Suffer in Silence

by David Reid

  “Whoops,” the instructor exclaimed, pushing the log with his foot.

  Grey flew backward through the air and landed on his back in the sand. Whoops my ass.

  “Better do it again, sir.” The tongue stud flashed in the sun.

  Grey ran back to the start of the obstacle. I’m not going to let this fucker slow me down. He ignored Furtado, blocking out the instructor’s crude taunts. He reached the end of the last log and moved on without hesitation. The rope transfer was a piece of cake—two ropes with a metal ring between them. Grey climbed up the first rope and used the ring to swing to the second. Then came the Dirty Name. The cursed obstacle had broken countless ribs over the years. Grey jumped up and caught the first log at stomach level. He carefully pulled himself to his feet, then he lunged for the second, higher log. With a thud his torso crashed into it, and Grey immediately threw his arms over the top to keep from slipping ten feet to the sand below. He jerked his legs rhythmically, pulled himself over the top, and dropped to the sand on the other side.

  “Don’t let an officer catch you,” Heisler yelled to Warrior, who was losing his lead. “Don’t disgrace us. You’ll pay if you do.”

  Grey accelerated the pace as he whipped through the metal bars of the Weaver and across the unstable Burma Bridge. Warrior grunted above him, muscling his way up the three-story wooden tower. Grey slowly closed the gap, skillfully and effortlessly pulling himself upward. They reached the top platform at the same time. Now came the most famous obstacle of all—the Slide for Life. Two parallel ropes ran at a shallow angle to the ground thirty feet below. They each grabbed a line and hooked their feet over the top of the rope. Then, moving like inchworms, they hung below the line and scooted themselves downward.

  “Let’s go, Warrior.”

  “It’s not over, sir.”

  “You had a thirty-second lead.” He couldn’t resist rubbing it in. “I’m way ahead.”

  Warrior suddenly increased his pace, hurling himself down the rope at the edge of control. He was moving too quickly.

  “Careful,” Grey warned, but it was too late. Warrior lost his grip and slipped through the air, landing with a thud on his back. The drop was less than twenty feet, but it was enough to do serious damage. Immediately the ambulance roared to life and raced over. Two instructors jumped out and leaned over Warrior.

  Grey hurried to the end of the rope, then turned back to where Warrior lay.

  “Get out of here. Finish the damn course,” an instructor yelled.

  Warrior wheezed loudly, his hands clutching at his chest. Burning with guilt, Grey reluctantly turned away and finished the course, his enthusiasm gone. Instructor Baldwin was waiting at the finish line.

  “6:59.” He looked down at his clipboard. “Major backslide. Hit the surf.”

  “But—”

  “I said hit the surf!”

  Grey did a 180 and jogged across the sandy plain toward the berm. It didn’t matter how fast he navigated the obstacles. If he didn’t improve his time, he got wet. Goddamn ridiculous policy. Do professional athletes set a personal record every time they compete? No. But BUD/S students, hell, they just need to try harder. Grey was not impressed with the logic behind punishing fast students for not improving constantly. It didn’t matter if he gave it his all each time: some days would be better than others.

  Grey watched with interest as Warrior rose to his feet, tenderly rubbing his chest. Thank God. He probably wouldn’t be the only sand dart of the day. Years ago a BUD/S commanding officer had strung up a safety net below the Slide for Life. It had an unintended effect; students were no longer afraid to drop off the line, and the number of trainees who failed that particular obstacle increased. Fear was a great motivating factor.

  The cool ocean was refreshing for a change. Grey sat in the shallows, resting his sore muscles. The day was far from over: drown-proofing would take up most of the afternoon. Although he was comfortable in the water, Grey didn’t relish the thought of having his hands and feet tied and being thrown into a pool.

  “Having fun?”

  Grey looked up. Furtado stood on the berm, glaring down at him. Fuck.

  “Since you seem to enjoy the ocean so much, why don’t you stay awhile?” the instructor yelled. He walked down the berm and approached Grey. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “I was on my way back—”

  “Bullshit. You were taking a break.” Furtado ran his tongue along his moist lips. “Go ahead. Get comfortable. Lie down.”

