Core

by totallynotabrony

4: Dash Sucks at Cadence

“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.