The candidates are ordered to do leg raises on the sand that they had spread earlier on the floor.

Officer Candidate School (OCS) recently returned to Naval Station Newport. Those who complete the rigorous 12-week program become commissioned officers in the U.S. Navy. But not all are successful. Reporter Richard Salit and photographer Frieda Squires followed five candidates—Adam Cole, Sarah Engemann, Matthew Gottschalk, Nicole Lobecker and Jason Moehlmann— who joined Class 05-08 last fall.

The sound of military boots on floor tiles breaks the silence in the dimly lit corridor.

Eight Marines in camouflage uniforms make their way down the hall and past the small night lights built into the walls. They stop outside a set of closed double doors. On the other side are the students’ dormitory-style rooms.

Reveille is at 4:30 a.m. Moments away.

It’s “Wake-Up Wednesday,” the first time the newest class at OCS will meet the people who will, in essence, be their puppeteers for the next 12 weeks, the ones who can make or break their dreams of becoming naval officers, the ones who can inflict pain and anguish like they’ve never known. They’re the Marine drill instructors.

The DIs, as they’re known, lean against the walls and let Marine Gunnery Sgt. Sandra Center stand right in front of the double doors. She is in charge of Class 05-08. Everyone stands still while Center checks her watch. She puts her arm down. She waits. She checks it again. The third time, someone whispers, “Time for raging bull.”

Center bursts through the doors, slamming them open.

“Get on up, right now!” she yells, shattering the silence.

The doors down the hallway swing open. The students, who share rooms in pairs, scramble out and take positions on either side of their doorways. They wear blue shorts and white T-shirts.

“5-4-3-2-1 and zero,” barks Center.

“Freeze, candidate, freeze!” they answer.

“Now, when I tell you to, you’re going to get the shower shoes off your feet and you’re going to put your runners on. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, ma’am,” they answer. A few say “yes, sir” but aren’t caught.

“Move,” she commands.

“Kill,” they answer, giving the response they were taught whenever ordered to move.

The students rush back into their rooms and return with their running shoes. The other drill instructors watch their every move, screaming at them to hurry.

“You’re going to make sure the runners are friggin’ on and the friggin’ laces are tucked in,” Center says.

Swearing is discouraged by Marine drill instructors these days, but when Center barks out “friggin’,” it sounds no less intimidating than the explicative she avoids saying — especially when her mouth opens wide and spits out the word fiercely. Her eyes narrow, her whole body tenses and she leans forward as if letting loose a volley of artillery fire.

“Face to the right, right now. Step it out right now,” she says.

The students are led into the wider, main hallway. They are quickly divided into small groups and then led in what the Marines call RPT, or remedial physical training.

As they run in place and do a variety of calisthenics, the drill instructors scrutinize and yell at them.

“Pushups now! … Get your backs straight now! ... Faster now! ... Louder now.”

“Aye, sir,” the students answer after each command, even as they struggle to keep their legs in the air during leg lifts or their bodies off the floor while doing pushups.

“Through pain,” they say on the way up; “comes discipline,” they finish on the way down.

The din of commands and responses continues for five minutes until Center rushes down the middle of the hall and yells, “Now stop! Now stop!”

They return single-file to the students’ wing and are ordered to pick up the canteens they had left on the floor. Wherever they go during most of the next 12 weeks, they will take their canteens with them. Hydration is as essential in training as in combat.

“You are not guzzling the water!” Center says. “You are sipping.”

By now the hallway is filled with the unpleasant smell of morning breath. The students have had nothing to eat, nor a chance to brush their teeth.

Finally, the students are ordered to get their towels and toiletries and to visit the head for morning “hygiene.” No showers yet. There’s more physical training first. They go outside into the darkness and a chilling breeze, for more of Wake-Up Wednesday.

“It’s indoctrination into the military,” Master Gunnery Sgt. Robert Foshee , the chief drill instructor, explains afterward. “The DIs are inflicting a lot of stress. They are hollering. For a lot of candidates, it’s their first time in the military. It’s to try and separate the weak from the strong.

