a drink, she invited her friends along. Once they were all seated with beverages, the questions about her OCS experience came out.

“I’d love to hear about the kind of problems they had to overcome to integrate a pony into the human military,” said Twilight.

“Day one was kind of tough,” agreed Rainbow. She took a drink and started to tell the story.

Source

6: Ensign Rainbow Dash, USN

Chapter 6: Ensign Rainbow Dash, USN

After being out late with her friends the night before, Dash found it slightly hard to get up for one last PT session. The alcohol was part of that, but she had also realized how much she’d missed them. Leaving them again for her future military job would not be easy.

There were things to take care of in the present, however. She put on her PT uniform and gathered with the rest of the class on the road beside Nimitz.

The Victory Run was a spectator event. Most of the guests had turned up, standing around in the cool morning air. While she had the opportunity, Dash glanced towards the bridge. The bright lights that illuminated it in the predawn darkness called to her like a beacon. Just a few more hours and she would be on her way across it.

At the scheduled time, the Victory Run began. It was only a short jog, more of a demonstration, really. The real spectacle was to come.

After running, the class gathered in the SUYA for a public RPT session. The whole class good-naturedly went along with it. As Dash screamed her responses and pounded sand, she saw her friends looking slightly terrified. It was hard to believe that her daily life had changed in only a few weeks to become something that actually scared other ponies.

After the workout, the class ran through proper chow hall entry procedures and demonstrated eating by the numbers, complete with screaming class team. After that, they were allowed to eat breakfast with their guests.

Dash’s stories about OCS the night before had been entertaining, but this was the first time any of her friends had seen for themselves what it was like. She wasn’t sure how they would react to how much she’d changed.

Fortunately, the conversation was kept light. After breakfast, Dash parted company with them. She and the rest of the class had to prepare for graduation.

The mood in Nimitz was jovial as they put on their uniforms. Everyone talked and joked. Dash took a short while to pack some of her things. The sooner she was ready to depart after graduation, the better.

At the appointed time, the class made final checks and walked out of the building to Kay Hall. They formed up behind the curtain.

Dash stood with the rest of the class. Her dress whites were perfectly groomed, her mane was actually under control for once, and she was ready to graduate.

She wasn’t nervous. There had been too much practice for that. Instead, she was excited, and could tell from the quiet conversation among her fellow Candidates that they felt the same way.

The red and yellow National Defense Service Medal was the only thing that adorned the front of her uniform. The jacket had been expertly tailored by Rarity and given a quick once-over by the Leest that morning. Dash looked as perfect as she could.

Gunnery Sergeant Johns walked by in his green dress uniform. There was the barest hint of a smile on his lips. He checked to make sure the class was ready to go. While there was time, Dash spread her wings and lifted off the floor, giving her legs a moment to rest. She crossed and uncrossed them to stretch a bit. The DI saw her. “Left over right, Dash.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

To her surprise, he went on. “We’ve been making you do that because left over right is how you rest a rifle on your legs for shooting from a sitting position. Remember, everything is for a purpose.”

It’s graduation day, and I’m still learning, thought Dash. OCS crammed as much into twelve weeks as possible. Every single thing was about changing Candidates to better suit the needs of the military.

Marching music began to play and the Class 19 filed out. The stage had the giant flag hanging behind it, and other decorations had been placed for the occasion. As practiced, each of the Candidates found their seats.

The two class officers gave short speeches and then it was time for the Admiral to speak. After the first five minutes, Dash’s mind had wandered. She reviewed the last twelve weeks in her head.

A lot had happened. Dash had been trained. She now responded to commands instinctively. She’d developed new muscle memory and habits. Everything about her had changed.

She was organized and given skills to lead. She had a chain of command both above and below her. She was no longer on her own program, but was part of a team.

Dash swallowed nervously. She had the responsibility to think of more than just herself. Those in her chain depended on her to do exactly what she should, not what she wanted. This was not so simple as flying jets. It went deeper, and more personal. The welcome speech on day one had promised to push her hard, to improve her, to teach her to be an officer. That had happened, sure enough. How deep had the training gone? Had she been left an empty shell, only capable of robotic dedication?

Dash moved her eyes fractionally to the side, spotting her friends sitting in the attending audience. They were happy for her. They believed she was doing the right thing. Dash relaxed a little. It was always nice to have true friends. Ironic that she would likely be more cohesive with her Class, though. She wasn’t friends with all of them, and didn’t even like a few of them, but they had learned to work together like a machine. But I’m not a machine…

The Admiral finished up. The OCS Commanding Officer stepped up to the podium. “Now I’d like to recognize each Candidate individually.”

He began reading. Each Candidate was introduced by name, hometown, and service selection. In no time at all he announced, “Rainbow Dash; Cloudsdale, Equestria; Pilot.”

Dash mounted the stage. She was greeted by Lieutenant Crossing and the Admiral and given a diploma. They were both smiling and congratulated her. The audience clapped politely. Rainbow heard a faint cheer that sounded like Pinkie. She walked off stage and returned to her seat.

