This was it. All of my hard work is finally going to pay off, and I couldn't be more excited for it. Battlestations had just wrapped up, and after disembarking the EQS Lombard, an enormous floating replica of a destroyer specifically designed for the purpose of battlestations, we proudly stood in line beneath its shadow, under the few small spotlights that illuminated its form in the pool it sat stationary in.
Being up for 48 hours straight to partake in the exercise was beginning to take a toll on all 22 of us, and the other two full divisions brought in to simultaneously try our combined steel; but the worst was now over. We passed our final test, even without the two additional recruits we started out with eight weeks ago.
My body jittered with exhilaration, more so as Chief Stygius moved down our line with a neat pile of black ball caps that read 'NAVY' in gold lettering, handing one to each recruit he stopped in front of and shook their hoof respectfully. I myself was on the verge of bursting into joyful tears, only blocked by the fact that my own lethargy brought on an unrelenting dryness to my eyes.
I almost wanted to raise a hoof and slap myself across the cheek, questioning the reality of this very moment. For all I knew, it could have been one long fever dream induced by a coma of sorts.
At the same time, acknowledging that this is, in fact, real, muses sprung in my conscience with the largest query of them all orbiting my mind—what now?
Boot camp was simply the tip of the iceberg, preceding the slippery slope that was the Navy. Sure, it readied us for the fleet, our minds and our bodies alike, and sharpened our senses to be the sailors we were soon to become.
But the 'what now?' led itself someplace else: why?
Of all the paths I could have chosen, I resided with the notion of following my father's hoofsteps. Not so much the commanding officer route, although that could most certainly come later should I find enough enjoyment in my time enlisted.
Nevertheless, my mind delved deeper into the question. What if this wasn't the right choice for me? After all, the entire idea of enlisting revolved around Dad's service and how much I wanted to experience the same joy he met with serving his country. There was a whole lot more to it than pleasure, that's for damned sure.
The biggest concern on my mind was the ultimate question of whether I'd gotten in over my head or not. The Navy definitely wasn't for everypony, the lesson learned by the two recruits who were sent home a few weeks ago, and the dozens of others coming here over the passage of time that discovered similarly.
Either way, I accepted that it was much too late to turn back, if that is what my mind is now trying to convey. I've already settled on my decision and stuck with it, and that was that.
When my turn came, I looked the chief dead in the eye and politely took the ball cap in one hoof, and firmly shook his extended arm with the other. He offered a warm smile, inching in closer to utter, "You made it. Congratulations, Sailor."
The words as they left his mouth sent chills racing under my skin, standing the hairs under my uniform. I couldn't say anything; not a word. All I did was nod and smile back. How could I vocally respond whilst maintaining militaristic composure?
Once the chief handed out the last ball cap, he stood back alongside two other sailors and glanced out over our combined divisions with a proud, stern smile.
"Don those caps, you're all sailors now," he uttered loud and clear.
In almost perfect unison, all 66 of us raised our newly-acquired Navy ball caps to our crowns and placed them straight and proper, only lowering our hooves adjusting the back while holding our right hoof to the bill, until we were instructed to bring that one down, too.
"Hooyah, Navy!" shouted Stygius.
"HOOYAH, NAVY!" we cried back, our unified voice echoing throughout the hangar. In that instance, I felt like a brand new pony from top to bottom.
⚓
Immediately after Battlestations, our division was kind of left on its own, with strict rules as one might expect. All activities were to remain within a close proximity of our 'ship' and are to be primarily recreational; no seeking out and hanging around other divisions that were graduated or not, and absolutely no wandering off base, of course. After all we've been through collectively, these were simple instructions to follow for two days.
Admittedly, I carried on like training wasn't over. Both mornings of our 'free days', I found myself up bright and early and immediately out working on my push-ups, pull-ups—you name it, I was probably doing it.
