Suffer in Silence

by David Reid

  “Snap out of it,” someone slurred, nudging Grey clumsily with an elbow.

  Grey’s eyes snapped open and he looked toward the voice. He found himself staring at a mouth full of broken, yellowed teeth. Jones. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize,” Jones said. “Just snap out of it.”

  “I’m good,” Grey mumbled. “I’m fine.” He looked to his other side. Jackson’s eyes were glazed over, he was staring straight ahead, and his body had stopped shaking. Oh crap. He jostled Jackson’s arm. “I’m taking you in, buddy.”

  Jackson shook his head slowly. No. A tendril of spit hung from the corner of his mouth.

  “Yes. We’re going in right—”

  “On your feet!” Osgood’s voice boomed through a megaphone.

  “Let’s go,” Grey said, grabbing Jackson beneath the arms. The preacher’s body was almost entirely dead weight. With the help of Jones and Murray, Grey managed to prop him upright. They slowly marched forward, supporting Jackson from three sides. Occasionally Jackson’s knees would buckle, and the three of them would strain to keep him from belly flopping in the shallow water.

  “Corpsman!” Grey yelled. “We need a corpsman!”

  Instructor Heisler emerged from the darkness and jogged over. He took one glance at Jackson and nodded toward the ambulance. “Bring him over.”

  They stumbled to the back of the ambulance. Instructor Heisler eased Jackson into a sitting position. “Get out of here,” he said quietly. “Join the class.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t test me,” Heisler said frostily. He looked genuinely upset.

  Jones, Grey, and Murray joined the height line that had formed on the beach. They all fit slightly forward of the halfway point—above-average height.

  “Break off at intervals of seven, starting at the back of the line!” Osgood yelled. “And if you want to cheat, that’s your own damn problem. You’ll only be screwing each other over.” As an afterthought he added, “Ensign Grey, only take five men. Leave a spot for Jackson.”

  New boat crews quickly formed, and Grey made a hasty survey of his group: Murray, Jones, Larsen, Polkowski, and Rogers. Rogers? Grey sized up the class. A number of students had bolted during the latest round of surf torture. A few boat crews, including his own, would have more than one officer.

  “Welcome aboard,” Grey said, smiling at Larsen and Polkowski. “You, too, Renaissance Boy,” Grey said, punching Rogers lightly on the shoulder.

  “Thank you, sir,” Rogers quipped, rendering a sarcastic salute. “My orders, sir?”

  “At least we know who’s in charge.” Murray looked Rogers over. “You’re the poetry guy, right? I bet you’ll be spouting all kinds of crap in a few days.”

  “Not crap,” Rogers corrected with a wag of his finger, “poetry. Prose…” He sighed and shook his head sadly. “The peasantry will never understand.”

  “Peasant? What the fuck?” Murray’s eyes narrowed. “You better watch—”

  “Form it up! Boat-crew order facing south! Now!” Osgood paced back and forth in front of the mob of students. “Get your sorry asses in gear or I’ll eat you alive.”

  Boat Crew Six hoisted their boat onto their heads and fell in line. They stood toward the rear of the train, which worked to their disadvantage. The instructors called these treks “elephant runs.” If a crew’s boat lost contact with the stern of the boat in front of them, they first received a stern warning to keep up. If they still couldn’t keep up, the students found themselves at the receiving end of one of Osgood’s beat sessions. Being at the rear of the train was a disadvantage because of the accordion effect: as the boats at the front changed speed, the boat crews at the rear were forced to sprint and then slow to a jog repeatedly to maintain contact.

  “Moving!” The shout came from the front of the line.

  Grey lurched forward as the boat to the rear slammed into them.

  “Pick it up! Let’s go!”

  “Sorry!” Grey yelled over his shoulder. They broke into a steady run, and the boat immediately began bouncing on their heads. Grey’s skull was positioned under the stern of the craft, a fairly easy position to occupy. Because of the gentle curve of the boat and the weight of any residual water, the middle of the craft was the heaviest. Polkowski and Larsen groaned with discomfort as they bore the brunt of the burden. Polkowski normally had poor posture—his shoulders slumped—but now he looked like a hunchback underneath his burden.