The rest of the class cycled through, and the Commanding Officer returned to the podium. “All rise. By the authority vested in me by the President of the United States, I hereby give the oath of office to these new commissions. Repeat after me.”

The class got up. Dash raised her right hoof and followed prompting.

“I, Rainbow Dash, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic;

That I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same;

That I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion;

And that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me Celestia.”

“Class dismissed.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” As they had practiced, the whole class about-faced and tossed their headgear into the air as the audience applauded.

The new Ensigns broke out of ranks and joined their guests. Rainbow met with her friends and family and spent a few minutes trading congratulatory hugs. She couldn’t help but smile with so much congratulations being poured upon her.

There was one last piece of tradition to fulfill. The combined crowd exited the building and headed towards the bay. There, the class teams were assembled with the bridge in the background. Each Ensign formed up to receive their first salute.

When Dash’s turn came, she stepped up in front of Gunnery Sergeant Johns and Chief Valdez. Together, they saluted her. As officership required her to, Dash returned their salute.

She shook with each of them, presenting the silver dollars.

“Welcome to the Navy, ma’am,” said Chief Valdez.

“Let everything you do be for a purpose, ma’am,” added Gunnery Sergeant Johns.

Dash nodded. Despite any underlying convictions she might have had, completing the hardest twelve weeks of her life was worth some emotional reflection. Fortunately, her mouth automatically responded, “Thank you, gentlemen.”

And it was over. OCS was finished. Dash took a last look at the bridge and turned away. She would have to go change uniforms and get a military Common Access Card with her new rank on it. The CAC was used as identification and also clearance for government computers and electronic verification. She would also need to pick up her medical records and get a copy of orders for her assignment to flight school. It sounded like a lot, but she would be out of Newport soon.

Her friends wished her goodbye. Dash would have a little time before reporting to Pensacola and would see them again soon. Her parents waited with empty suitcases to transport all the gear she had been issued. It was too much to fit in the saddlebags she had brought twelve weeks before.

Dash went over to Callaghan Hall to the offices on the first floor. The civilian secretary processed her paperwork and then had her sit in front of a camera for a picture. The ID machine spit out her new CAC a few minutes later.

It looked completely unlike her driver’s license. It wasn’t even the same format, being flipped vertical. Her rank was clearly called out, but in larger letters was her name. Rainbow Dash.

Her expression, manecut, and uniform were completely different from her other identification photos. And yet, it was still her identification. Her face, her name. Those were things that hadn’t changed, nor had OCS attempted to.

I’m still me. That was a comforting thought. She still had her own ideas, personality, and friends. She may have been trained and declared fit for service, but nothing had been taken from her. It hadn’t replaced anything she used to be.

The training had strengthened her core as promised, giving her a stronger foundation, but it hadn’t replaced it with something different. In her heart, she was still her own pony, and nothing could ever change that.

She had learned how to become an integral part of a group and do her duty, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t still be herself. While now a member of the military, she was still Rainbow Dash.

All the way to the core.

Source

Author's Note

This is, as far as I know, the most intensive documentary of United States Navy Officer Candidate School ever written. And I used it for ponyfiction.

In the five months that it took me to write, I had an extreme amount of help from people who have "Been there, done that, got the t-shirt."

In particular, I'd like to thank:
ENS "Anime", ENS "Kilo", ENS "Footlong", ENS "Thing 2", ENS "B on Deck 3", ENS "Broken Bird", and ENS "Wise***"

A shoutout to a friend aboard USS San Jacinto, and Texans of the world.

The Grey Pegasus made the cover art.

Fernin helped make this story (slightly) more plausible.

Thanks to several people who provided information about Wicca.

Abyx 4433 wrote the "Saratoga" cadence.

I still can't belive that I used to live in Newport and thought OCS was in Pensacola.

Core is a sequel to The Roommate, which covers Dash's time in college. They are both adaptations of chapters from Wings of Gold.

Thank you for reading.

3: Could Be Worse

Chapter 3: Could Be Worse

Source

“I assume things got better after the first week?” asked Twilight.

Rainbow shrugged. “In a way. We got rid of the poopy suits, we were allowed to send and receive mail, and were actually treated like living things, but extra was expected, and they started testing us more often.”

“Oh!” Pinkie exclaimed. “Speaking of mail, did you get my care package?”

“Uh, yeah,” answered Rainbow. “I remember that.”

“What sort of tests?” questioned Applejack.

“Little things, mostly. We had a couple of PFAs – Physical Fitness Assessments. Academic classes started, and the DI’s were always pushing us to do better at everything.” Rainbow paused for a moment, her tone changing. “The two biggest things, however, were the RLP – Room, Locker, Personnel – inspection, and the drill competition.”

“How did you do?” asked Rarity.

Rainbow chuckled. “Could have been worse.”

“Is anyone else’s crap blue?” asked Taylor, one of Dash’s fellow Officer Candidates.

There was a moment of silence. “Uh, yeah, actually,” Rodriguez hesitantly admitted.

