by David Reid
“Maybe in my next life,” Grey muttered under his breath.
The class turned onto the beach and ran toward three enormous cloth tents that had been erected on the beach. Chief Baldwin stood in the entrance to one of the rectangular green tents, arms crossed, jaw set firmly.
“There are exactly enough cots for everyone,” he said. “I suggest you guys get as much rest as you can. Don’t stay up chatting with each other. You’re going to need every bit of sleep you can get. If you need to take a piss, use the beach. If you need to shit, get the attention of one of the roll backs and he’ll escort you to the head.” A roll back was a student from a previous class who had survived Hell Week, sustained an injury, and was waiting to start training again. Also known as brown shirts, there were always a few lingering around the base. “I’ll see you gentlemen later tonight. Are there any questions?”
The class milled about silently.
“Anyone want to quit?”
A red-haired petty officer slipped through the crowd and whispered something to Baldwin.
“I was only kidding, but as long as we’ve got one, anyone else want out?”
The petty officer hung his head in shame, and Grey suddenly despised Baldwin for embarrassing the sailor in front of his peers. As if quitting isn’t hard enough …
“Until we meet again,” Baldwin said. He shot the class a stern look. “No more quitters!” With that he strode down the beach toward the compound.
Murray followed a brown-shirt escort to the head as students crowded into the tents and jockeyed for ideal cot position. The center of the tent went first. Grey found himself sitting on the edge of his raggedy military cot directly next to the tent’s opening. When the instructors ambushed the class, he would be directly in the line of fire. Great. He saved a cot for Murray and tried to get some sleep. There was no way. The tent hummed with tension. Students started talking to one another, quietly at first, then gradually louder and louder until the air was filled with anxious voices.
“I heard we’re doing night rock portage right after breakout.”
“Bullshit. It’s never the first night.”
“I wonder who’s on the midnight-to-eight shift. I hope it’s not Osgood.…”
“Did you hear about the guy in the last class who got flesh-eating bacteria?”
“I heard it helps if you wear two pair of socks. Nylon underneath…”
Grey looked up at the roof of the tent. There was a large hole in the cloth directly above his head but no trace of the night sky. The air was thick with moisture, and the fog blocked out the moonlight. Grey brought his knees up to his chest and hugged his legs, conserving warmth. Murray slipped through the tent and looked around in confusion.
“Right here, Murray,” Grey said, patting the empty cot.
Murray squinted and carefully sat down. “Grey?”
“Yeah?”
“This is it.”
“I know. Get some sleep.”
Murray sat rigidly on the edge of his cot. “I’ll sleep Friday.”
Half an hour passed by, and the students gradually wound down and curled up on their cots. The last thing Grey remembered before closing his eyes was the image of Murray sitting motionless in the darkness.
TEN
BURSTS OF LIGHT DANCED into the tent as the deafening roar of an M-60 machine gun shattered the night air. Suddenly a huge figure in full face paint and camouflage gear appeared in the entrance to the tent.
“Wake-up call!” A string of hot casings streamed from the machine gun and landed on Grey’s chest. He wildly slapped the burning hot metal off his body and watched as the huge instructor made his way through the tent. “Wake up, shitbirds! Get a muster, now!”
Grey squeezed out of the tent and was soon joined by his frenzied classmates. They milled about aimlessly as instructors armed with M-60s pranced about, spreading mayhem. Back in the compound, simulated mortar rounds whistled shrilly before detonating with a bang. Mass confusion reigned. Murray grabbed Grey’s arm.
“Where is your boat crew?” An instructor with a megaphone rushed up and held the device inches from Grey’s head. “Where is your boat crew, sir? Get a muster!”
Ears ringing, Grey held six fingers in the air. Six was the number of his new boat crew, and he hoped that his men would see it. “Six,” he yelled. “Six!”
Suddenly another hand latched on to his arm. It was Jones. Warrior emerged from the darkness next, followed by the Reverend Jackson. Several long seconds later a soft-looking kid with a big nose, named Kurtz, joined the group.