  “Straighten out!” Murray yelled from the front. “You’re fucking killing me!”

  “I am straight!” Polkowski yelled back.

  At the head of the line, Osgood jogged through the soft sand, occasionally turning to yell at the lead boat crew. Grey stumbled along underneath his boat, cringing as the hard rubber of the stern slapped against his skull. Polkowski continued to slouch, and the port side of the boat listed dangerously. If Grey didn’t do something quickly they would drop the boat.

  “Polkowski, I’m switching you out!” Grey yelled. He slid forward to Polkowski’s position and sent him back to the stern. As he positioned his head under one of the main tubes, he immediately doubted the wisdom of the switch. His head burned, and the sheer weight of the craft forced him to run by sliding his feet forward rather than lifting them. Fuck me. Grey’s spine warped into an S shape as he struggled to find a better place for his head. He glanced to the right, his vision blurred with pain. Larsen’s back was straight, his head was solidly under the boat, and his unfeeling icy-blue eyes were fixed on Jones’s back. How does he do that? The agony came in waves that intensified as they sprinted to keep up with the boat in front of them. Sprint, jog, sprint, jog.

  “Motherfucker!” Polkowski cursed from the rear. “Goddamn piece of shit. Fuckin’ heavy-ass raft! Killing me! Killing me!”

  “Knock it off,” Rogers said. “Everyone’s carrying as much weight as you. Besides, Grey just switched you out. You should be pleased.”

  “Pleased? Fuck that! This sucks! Are you happy, sir?”

  “Me?” Rogers asked, his voice light and whimsical. “Oh definitely. I’ve been waiting my whole life for this. You know, back in the old days they used to do this with wooden boats.” He paused and groaned softly as he shifted positions. “That’s right. Wooden boats that weighed a thousand pounds dry. And on top of that, they had to wear steel boots and plate armor and carry battle-axes. You think this is hard?” Rogers clucked like a mother hen. “This is nothing, my son.”

  Grey found himself laughing despite the intense pain that radiated through every joint in his body. “It’s true. This is a piece of cake. Not only were the boats wooden, but the instructors used to sit in them while you ran.”

  “True,” Rogers noted. “How very right you are, Mr. Grey. So you see, Seaman Polkowski, there is no reason for your foul language.”

  “Fuck it! You guys are crazy.”

  Suddenly the weight on Grey’s head increased tenfold. His knees buckled, and a strange electric sensation rippled up and down his spine.

  “Get back under the boat!” Rogers screamed. Grey had never heard him yell so loud. “You’re killing Grey!”

  Delirious from the agonizing pressure on his head, Grey glanced over his shoulder and saw Polkowski jogging next to the raft. His hand was still on the handle, as if that somehow symbolized his attachment to the boat, but his head was underneath nothing but black sky. Grey suddenly saw nothing but red. He was so mad his heart trembled.

  “What’s this?” Instructor Heisler ran up next to the Polkowski. “What do you think you’re doing, you worthless turd? You’re a weak link, aren’t you? You’re holding back your boat crew, aren’t you?”

  Polkowski didn’t answer. Instead he ducked back under the boat as if nothing had happened.

  “Nice try, no-load. Get back out here. You’re not helping anyway.”

  Polkowski obediently stepped out from underneath the boat.

  “Who’s in charge here?”

  “I am,” Grey hi
ssed through gritted teeth.

  “Are you in pain, sir?” Heisler asked. He studied Grey’s face. “You don’t look very comfortable.” His voice rose several decibels. “Could it be because you have a weak link in this boat crew?”

  “Could be.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “No.”

  “No?” Heisler’s eyes flashed dangerously in the darkness. “Are you telling me you want to keep this piece of trash?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine. You keep Polkowski for now, but you won’t be pleased when you get medically dropped for having compressed disks and a thoroughly trashed back. He’s only holding you back.” Heisler moved back to Polkowski’s position. “I’ll be watching you,” he warned. “If that ugly knob of yours leaves that raft one more time, I’ll drop you on the spot. Understand?”

  “Hoo-yah, Instructor Heisler!”

  “If you can yell that loud you aren’t expending enough energy. Just look at Mr. Grey. The man can’t even talk, he’s hurting so bad. That’s what we like to see.”

