Suffer in Silence

by David Reid

  “Aw, honey, stop acting like you don’t love me.” Ramirez raised his right arm and beckoned. “Give me a hug.”

  “I’ll pass on that one, compadre.”

  “Come on. You’re hurting my feelings.”

  Jones darted in, pressed his chin against Ramirez’s shoulder, and darted out.

  “Much better.” Ramirez smiled slightly and closed his eyes. “You boys need to get back to base, no? It’s getting late for a bunch of tadpoles.”

  Grey gave an exaggerated bow. “We’re at your service, Ramirez. You need anything, you give us a call.”

  “Thanks.” His eyes were still closed. “I mean it. I don’t know what I’d do without you guys. Now get out of here.”

  At the door, Grey turned and said, “Just in case anybody asks, we’re all brothers by way of adoption, right?”

  Ramirez laughed softly. “Later, bro.”

  SIX

  GREY LINED UP ACROSS from Murray on the beach. He propped his fins by his left foot, held his sharpened knife in his left hand, and cupped his polished CO2 cartridge in his right hand. He turned around.

  “Murray, check me out.”

  If any strap on his gray inflatable life jacket was twisted, it meant an inspection failure, and an inspection failure meant pain. Grey had experienced enough pain over the last few days. Things had been going poorly ever since Ramirez took a nosedive into the bottom on Monday. It was Friday now, and Grey knew he should be excited for the weekend, but all he could think about was getting the swim over with.

  “You’re fine, sir. No twists.”

  A diesel engine roared to life somewhere off the beach. Instructors on the way. Grey came to attention as the truck bounced onto the beach, followed by a gaggle of instructors in wet suits.

  “Drop.” Osgood’s voice echoed through the truck’s PA system. “Corpsmen, give me a water temp.”

  Immediately two students dashed for the water. They trotted from the surf dripping wet moments later. One of the corpsmen produced a metal thermometer and handed it to Instructor Osgood.

  “Fifty-five degrees,” Osgood boomed. “Wet-suit tops stay on.”

  Several instructors started moving down the two lines of swimmers, inspecting knives, checking life vests, and dishing out harassment to their hearts’ content. Instructor Heisler moved down Grey’s line from the right side, Instructor Furtado from the left. Please, please let it be Heisler. The two moved closer, and suddenly Heisler stepped away and walked to the truck.

  “Nervous, sir?” Furtado asked. “You look like shit.” He snatched the knife from Grey’s hand and ran the blade across his arm. Grey watched a series of hairs collect along the blade’s edge; it was sharp. Furtado grunted and returned the knife. “You know how to use that thing, sir?”

  “Hoo-yah, Instructor Furtado.”

  “You sure about that? You think you have the balls to gut a man, watch as his intestines spill out on the sand?”

  Very nice. “I don’t know, Instructor Furtado.”

  “You don’t know?!” Furtado yelled. “Well, you better find out, sir, ’cause we’re in the business of killing, and I sure as hell don’t want some chickenshit officer trying to lead a bunch of warriors.” He grabbed Grey’s CO2 cartridge and turned it over in his hands. “Looks like you scrubbed a toilet with this thing. You shine it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Put your shit away and drop down, sir.”

  Grey obediently sheathed his knife and screwed in his CO2 cartridge before assuming the push-up position. Furtado didn’t let him stop at twenty; at repetition one hundred Grey started to sweat beneath his wet-suit top. This definitely wouldn’t help his swim time. Minutes passed as Grey shifted uncomfortably, waiting for the command to recover.

  “Hit the surf,” Osgood boomed. Murray grabbed Grey’s life jacket and pulled him to his feet. They ran toward the surf together as Grey struggled to pull on his Neoprene hood. The icy water stung as it moved up his legs, a crescendo of pain that peaked when the frigid ocean slapped into his balls. Grey turned around and sat down in the water to pull his fins on. Murray smiled next to him.

  “You like this, don’t you?” Grey asked as the white water foamed around them.

  “It’s the easiest thing we do,” Murray replied, “except for maybe the obstacle course. There’s no goon squad, and the instructors can’t really give us a lot of shit.”

  Grey hated the swims—the cold, the boredom, the challenge of trying to stay on course, the stress of staying within arms length of Murray. He’d rather run.