  Grey lowered his torso until he was flat against the bottom and his mouth rested just above the surface of the water. Furtado’s mouth moved, but Grey couldn’t hear a word: the rush of the ocean flooded his ears. The tide surged and he held his breath. His initial relief faded as his body cooled. Just another day in paradise.

  * * *

  The chili macaroni sloshed in Grey’s stomach as he shuffled away from the chow hall. For the first time in the history of Class 283, they actually had more than enough time to eat. In fact, they still had half an hour before they needed to get to the pool. As they were sitting in the chow hall, playing with their food, Petty Officer Young had uttered “Bat Cave” and received blank stares. The Bat Cave was a small empty plot of land sandwiched on all sides by low buildings—an ideal place to hide out. Young knew about it because this was his second time through BUD/S. He had been a member of Class 280, but three weeks from graduation he failed a run by ten seconds. Rather than drop him, the instructors had decided to send him back to day one. Grey admired the kid’s tenacity.

  The class jogged for several minutes before turning abruptly and filing down a narrow alley. The passage opened into a weed-infested lot paved with patchy asphalt and littered with trash. Grey knew that most people would find the place unappealing, even depressing, but to him it represented sanctuary. The class immediately flopped down and got comfortable. Grey used Rogers’s stomach as a pillow.

  “This is better than a warm slice of poontang.” Murray sighed, closing his eyes.

  “You ain’t never had good poontang then,” Jones drawled. “I could use a nice fat momma right about now.”

  “You’re right about that,” Rogers added. “Think of the warmth … her luscious bosom pressing against your back as she lovingly spoons your tired body. The release of tension, the complete relaxation…” He sighed dramatically.

  “You’re a strange cookie, sir,” Murray said.

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s the truth. You should be proud of your weirdness. I’ve never met anyone quite like you, sir. Besides, normal is boring.”

  “Is that why you’re such a scoundrel all the time, Murray? You’re afraid of normalcy?”

  “Scoundrel?”

  “Scoundrel, ruffian, troublemaker—pick your word.”

  “I rest my case.”

  Grey turned his eyes to the heavens. It was gray as far as the eye could see, but a small patch of blue sky opened over his head. He watched it change shape, growing and shrinking, pulsing like a jellyfish as it slowly inched eastward. His eyes grew heavy. Suddenly he was back at school, dancing with Vanessa, holding her tight as they turned circles in her dorm room. He lifted a hand and touched her cheek. She smiled and gazed at him with bedroom eyes. He leaned in for a kiss.

  “Feet!”

  Grey snapped back into the world and wiped a string of drool from his chin.

  “I thought we had twenty minutes to rest,” Grey said to no one in particular.

  “You’ve been asleep at least that long,” Rogers said. “Now get off my stomach.”

  Weird. Grey reluctantly stood up. The class formed into ranks and shuffled out of the alley. Within a few minutes they were undressing on the pool deck. Grey felt his stomach churn. Shouldn’t have eaten so much.

  The rumble of diesel engines echoed from the street, throwing the class into a panic. Grey quickly bundled his clothes together and jumped to attention just as Osgood ran into the compoun
d.

  “Get wet!”

  Some of the students were still undressing. They lurched to the pool with their pants around their ankles, much to the amusement of Osgood, who seemed unusually jovial. The class reassembled next to the chain-link fence.

  Redman stepped through the gate. “Get wet.”

  The class disappeared into the pool. Heisler appeared as they climbed back out.

  “Get wet.”

  The cycle continued until all twelve instructors were standing in the compound.

  “Anyone know what all the excitement is for?” Baldwin asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. “Chief Lundin got picked up for Senior Chief today.” Baldwin stepped aside. “Senior Chief, they’re all yours.”

  Senior Chief Lundin stood uncomfortably in front of the class and scratched his head. He looked at the drenched students and then at the pool. Finally he said quietly, “Get wet.”

  The class reappeared in front of him seconds later.

  “Right.” He clasped his hands in front of his stomach. “Drown-proofing. You’ve all practiced this before, right?”

