On Board: By RICHARD SALIT This is the first of eight parts. NEWPORT The metal doors swing open and young women and men shuffle into a stairwell. They wear jeans and sneakers and grip flimsy plastic bags containing the few personal belongings they have been allowed to keep — socks, underwear and toiletries. Waiting for them are men and women wearing pressed khaki uniforms and caps that sit just so on their heads. One stands in front of them and greets them. “Everything I’m about to tell you is to set you up for success,” he says matter-of-factly. He rapidly runs through a series of rules: Say “Aye, sir” or “Aye, ma’am” when given an order. Say “Yes, sir” or “No, sir” when answering a question. Zip all zippers. Button all buttons. Tuck in shirts. Maintain a 1,000-yard stare. “You will not make eye contact with staff,” he says. And, he says, never ever use the word “I.” “As you can see here, we’re all about uniformity. We are one unit,” he says. “As soon as you walk through this door, your individuality is gone. Got that?” “Aye, sir,” they reply weakly and out of sync. “That was disgusting,” he tells them. “Everything is done here with speed, volume and intensity.” “Aye, sir!” they respond, this time loudly. In a final directive, he says, “For safety’s sake, your shoelaces need to be tied outboard over inboard, and the laces need to be tucked in with no bridges. Do it now.” They hesitate, unsure what he has just said. “I said, do it now!” he screams. The instant they bend over to examine their laces, uniformed men and women burst in, surround them and scream into their ears how to do it, and to hurry. The recruits are ordered to shout “aye, sir,” demanding that the new arrivals shout it back, over and over. The lights in the hallways flicker on and off and someone on the landing bangs both sides of a large bass drum faster and faster, making an adrenaline-stirring din. Suddenly, tying a shoelace isn’t so easy. The newcomers look confused. They sweat. Their hands shake. The yelling and screaming and drumming go on for nearly eight minutes. A man dressed in Marine fatigues and a wide-brimmed olive hat watches off to the side. He’s Master Gunnery Sgt. Robert Foshee. “Can you see the difference in their faces now?” he says, in a thick Alabama accent. “You can see doubt.” THEY ARRIVE smiling and seemingly confident on a sunny yet brisk November morning. They carry duffel bags and tow suitcases as they trudge across the windswept naval base perched on Narragansett Bay. They are here for Officer Candidate School (OCS), which accepts college-educated civilians and enlisted sailors and molds them into commissioned officers of the U.S. Navy. The school, established here 57 years ago, returned to Newport last summer, after being gone since 1993. The new arrivals will be part of Class 05-08, the fifth class that will graduate in the 2008 academic year. It’s a 12-week program that most of them have read about in Navy literature and in tell-all Web sites written by former students. Much of the gossip is devoted to the fearsome Marine drill instructors who assist the Navy in running the program. But no reading or exercise can completely prepare them for the weeks ahead. It’s not uncommon for students to succumb to the challenges. When they fail physical fitness tests, classroom exams or personnel inspections, they risk getting yanked from their class and placed in Holding Company. There they wait — sometimes weeks, sometimes months — until they can prove they are ready to join another class. Others simply D.O.R., meaning “drop on request.” It’s the equivalent of waving a white flag and surrendering. No one can make you do it. You have to ask. Still free to talk and dress as they like, the students gather at a spot known as the “seawall,” a barren waterfront parking lot near the mothballed aircraft carriers Saratoga and Forrestal. They are greeted by members of the most senior class, who are called “candidate officers” and will soon become the first to graduate in Newport in 15 years. The candidate officers, wearing khaki uniforms and black jackets, have them fill out paperwork. Among the 53 new arrivals is Adam Cole, who was raised in a comfortable Denver suburb and graduated from the University of Colorado/Boulder in 1998 with a degree in journalism. But when he went to work for a couple of newspapers and magazines, he didn’t feel fulfilled. “I was looking for a purpose — what purpose can I serve in this world and for this country?” says Cole, who speaks quietly, chooses his words slowly and refers frequently to his deep religious faith. He found that purpose after