“Oh good,” exclaimed Leest. “I thought I was the only one.”

“What could be causing it?” asked Dash.

A few people had ideas ranging from overhydration to diluted dye in the terrible sports drink. Then a Candio shouted at them from the end of the p-way and they fell silent.

Each Officer Candidate sat on their issued chair in the p-way polishing their boots. The black leather had ridges and pores in it, and took quite a bit of polish to get smooth. To actually get a surface shiny required the OC’s to put in a lot more effort.

Dash had never owned anything that needed polish. Fortuately, OC Rogers, who lived in a lived nearby hatch, was prior enlisted and knew the best methods for the procedure.

Rags had been passed out, which were not the best for the job, but would provide a place to start. Rogers seemed confident that better supplies would eventually be obtained.

Dash spent what seemed like forever working a polish-smeared rag over the surface of her boots. She and Leest were lined up on either side of their hatch, facing each other. The two of them were quizzing each other on gouge.

Leest whispered, “What’s the sixth general order?”

Dash thought. The answer was on the tip of her tongue, but she shrugged in defeat. “What are the General ranks of the Marine Corps?”

Leest immediately answered, “Brigadier General, Major General, Lieutenant General, and regular General.”

Dash blinked in surprise. “How did you learn that so quickly?”

“A little mnemonic device. “Brigadier, Major, Lieutenant, General. BMLG—Be My Little General.”

While they still had three weeks to learn the material, there was a still a lot of boring memorization to do. At least getting shiny boots shouldn’t take that long.

Dash sighed and tried to focus on her task. A few exceptions had been made for her, such as not being required to use silverware, but she wasn’t going to be able to get out of polishing her boots.

They didn’t fit very well, and she only had one pair. However, cinched over her back hooves, the boots provided a little more stability when standing upright. They also made her look ridiculous.

Dash wondered what her family and friends would say. After completing Indoc Week, the Candidates had been allowed to freely send and receive mail. There had been a few letters for her, but they were more “thinking of you” type messages just to make sure the address was correct.

Everypony Dash knew had been mostly supportive of her joining the human military, but now she was not only wearing people clothes but boots designed for feet. She sighed. At least clothing didn’t instantly change who you were on the inside. That would slowly happen over the course of OCS.

The best part so far about being promoted to Officer Candidates was ditching the poopy suits. While there was nothing terribly wrong with the green uniforms that didn’t have to be kept looking pristine, it was the principle of it. The class was no longer Indocs and no longer wore the Indoc uniform.

The NWU’s were made of somewhat thicker, stiffer cloth. The blouses and trousers fit more loosely than the one-piece poopy suits, which Dash was thankful for. Her tail and wings were slightly less uncomfortable now, even if the trouser cuffs were held tight to her legs with elastic boot blousing straps. Due to the summer weather, each OC was instructed to raise the sleeves to above their elbows. It was more like folding the material rather than rolling. The technique ended up with a better look and was able to be pulled down quickly if long sleeves were needed.

The covers—not hats—were made of the same material. They had eight points, unlike a baseball cap. No particular reason was given for the unusual shape.

When allowed to, like when polishing boots, the class could remove their blouses, leaving them all in blue undershirts. The summer weather wasn’t too hot, but it helped.

“Attention on deck, stand by!”

Every OC shot out of their chairs and stood at attention. “Good afternoon, sir!”

The OC nearest the door had called attention on deck. An RDC—not theirs—was walking through the p-way. The man glared at them. “Louder, and together!”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

As he departed, they all sat down again. Such things were common. DI’s and RDC’s were always passing through. Sometimes several at once would appear, demanding to be addressed collectively as “gentlemen” rather than “sir.” It was always difficult for those who weren’t near the door. They were expected to give the proper greeting simultaneously with the OC’s that actually saw who had entered the p-way.

It seemed that whenever the class had down time, they would be studying or preparing for the RLP inspection. There was a thick book each Candidate was issued called Officer Candidate Regulations, or OCR. It contained everything that they would need to know about the workings of OCS. Inside was about fifteen pages related to RLP.

“Attention on deck, stand by!”

“Good afternoon, sir!” Dash automatically replied.

“Do I look like a sir to you? Get on your faces!”

This was Chief Harper, a woman who could scream and deal out RPT with the best of them. As the class began to exercise, she shouted over them, “You need to have situational awareness and know what is going on! Don’t just be a robot going through the motions!”

Dash quickly realized that a lesson is always learned more effectively when combined with screaming and pushups. Like the class team said, everything at OCS had a purpose.

Sunday morning was quiet. The OC’s were woken at 0615. It seemed slightly ridiculous that it was the OCS version of sleeping in. The Religious Body organized those who would be attending services.

“If you aren’t worshiping, you’re staying here to work on RLP!” called a Candio. The line for church quickly received more traffic.

“Come on,” said Leest.

“I’m not a subscriber to the whole monotheism thing,” Dash answered.

“I’m an atheist,” replied Leest. “I just want to get out of the building.”