“All present,” Grey yelled at the instructor.
The instructor’s face almost burst with anger. “Get in the compound! Now, now, now!”
Ducking as if avoiding imaginary bullets, Grey and his boat crew stumbled through the beach gate and into the staff parking lot. Instructors emerged from the darkness, yelling, pointing, gesticulating wildly. The noise was deafening. Up ahead dozens of glow sticks were mounted on the perimeter of the grinder. With his crew trailing him like a string of ducklings, Grey moved toward the light.
“Get over here!” The shadow of an instructor holding a hose emerged from the gloom. “Drop down!”
Grey dropped into the push-up position and cranked out twenty. Meanwhile, the instructor with the hose doused the entire boat crew with frigid water.
“On your backs! Flutter kicks!”
Grey flipped over onto his back and started levering his legs up and down. The instructor leaned over and aimed the stream of water at Grey’s face. Water splashed into his mouth, his nose, and his eyes, blurring his vision.
“What’s your muster?” The voice yelled.
The world shimmered as Grey searched for his men. It was like trying to see in a dark swimming pool. He held a hand up next to his eyes, blocking the water, and managed to make out four figures doing flutter kicks nearby.
“Five!” Grey yelled. “Five accounted for!”
The instructor partially covered the end of the hose with his thumb, increasing the velocity of the water that pelted Grey’s face. “Where’s your sixth man?”
Grey shook his head as he struggled for air. I don’t know.
“You better find him, sir! Never lose a man! Never!”
Grey started to climb to his feet.
“Get back down there. I didn’t say you could recover. I want you to bear-crawl!” the instructor barked. “Now get out of here!”
Moving on his hands and feet, Grey started across the grinder, signaling for his men to follow. Another instructor with a hose emerged from the darkness and gave them a shower. They moved on, making their way back toward the beach. Grey turned and scanned the faces following him. Murray was still missing.
“Murray!” Grey yelled. “Murray!” He slowly navigated the parking lot, weaving between boat crews and their tormentors. Simulated mortar rounds whistled and exploded, and bursts of light flashed from an instructor’s hot M-60. In the far corner of the parking lot, a huge instructor squatted next to a student who was lying with his straightened legs inches off the ground. Grey recognized the muscular form instantly. Redman.
Grey crawled over, followed by his boat crew. As he got closer, he saw that the student being tormented was indeed Murray. Redman looked up as they approached. “Drop down, assholes!”
Murray gave Grey a helpless look. It was obvious he was already in pain. His legs trembled violently.
“Keep those legs off the deck!” Redman yelled, nudging Murray in the stomach with his boot. “Drop them again and we’ll stay here all night.”
Grey completed his push-ups and waited, unsure of what to do.
“Push ’em out!” Redman yelled again.
Twenty push-ups. Twenty more push-ups. Twenty more push-ups. The routine continued for minutes. Grey’s arms burned, and he felt beads of sweat pop up beneath his icy uniform. Murray’s whole body shook as he held his outstretched legs and arms in the air. Redman flashed a rare smile.
“Just
think, less than one hour down, and five long days to go.” Redman glanced into the darkness beyond his captive trainees and grunted, “Recover.”
Instructor Osgood emerged from the gloom and jerked his bald head toward the beach. “Join the rest of your class.”
The bombs and blank rounds ceased as they ran through the parking lot toward the beach. With a crash and a thump, a trainee tripped on a curb and sprawled out across the asphalt. It was the new guy, Kurtz. Grey pulled him to his feet. His uniform sleeve was ripped, and blood oozed from the torn-up flesh on his arm.
“You okay?” Grey asked.
Kurtz nodded, and they continued on to the beach. The rest of the class had formed a push-up chain. Each student had his legs propped on the shoulders of the student behind him. They clumsily executed push-ups while Furtado yelled at the class leader.
“What the fuck is your muster?” He waited impatiently for an answer. “Hell Week sucks, but believe me, you’ll make it a whole lot worse if you can’t handle your musters. Now give me an answer, or I’ll put you in the surf until the whole class quits.”