the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks and the invasion of Iraq. Cole began thinking seriously about the military, about “fighting for freedom, peace and democracy.” His dad was in the Army Reserves during Vietnam and his grandfather served in the Army in Europe during World War II. Still, his joining the Navy “was a little bit against the grain of my community and the people who knew me. ... A lot of people don’t see it as serving your country. They’re more pragmatic.” Because he loved the idea of traveling and going to sea, he enlisted in the Navy in 2004. Soon he was on ships bound for Japan, the Philippines, Hong Kong, Guam and South Korea and was serving as a second-class petty officer specializing in mass communication. Along the way, he took the initiative to organize volunteers to help the needy in ports of call. “I really sensed I could lead people in a positive direction,” he says. He applied to OCS to “become more of a leader,” to “be ready to take these individuals and be accountable for their lives.” Being an officer will give him more responsibility and boost his yearly pay from $27,000 to $38,500, excluding allowances for housing and food. At 28, Cole is almost too old to pursue his chosen specialty — surface warfare. The cut-off is 29, and Cole would be given an additional two years since he’s been in the Navy. Still, he’s brimming with confidence. “I’m expecting it to just be boot camp for officers. In that sense, I’ve already been through this,” says Cole, who has no fat to lose. “Granted, what’s an interesting twist is that this is run by Marine gunnery sergeants, so I’m expecting it to be a lot rougher and meaner, probably more pushups.” He’s followed by another enlisted sailor, Nicole Lobecker, a second-class machinist’s mate from Quakertown, Pa., who’s a big fan of the TV show NCIS (Naval Criminal Investigative Service). She graduated from Slippery Rock University in 2003, with a biology degree and landed a job as a laboratory analyst. But she was making so little money that she took two other part-time jobs, one at a convenience store and another at Applebee’s. The 100-hour weeks were exhausting and she felt as though she wasn’t going anywhere. Her lack of fulfillment led her to enlist in the Navy in 2005. She entered the nuclear propulsion program, which complemented her science background and offered greater opportunities for advancement. Nearly three years later, at 27, she’s made it to OCS. “I plan on making it a career, being a department head with a command,” she says. Her parents, who have not served in the military, “are excited for me.” A bit on the stocky side, she’s not in as good shape as some of the other candidates, but has been exercising regularly to get ready for OCS. “I hear it’s tough,” she says.
Matthew Gottschalk, 24, of Denver, is fresh out of college. He’s dreamed of flying planes ever since his boyhood visits to his grandfather, who took him to work at a Grumman aircraft facility in Florida and arranged flights for him. Gottschalk joined a Sea Cadet program for six years in his youth, rising to the highest rank possible, cadet chief. He went to Spartan College, a five-year flight school in Tulsa, Okla., with a year of college prep. Now he’s ready to follow his father’s and grandfather’s footsteps into the Navy. Both were enlisted. “I would be the first officer,” he says. “I’ve wanted to do this ever since I was a little kid. I’m going to be a pilot when I get out of here.” His academics have been strong, earning him a 3.86 college GPA. But while he seems fairly fit, he’ll soon be shedding some extra pounds. Jason Moehlmann, 22, of Crestwood, Ky., is a History Channel buff who long dreamed of becoming an aviator. But when he realized his eyesight wasn’t good enough, he remained passionate about the military. He tried to join an ROTC program while at Purdue University, but was turned down because he said he might have had asthma as a child. So upon graduating with a degree in industrial management in 2006, Moehlmann went to work for Shell Oil. After a year, he was utterly dispirited. “I didn’t want to be in an office all day,” he says. He resolved the question about asthma and successfully applied to OCS. “Mom’s freakin’ out,” he says. “Dad’s happy. He knows it’s what I really want to do.” Moehlmann doesn’t share his mother’s concerns about the dangers of being in the military, but he admits to being a little worried about OCS. “I’m nervous because there are a lot of unknowns. They keep things secret to shock you and stress you out,” he says. At 6 feet tall and weighing 230 pounds, he has quite a few extra pounds to shed. He