One thing I did notice was that my activities seemed to inspire a few of the others to follow a similar routine over those forty-eight hours preceding the graduation ceremony. No one said a word, but I knew it was me that sparked it in them.
Later that afternoon, heading into the early evening hours, we were gathered up by Chief Stygius for one last errand: to collect our dress whites. After all, the ceremony was first thing tomorrow morning.
Our division, plus one of the others that we teamed up with for Battlestations, packed into the fitter's room as tight as a concert crowd. However, despite the chaos, we made it work as our RDCs would have wanted us to.
Although, being crammed in a room with over forty other stallions and mares with nowhere else to breathe but on each other, it quickly became hot and stuffy in addition to the fact that the building's furnace was cranked to combat the roughly 17 degrees that was the outside air. Frankly put, I'd much rather stand outside and let the chill run through my feathers than this awful shit.
I will say though; two graduating training divisions had more responsibility and order than the numb nuts that ran the fitter's. A total of three staff operating the place, and you're telling me only one of them is standing here calling out names while another is collecting the uniforms one by one from the back? Where the hell is the third?
Another little detail that bugged me over the last half hour of us having no choice but to stand around and patiently wait for our name to ring out; what if our uniforms don't fit? What if there is a defect that was overlooked?
Those overseeing the functionality of this entire training center seemed to hold a lot of confidence in the ponies in charge of tailoring dozens of uniforms and only distributing them mere hours before they are expected to hold up.
Surely even the smallest but noticeable of mishaps to one graduate's dress whites would take most of that time to correct, what about more? Would we be the ones punished by having to wear them out and hope they hold up for the three hours that is the ceremony, or would we instead resort to our training coveralls?
It was too much to think about all at once. It wasn't my fault either way should any of that happen to me, but I couldn't help but stress over it, up until my attention was grabbed.
"Anchorage?" the monotonously-voiced tailor called out.
Gently and politely I pushed my way through the crowd of recruits until I reached the counter to claim my 'prize'. Both pieces of the uniform, held together by a removable hook for the purpose of transport, were wrapped in a thick, semi-transparent plastic.
I took it by the hanger and draped it over my back as careful as can be, turning to head to the back of the room to wait for the process to complete.
"Wait! One more thing," the tailor said, halting me in my tracks two steps from the counter.
I'd turned around just in time to catch a fastball headed my way; the cup hat that completed the uniform, folded flat in a thin plastic wrapper in a manner that was sure to leave it with discernible creases on two sides. Wow, I hate this place.
⚓
Come next morning, we'd actually surprised our RDCs by already being awake when it came time for them to turn on the lights and speak to the overnight watch.
It was about 0530 when Stygius entered the compartment. The actual ceremony did not begin until 0900, and we were required to be in our dress whites by 0745 and ready for that final proud march to the Decatur, a massive ceremonial hall constructed like the hangar of an aircraft carrier, where the event was due to take place.
For much of the free time I had, up until roughly a quarter past seven, I continued with my routine of a brisk five-lap jog under the coming light of dawn. After that, a session of fifty-five push-ups with no break in between.
Only two others ventured out to join me, and about halfway through their turns, I was finished. On rising to my hooves to head back, I stopped to observe a fresh training division—having arrived only a couple weeks ago—march past in drill, with the AROC (Assistant Recruit Chief Petty Officer) leading cadence.
A few pairs of eyes drifted toward me further in the back as I watched them pass. Most were shivering from the bitter cold, probably wondering how I stood here in just a sweatshirt like it's the middle of autumn.
But while I watched the division march away, likely en route to some facility for the next stage of their training, I couldn't help but think back on the last eight weeks. It was almost as if I stared in a mirror, which reflected my past, and that I was looking at myself marching with the others, scared but electrified for what comes next. I hoped in my mind that those recruits felt the same, and their drive for success pushes them to the finish line.
On returning to our ship, a quick, refreshing shower was in order. Breakfast was an option, too, but by now there simply was not enough time to eat and prepare, meaning I would have to deal with running on empty for a few hours at the very least.
