JOURNEYS
Donning the Crest
Taking on the oath of a naval officer, accomplished in 12 enduring weeks at OCS
- Adam R. Cole // February 22, 2008
A drill instructor gets OCS candidates in form. © Joseph Early 2008
Rifle drill, shown here, is a key representation of disciple in motion at OCS. © Adam R. Cole 2008
The final victory - commission. © Gene Cole 2008
The feeling of a pride was a given. Medals hanging from perfectly tailored service dress blues, friends and family looking on, and wearing the officer crest on the cover (hat). Deeper than that feeling of self-worth was the knowledge of what was ahead, not the satisfaction of what I had put behind me (12 weeks inside what many believe to be the hardest naval accession program). I, along with the 41 classmates of Class 06-08 took an important oath that would solidify our new standing as naval officers. For all of us who took that oath that day we would now be assuming the duties and responsibilities that would put us in charge of the men and woman who loyally/faithfully/full-heartedly took a similar oath, to defend freedom and democracy at all costs.
Getting to that oath-taking moment was a challenging journey through a multitude of tests. OCS, as was told to us from day one, was meant to push us to our limits, to test our resolve, to push us to our breaking point, and once there, to see if we could climb past it, by doing so transforming into more capable individuals. The entire program was a combination of physical fitness, militarization (marching/rifle drill), and academics.
The moment we met our drill instructor was an absolute shock to the system. An atomic blast, almost. The raw energy of a U.S. Marine, one who had lived up to being the few and the proud, was now training a bunch of rag tag kids, most of whom right our of college, to be disciplined and touch. We were given precise instructions for everything and were told to answer every instruction with a “yes, sir” or a “yes, ma’am.” Failure to meet the standard meant physical punishment of the pushup variety.
In the first few weeks, the physical exertion caused exhaustion that severely plagued our bodies – though it often hurt at times, we knew we had to keep pushing and striving for the goal we had worked so hard to have the opportunity to reach. We were instructed (usually in a very firm tone) to do ‘chow hall procedure,’ special ways to eat that meant ‘counting by the numbers’ and using one’s left hand and only using a spoon. We could not even enter the dining facility without chanting a scripted procedure; failure to do it right meant doing pushups in the grass…we spent a lot of time in that grass…or sand pit (whichever was the fancy of the drill instructor).
Those first weeks focused on the preparation and then execution of a major inspection (room, locker, personnel [RLP]); that inspection, which made us prepare an armoire-type apparatus (war locker) with clothing that followed specific guidelines, would make us fully understand the meaning of attention to detail—and how to operate within a high-stress environment.
Once past RLP, everything changed: the breaking down process (of our old identities) seemed to end (or at least taper off) and the building up (as more chiseled individuals) began; post RLP, the sternness of the Marine drill instructor was less needed – good order and discipline achieved by the individual, team as a response to knowing what is right and proper. Traits of leadership of becoming a naval officer became interwoven more and more as the weeks pressed on, as if a change in DNA were taking place.
The final stretch of OCS, called the candidate officer (candio) phase, allowed us to put these traits into practice by assuming command of regiment, which gave us authority to directly lead the other training classes and work under the OCS staff to ensure that each training class successfully completed the daily routine and every major event; during this phase, we learned what it meant to have individuals under our charge, to be a role model, to motivate, and to take care of their needs (be it medical, pay issues, etc.).
Thus standing there, arm raised for that life-altering oath, was both a culmination of the program and culmination of a transformation. It was not so much what we learned, at least not directly, but what we endured – and how we relied on each other and our inner determination to press forward. Ultimately, we had to accept that life tests are just that—tests—and that through those tests, you become stronger and a better person than you were before by passing beyond those tests.
As well, the entire program was a test of faith, in God, and through the reliance of that Higher Power, and seeing the results of that loyalty, one gains a renewed sense of that relationship, between Heavenly Father and earthly child, such that the bonds become very strong. One finds that no matter what, no matter how tired, stressed, physical hurting, one is, God will always be there. That reassurance builds assurance and frees the mind to take every single step required.
Now that we have raised our right hands and said that oath, we are obligated to it, not only by the Navy, but by the Sailors who now expect us to lead them. Obligated to the mission, of protecting and working for freedom and democracy. Indeed, none of us have the answers, but we know this: we are ready to meet the challenge before us, just like we did in the moments of endless push ups in the sand and silly eating procedures. OCS is now behind us all – sustaining a global peace now lies ahead.