Our first few days at OCS began the same way. We were awakened “crisply” at 5:30 am by fellow officer candidates (those in the class next to graduate) and told to muster in the hallway. There, we were put through a series of “calisthenics” — situps, pushups, running in place (physical training, or “PT”). It seemed the intent was to get us to the point of puking. Those leading the different exercises rotated, but, of course, we didn’t. Some of us were in excellent shape. My roommate, Lenny Borg, had the upper body of a gymnast. I, on the other hand, though somewhat “lean,” was limited in musculature. Most of us, I believe, were unsuccessful in doing all that had been ordered to the full degree.
Then it was back to the room to make your bed . . . the Navy way. Precise number of inches for the turned down top sheet. Crisp “hospital” corners at the bottom. Top sheet and blanket tight enough to allow a coin to bounce on it. Whether the bed was properly made or not, it was often mussed up by an inspector, maybe more than once, so you had to do it again. The time for that meant you had less time for other things, so you began to feel constantly behind.
Next, it was head call. You had maybe a couple of minutes to do your business, brush teeth, etc. Then, having gotten into uniform, muster for our first morning formation. Form into groups, march to the chow hall. First few times, we were given only several minutes to go through the lines and eat.
The first full day was a Sunday, so it was holiday routine . . . for others. Our Sunday was spent studying org charts and lists, all the while polishing our “boondockers,” also “boonies,” the black shoes in the style of chukka boots issued to us, or shining the brass of our belt buckles. The boonies were all leather, not corfam or other shiny material. While the rest of the boot had to be somewhat polished, the focus was on the toe. You needed to get that to shine.
Our overseers would frequently enter our rooms, which required us to stand at attention. They would then ask questions about the information we had been ordered to learn and, if your answer was incorrect, you would be “gigged,” given one or more demerits.
We were told that weekend liberty, the freedom to leave the base, was dependent on not having too many “gigs.” At the rate I remember being gigged, I calculated that, by the third day, I had easily exceeded the allowed number and would not likely see liberty for many weeks. And I had reached that level in just the first couple of days!
Among the information we needed to know was the NATO phonetic alphabet, i.e., alfa, bravo, charlie . . . . We also had to switch to 24-hour time. We no longer got up at 5:30 a.m., but 0530. We didn’t go to bed at 10:30 p.m., but 2230. (My kids and several of my friends still bridle a little as I often use, even now, the NATO alphabet and 24-hour time. It stuck.)
There were frequent inspections, of rooms and of uniform. Room inspections were often unannounced, except by the presence of a couple of overseers, who did the “white glove” thing, finding “dust,” noting improper storage of items in closets, etc. More gigs. Uniform inspections emphasized things like the “gig line.” You had a proper gig line when the zipper line of your trousers, the edge of the belt buckle, and the seam of your buttoned “blouse” lined up exactly. (It irks me somewhat, but I still make a correct gig line.)
It was not that any one thing was terribly difficult, though morning PT was often taxing, eating was sporadic, and bathroom access was sometimes “uncomfortable.” It was more that you couldn’t anticipate what was going to happen and, even if you had learned your “homework,” no success was acknowledged.
On one evening, maybe Tuesday night of the first week, maybe a day or so later, overseers ran into our area and announced an immediate uniform inspection. I remember lining up with the rest of A6903 along the wall in our corridor. I think it was our company commander, the officer candidate selected from that top class, who did the inspection. He stood in front of each of us, looked us up and down, and itemized the various things wrong with our appearance. Among the many gigs he gave me was one for “stuckle on my buckle.”
Fellow A6903er Dennis Greenspon has some memories of that night, too. “My remembrance is that the company commander, or whatever he was, and another guy were wearing their dress swords,” he said. “They faced each other and drew their swords in salute. When one of them pocked a hole in the overhead and started to crack up . . . that’s when I finally started to think that something goofy was going on.”
As I calculated in my head the number of gigs I had received and tried to imagine what the next 17 weeks would be like, I felt I was at my breaking point.
Then . . . the hallway was filled with our overseers. And they were different. They were smiling, laughing, handing us cans of soda. We learned that our first several days at OCS was a hazing ritual and that it was over. The relief and happiness at that time, I think, were palpable.
I think I understand the objective of such a ritual. I think there may be some rationale for a period of stress and shock to transition from one style of living to another. It certainly made the rest of our time at OCS seem better. I “survived” that initial ritual and it seems the rest of A6903 did, too. I am also aware that our experience was less intense than “boot camp” for Navy and other services. I also suspect, however, there were young men who faltered during that time and may not have recovered fully.
In any case, I remember it still. Completely and entirely accurately, probably not, but I remember. I’m glad to see, too, that the process of indoctrinating civilians into military life has since become based more on psychology than tradition.
More to come about “regular” OCS.