Pulling the plastic-wrapped pieces from the secure storage of my rack locker, I moved into the bathroom and began carefully slipping into the pants initially, then the blouse. First impression had me in some shock at just how comfortably everything fit to my form.
The outfit consisted of an immaculate dress uniform whiter than snow, collar neatly tied around my neck in a point-ended knot by a black tie, top tucked beneath a white and gold belt to securely fasten a matching pair of white pants that reached down to my fetlocks, and a white cupped hat rested straight on top of my crown.
Staring at myself in a mirror was like viewing a whole new pony. I didn't recognize myself as me at first, or for a good few minutes after that. What I did see was my father's reflection; his neutral, officer-like mien, as if somepony had taken a pair of scissors and cut my face out of the portrait and glued on his uniform from his enlisted sailor days.
Really, this was the first chance in a long time where I've taken time to look at myself and the progress I've made. The most notable feature of my change was that I'd grown physically, proving how eight weeks of intense physical activity can add up. I almost couldn't believe it. I am a sailor now.
A quarter 'til eight, every one of us was lined up by our racks for brief inspection. Any ticks on our attire, how we wore it, and how it should appear would be corrected as quickly as possible before 0800.
At that time, we filed into formation and were led out of the barracks. Ahead of me marched the division AROC, and two ponies that carried separate flags; a mare and a stallion each. Together, we joined in for one last cadence as a training group: We Are The Navy.
Upon arrival to the Decatur, fifteen minutes later, it was evident how perfect everything had to be. We entered through an opposite doorway, made to keep recruits out of sight of visiting family and friends, who were presently lined up to sit down inside the graduation hall.
For another forty minutes, we stood in a wide corridor, remaining in formation the entire time behind another graduating division in front, with another filing in behind us. These were the ponies we participated in Battlestations with.
Then, at 0855, the first sailors strode out to a wave of screams and cheers. We followed a mere minute after, strutting toward yet another division coming in from an entryway opposite ours, and meant not three, but six divisions were graduating today. No wonder they said over a thousand ponies would be watching from the stands.
All according to plan, we turned and paraded up beside the division ahead of us and halted, following suit in the manner of marching while otherwise standing perfectly still, until an instruction was given for us to stand at attention.
A singular small podium stood in center of the floor. Behind it, along the center bulkhead at our backs, an enormous projector screen for those in the nosebleeds to watch, or otherwise are unable to see what is going on below.
Like the glistening of reflective glitter, or even sun mirroring off the ripples of water on a cloudless day, hundreds of camera flashes illuminated from the crowds as dozens of pictures were taken that were sure to go into many photo albums in homes across the country.
At 0900 sharp, the crowds died down as a small group of superior officers approached the podium, all forming a rectangular shape around a stout unicorn dressed in the finest whites one could imagine. He was no ordinary officer—he was an admiral. Specifically, the Admiral of the Navy.
On extremely rare occasions did the stallion in charge of the whole of the Navy himself speak at graduation ceremonies, considering how many there were per year. It would surely make one hell of a story to tell, to say I stood and listened to the admiral's speech.
"These magnificent mares and gentlecolts are among the many who shall proudly take the reins of the Navy's legacy, and bring much honor and distinction to the fleet, and as Admiral of the Equestrian Navy, it humbles me greatly to stand among the sailors who will lead our country into the future."
"To all of my now-fellow shipmates standing sentry around me right this very second, I thank you for your dedication to country, and to the Navy. The watch is now yours. Guard it. Stand by it. Protect it with your life. It shall only be removed from your sight in your departure from our ranks."
"Now, let me share a small bit of wisdom, which I can only hope you will find motivational at some point in your life; whether that be right this very second, or two years from now. Every task you now take responsibility for, will change the world forever, no matter how mundane or difficult the task may be. And no matter the task at hoof, whether it was one you enjoyed or not, let it remind you that you accomplished it."