There were several kinds of services held at the nearby chapel. Candios escorted groups over. The chapel building was shaped like an octagon, and was furnished much, much nicer than any other building on base. There was a three-person band playing soft music among the scripture and sermons. It seemed that Leest was right; it was a good place to relax.

The day was sunny, and it was nice to take a short walk after services, even if it was only between the chapel and Nimitz. Dash caught a glimpse of the bay bridge, the water sparkling beneath it. She was also struck by the number of sailboats. It almost appeared that every person in Newport owned one.

The rest of Sunday was fairly relaxed. Candios informed them that class teams did not usually show up on Sundays. There was also the feeling of accomplishment of completing the first week of OCS.

It was a good thing Dash had gotten some time to relax, because the next morning was terrifying. It was the first time as President that she had to report to Gunnery Sergeant Johns.

Together with Vice President Oberta and Arlen, the first scheduled Section Leader, Dash stood in front of the DI’s door at 0500. To wake up early enough to get to the door by that time, she had been granted special permission to wear a watch. Dash was unused to having a timepiece strapped to her fetlock, but glad to finally know the time.

She knocked on the door three times. “Sir, Officer Candidate Dash reporting to Gunnery Sergeant Johns, United States Marine Corps, as ordered.”

Of course, the line was delivered at a shout. She had practiced the procedure the night before. She had also memorized the plan of the day, as had Oberta and the section leader. At any time, someone could ask her to recite it, and it wouldn’t be good if she didn’t know.

“Enter!” answered the DI. He looked up from his desk as the three of them came in. After a moment, and for no reason Dash could discern, he ordered, “Get on your faces.”

Perhaps a minute of pushups later, the three of them were ordered out of the office. “Ugh,” Oberta muttered. “Nothing like a pre-workout before morning PT.”

The three of them met up with the Adjutant and Medical Body who by the looks of it had just had a similar meeting with Chief Valdez. They returned to the class and formed up for PT.

After an hour’s exercise, the class went to breakfast and then collected the black knowledge bags they had been issued. After being formed up, the class was marched to Callaghan Hall for their first academic class.

Gunnery Sergeant Johns had given them a guidon, a flagpole that was carried by a Candidate he picked to be the Guide. When the DI decided they deserved it, they would get a 19-12A flag to go with it.

The guidon was important to the military. Not only did it let others know the name of the class, it was good for morale. In competition with Bravo Company, achievement streamers to hang from the guidon were up for grabs.

The Guide put the guidon down when they entered the building for academics. The class was taught by a Lieutenant, who advised the OC’s that they could relax. Not only wasn’t he in their class team, but it helped the learning process. They could even removed their blouses if they chose.

The format for most classes would go that way. Subjects included Naval History, Engineering, Navigation, Operations, and Seamanship. Dash felt confident that the learning wouldn’t be too hard. Her degree in Aeronautical Engineering would help, as would the basic pilot navigation she’d studied. The other things didn’t sound terribly difficult.

Classes would occupy four to eight hours per day. The rest of the time, the OC’s would either be training with their class team or Candios.

And so a routine was begun. Dash got up every morning at 0430 to prepare herself for the day, waking up Oberta and the day’s section leader. After meeting with the DI, which didn’t always involve beating, there was PT, class, training, and three meals a day. Just because things could be expected and planned for, however, didn’t mean there weren’t surprises. The schedule changed unexpectedly at least twice a week, and Dash had to re-memorize it.

One thing that always remained constant was PT. The class would do various workouts, sometimes running-based, sometimes strength-based. When they went for runs around base, there was typically some sort of cadence called to keep them all in step.

Gunnery Sergeant Johns had a few favorites.

Little yellow birdy with a little yellow bill

Landed on my windowsill.

Lured him in with a piece of bread

Then I crushed his little head.

Blood and guts

Everywhere!

Blood and guts

In my hair!

I don’t care!

I like it there!

Others were less graphic and more personalized.

One-nine

One-two.

Alpha-

Comin’ through!

It was interesting to see different parts of the base, even if they had to do pushups and situps once they got there. To the north of the OCS training area was a cove that wrapped around to an old set of piers. Across the water, Dash could see a rusting aircraft carrier moored there. Based on word from Candios, she learned that it was the old USS Saratoga, awaiting scrapping. To travel around the perimeter of the water to the carrier was about four miles and the OCS classes rarely came close.

It was on one of these early morning jaunts that Candidate Rogers mentioned a Grateful Dead song to Dash. They way they were screaming near the ocean and who their DI was, it was a reasonable fit to the tune Uncle John’s Band. “Come hear Uncle John’s Band, playing to the tide…”

Dash was not ready to accept the Gunnery Sergeant as an uncle, but it was entertaining to think about.

In a few days, a clinic for immunizations was held. The class formed up in King Hall’s medical facility for shots. There were a few standard ones. Dash, of course, got species-specific ones.

As the Candidates waited for various injections, they were ordered to sit cross-legged, left over right. The same posture had been specified several other times. Other than being annoying, Dash wasn’t sure why.