  “Let’s hit it,” Murray said as he pulled on his mask.

  They sidestroked through the surf, diving for the bottom when a breaker rolled in. Grey tried to establish a comfortable rhythm. Swim pairs were required to stay close together, which demanded a mutual understanding of pacing and a healthy dose of courtesy. If the lead swimmer was pulling away, he would back off the pace a little, and if a swimmer wanted to change sides, he would tap his partner on the shoulder. They fell into a groove as they reached the orange buoy that marked the starting line.

  As they bobbed in the current, Murray asked, “You coming tonight?”

  “Where?”

  “A bunch of us are going out—probably downtown. You up for it?”

  “I don’t know. I told Vanessa she could come visit tonight.”

  “Sir,” Murray scolded, “there is a time for pussy, and there’s a time to hang with the boys. Who’s gonna have your back when you get caught in a firefight? Vanessa? I don’t think so. You need some quality bonding time with the rest of us: drink a shit-ton, get in a fight or two, chase some tail.”

  “I’ll pass on the fighting and chasing tail, but I’ll give it some serious thought.”

  “Sir, you’re being a nerd. Don’t think too hard.”

  Grey laughed and splashed water in his swim buddy’s face. Murray always looked absurd with a face mask on. It pulled up his upper lip and stretched out the skin around his eyes, lending him an uncanny fishlike appearance.

  “Go!” Chief Lundin shouted, catching them off guard. They kicked hard with their fins, trying to get a lead on the pack. Grey hated having to swim over other students; it could lead to hard feelings. His world became a series of flashes—gray, green, gray, green. The sky and the murky ocean passed in series before his eyes as he propelled himself forward. The briny taste of salt water mixed with the faint aroma of gasoline created a nauseating concoction in his mouth. And Murray’s big fish eyes, wide open and blank, were unavoidable. Stroke, kick, kick, kick, glide. Grey became a machine, thoughtless, unfeeling, uninterested. His mind drifted away as he headed north toward the turnaround buoy. The two miles went quickly, and Grey was pleased when they easily passed the required time.

  “Bottom sample,” Chief Lundin requested pleasantly. He watched them from the boat floating at the finish line. Crap. They were too far offshore.

  “You ready?” Murray asked.

  “No,” Grey answered. “But let’s get it over with.”

  They counted to three and slipped below the surface. Grey immediately started kicking, struggling against the buoyancy of his wet-suit top. Ten feet, twenty feet … The bottom failed to appear. Grey cleared his ears. Thirty feet. The bottom was still nowhere in sight. He kicked harder, and suddenly his outstretched hand touched sand. The visibility was horrible. Grey swam along the bottom, his lungs burning. Finally he found what he was looking for—a rock. Sand was acceptable as a bottom sample, but there was always the chance it would disappear by the time a diver reached the surface. Rocks were safe. Grey grabbed the smooth stone and kicked hard for the surface. Murray was already there, waiting with a sand dollar perched on his head. Grey held up the stone for Lundin’s inspection.

  “Get out of here,” he said, dismissing them with a wave.

  They kicked toward shore on their backs, taking their sweet time. Because they had been the second pair across the finish line, having enough time to change wouldn’t be a problem.


  “You have to come tonight,” Murray said as they neared the surf zone. “That’s an order, sir.”

  “An order, eh?” Grey snorted. “Well in that case, count me in, captain.”

  “Right.” Murray eyed an approaching swell. “Now’s it’s time for a little bodysurfing.”

  “But we’re supposed to keep a low profile in the water, just like a mission,” Grey protested.

  “Mission, shmission. The instructors won’t see us. Stop worrying.” Murray turned onto his stomach and started kicking hard. With a shrug, Grey did the same, timing his surge of power so that the wave would pick him up. Sure enough, he felt the wave grab hold and launch him forward, pushing him fiercely down the face of the wave. Just as the white water crashed behind him, he glanced to his left and saw Murray cut toward him with one arm extended Superman style. They collided lightly and managed to stay stable, riding the wave together toward shore.

  “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Murray asked, standing up in the water. He pulled his fins off and dropped his mask so that it hung around his neck.