expects “lots of yelling, pushups and sit-ups,” but says confidently, “I should be fine.” Out of this small group, Sarah Engemann, 24, of Rothbury, Mich., appears, at first glimpse, to be the least likely to become an officer. She’s got a warm smile and soft voice and giggles when nervous. She’s had to lose “a lot of weight,” 65 to 70 pounds, to get down to the 167 pounds maximum allowed for her height. She’ll be weighed in tomorrow during her physical exam. “I’m a couple of pounds under,” she says. She graduated from Michigan State University in 2006, with a major in music education, and taught for a year before losing enough weight to apply to OCS. She comes from a military family. Relatives on her mother’s side of the family were in the Army. Her father served in the Navy during Vietnam. Her grandfather and uncle were in the Navy too. She has heard their stories of sailing overseas. “I said, ‘Wow, that sounds like the coolest thing I could ever do,’ ” she says. And while traveling, she says, “I’ll be doing something other people don’t — serving my country.” Engemann wants to continue on to Pensacola to become a navigator or copilot. But she knows it won’t be easy. “The physical fitness thing has always been the big challenge,” she says. “I thought I would be nervous, but now I’m just going to take it as it comes. I just want to be a better person because of it.” With 23 years in the Marines, Foshee says he’s a got a gut instinct about who will succeed and who won’t. “Let me see her, and I’ll tell you if she makes it or not,” he says, gazing at Engemann from a short distance away. A moment later he shakes his head. He’s skeptical she’ll be able to pass the physical fitness test without some extra help. “They have no idea what they’re getting into,” he says.
THE CANDIDATE officers, after looking over the paperwork of the members of Class 05-08, tell them which of their belongings they can and can’t bring for the first day. They watch as the newcomers cull through their baggage and place toiletries, socks and underwear (only white undergarments are permitted) into plastic bags called “lucky bags.” The rest of their belongings will be taken separately to their rooms. A candidate officer tells Engemann to remove her hairbrush. “I’m not allowed to brush my hair?” she asks. She laughs and adds, “That’s OK. Less hassle for me.” Cole is told to remove his watch and to replace his contacts with eyeglasses. Dust kicked up during training can aggravate contact lens wearers. The upperclassmen emphasize the need to stay hydrated, urging them to drink right there on the spot. The new students now get another small lesson on how everything at OCS must be done in a particular way. You don’t just pick up a cup and drink. “You are going to hold your cups with your left hand. And you are going to ground your four fingers together,” they’re told. “So go ahead and hydrate it well. When you’ve had enough, fall in behind your lucky bags.” The students climb into a van and are driven across the base to a cluster of institutional brick buildings, including classrooms, dormitories, a dining hall and administrative offices. Large grassy areas — perfect for physical training — surround the buildings. Except for occasional visits to other sites for specialized training and to get fitted for uniforms, this is where the students must remain. They won’t have liberty to roam the base or to leave it (other than on holidays) until about the ninth week of the program. The members of Class 05-08 arrive at one of the buildings in groups of about half a dozen. They are led through a set of doors and into a small hallway at the bottom of a staircase. They line up against the wall, with a candidate officer facing them. “If you listen to what I say, you will make it all right,” he tells them, before explaining how they will need to conduct themselves for the next 12 weeks. “Everything that comes out of your mouth, every time you talk, every time you use your vocal cords, you will be ballistic. Ballistic means you will talk in a loud, firm, forceful voice,” he says. He points out Vs taped to the floor. “The next thing I’m going to show you is the position of attention. Put your feet on the Vs. The inside of your soles should be grounded to the blue V. You will stand erect. You will not lock your knees. If you lock your knees, you may pass out. You will roll your fingers into a fist and keep your thumbs along your trouser seam. Your palms will be rolled back so your pinkies touch the fabric.” When he tells them to tuck in their shirts, they do. But they forget something. “That’s an ‘Aye, sir,’ ” he shouts.
