Suffer in Silence

by David Reid

  Grey shot the Reverend an apologetic look and received a weak smile in reply. Racial, the preacher mouthed silently.

  Rogers made it through drown-proofing without incident, and he and Grey sat together in the winner’s corner while a half dozen students, including Murray, retook their knot-tying test. Half an hour later Murray had passed the test, and the class assembled on the road and jogged back to the BUD/S compound. A brutal conditioning run followed, during which Grey puked a stream of chlorinated pool water onto the sand. Despite his intestinal trouble, he managed to avoid being gooned. After eight miles of agony, Chief Baldwin stopped in front of the compound and dismissed the class.

  “Friday dance!” Murray shouted. He put a hand on his crotch and bounced forward across the sand. “It’s Friday, it’s Friday!” He slapped an imaginary ass. “Friday, baby, Friday!”

  “Let’s get out of here,” Grey suggested. “The sooner the better.”

  Murray’s dance came to a sudden halt. A serious look crossed his face. “Not yet, sir. We have some business to attend to.”

  “We?” Grey asked. “You, not we.”

  “I need a swim buddy. It will only take a second. I just want to talk to the Master at Arms.”

  “Murray, I told you I’m not getting involved in your crap.”

  “Please.” Murray dropped to his knees. “Please. I’ll owe you one.”

  “Get up,” Grey ordered, pulling him to his feet. “You’re embarrassing me.”

  “Then let’s go before I really make you look like a jackass.”

  Grey reluctantly followed Murray to the edge of the grinder and waited while Murray knocked on the door to the armory. Several seconds of silence passed before a wiry man with Coke-bottle glasses pulled the door open. He wore a wrinkled camouflage uniform, and his oily brown hair lay in a tangled mess on his small head. He was one of the many non-SEALs who kept the base running smoothly.

  “What?”

  “Chief, I was wondering if I could have a word with you,” Murray began. “I just had a few questions about—”

  “Come on in,” he said quickly. “I’m finishing up an inventory and I want to go home, so forgive me if I’m a little blunt.”

  “I just wanted to ask you about exactly that—your inventory. Apparently the guys in Third Phase are having a hard time keeping track of everything, and I heard the instructors will really beat the crap out of us if we slip up. I was wondering if you had any pointers or suggestions so we can stay out of trouble when we start practicing at the range.”

  “That’s still a long ways off,” the chief said, “but I like your attitude. Better to start preparing early than never.” He adjusted his enormous black military-issue glasses. “The main thing is to keep accurate logs. Check everything in and out, keep a close tabs on the ammo you’re actually expending, and for God’s sake, don’t try to keep any rounds as souvenirs.”

  Murray nodded attentively. “So it’s true then?”

  “What?”

  “You’ve been having inventory problems?”

  The wiry chief chuckled. “Let’s just say it’s a good thing I made chief six years ago, because I wouldn’t have a prayer the way things are going now.” He dropped his clipboard on a metal countertop. “It takes an act of Congress to take away the rank of chief, and they wouldn’t bother, because I’m about to retire.”

  “It’s that bad?”

  “I’m exaggerating a bit,” the chief conceded. “That’s a privilege of old age.” He flashed his tobacco-stained smile, and the skin around his eyes wrinkled. “I’m getting to be an old fart. Just looking at you young kids makes me a little envious.” His smile faded. “To answer your question, though, ammo is the main problem. I just don’t feel like I’m getting enough of it back. I’m suspicious that one of the students is fixing the logs. God only knows why you’d do something stupid like that. And I’ve been tracking our demolitions carefully for a year.” He shrugged. “Something’s just not right. On top of everything, my spares also seem to be walking off, but I suspect that’s because those dang SEAL instructors keep taking parts to fix the M-4s without properly signing them out.”

  “Well, chief, rest assured that when we’re in Third Phase, we’ll do a better job for you,” Murray said. “Ensign Grey and I will keep the class squared away.”

  “I hope you do, for the sake of the chief that relieves me. I don’t want to leave a mess behind for the poor bastard.”

  “Thanks for the tips, chief, and let us know if we can do anything for you,” Murray said as they moved toward the armory door.

