#U.S. Marine

[dronescapesvideos]

A formation of U.S. Marine Corps Douglas SBD-5 Dauntless dive bombers from Marine Scouting Squadron 3 (VMS-3) "Devilbirds" in flight near the Virgin Islands. 1943.

➤➤HD IMAGE: https://dronescapes.video/SBD5

[armynavytestprep100]

Learn an easy way to solve AR and math at exam time

The OAR Test is used by the U.S. Navy to assess candidates for officer programs. The mathematics section of the OAR Test typically includes questions that assess arithmetic, algebra, geometry, and basic problem-solving skills. Below are 15 important objective-type questions that you might encounter in the OAR Test,

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The Arithmetic Reasoning section of the OAR test focuses on solving arithmetic word problems. Here are some important types of questions you may encounter in this section,

Which of the following numbers is divisible by 9? a) 172 b) 234 c) 415 d) 523

The correct answer is: b) 234.

Get more lesson on OAR PREP OFFICIAL 👈.

[peachespearsandplumbs]

[gwydionmisha]

Stay Noisy. It works sometimes.

[militarymenrbomb]

I found some more pics of "sarge"

[ghostwarriorrrr]

[us-armed-forces-society]

[lonestarbattleship]

USS NEVADA (BB-36) during the commissioning ceremony while docked at Charlestown Navy Yard, Boston, Massachusetts.

"The Marine Detachment, (under the command of Capt. Charles H. Lyman, USMC) while at attention next to Number #3 & 4 turret (starboard side) as they prepare for captain's inspection by Capt. William S. Sims, USN, Commanding Officer, U.S.S. NEVADA."

Photographed on March 16, 1916.

Colorized by LJ Hayes: link

[unbfacts]

The U.S. Navy estimates that heavy barnacle growth on ships can increase drag by up to 60%, leading to a 40% rise in fuel consumption.

[saturdays--sun]

anyway. shout out to selfshippers who write for their ships.

selfshippers who write long fics and drabbles and anything in between. selfshippers who like to plan their fics beforehand and those who prefer not to do any planning at all. selfshippers whose fics adhere to canon and those whose fics change it completely. selfshippers who take days to finish one fic and selfshippers that can finish ten in a week. and especially selfshippers who write for other selfshippers, too — who write gift fics, who roleplay other's f/os, who send headcanons and scenarios and letters and so much more.

there is so much love and creativity baked into every word you put to paper that can never be replicated. and your f/os love you so, so much for it. <3

[basicallyanotherwitchesthing]

W.H. Rankin - Isometric Way to Instant Fitness - Sphere - 1970

[obedientteens]

Honour, Duty, Service

The package arrived on a Tuesday, a plain brown box resting innocuously against the rest of the post. It was addressed to you, full legal name printed with unnerving precision. Inside, nestled in packing peanuts, was a simple black headset, sleek and futuristic. No note, no return address, just a prickle of unease crawling up your spine as you turned it over in your hands.

Curiosity, that most human of flaws, won out. You slipped the headset on, the interior a cool, velvety caress. A voice, smooth as buttered silk, filled your ears, "Welcome. You have been chosen."

Chosen for what? You never got the chance to ask. The world dissolved into a kaleidoscope of swirling colours, a pressure building in your head until you blacked out.

When you woke, you were in a sterile white room, the only furniture a chair and a table bolted to the floor. The headset was gone. The door opened, revealing a man in a crisp white lab coat, his smile failing to reach his cold, calculating eyes.

"Ah, good," he said, his voice devoid of warmth. "He's awake. The process can begin."

You tried to speak, to demand answers, but the words caught in your throat. Fear, raw and primal, choked you. You were trapped, a fly in the web of some shadowy organization, their purpose unknown but their methods terrifyingly efficient.

The sterile white room became your prison, your universe shrunk down to the four walls that held you captive. The process was slow, methodical, a methodical dismantling of your identity. It began with injections, cocktails of unknown substances that left you weak and pliant, your mind awash in a fog of disorientation.

Then came the lights, pulsing strobes of blinding intensity that seared patterns into your vision. The pain was excruciating, a vice crushing your skull from the inside out. You thrashed against the restraints, your screams swallowed by the padded walls.

Between the assaults, the propaganda seeped in, a constant drip-feed of indoctrination. Loudspeakers hidden in the walls hammered home the Marine Corps' virtues: honour, courage, commitment. They glorified their history, their victories, their unwavering dedication to duty.