Then he gives the order for them to lace their shoes properly. The lights flicker. The drum beats deafeningly. And screams of “Aye, sir” echo off the stairwell walls. “Faster!” someone yells at Gottschalk. He and the others had heard this kind of treatment was awaiting them. But it doesn’t reduce the decibels. It doesn’t stop the yelling in their ears. I knew something like this was coming, Lobecker thinks. I knew candi-o’s [candidate officers] were going to do it, not the Marine drill instructors. They can’t beat on us. They can only yell at us. She actually smiles. “There’s no smiling at OCS,” one of them barks at her. After that, she tries to keep her head down. Her hands are shaking. She hasn’t been treated this way since boot camp three years earlier. After redoing her own laces, she helps someone else. Looking out for your shipmates is a lesson that will be painfully driven home in the weeks ahead.
THEY ARE quickly brought upstairs to get measured for their first uniforms. They are ordered to stand in line in the hallway outside the supply room, where candidate officers are waiting for them. They are given detailed directions. One at a time, they must step toward the doorway, turn sharply and shuffle their feet up to a line. Then they must reach to the open door open-handed and bang on it three times. They must properly address the men and women in the room, without looking them in the eye. “Good afternoon, ladies. Good afternoon, gentlemen,” they are supposed to say. One student makes the mistake of saying, “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.” “This is not a circus,” he’s harshly rebuked. “It’s good afternoon, ladies. Good afternoon, gentlemen.” While being measured from head to toe, the students bark, “Aye, sir,” and “Aye, ma’am” as loudly as possible. Their voices are quickly getting hoarse. Beads of sweat appear on their upper lips and sideburns. They are constantly making mistakes. Some blink their eyes nervously while being reprimanded and trying to remember the steps correctly.
Relax. Calm down. Think about what you have to do, Lobecker thinks. Engemann is sweating badly when it’s her turn. Her flimsy lucky bag is ripping, and she’s desperately trying to keep its contents from spilling out. Don’t worry about them. They can scream all they want, she thinks. But she makes so many mistakes, she is sent to the end of the line to endure it all over again. “Quit looking around!” one of them barks at Cole. “What are you looking at?” “This officer candidate is looking straight ahead, sir,” he shouts. Classmate Brittany Hotmer is looking ashen-faced, emotionless. She won’t “sound off” like the other candidates. Foshee pulls her aside to offer words of encouragement. “Don’t let this defeat you,” he says. “The louder you scream, the more people will back off you.” She makes it through, but her composure and confidence appear shot. Afterward, they are taken to their quarters, where they put on their uniforms. They will share a room with one other person, but they’ll be switched around during their stay so they get to know more of their classmates. Each gets a twin-sized bed, a desk and a closet. Later, Engemann reflects on the challenges of the first day. “It’s a bunch of stupid little instructions, and it would be so easy if they weren’t yelling at you and you weren’t so nervous,” she says. “Your mind just…” She groans and makes a cramping sound. Foshee says, “It’s all a stressor. It’s what I call the OCS pressure cooker.” He’s remained behind the scenes today, but in less than 48 hours, Foshee will introduce himself to the new class and give a frank and fearsome talk about what lies ahead. He’ll tell them that OCS is “the toughest commissioning program in any of the armed services” because so much physical training and academics are packed into such a relatively brief period. “When you get that gold bar in 12 weeks, it ain’t going to be something thrown at you,” he’ll say. “It will be something you earned. I can tell you this will probably be tougher than anything you’ve done in your life.” He’ll begin yelling as he tells them only a SEAL (the Navy’s “special warfare” unit) could make it through the program without needing to lean on others. “No one else can do it on their own!” he’ll say. And he’ll offer them a sobering guarantee. “I will tell you right now — not every one of you is going to graduate with this class. You won’t. It won’t ever happen. It never has; it never will. Now am I trying to scare you? No. I’m just trying to impress upon you, this is not a joke.” It’s the first day and the students have had only a few hours of orientation — or disorientation. The days ahead will be much longer and more difficult. Some will experience failures and setbacks like they’ve never experienced before. Some will make it. And some won’t. rsalit@projo.com / (401)277-7467 |
BACK TO MAIN | Arrival |
Uniformity |
Under the Guns |
Welcome Aboard
Toughest Test |
Repairs |
Taking the Helm |
Shipping Out |
| About the series
Your turn:
How has your military experience contributed to where you are today?
©The Providence Journal 2008