Swim qualifications were held at the pool near Callaghan. Dash had no problem with diving or treading water. Struggling out of wet articles of clothing and using them to fashion a life preserver was challenging, but she figured it out.

There was a lot to deal with as Class President, but Dash was managing – barely. Along with memorizing the schedule in the night after she was supposed to be in bed and getting up early, her sleep was dwindling. In addition, there was always something else to do besides her Presidential duties. Preparing things for RLP, for example.

At the end of the second week, the OC’s were marched to the Navy Exchange on base. The NEX had a barber shop—a real one—as well as everything the class might need to make RLP prep easier. And also plenty of things they didn’t. Candios kept a sharp watch to make sure no contraband was purchased.

Every Candidate was required to get a haircut every two weeks. Dash skated by with just a slight trimming to make her slowly-regrowing mane a little more presentable and hopefully not any shorter than it already was. The males were required to have another buzz-cut.

They all left the NEX with shoe polish, toiletries, academic supplies, and a few other odds and ends the Candios approved. Extra PT shorts were a popular item. Two pairs were required to be folded carefully and put on display for RLP. It seemed easier to get some for that purpose rather than to be short two pairs from the three they were issued.

As OCS progressed, the Candios had been growing more lenient. Part of that was class 19-12A becoming more capable and organized. Another reason was preparation to turn them loose.

At the end of week three, the class was gathered in the NAPS Classroom. Rainbow had learned that NAPS was the Naval Academy Preparatory School, also located in Newport, who had moved out of Nimitz sometime in the past.

The Candios were talking candidly and joking. They told the class to relax.

“It’s a big day. We graduate tomorrow,” said one. “You guys will be on your own. At the same time, there’s no one to go between you and the class team. You’re getting all the responsibility.”

It sounded like a challenge. Once again, the bar had been raised and all of them would need to meet the new standards. Dash smiled to herself. She still held her position as President, despite the odds. Her grin faded as she realized how much more she would have to do now that the class was being turned loose to run themselves.

They were responsible for getting from place to place as the scheduled dictated. They had to feed themselves. They would have to practice drill alone, something their DI insisted they do when he wasn’t around.

“Any questions?” asked a Candio.

“When do we get our own cool PT shirts?” someone asked. “How are they designed? What is the typical cost?”

“Don’t nuke it. The answer, though, is that you’ll need to form a committee to design them and get permission to contact a company to get them printed. You’ll also need to start coming up with nicknames.”

While they were talking about committees, a group to plan Hi Moms—the family get together the day before graduation—was needed.

Party planning wasn’t really Dash’s thing. She kept focused on the shirts, noticing that the Candios all had two of them. One with their name, one with their nickname. Some of them were obvious, like “Big Bird” for a tall man, but others less so, like “Lucky.”

The class went back to their p-way, talking among themselves. Some members of the class had rather obvious monikers coming their way. In fact, Leest had been christened “Butch” before she and Dash got back to their hatch.

More nicknames continued to appear now that they were being actively searched for. “Hot Gasses” got his rather questionable name from being so good at Engineering that he practically taught the section on propulsion systems. A wayward comment got him named. “No matter if it’s nuclear, jet, or diesel, they all produce useable power the same way. It’s all about the flow of hot gasses.”

The story of “Playboy” was a little more complicated. OC’s were permitted to receive mail without restriction, but packages required observation by Gunnery Sergeant Johns when opened. Anyone that got a package had to attend the 0500 meeting. Dash was standing next to the unfortunate Candidate when the incident in question happened.

“Who’s it from?” asked the DI.

“My brother, sir.”

“Open it.”

Ripping open the thin box, the Candidate’s face went white at the stack of magazines inside. The DI leaned forward, staring at the contents. “Porn, huh? Toss that in the trash and then get on your face.”

Playboy was not happy. As the group retreated from the DI’s office, he swore that his sibling had gotten him punished on purpose. Dash thought it was hilarious, but kept her comments silent. Still, word got around and the nickname stuck.

The pony had yet to do anything to get herself a nickname. Most humans had a hard time coming up with something more creative than “Rainbow Dash” anyway. At least they didn’t pick up on her old flight school nickname, “Crash.”

Nicknames took a backseat to everything else, however. Especially with RLP getting so close. Horror stories filtered down from the upper class about how torturous it was. Now that Dash had had so much time to prepare—and still wasn’t quite ready—she began to believe that this might be the hardest part of OCS.

“It definitely is,” agreed a Candio. Class 17 had been promoted into the position. While not in charge of Class 19, they were around to receive the incoming Indoc class. Soon, 19 wouldn’t be the freshmen anymore.

The Candios had agreed to do a mock RLP to help facilitate preparation. Each OC stood waiting by their door and waited for an inspector to come to them. After squaring off, the Candidate was expected to greet the inspector and render a salute when ordered. A uniform inspection would follow, and then the Candidate would be ordered into their hatch. The inspectors would check everything in the room while asking knowledge questions and RPTing the Candidate. The whole thing would last about ten minutes.