“Up six,” Grey yelled as they joined the group.
Pollock looked over his shoulder. “We have a full muster, Instructor Furtado!”
“It’s about time! Now we’re going to play a little game called whistle drills. One whistle means stand up. Two whistles means low crawl toward the sound. And three whistles means hit the deck—cross your legs, let your mouth hang open, and hold your hands over your ears.” He placed a plastic whistle between his lips.
Two shrill whistles pierced the night air, but they didn’t come from Furtado’s mouth. They came from somewhere behind the group. Immediately the push-up chain collapsed as students turned toward the sound. The anonymous whistle blasted twice again, and the students crawled on their stomachs into the darkness. Since he had been part of the last group to join the push-ups chain, Grey was at the front of the pack as they crawled through the sand. Three blasts sounded, and Grey crossed his legs and clamped his hands over his ears. Two whistles. Grey continued crawling. He could barely make out a stumpy bald instructor perched on top of the berm ahead. Thinking there might be a prize for first place, Grey turned up the pace, using his elbows to pull himself through the sand as his legs kicked behind him. He was completely winded by the time he started up the berm. Just when he was within reach of Osgood’s boots, two blasts of a whistle sounded, this time from the opposite direction. The class turned, and the drill continued. Now Grey was in last place. He felt his motivation slip.
“What? Now that you’re in last place, you give up? We don’t need quitters in the Teams. Why don’t you just ring out right now?” Furtado kicked sand in Grey’s face. “Quit, sir. Quit!”
Grey picked up the pace and found himself staring at the heels of the student in front of him.
“Crawl over him, sir. Don’t stay in last place. I’ll give you five seconds.…”
Apologizing between breaths, Grey pulled himself up over the back of a student ahead of him. He continued pulling himself up over other students until he was firmly wedged in the middle of the pack. One whistle blast. Grey stood up. Two blasts. He fell back onto his stomach.
“Too slow!” Osgood yelled. “You shitheads better look alive, or we’ll just keep practicing until you get it right.”
One whistle. Up. Two whistles. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. Grey found he could cover extra territory by moving forward as he stood. One whistle. Up, step, step. Two whistles. Down—face full of sand. A slithering mass of sand-encrusted students crawled over the berm and down to the water’s edge.
“I don’t know about you guys, but I swear I hear a whistle out there somewhere,” Jones said.
The class crawled into the ocean. Waves slapped against Grey’s face, filling his mouth with briny water. The salt stung his abraded thighs, and his privates ached from the cold.
“Make yourself at home,” Osgood said. “Get on your backs and link arms.”
The class quickly turned over and lay down in the surf. Grey grabbed on to Murray and Jones and pulled them close for warmth. The night was pitch black, the moon hidden behind a thick bank of clouds. Grey could barely make out Osgood standing on the beach.
“Keep your heads down,” he shouted. “I only want to see your eyes and your mouth.”
Grey tilted his head back until he was looking straight up. The ocean closed over his ears, filling his head with the muted rush of crumbling waves. Deprived of hearing and with nothing but the darkness to stare at, Grey struggled to keep his mind off the cold. He sang songs in his head. He fantasized about Vanessa. He struggled to remember the name of every student in the class. Suddenly the human chain jerked. Grey tilted his head forward and watched as three students broke ranks and ran for shore. The quitting had begun in earnest. Soon the entire line was shaking. The tremors created by dozens of shivering bodies traveled up and down the line. Grey clenched his jaw firmly and flexed his leg muscles in an attempt to stop them from spasming.
“Feet!” The command was barely audible, a faint whisper in Grey’s clouded mind. He lifted his head clear of the water.
“Get on your feet, you slow motherfuckers!”
Grey tried to stand up and immediately toppled over backward, bringing Murray and Jones down with him. His second attempt brought more success. The three of them stumbled toward shore on numb, uncooperative legs.
“Line up!” Osgood yelled.
The class obediently formed a chain from north to south.
“Double arm interval!”