  Grey spit out some salt water and wiped a hand across his mouth. A loud belch rumbled up from his gut. They sloshed through the inshore area and crossed the beach, stopping next to Osgood’s truck.

  “Swim Pair Nine, Grey and Murray,” they chanted in unison.

  “Drop down, you sorry sacks of shit. You don’t think I saw you joyriding out there? Time to pay the man.”

  Murray looked over apologetically as they started cranking out push-ups.

  “I’ll give you three minutes to wheelbarrow around that beach marker and back,” Osgood said, “and if you make it, I’ll let you go.”

  “Hoo-yah!” Murray yelled.

  “You’re on the clock.”

  Murray immediately jumped up and grabbed Grey’s legs. Well, I guess that settles it. It seemed more appropriate for Murray to take the bottom position, considering he had masterminded the bodysurfing that got them into trouble in the first place. But there wasn’t any time to argue now. Grey lurched forward and started running on his hands. Three minutes would be tough, but it was do-able. The old familiar burn started in his arms, and by the halfway point he was ready to pass out in the sand. Pain is weakness leaving the body. He repeated the mantra over and over in his head to no avail. Pain was pain; everything else was bullshit. He collapsed in a heap in front of the truck as Osgood casually consulted his watch. The bald instructor deliberated for a moment, then jerked his head toward the decon showers. Grey scrambled to his feet and bolted to safety with Murray at his heels.

  They quickly rinsed the salt water from their gear, then hurried to the pit, where their pants, shirts, and helmets were arranged in a neat line. After yanking off their wet-suit tops and stowing their swim gear in their seabags, they fumbled with their pants, their limbs shaking violently from the cold. The class trickled in slowly, and Grey and Murray helped the stragglers change. They were running out of time.

  Smurf waddled around the corner, waving his arms frantically. “Four minutes. We have four minutes to be on the obstacle course.” Out of breath, eyes rimmed with red, pale skin, he looked like a madman. Must be the pressure.

  “I give him a week,” Murray mumbled quietly.

  “Hell, why not make it a day,” Grey countered. “He’ll be gone this afternoon.”

  Smurf was panicked; he stumbled over everything and accomplished nothing. Suddenly Grey felt sorry for the midget class leader. He looked so hopeless.

  “Let me help you,” Grey offered, picking up a swim fin and throwing it in his bag.

  Smurf was taken aback. The two of them generally did not enjoy a close relationship. Moments later the whole class was on the beach, sprinting toward the obstacle course. Once they reached the first obstacle, they lined up from fastest to slowest. Grey would start second. He always started second. His only competition came from a brute of a student named Warrior. The last name was real, and it fit. He had a grim-reaper tattoo on his left bicep, and his muscular arms seemed too long for his body. The width of his iron lats forced him to hold his arms away from his body, and the end result was a torso that looked like an upside-down triangle. Warrior muscled his way over obstacles while Grey finessed them. The last time they ran the course, Grey finished only five seconds behind his teammate.

  “Hey, Stanford,” Warrior said, punching Grey in the arm. “Think you’re gonna beat me today?”

  “Maybe,” Grey said, “but you’re the man, Warmonger. A mere mortal such as myself would naturally have trouble taking you down.”

  “Damn straight.” Modesty was not one of his virtues.

  The dreaded rumble of diesel trucks echoed from the beach. The class snapped to attention. Chief Baldwin pulled the lead truck to a stop in the sand and stepped out.

  “OIC, what’s your muster?”

  Smurf waddled over and said something quietly.

  “Eighty-six, eh? We’ll see about that.” Baldwin approached the line of students. “Give me a count.”

  A series of numbers rippled down the line, ending as Warrior grunted, “eighty-five.”

  “What?” The usually unflappable Baldwin kicked a spray of sand toward the students. “I try to help you out, and this is how you repay me? False muster?” He stormed up to Smurf, bent over, and yelled louder. “False muster, sir?”

  Smurf just quivered in place.

  “Fucking false muster? You are finished, sir. You are fucking finished!”

  Grey felt his body tense up. Those were not good words from the class proctor.

  “Hit the surf, sir, and think hard while you’re gone. You better be able to tell me who’s missing when you get back here.”