  “Good luck, sailor.” The chief shifted his gaze toward Grey and acknowledged his presence with a stiff nod. “You too, ensign.”

  “Thanks.” Grey followed Murray out into the fading sunlight.

  “Interesting,” Murray murmured as they limped toward Building 618. “Old chief confirmed my suspicion. Redman took his bad habits with him when he left Team Four.”

  “Maybe it’s just sloppiness,” Grey suggested. “Or maybe it’s just really hard to maintain a good inventory. We don’t know Redman’s responsible.”

  “Sir, are you kidding me? It’s got to be Redman.”

  “Could be,” Grey said. “I wouldn’t rule it out. I’m just playing devil’s advocate.”

  “Big bad instructor’s gonna go down!” Murray exclaimed. “Now I’m armed and dangerous!”

  “You have no proof,” Grey reminded him. “And I still think you’re a fool if you mess with him. This isn’t child’s play.”

  “I know. I wish you’d stop saying shit like that,” Murray said. He glanced at Grey uneasily. “No disrespect meant, sir. I know you’re my superior, but it’s not your BUD/S career on the line.”

  “That’s not true, Murray,” Grey said. “You and I both know it.”

  “They want me, not you.” Murray punched Grey lightly on the arm. “But enough shoptalk. It’s Friday night. Time to go out and kick a little ass.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Grey said. “I could use a beer or two.”

  “Two?” Murray laughed. “Try ten.”

  They hobbled together toward the barracks as the sun arced toward the sea, their groggy heads filled with thoughts of hot showers and pints of beer.

  SEVEN

  “VANESSA, PLEASE LISTEN. I really wanted to see you tonight.” Grey swallowed nervously and gripped the phone so hard his knuckles shone white. “I mean, I still want to see you. I always want to see you. It’s just that tonight is sort of a boys’ night out.” He waited for some kind of response. Nothing. “Please try to understand—”

  “Oh, I understand, Mark. I’m just wondering why I’m driving down Interstate Five all dressed up for a nice dinner with my boyfriend.”

  “You’re already in your car?” Grey felt his face flush hot. “I didn’t know—”

  “The beauty of cell phones, babe. I left when I said I would.”

  Grey felt his heart constrict in his chest. “I’m so sorry. I wish you would have told me that.”

  “It doesn’t really matter, does it?”

  “Yes, it does. Let’s just forget everything. I’m sorry. Let’s go to dinner.”

  “No,” Vanessa sighed, “I think the mood’s spoiled. Don’t you?”

  “No. Just keep driving. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. We can even eat Japanese.” Grey thought this was a big concession. He absolutely hated Japanese.

  “Thoughtful, but no thanks. Listen, I’ll get over it. I’m just a little fed up with this whole situation. I don’t care if you want to go out with the boys, but a little prior warning would be nice next time.”

  “Just come. Please come.”

  “I’m exiting the freeway. I’m turning”—she paused—“and I’m heading north. I’ll talk to you later.” The line went dead.

  Grey called back and waited anxiously for the line to be picked up. After ten rings he slammed the phone down and stormed back to his room. You’re a real Casanova, Mark. He heard Rogers
singing Johnny Lee’s “Lookin for Love” in the shower before he even opened the door.

  Suddenly he switched moods and launched into an aria, his pseudo-operatic voice warbling uncontrollably. Normally his friend’s antics would have cheered Grey up. Tonight they just made him more frustrated. My girlfriend hates me, and I’m rooming with a lunatic from Princeton.

  Suddenly the warbling stopped. “Stop being so melodramatic!”

  “What?” Grey asked incredulously. “What?”

  “I said stop the melodrama. Everything’s going to be fine.” Rogers voice echoed from the bathroom. “First you slam the door, then you hurl your boots into your locker. Just relax.”

  Grey sat down on the floor, thoroughly perplexed. “You’re a freak, you know that?”

  “I know. But then again, aren’t we all?” He picked up his aria where he had left off.

  Holding his head in his hands, Grey waited for his turn in the shower. He ran over his conversation with Vanessa a million times in his head and cringed with each rehashing of the dialogue. Jackass. What to do? He sat motionless for a while, then suddenly jerked his head up. Flowers. That was it. He grabbed his cell phone.