The mock inspection was rather light, and Dash knew it. Still, it was nice to have a rehearsal. Since all the Candios were there, they gathered the class for a talk.

“The new Indoc class is coming in. Sometimes we’ll come by and tell you guys to vanish into your hatches. The code word is ‘avalanche.’ We’re trying to give the impression of an empty building to make the Indocs feel all alone.”

Dash thought back to her own first-week experience, realizing the same trick had been played then. Once again, the phrase everything we do is for a purpose was applicable.

That Sunday, the Indocs came. Class 19 listened to them scream incoherently. While Gunnery Sergeant Johns was still of the opinion that the sophomore class was uncoordinated, it was obvious that they were better than the bare civilians they used to be, even with only three weeks of training.

The p-way could be cleared in seconds when ordered. The OC’s gained lots of practice when “avalanche” was called several times per day over the next week. It made preparing for RLP more difficult.

The class had Sundays mostly activity-free. The last weekend before RLP, Dash made a Presidential decision to skip drill practice in order to create more time for inspection prep.

There was DI-led drill in the morning. The class formed up in the gym on the hardwood floor. Their boots slid easily on the surface, which made it easy to do right, left, and about faces.

Gunnery Sergeant Johns had already run the class through the drill card several times over the previous days. The routine for the drill competition was already set and written down on an index card for the OC’s to practice.

The first few orders were not perfectly coordinated. The DI had instructed them all to slap and crack their weapons during movements with as much intensity as possible. It sounded impressive, but only when they all were in perfect harmony.

As hands and hooves worked their respective weapons, it sounded more like popcorn than anything. The DI shook his head angrily. “Come on, it isn’t that hard! I thought you were all practicing.”

An uncomfortable silence settled over the class. “Did you practice? Well, President?”

Dash gulped. “No sir, I—er, this Officer Candidate— thought it would be better to use the time for RLP preparations.”

“Did I tell you to do that?”

“No sir.”

“Did you disobey an order?”

“Y-yes sir.”

“You’re fired, President. Get on your face.” The DI looked around. “Actually, all of you get on your faces.”

While they did pushups, Gunnery Sergeant Johns screamed at them about following orders and integrity. They were made to scream the Discipline Ditty, in the hopes that the words would sink in. All Dash could think about was how badly she’d screwed up. One missed hour of practice and she’d been stripped of her position. She had the sinking feeling that the DI wouldn’t accept any appeals, either.

There was no time to bemoan her interrupted authority. After the beating, it was straight back to drill practice. Dash tried her hardest to be perfect in her movements. More punishment was not what she needed.

Oberta was surprised and not entirely pleased to be promoted. He would have to learn his new duties as well as pick a Vice President and bring them up to speed.

“At least now you don’t have to go see the DI every morning,” he said, trying to bring some levity to the situation.

Dash shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”

The rest of the day didn’t provide much time for sad reflection, either. In a way, Dash was grateful. She fell into bed and tried to focus on happy thoughts. With RLP coming up, there weren’t many to be had.

The day of the inspection began at the usual time, but the class was given a break from PT. That gave them a precious extra hour to make sure everything was ready to go. Dash and Leest made their beds carefully and pulled out all drawers to the precise measurements requested by the Officer Candidate Regulations. Their rifles were laid on top the beds, their lockers were open and the clothing inside arranged carefully. They quizzed each other on knowledge.

With twenty minutes before inspection, all the Candidates had their uniforms on and were carefully checking themselves and others for IP’s and contraband.

The IP—Irish Pennant—was effectively just a thread or other bit of loose material. Contraband could be anything that wasn’t supposed to be there, like small particles or fuzz.

“I feel like we’re gorillas grooming each other,” murmured Leest as she ran a lint roller over the pony’s front to catch anything too small to see. Dash brushed a stray hair and some dust off the woman’s shoulders.

Five minutes before the inspection, they all were lined up and ready to go. Dash shook out her hooves nervously and waited. In front of King Hall the US flag began to rise accompanied by the National Anthem. The whole class came to attention.

As the last few notes of the song died away, the door at the end of the p-way opened. A dozen DI’s and RDC’s entered, moving in almost total silence. Dash gulped, recognizing the calm before the storm.

Seconds passed, and then from down the p-way she heard someone shout, “Good morning sir!”

One by one, the Candidates each received an inspector. There were only so many to go around, but Dash’s inspection began shortly. A Senior Chief named Anson squared up with her.

After the salute, the man snatched Dash’s cover and checked it. “Minus two for two IP’s,” he reported to a Candio standing beside him. The assistant marked it on a clipboard.

I thought I checked that! There was no time for Dash to see anything in hindsight. She flicked one ear nervously.

“Minus one for bearing.” Even a simple, unconscious reflexive movement was grounds for loss of military bearing. Dash did her best not to react, that would only lose her more points. She was ordered into the room.