  The class mumbled an affirmation.

  “Good. I’ll run over the procedures real quick, just as a refresher. Your partner will tie your ankles together and your hands together behind your back. Then you get dumped in the pool. Then you bob from the bottom of the pool to the surface, back and forth, back and forth. That lasts”—he looked over at Osgood, who held up five fingers—“five minutes. Then you float on your stomach for five minutes. After that, you travel one hundred yards across the pool and back. You can start bobbing once you return to your spot. And finally, you sink to the bottom, complete a front flip, a back flip, and then retrieve your mask using your pearly whites. Any questions?”

  “What if we break our restraints?” Rogers asked.

  “You fail. Pick a good partner—someone who can tie a knot.” Lundin scanned the group of students with red-rimmed eyes. “Anything else?”

  “What if we can’t float?” asked Jackson, the Mississippi Minister.

  “Once again, you fail.”

  “But it’s a racial thing, Senior Chief. Black men don’t float.”

  “Cry me a river.” Lundin chuckled. “I’ve seen black men pass this test.” He poked Jackson’s stomach with his finger. “You’ve got enough of a belly to keep you afloat.”

  “Senior.” Osgood pointed at his watch.

  “Right. Everyone partner up and line up at the nine-foot section. Let’s get this thing started.”

  Rogers poked Grey in the arm. “Partner?”

  “Sure. I’ll go first.” Grey sat at the edge of the pool and Rogers tied his hands behind his back. Once his wrists were secured, Grey strained against the line, testing the knot. “Tighter,” he said.

  Rogers retied the knot and moved on to Grey’s ankles.

  “Hurry the fuck up!” Osgood yelled. “Some of you shitheads are slower than my high school girlfriend!”

  “That’s pleasant,” Rogers mumbled. “What a gentleman.”

  “Prepare to enter the water!”

  Grey took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Relax.

  “Enter the water!”

  Rogers nudged Grey gently, and he slipped into the pool. He exhaled slowly, letting his body grow negatively buoyant. Soon he was standing on the bottom nine feet below. He pushed off gently … too gently. His momentum ran out three feet from the surface. He had a choice: let gravity slowly pull him to the bottom and try again, or thrash for the surface and look like a fool. Grey chose the former, preferring not to attract any extra attention. The pool bottom slowly rose to meet his feet, and he pushed off harder this time. Not a good start. His head broke the surface and he inhaled deeply. A glimpse of Rogers’s face wasn’t comforting; he was obviously worried. Grey smiled to reassure his friend as he exhaled through his nose. Soon he was bouncing off the bottom rhythmically, a strangely comforting motion. The silence of the pool was a nice change—no yelling, groaning, grunting, cursing.

  “Float!” Rogers yelled, moving his hand horizontally back and forth.

  Grey nodded and descended below the surface one more time. He collected himself as he rose off the bottom. Floating was the one aspect of drown-proofing Grey had trouble with. He was lean enough that staying on the surface required him to kick his legs steadily like a jellyfish pulsing its tentacles. As soon as his head broke the surface, Grey leaned forward and exposed as much of his back as possible to the air. Kick. Kick. Kick. He traveled slowly in a tight circle; the rules only allowed him a three-by-three-yard area to move around in. Every time he lifted his head for a breath, he slipped backward into the water and immediately had to lean forward again and wait patiently until his gentle kicks brought him to the surface. By the time his five minutes were up, he was on the verge of panic. He just couldn’t get enough air.

  “Travel!” Rogers yelled, pointing to the other side of the pool.

  Thank God. Grey porpoised across the pool, moving toward the other side. Turning around presented the only challenge. He jerked his body violently and swung his legs around, all the while sinking below the surface. With a powerful kick he rose back up and began traveling in the other direction. For a little excitement, he poured on the speed, adopting the motion of a butterfly stroke without the benefit of his arms. He was the first one back, and he resumed bobbing immediately.

  “Back flip!”

  Grey sank to the bottom, kicked off, and immediately threw all his weight backward. He arced in a painfully slow circle as water rushed up his nose. He sank to the bottom again and pushed off, spraying water from his nostrils as he broke the surface. A hurried breath, and once again he was sinking for the bottom.