"And here you all are. You, standing here in your white blouses and black neckties, means you passed the ultimate test. To all of the proud parents here, eagerly waiting to see your sailors, rest assured that some of the finest—those being every mare and stallion on this deck—shall soon seek adventure out on the fleet of the greatest navy to ever sail the seas."
Tears welled in the ducts of my eyes. Not enough to blur my vision, or streak down my cheek, but enough to merely be a nuisance. Thankfully it was the one movement we had every right to make, and that was to wipe our eyes. If I had a bit for every instance I ran a hoof over my eyes, I could probably afford a bag of groceries.
Needless to say, I trembled. Quaked, even. The former colt in me wanted to burst out crying on the spot. However, it was the stallion in my soul that quelled the colt.
All I knew now, and it had been made clear at the end of battlestations, was that I made it.
⚓
By 1100, we were relieved out of formation, right as those in the stands could come down to the main deck to seek out loved ones.
Through the crowds I searched. And searched. How they expected us to easily find our families in this mess they called being reunited was beyond me. And I knew she was here; the letters written back and forth every week confirmed she would be, and twice did I have to revise the times of graduation so she knew when to be in town.
Finally, I stopped. My ears faltered, tuning out the mass clamor that was joyful cries of proud parents holding their foals, who had ultimately grown up in the span of two months. The one thing we didn't plan for was where to find each other; neither of us even knew the layout of the place, so how would we?
At the same time, horrible thoughts weaseled their way from the darkest depths of my mind. What if she just didn't come?
I treated her so... poorly. I was an awful son. I know I didn't take her for granted, though it sure felt like I had. My mind had been twisted in various directions since Dad left us behind, and even in her own wrong moments, I didn't take time to appreciate her for what she is.
No, she came. She had to have, I said mentally. A mother's love is unconditional enough to forgive pasts... right?
I looked around slowly, scanning every pony that surrounded me. Only when that inspection turned up negative, I took a few steps forward and did it again. And again. And again. One way or another, sooner or later, I'd find her.
Then, at long last, I did.
Standing in a small opening in the crowd was a petite earth mare, sporting a grey flannel coat with large buttons up the center, and a spruce brown wool scarf looped around her neck. Her sights browsed elsewhere in search of me.
"Mom!" I called out at the top of my lungs, and still I was much too quiet against the roar of the masses around us.
I began walking her way, hoping she would catch me in the act before then. And she did; our eyes met, and I halted in my tracks, frozen by... something. It can't have been fear, no. It was something words can't describe.
She smiled at me. I smiled back. This moment alone collectively brought tears to our eyes, as if we were emotionally connected.
This time, she ran towards me. I caught her in my arms, just like she used to do to me. Her impact into my chest nearly knocked the hat off my crown, which I stopped in swift reflex.
Her hooves wrapped themselves tightly around my neck, squeezing with the strength of a starving boa having caught its prey. Before boot camp, this might have knocked the wind out of me. But now? I could still breathe—at least, somewhat.
The last I can vividly recall embracing my mother this tight was that day. Our worlds were upside down then; I didn't want to remember that as the firmest we have ever held each other. This had to be it, and so it was.
"L-look at you!" she gasped, covering her mouth as she drew back from the hug to look over me and the uniform I'd earned. "My gosh..."
It was evident she was at a loss for words. I was, too, for the most part.
"You are just like your father, Anchorage. Just like him." She beamed through tear-filled eyes, constantly wiping at them to get a good look at me still. "He would be so proud of you right now."
At that, my ears drooped a little. Only a tiny bit. Still, I retained a small smile. "He is, Mom. I can feel it." It ached in my chest, knowing he could not be here for this. It almost made me wish I'd been older around the time of his departure, then perhaps he might have.
Regardless, I felt the warmth of his love from the place he looked down on me from, and his proud smile shining down like the sun. It was then, I knew, it was my turn.