just like the rest of their training. They deserved better, he knew, yet they wouldn't get it. There were few resources available to mark their graduation in the midst of a war.
The Queen came to my graduation , he thought, sourly. But there are no Royals here .
“Three months ago, you entered the Academy,” he said. Over two thousand prospective pilots had entered the academy; three-fourths of them had washed out. He wasn't sure if he should be relieved the compressed system was still excluding the unsuitable or worried that they were expelling pilots who would overcome their flaws, given time. “Now, you have qualified as pilots. Your assignments to carriers or orbital support bases are already being selected for you.”
A low ripple ran through the gathered trainees. They’d been told, in no uncertain terms, that they wouldn't be true pilots until they graduated. Now, with the course almost over, they could look forward to having their wings pinned to their uniforms and call themselves pilots.
“But you are still very young, very inexperienced,” Kurt continued. “You have not had the recommended number of hours in actual starfighters, no matter how many hours you have spent in the simulators. You have faced thousands of simulated aliens, yet you have faced no real danger during your training. And you have missed out on countless elements of the pre-war training program, everything from naval protocol to naval history.
“You will be assigned to units commanded by officers who have had all of that,” he explained. “They will also have had considerable experience with actually risking their lives in combat against the aliens. You would be well advised to learn from them, all of you, and not think that you are immortal and invincible. Because, I assure you, the aliens will happily take advantage of any overconfidence you happen to show.
“You have all done well,” he added. “Your presence here proves that, as I think you know. But you have a long way to go.”
He smiled at them. “Enough of that, for the moment,” he concluded. “If the first row would like to form an orderly line ...?”
Rose passed him the bag as the front row lined up, producing a ragged line that looked alarmingly unprofessional. Kurt sighed inwardly – standards were definitely slipping – and then opened the bag, revealing the first set of flying wings. His own set were prominently mounted on his shoulder, a memento of his days in the Academy. No matter what happened, he knew, they could not be legally taken from him. Ideally, they would be passed down to his children after he died.
“Form a proper line,” Kurt said, in some irritation. “And try to remember to salute your senior officers when you meet them.”
He sighed at the thought. Military protocol, no matter what the civilians thought, was important. It helped to build up both discipline and comradeship between officers and enlisted crewmen. But the new pilots were very hazy on the finer points of protocol. A number of them had had to practice saluting for weeks before they had it down to a fine art, while their responses were often wrong or badly out of place. They meant well, he knew, but they were going to have a rough time of it. At least the discipline problems had been weeded out early in the training period.
“Congratulations,” he said, as Sonny stepped up to Kurt. He pinned the wings to Sonny’s shoulder, then shook the young man’s hand. “I believe your assignment is waiting for you.”
Sonny’s eyes went wide. “A carrier?”
“Wait and see,” Kurt said. Ideally, he would have preferred not to send any of the trainees to a carrier, not when they lacked true experience. But no one had bothered to ask his opinion, nor would it have mattered in any case. The Royal Navy was desperately short of pilots. “I think you will
The Queen came to my graduation , he thought, sourly. But there are no Royals here .
“Three months ago, you entered the Academy,” he said. Over two thousand prospective pilots had entered the academy; three-fourths of them had washed out. He wasn't sure if he should be relieved the compressed system was still excluding the unsuitable or worried that they were expelling pilots who would overcome their flaws, given time. “Now, you have qualified as pilots. Your assignments to carriers or orbital support bases are already being selected for you.”
A low ripple ran through the gathered trainees. They’d been told, in no uncertain terms, that they wouldn't be true pilots until they graduated. Now, with the course almost over, they could look forward to having their wings pinned to their uniforms and call themselves pilots.
“But you are still very young, very inexperienced,” Kurt continued. “You have not had the recommended number of hours in actual starfighters, no matter how many hours you have spent in the simulators. You have faced thousands of simulated aliens, yet you have faced no real danger during your training. And you have missed out on countless elements of the pre-war training program, everything from naval protocol to naval history.
“You will be assigned to units commanded by officers who have had all of that,” he explained. “They will also have had considerable experience with actually risking their lives in combat against the aliens. You would be well advised to learn from them, all of you, and not think that you are immortal and invincible. Because, I assure you, the aliens will happily take advantage of any overconfidence you happen to show.
“You have all done well,” he added. “Your presence here proves that, as I think you know. But you have a long way to go.”
He smiled at them. “Enough of that, for the moment,” he concluded. “If the first row would like to form an orderly line ...?”
Rose passed him the bag as the front row lined up, producing a ragged line that looked alarmingly unprofessional. Kurt sighed inwardly – standards were definitely slipping – and then opened the bag, revealing the first set of flying wings. His own set were prominently mounted on his shoulder, a memento of his days in the Academy. No matter what happened, he knew, they could not be legally taken from him. Ideally, they would be passed down to his children after he died.
“Form a proper line,” Kurt said, in some irritation. “And try to remember to salute your senior officers when you meet them.”
He sighed at the thought. Military protocol, no matter what the civilians thought, was important. It helped to build up both discipline and comradeship between officers and enlisted crewmen. But the new pilots were very hazy on the finer points of protocol. A number of them had had to practice saluting for weeks before they had it down to a fine art, while their responses were often wrong or badly out of place. They meant well, he knew, but they were going to have a rough time of it. At least the discipline problems had been weeded out early in the training period.
“Congratulations,” he said, as Sonny stepped up to Kurt. He pinned the wings to Sonny’s shoulder, then shook the young man’s hand. “I believe your assignment is waiting for you.”
Sonny’s eyes went wide. “A carrier?”
“Wait and see,” Kurt said. Ideally, he would have preferred not to send any of the trainees to a carrier, not when they lacked true experience. But no one had bothered to ask his opinion, nor would it have mattered in any case. The Royal Navy was desperately short of pilots. “I think you will
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