  Smurf grabbed his swim buddy, a petty officer, and bolted for the ocean.

  “Who can give me a muster?” Baldwin bent over, scooped up handfuls of sand, and hurled them toward the class. “Someone better give me an accurate muster, because your class leader is a failure. A fucking failure!”

  A hand shot up in the middle of the line.

  “Let’s hear it.”

  The student stepped forward. It was Rogers. “The correct muster is eighty-five, Chief Baldwin. Petty Officer King is presently at medical.”

  “At medical,” Baldwin mused, stroking his mustache. “At medical…” A palpable wave of heat flowed into Baldwin’s pale face. “Okay.” He sounded calm. Too calm.

  “I didn’t get a chance to tell the OIC,” Rogers said quietly.

  Baldwin spun on his heels and stormed over to the truck. He came back with a shovel and an orange cone. “Murray, get out here.” Murray obediently trotted forward. Baldwin whispered something, and Murray flailed away at the sand with the shovel. By the time Smurf and his swim buddy returned from their lengthy journey to the surf, Murray had created a shallow pit.

  “Smurf. Mr. Rogers. Get comfortable,” Baldwin ordered, pointing at the pit.

  They dropped onto their backs.

  “Bury them,” he said, turning to Murray. Within a minute only their heads showed above the sand. Baldwin pulled the orange cone down over Rogers’s head, hiding him from sight.

  “School circle!” Baldwin yelled. Once the class had gathered around, he lowered his voice. “Leadership lesson number one: never, ever leave a man behind. I thought I already went over that, but apparently I wasn’t clear enough. Next time this happens, someone will go away. I mean it. You don’t have to quit, gentlemen; we can get rid of you.” Baldwin nudged the orange cone with his foot. “Mr. Rogers is wearing the dunce cap because he is the source of the problem. He neglected to tell the class leader that King was at medical, thereby causing a false muster. Mr. Rogers is a safety hazard. And the OIC is always at fault, which is why Smurf is buried alongside Rogers.” Baldwin regarded the buried students thoughtfully. “These two can keep me company. The rest of you line it up.”

  Several instructors clambered out of the diesel trucks and took their stations along the obstacle course. Warrior stood read
y at the starting line, flexing and relaxing his enormous lats. Larsen, the argumentative sandy-haired seaman, stood next to the first obstacle with a stopwatch. As owner of the slowest obstacle-course time, he had the dubious honor of reading off times until someone from the front finished and took over.

  “Sub-six today,” Warrior grunted. “Watch me.”

  “You go, girl.” Grey gave him a cheesy thumbs-up. Thirteen minutes was a passing time on the obstacle course. Under ten minutes was good. Sub-six was incredibly fast. Grey’s personal record was 6:18.

  “Go!” Warrior lifted himself off the ground and muscled his way down the parallel bars. Grey had thirty seconds before he started. He watched Warrior drag himself over the low wall before bringing his attention back to the start. “Three, two, one, go!”

  Grey jumped onto the parallel bars and raced forward, carrying all his body weight on his arms. Next were the tires, which he ran through with ease. Then the low wall, the high wall, and then the dreaded barbed wire. Someone had obviously filled the pit. Occasionally students would venture out at night and deepen the crater beneath the barbed wire. Apparently the instructors had caught on and filled it in: the last wire was strung a matter of inches from the sand. Grey dropped onto his stomach and wormed forward, keeping his body pressed flat against the ground. The last wire dragged across his back as he squirmed beneath it, ripping a large hole in his shirt. He bolted to his feet and ran to the cargo net. At approximately fifty feet, the vertical net was no joke for students who were afraid of heights. Grey clambered up it with confidence, flinging himself over the top with ease. Instructor Furtado waited impatiently at the bottom.

  “Give it up, sir. It’s not your place to beat an enlisted man.”

  “We’ll see,” Grey said quietly as he stepped on the first balance log. It rolled freely from side to side, and he had to walk slowly to keep from slipping off. Furtado walked alongside him.

  “Your balance doesn’t look so good, sir. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve never done this before.”

  Grey continued on to the second log, then the last. Suddenly the log stiffened beneath his feet. It wasn’t rolling. Grey looked over his shoulder. Furtado had a boot firmly planted on it.