The rest of the inspection was unpleasant, loud, and strenuous. Still, it seemed to pass in a blur. As quick as she could reply, Dash was ordered to name the fourteen members of her Chain of Command, describe the insignia of a Surface Warfare Officer, recite the serial number of her rifle, and sing the Marine Corps Hymn. Meanwhile, the Senior Chief kept interrupting to point out the flaws with her room prep. There was dust on the shelf in her locker, a wrinkle in her bedspread, the folds in her shorts were a fraction of an inch off.

Throughout it all, Dash was on her face doing pushups, on her back for situps, or running in place. The RPT made it much harder to remember her knowledge and she faltered on a couple of answers.

Finally, she was ordered to pick up her canteen and get out of the room. Everything she had so carefully arranged was haphazardly piled on the bed, which had been untucked and flailed.

Dash stood in the p-way listening to other inspections in progress and taking sips from the canteen. She’d worked up a sweat and was glad for the rest. After making a few last notes on the inspection sheet, the Senior Chief came out of the room. The Candio turned to a new page on the clipboard and Leest’s inspection began.

It was almost more painful to listen to someone else get grilled. Dash winced as she heard Leest make a few mistakes. Minutes passed before she emerged, shaken and breathing hard. Dash felt nervous about the results of the inspection, more about Leest’s than her own.

The two of them waited, sipping water while inspections finished. The last of the shouting died away and the remaining inspectors filed out of the p-way. Gunnery Sergeant Johns stood at the end, arms crossed. “Bravo Company had zero failures. Alpha company had two. We lost! You lost! Go to the SUYA, now!”

The whole class reluctantly stampeded out the door to enter the sand pit. It was not the first time they had been RPT’d there. As they rolled over and over, doing exercises of all kinds, the DI shouted, “You know who put you here? Candidates Leest and Dash! Their re-inspection will be Saturday. If they fail, they will be rolled! It is the job of the rest of you to keep that from happening!”

A shot of panic ran through Dash. Had she really failed? How was this possible? And worst of all, what would the rest of the class think of her now that she’d failed as a President and at RLP?

Ten minutes later, the class was released to clean the sand from their uniforms. It was made more difficult by their trashed rooms and dark moods.

Dash spent that night writing a letter. She felt terrible, and knew that communicating with her friends back home would help. While she’d never seriously considered quitting OCS, even at the tough parts, that didn’t mean she wasn’t weary of it.

“I could have sworn that I deserved to fail, but you didn’t,” Leest said after the lights were off that night. “I spent so much time helping you that I might have neglected some of my stuff.”

“I told you that you didn’t have to do that!” In the darkness, Dash couldn’t see the woman, but that didn’t stop her from glaring.

“Anyway, I guess all we can do is try harder.” The two of them were quiet after that.

There was no RLP preparation time built into the next few days leading up to the re-inspect. Time had to be found between everything else. To Dash’s surprise, everyone she asked for help responded. A crew of OC’s descended on the room and whipped everything into shape. Dash actually found herself shoved out of her own hatch as someone brought in an ironing board to work on her shirts. This was so much more than she’d expected. Maybe there wasn’t as much animosity following her as she thought.

On Saturday, Dash and Leest were lined up in the p-way. The new class’s Welcome Aboard had happened early that morning, but the two of them hadn’t gone to greet the latest addition to the regiment with their own class. They had been ordered to prepare for the RLP re-inspect.

Just as before, when the National Anthem finished, the door opened. It was Gunnery Sergeant Johns, all alone. His inspections were conducted similarly to the originals. Dash tried her best to stay cool under pressure and answer every question while being beaten. Her items to be inspected received less criticism than before.

She traded places with Leest and the second inspection began. Dash’s stomach didn’t like the water she was sipping, but there was no helping that. The moment of truth would come shortly. While getting rolled to the next class wouldn’t be the end of her career, she might die of embarrassment. She was better than that.

Leest stepped out, panting but looking confident. Her inspection had definitely gone better this time. The DI stepped out and faced the two of them. “Well, it looks like Class one-nine-one-two Alpha is good for something after all. It took all of them to get you two in shape. Of course, this is my fault. I mentioned to Senior Chief Anson what a terrible President you were Dash, and I think that made him mad.”

He shrugged. “Or maybe he did it for some other reason. Everything at OCS has a purpose.”

Dash held her stoic expression, but it was difficult. What are you saying? We were failed on purpose so the whole class would be forced to cooperate and learn teamwork?

Gunnery Sergeant Johns walked away. “All right all of you, get your stuff upstairs.”

The rest of the class, who had been barricaded behind closed doors, quickly came out and began carrying their belongings up to the third deck. Passing RLP came with a change of scenery, and the gloomy atmosphere instantly brightened.

That afternoon, while they were settling in, the order attention on deck, stand by was called. It was Chief Valdez. The class was ordered outside into marching formation.

No one seemed to know where they were going. The OC’s were marched towards the bay and out onto a slender spit of land that projected out about an eighth of a mile near the athletic field. There was a small park with a gazebo at the end. There, surrounded on three sides by shimmering waves and guarded by the bridge in the background, the Chief told them why they had been assembled. His voice was calm and quiet.