  “Front flip!”

  It started smoothly enough. Grey pushed off the bottom and leaned forward. His graceful circle came to a halt as his head struck the concrete. He found himself in a disheveled heap nine feet under. Grey thrashed his body, trying to get his feet beneath him. No luck. He looked up at the surface and suddenly felt an overwhelming sadness grip him. Strangely, all he could think of was his desire to someday have children and start a family. He stopped thrashing, and lay quietly on the bottom for several long seconds. Get a grip. With a furious lurch he managed to get up on his knees. From there he struggled to his feet and bolted for the surface.

  “Front flip!” Rogers repeated, his eyes wide with concern.

  Grey sawed in a ragged breath and started his descent. He learned from his previous mistake and executed a perfect flip. When he surfaced, Rogers was holding a diving mask in his hands. Grey watched the mask drop into the water several feet in front of him. He descended, touched the concrete, and pushed off at an angle, hoping that on his next descent he would be directly over the mask. Another breath, another descent. His positioning was perfect. Sinking to his knees, he leaned forward and gripped the rubber facemask strap with his teeth. After struggling back to his feet, he pushed for the surface. The mask dragged below his chin, and the force of his rapid ascent pulled the strap from his mouth. Shit. He bobbed several times before coming down on top of the mask again. Exhaling further, he sank down on his side and gripped the strap in his teeth. He wiggled to his feet and gently pushed for the surface. He felt the mask drag below him, spurring him to clench his teeth even harder. Rogers winked as he broke the surface. Grey bobbed two more times until he was at the side of the pool. On his last ascent, Rogers grabbed him under the arms and yanked him onto the pool deck.

  “Nice job, Mark.”

  “Jesus,” Grey groaned. “That was a bitch. I don’t know why they call it drown-proofing. Just drowning would be more accurate.”

  “Thanks. You’re really cheering me up.”

  “I’m just saying—”

  “Silence.” Rogers made a cutting gesture with his hand. “Just send me to my watery grave, Mr. Grey. I will go down like a gentleman.”

  “Oh, but you are a gentleman,” Grey said. “I must say though, I don’t think death
suits you. Do me a favor and survive. But first untie my hands.”

  “Of course.” Rogers untied Grey and they switched places. The dreaded hiss of the decontamination shower made Grey’s stomach churn. He looked over his shoulder and saw a dozen students standing dejectedly under the spray of cold water.

  “Failures,” Rogers explained. “Smurf’s in there.”

  “Listen up, motherfuckers!” Osgood yelled. “Two minutes and we’re switching. Don’t be late!”

  Grey finished tying up Rogers and stood by, ready to push him into the pool. The Reverend Jackson sat a few feet away, staring blankly at the water.

  “Hey, Reverend,” Grey said, “I know you can handle this. Just stay calm.”

  “Right. Stay calm,” Jackson repeated quietly.

  “Enter the water!” Osgood yelled.

  With a slight push, Grey sent Rogers to the bottom of the pool. He divided his time between watching Rogers and Jackson. He was definitely more worried about the preacher. Rogers appeared to Grey to be comfortable in the water, but even looking at Jackson in the pool made Grey feel panicked. They both made it through the bobbing phase without incident. Time for the floating.

  “Float!” Grey yelled.

  Rogers came to the surface and immediately began floating. The Reverend bobbed a few more times and finally spread himself flat, exposing nearly every inch of his body to the air, doing everything he could to stay on the surface. Grey shook his head in disbelief. Something wasn’t right. He looked again. Yes, the Reverend was sinking. He wasn’t thrashing, splashing, or showing any other signs of panic. His body was in the correct position, and he was sinking. Quickly. As he settled on the bottom, an instructor swam down and pulled him to the surface.

  “Failure!” the instructor yelled, dragging Jackson to the side. “Petty Officer Jackson!”

  “Roger that,” Osgood said, scrawling the name in his notebook. “Jackson, join your friends in the decon.” He jerked a thumb toward the group of students huddled together in the shower.