  Ten minutes and 120 dollars later, flowers were on their way to L.A. The florist had been unhappy about making a delivery when she was closing shop in ten minutes, but an extra sixty dollars did the trick.

  * * *

  “Welcome to my world, sir,” Murray said, gesturing at the dance floor full of grinding bodies. “More pussy than you can shake a stick at.”

  “Fabulous.” Grey walked over to the bar and ordered a beer. It arrived in a plastic cup. Classy. They had all ridden the bus to downtown San Diego, and Murray had led them to his favorite club. Now they were in the basement of some building, buried amid a mess of sweaty bodies in a fine establishment called either the Hurricane, Tsunami, or Tidal Wave. Grey couldn’t remember. He sipped his beer and watched the crowd. The Reverend Jackson emerged from the cluster of dancing bodies and strolled over to the bar.

  “How’s it going, sir?”

  “Not bad, Jackson. Buy you a beer?”

  “Don’t drink,” he answered. “My daddy drank, and it was an ugly thing. Almost killed him.”

  “So I guess you came for the scenery?”

  “That’s right,” Jackson said. “I’m bringing righteousness to the wicked. Consider me a missionary, bringing God’s word to the lonely women of the world.” He laughed easily. “Don’t buy into my act, sir. I like a pretty woman just like the next man, but I am a strong Christian. I’m not going to stick it in just anything that moves, unlike some of the characters in our class.”

  “Speaking of…” Grey said, gesturing toward the other end of the bar. Ensign Pollock, the redhead Academy grad, was licking salt off an amply endowed woman’s neck. He threw back a shot of tequila then used his teeth to pull a lime slice from her mouth. Murray approached the couple with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. He tapped Pollock on the shoulder, and when the ensign turned, Murray ducked the other way and kissed the woman forcefully on the lips. Pollock swung back around, and his eyes went wide. Before he could react, Murray was gone, swallowed up by the crowd.

  “Impressive.” Grey downed the last of his cheap beer. “Let’s see your moves, Jackson. Time to get your groove on.”

  “Look at you,” the Reverend said, “trying to talk like a black man and all.”

  A marine standing next to Jackson overheard the conversation. He belched loudly and put his arm around Jackson’s shoulder. “Take it to the bone, brother jive. Slap my fro. You dig, home slice?”

  “Shut up before you embarrass me.” Jackson looked around warily. “It’s all good with me, but some brothas wouldn’t appreciate your antics. Know what I mean?”

  “What? You don’t like jive?” The man’s eyes were a glazed blue, his nose red. “C’mon man. I can hang.” He burped again. “Or do I have to be a Negro to talk like that?”

  “You better stop, brother, or I might get the impression you’re insulting me.” Jackson was no longer smiling.

  “And what if I was?” The marine leaned in close. His breath stunk of alcohol.

  “Then I’d say you were a dumb-ass jarhead who was about to get his ass beat.”

  “By who?” Another sickening wave of tequila breath.

  “Me.”

  The marine put his hand against Jackson’s chest and pushed hard.

  “Do that again and you’ll be sorry.”

  “Ooohhh, scary.” Another push.

  “I warned you.” With a few deft movements, Jackson had the man on his stomach. He twisted an arm behind his back and asked, “Now are you going behave, or do I need to break your arm?”

  The marine didn’t answer. As the crowd gathered around, Jackson released him. He stood up slowly and brushed his clothes off. Jackson turned back to the bar and pretended nothing had happened.

  “Watch out,” Grey yelled, but he was too late.

  A meaty fist connected with Jackson’s head, and the Reverend jerked forward, temporarily stunned. Grey gave the marine a hard uppercut, resulting in a satisfying thunk as the jarhead’s chin jerked up and he fell over backward. It had been at least fifteen years since he had hit anyone, and he was enthralled by the experience. Suddenly a fist connected with Grey’s kidneys, and he doubled over in pain. He turned just as another punch slammed into his eye. Pain radiated through his skull as he staggered backward. The crowd erupted into a frenzy, and Murray jumped up and delivered a powerful kick to the attacking marine’s back. The jarhead’s body bowed backward unnaturally, and he groaned with pain as he fell to the ground. A dozen BUD/S students entered the fray as a group of marines materialized from the crowd.