“A lot of them are apprehensive. Fearful. There’s a lot of adrenaline flowing through their blood. They’ve heard a lot of stories about today from other candidates or on Web sites. But until you face eight Marine Corps drill instructors for the first time, face to face…” He doesn’t finish the sentence but adds simply, “You can prepare as much as you like.”

Observing this morning’s “evolution,” as events are called at OCS, is Marine Maj. Joshua Kissoon, the program’s assistant operations officer.

“All of this time since they have been there, it has been get a haircut, eat some chow, get your dental done, get the admin stuff taken care of. Now you will see where the structure will start forming,” he says. “It’s shock and awe, kind of.”

The purpose, he says, is to get many “to act as one. We use drills as the basis.” It doesn’t matter whether some of the class members are brand new to the military or are enlisted sailors who have distinguished themselves, he says. “The first week I would try to treat everyone the same.”

It’s also to see who has the right stuff to become an officer. Some people come for a job because they can’t find another one. Some come because their families have military backgrounds and they are expected to carry on the tradition.

“You may not make it if you feel you have to be here,” Kissoon says. The program is so grueling that “the question, ‘Why am I here?’ starts to crop up. Lack of sleep and yelling, “That alone wears you out.”

“A lot of people can handle the stress. Some of them will be in good shape,” Kissoon says, but “when you combine the mental and physical stress at the same time, that’s when it becomes hard.… If you are deployed in a military situation, you’re going to have to be able to separate the mental from the physical.”

IF THE ONLY thing the bleary-eyed students could see early in the morning was sweat and the fierce face of a Marine DI, and all they could feel was fatigue and pain, the next few hours bring some relief.

The students, in their ill-fitting poopy suits, march to a one-story building, where they lay down their canteens and goofy chrome dome helmets. When the doors open, they reveal a large, open room full of clean and crisp uniforms — from caps to shoes and socks to gloves. Much like any other store, the clothing is on display on shelves, in cubicles and on hangers. But there are no plaids or stripes — just solid blues, blacks and whites, and the pervasive odor of polyester, which for some reason smells a bit like body odor.

With a drill sergeant and candidate officers around them, the students remain stiff and subdued as they gather around the circular counter at the center of the store. Several of the civilian employees stand inside it, including shop manager Joanne Nadeau.

“Things are more relaxed here,” says Nadeau, trying to put them at ease. “You can look at the ladies when they speak to you.”

After she finishes explaining the payment plans for all of the clothing, which amounts to more than $2,000, she reminds them, “Just remember, you owe us money.”

“Yes, ma’am,” they reply, loudly in unison.

“You make me nervous doing this,” says Nadeau, who supplies all personnel on the Navy base and is not yet used to the candidates from OCS.

The students form lines to get measured. They read their gouge books while waiting their turn.

“You can smile, you know,” Phillipa Teesdale says while measuring one of the stern sailors.

Some warm to her charm and smile, but only fleetingly.

The candidates are given their working whites, working blues, working khakis, a relax jacket, a raincoat, gloves and black shoes. They try everything on to see how it fits and what will need tailoring. They’re told that it’s good if the uniforms fit snugly since they’re sure to lose weight in the weeks ahead.

Meanwhile, the upperclassmen show the indoctrination candidates how to put on their caps without getting fingerprints on the brim and how to make sure they fit correctly.

Sarah Engemann has had a rough first couple days after being bumped out of class 05-08 and into H. (Holding Company) for medical reasons. But in the women’s shoe aisle, she doesn’t show it.

She sits on a bench and appears delighted to be doing something that she enjoyed before arriving at OCS — clothes shopping.

“May I please try an 8½ wide?” she says, beaming as the clerk turns to get her shoes. “Thank you, sir.”

The joy of shopping is short-lived. One of the hardest days at OCS is just 48 hours away. It’s called Outpost, and when it’s over, Engemann will have more company in H.

TOMORROW: “Welcome Aboard,” the first week ends in pleasure and pain.

rsalit@projo.com