You were shown images on a screen: proud Marines in crisp uniforms, flags waving in the breeze, enemies falling before their might. The images were accompanied by stirring music, anthems of patriotism and valour that wormed their way into your brain, burrowing deep into your subconscious.

Sleep deprivation became your constant companion. Days and nights blurred together, your only measure of time the pangs of hunger and the exhaustion that gnawed at your bones. When you were allowed to sleep, it was on a cold, hard cot, haunted by nightmares of battlefields and faceless enemies.

They broke you down, piece by piece, stripping away your individuality, your memories, your very sense of self. They targeted your vulnerabilities, exploiting your fears and insecurities, twisting them into a desperate need for the structure and certainty the Marine Corps offered.

Language drills were a constant torment. Your own name, once so familiar, became a foreign word, replaced by the numerical designation they assigned you. You were forced to repeat phrases, slogans, and the Marine Corps hymn until your voice was hoarse, your accent slowly morphing into the clipped, neutral tones of an American soldier.

Physical conditioning went hand-in-hand with the mental torture. You were pushed to your physical limits, forced to run until your lungs burned, to exercise until your muscles screamed for mercy. The pain, they told you, was weakness leaving your body, replaced by the strength and resilience of a Marine.

The process was brutal, relentless, designed to shatter your will and rebuild you in their image. By the time they deemed you ready, you were a blank slate, stripped of your past, your mind a vessel filled with their programming. You were no longer the man you once were. You were a weapon, forged in the fires of their making, ready to kill and die at their command. You were a US Marine.

The cold metal of the chair bit into your bare skin, the only warmth the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights overhead. Two figures flanked you, their faces obscured by surgical masks, their movements clinical and detached. They didn't speak, their silence amplifying the buzzing of the clippers as one of them switched it on.

Your hair, once a source of pride, maybe even a carefully styled statement, was the first to go. The clippers made short work of it, shearing through the strands, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. You flinched, the feeling of vulnerability amplified by the cold air now biting at your scalp. They offered no comfort, no reassurance, only the relentless whirring of the clippers as they worked, erasing another piece of your former self.

With your head shorn, your face took centre stage. The reflection staring back from the metal tray was a stranger, eyes dulled with exhaustion, skin pallid under the artificial light. A hand, clad in a latex glove, grasped your chin, tilting your head this way and that as the other figure meticulously shaved away any trace of stubble.

The blade was sharp, unforgiving, scraping against your skin. Each stroke felt like a violation, a stripping away of not just your hair, but your very identity. You were being made anonymous, a blank canvas upon which they would paint their ideal soldier.

The process was dehumanizing, a ritualistic stripping away of individuality. You were no longer a person with a name, a history, a sense of self. You were raw material, being moulded to fit the rigid standards of the Marine Corps.

Once the shaving was complete, they brought out the uniform: crisp, olive-drab trousers, a khaki shirt starched to military perfection, and heavy black boots that smelled faintly of polish and leather. You were dressed like a doll, your limbs manipulated into each garment, the buttons and zippers fastened with impersonal efficiency.

The cherry on top of the cake (so to speak) was the simple white cap, with a black visor sloping down over your eyes and a gold Marine Corps emblem taking pride of place right at the top, in line with your nose.

The fabric felt rough against your skin, the fit uncomfortably tight. It was a constant, physical reminder of your new reality, a uniform that marked you as property of the United States Marine Corps. Looking down at the unfamiliar clothing, you felt a wave of despair wash over you. Your transformation was nearly complete. The person you were, the life you knew, was fading into a distant, inaccessible memory. In its place stood a soldier, programmed for obedience, his mind and body forfeit to the will of his new masters.

By the time they shaved your head and dressed you in the unfamiliar uniform, you were already gone, a hollow shell ready to be filled with the unwavering loyalty of a US Marine. Your transformation to brainwashed soldier, was complete.

[lonestarflight]

Concept art of Convair Model 48 Charger with pontoons. The Model 48 was a prototype light attack and observation aircraft of the 1960s, developed to meet a requirement for a dedicated counter-insurgency (COIN) aircraft. It lost to the North America OV-10 Bronco.

Date: February 26, 1964

San Diego Air and Space Museum Archive: 87904366

[militarymenrbomb]

[ghostwarriorrrr]

[illustratus]

The Battle of Manila