The students lifted their arms and spread out. Doc Anderson, one of the full-time navy physicians employed by the Special Warfare Center, moved from student to student, shining a flashlight in their faces, occasionally asking a simple question or two. He stopped in front of a blue-lipped kid named Dibble. After examining his eyes, Doc Anderson escorted him to the ambulance.
“Take off your tops,” Osgood ordered. “You look too comfortable.”
Grey clumsily unbuttoned his camouflage top and pulled it off. It took his numb fingers a few attempts to accomplish the task.
“Lose the shirts, too.”
Grey pulled his white T-shirt over his head.
“With your shirt in one hand and your top in the other, hold your arms out to the sides.”
Grey did as he was instructed. The cool ocean breeze on his wet back was nearly unbearable. Soon his whole body began jackhammering. His armpits were particularly sensitive, and the rush of cold air past the newly exposed skin was maddening. After a few minutes the simple act of holding his clothes at arms length became difficult, but at least the physical effort took his mind off the misery of being cold.
Dibble did not return to the lineup. The reason was simple—hypothermia. In one of the great injustices of BUD/S training, you could be dropped from training for becoming hypothermic. According to the doctors, one incidence of hypothermia made a student more susceptible to recurrences. Dibble had most likely produced a thermometer reading that suggested his core temperature had dropped dangerously.
“About-face!”
No way. Grey couldn’t believe his ears.
“Drop your shirts!”
The students let their T-shirts and camouflage tops drop to the sand.
“Forward march!”
The shivering class marched out into the surf.
“About-face! Take your seats!”
Once again Grey found himself staring into the blackness, holding his breath as waves rushed overhead. For a brief moment the water provided a strange comfort. Being wet seemed preferable to an icy wind blowing on exposed skin. The sentiment didn’t last. Grey prayed to God for salvation from the cold. Murray squeezed his arm in encouragement, sensing his struggle. This is insane. Fucking insane. Five more days of this?
Osgood called the class back to shore, and the drill repeated itself. Doc Anderson made his rounds, asked questions, examined faces, and occasionally dragged a protesting student to the a
mbulance for a core-temperature reading.
“About-face!” Osgood yelled.
Four students broke ranks. The thought of another round of surf torture was too much.
“About-face!”
The class turned around, greatly relieved. It was a bluff. They were done.
“About-face!”
Another student broke from the line. One of his buddies lunged for his arm, but the determined trainee managed to squirm free and run to the safety of the ambulance. Grey braced himself for another dip.
“Forward march!”
The class trudged onward into the ocean. Grey resigned himself to misery. Don’t fight it, and don’t expect anything, he told himself. He refused to fall victim to the classic Hell Week mind-fuck: always anticipate the worst.
Osgood only kept them in the ocean for a few minutes. He was weeding out the ranks, skillfully using mental games to pry all but the most determined trainees from the class.
“Get dressed and form it up. Make it quick.”
The class milled about, dumbfounded. Their clothes had vanished. Grey spotted a camouflage sleeve protruding from a large lump in the sand farther down the beach. He jogged toward it, tripping over clumps of rotting kelp as he stumbled along. Dropping to his hands and knees, he started digging uniform articles out of the sand and passing them to the students who had followed him. He called out the names stenciled on the white strips of name-tape as he worked. “Gracy, Burke, Sharpe, D’Allessandro, Lopez, O’Henry…”
Pollok marched past the frenzy of dressing students, robotically chanting, “Hurry up, or you’ll be late. Hurry up, or you’ll be late.” He smartly executed an about-face and marched the other direction, chanting the same mantra. From the smirk on his face, Grey could tell the instructors had put him up to it.
Grey extracted his shirt from the sandy mess and pulled it over his head. He found his top moments later, but his numb fingers wouldn’t work the buttons. Rogers witnessed his plight and hurried over.
“Need a hand?” Rogers’s blue eyes were clouded, and his usually pale face had an undertone of violet to it. He giggled quietly as he tried to button Grey up. “Don’t work very well, do they?” He nodded at his trembling hands.