  “Shore patrol!” the bartender yelled. “Shore patrol!”

  Just as quickly as it had begun, the fighting stopped, and there was a mad rush for the door. An overweight bouncer wearing gold chains tried to stop Grey by holding out a beefy arm.

  “Step aside, shithead!” Warrior yelled, pushing the bouncer flat up against the wall. “After you, sir!”

  “Thanks.” Grey rushed up the stairs and stepped outside. He ran down the sidewalk and turned at the next corner. A group of BUD/S students stood huddled together football style, discussing their next move. One of them lifted his head and saw Grey approaching.

  “Get in here, you animal!”

  Grey joined the huddle.

  “I think we should find those marines and beat the shit out of them,” a skinny kid from Nebraska was saying.

  “Nah. I think we oughta go over to McP’s and tell war stories,” Jones drawled. McP’s was a bona fide SEAL hangout; BUD/S students were not welcome there.

  “Bad idea,” Murray said. “I know one thing for sure. We need to get Mr. Grey shit-faced. He deserves it after landing that beautiful uppercut.”

  “Amen,” Jackson said, joining the group. “Whitey here avenged my ass.”

  Grey smiled. “Whatever you guys want. You buy the drinks, I’ll drink ’em.”

  “It’s settled then,” Murray said. “Let’s go.”

  They descended into another seedy club, and the drinks started rolling in. Grey lost count somewhere after twelve and decided he’d had enough. His fellow students disagreed. He sampled the finest concoctions the club had to offer—a Gorilla Fart, a Cement Mixer, a Mind Eraser. The room started to spin.

  “Enough!” Grey held up an unsteady hand. “I’ll puke in your face.”

  “I dare you,” Murray taunted.

  “Fine.” A rumble started deep in Grey’s stomach and moved its way up his throat. He thought back to his childhood and rehashed the gross-out contests his brother had enjoyed so much. Mmmm, tasty. A greasy slab of pork served up in a dirty ashtray. French-fried eyeballs floating in a bowl of blood. Grey felt his throat unclench, and a stream of vomit flew through the air. Murray stepped back just in time, and the puke splattered on his shoes.

  “Impressive, sir,” Murray said, unfazed.


  “What the fuck, guys?” the bartender asked. He was a pasty-skinned young man with a series of chains connecting his numerous facial piercings.

  “Shut up or I’ll pull that shit off your face,” Murray said.

  The bartender stalked off toward the back of the club.

  “Time to go.” Murray grabbed Grey by the arm and dragged him up the stairs. They stumbled outside into the cool night air. Grey thought of something funny to say, but by the time he opened his mouth the thought had passed. He suddenly became embarrassingly aware of his drunkenness.

  “Take me home.”

  “I am, boss.”

  “Please just take me home.”

  They finally reached the bus stop and plopped down on the curb. After sitting in silence for several minutes, Rogers ambled over.

  “How now, brown cow?”

  “Fuck, Rogers. You been drinking, too?” Murray asked.

  “Aye. A pint of ale is a fine thing—all the sustenance a man needs.”

  “Right. What next? You gonna break out in song.”

  “Not a bad idea, shipmate.” Rogers cleared his throat noisily. “This little ditty is a fine thing I picked up from our instructor friends. It goes something like this:

  Drink, drink, drink, drink,

  Drunk, drunk, drunk, drunk.

  Drunk last night, drunk the night before,

  Gonna get drunk like I never have before.

  ’Cause when I’m drunk I’m as happy as can be

  ’Cause I am a member of the Frog Family.

  Grey and Murray stood up and joined in for the second verse. They wobbled back and forth together, their arms linked over each other’s shoulders.

  Well, the Frog Family is the best family

  That ever sailed across the seven seas.

  There’s a highland frog and a lowland frog,

  An underwater frog and a gosh-darn frog.

  Singin’ glorious, glorious! One keg of beer for the four of us!

  Thank God that there are no more of us

  ’Cause one of us is drinkin’ all the beer, damn near!

  Just as they were launching into the third verse the bus pulled up and the door opened with a hiss. They spent a few frantic seconds scrounging in their pockets for change, finally finding the right amount and clumsily depositing it in the receptacle. The bus driver looked them over with tired eyes.