“You’ve all passed RLP. Most people consider it to be the biggest step at OCS. You’re starting to come together as a cohesive unit, even if there are still kinks to work out. I’m going to present you with your first collar device.”

He held up a small pin. It was an anchor with a rope wrapped around it, made of gold-colored metal. “This is a fouled anchor. It’s long been a symbol of the Navy. Even fouled in rope, it’s still useful in its purpose. It reminds us that we aren’t perfect, but we can still do good work and always be improving ourselves. I’m going to pin this on each of you, on the right collar, and I’d like you to tell me someone who inspires you to improve yourself, someone who would like to see you do well at OCS.”

Dash already knew who that was. The letter she’d written after failing had not yet been replied to, but just sending it had helped. Her friends wanted her to succeed.

That Sunday, with RLP over, the class did nothing but practice drill. Bravo marched by with the streamer for winning RLP on their guidon. It inspired Alpha to train harder. The whole day was practically a blur of weapons movements. As the next week carried on, the practice didn’t let up.

The night before the competition, Meyer stopped by. “You’ve got this huge package, Dash.”

He handed over a large box. It was heavy and the return address was from Sugarcube Corner in Ponyville. Did Pinkie send a wedding cake or something? Gunnery Sergeant Johns is going to kill me!

The next morning, she dutifully reported at 0500 with the box. The DI looked surprised at such a large package and ordered her to open it.

Tucked inside the first flap of the lid was a note. She cleared her throat.

“Hi Dashie! You sounded sad when you wrote the last letter so I decided to make you some cupcakes! Then I thought about all your friends and all the angry Marines around you and thought that maybe they would like some too, so I kept making them and maybe things got a little out of control. Anyway, I think there are about five hundred in the box.”

“Are there really five hundred cupcakes in that box?” asked the DI.

Dash opened the box fully and showed him a large collection of carefully stacked pastries with blue and gold icing. She gulped before replying, “It looks like it, sir.”

“You owe me five hundred pushups.” Before ordering her to drop, however, he thought for a moment. “Actually, you’re lucky the drill competition is today. I wouldn’t want you to be tired. I’ll make you a deal. You win, and I’ll forget this.”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

Dash did not know what happened to the cupcakes, but judging by the crowd of DI’s that showed up to grade the competition that weren’t on a sugar high, they were probably thrown away.

“Keep your movements tight and together,” Gunnery Sergeant Johns told the class in a low voice as the stood in the center of the gym floor. “No popcorn noises.”

Stepping back, he lifted his parade sword to salute the Master Sergeant in charge of the competition. After a brief conversation, the DI turned around and began.

“Port arms!”

As one, the class jerked their rifles up and slapped the foregrip, holding the weapons in front of them.

“Inspection arms!”

Charging handle back and forth, clack clack, raise to examine the chamber.

“Port—!”

Release the bolt, clack, close the cover, click.

“—arms!”

Pull the trigger, click, slap the foregrip, smack.

Dash almost smiled. Everything had gone in perfect sync. Now they had to complete the rest of the movements.

The class swapped the rifles to their right and left shoulders and then moved on to facing movements and marching in place. In minutes, the performance was over.

Alpha Company retreated to the back of the gym behind a curtain to listen to Bravo. Gunnery Sergeant Salucci’s voice could be heard issuing commands. “Port arms!”

Dash strained her ears to listen for the next part. “Inspection arms!”

…Popcorn. Everyone behind the curtain looked like they were working hard to hide smiles.

After seeing what both companies had to offer, the Master Sergeant accepted a few final notes from the grading DI’s and called all of 19-12 to assemble.

“I’ve seen worse. Heck, I’ve actually seen companies of Marines do worse. Both classes have come a long way from bare civilians in just five weeks. Still, there’s only one winner, and that’s Alpha Company.”

“Get on your faces, Bravo,” shouted Gunnery Sergeant Salucci.

Gunnery Sergeant Johns shook his head. “I don’t understand, Alpha. You skipped some drill practice to work on RLP, fail that, and end up winning this. You’re making my head hurt. You get on your faces, too.”

It was the first time Dash smiled while doing RPT.

That evening, Dash was doing situps and some wing pushups. She hadn’t gotten a single opportunity to fly since coming to OCS, and wanted to keep them strong.

Leest watched with an interested expression. “I would have never thought lightweight bones and feathers were capable of that.”

Dash shrugged. “Whenever I try to explain it, both me and the person who asked usually end up confused. Let’s just say it’s magic. Don’t nuke it.”

Oberta stopped by the open door, showing off the streamer for winning drill competition. He said, “Dash, what happened this morning at the DI meeting was probably the biggest stroke of luck I’ve ever seen anyone get. I’m still surprised that I didn’t get to see my first cupcakes-related heart explosion.”

“What happened?” asked Leest. Dash told the story about the package. They all had a good laugh.

“Well, at least you’ve found your nickname,” said Leest.

“Huh?”

“Cupcakes.”