  I’m sure you do, Grey thought. His suffering decreased a notch as Polkowski assumed some of the burden. For a few minutes they ran in relative silence. The rumble of the surf drifted in and out with the wind, tempering the harsh groaning and grumbling of the students. Grey’s crew started to lag behind. Two boat crews passed them up, and now they were positioned at the rear of the elephant train. Redman was waiting.

  “A new batch of losers,” Redman mused from the truck. “Welcome to hell, gentlemen. You want breakfast today?”

  Food. Food is good. Grey’s stomach rumbled.

  “Too bad. Because every second that you lose contact with the boat crew ahead of you, I’ll take a minute away from your chow time—a minute you’ll spend with your boat at extended-arm carry.”

  “Let’s go!” Grey urged. “We need this!”

  They surged ahead, bumping into the boat in front of them. Maintaining steady contact between the last two boats in the train was nearly impossible. Grey’s legs burned with lactic acid as he urged his crew to keep pushing.

  “There’s one minute,” Redman noted. “Is that Murray I see up there?” The truck revved closer. “It is. Lucky Boat Crew Six. Since you have such a shitbird in your crew, I’m raising the stakes a little. Instead of one minute for every second, let’s try two.”

  The bow of the boat slipped back several feet as the elephant train surged ahead.

  “Four minutes. Six minutes. Eight minutes. Ten minutes.”

  “Let’s pick it up!” Grey yelled. The thought of spending breakfast outside, boat held aloft on shaking arms, was none too pleasant.

  “You need to fire up this crew, sir! Especially Murray. He’s worthless.”

  The elephant train snaked back and forth across the sand berm, further spreading out the pack. Grey wanted to throw down the boat in disgust. He was giving it everything, and they still floundered in last place. So much for breakfast. They ran farther down the beach, then turned and passed through the gate and crossed on to the base. Big Blue, the lead truck, turned on its sirens and blocked the intersection on the Silver Strand Boulevard as the train bumped and stumbled across the street. They were truly in the public’s eye now, and the instructors picked up the intensity even further, dishing out extra verbal incentive to keep up.

  “Any boat crew that falls back gets boat squats all morning!”

  “Get up there! Bow to stern! The whole class hits the surf if you can’t keep up!”

  “Make us look bad and you will pay!”

  Grey focused on the shrinking distance to the chow hall. The possibility that the pain would continue through breakfast was overwhelming. He tried to convince himself that Redman was bluffing. There’s no way he won’t let us eat. He has to. We’ll die. With the boat trampolining on his already tender skull, Grey pushed onward. A group of marines marched by on the sidewalk; a few even dared a sidelong glance at the strange spectacle that was being played out before their eyes. Think you’re tough? Think boot camp was challenging? Come on over, devil dogs. I’ll show you pain.

  “Thank the Lord,” Rogers mumbled as they approached the chow hall. Grey let himself relax slightly as the elephant train eased into the parking lot. Osgood stopped the train, then suddenly took off sprinting. The boat crews struggled to keep up as Osgood disappeared around the corner of a maintenance shed. The boats slammed into one another as the lead crew slowed for the turn. Another sprint, another turn, another sprint. They ran laps around the small shed. The boats bounced wildly, inflicting a serious beating on the heads of the students who vainly tried to keep pace with Osgood.

  Big Blue was parked a short distance away from the never-ending loop of sprinting boat crews. Furtado sat behind the PA system, grinning wickedly. “Never gonna end. Never gonna end,” he droned in a monotone voice. “Minimum wage. Minimum wage. Pain. Pain. Your kids will never know you. Kids will never know you. Your wife will leave you. Wife will leave you. Tired. Tired. Never gonna end. Never gonna end. Head hurts. Head hurts. Legs hurt. Hungry. Hungry. Wife in Tijuana, legs spread behind her ears. Wife in TJ, giving it up. Minimum wage. Minimum wage.”

  Grey suppressed a groan of anguish as the boat continued to slam against his skull. He couldn’t hold out much longer. This was unreal, unbearable—the purest form of pain he had ever voluntarily endured. Sensing the trainees were reaching their threshold, Osgood steered them behind the chow hall.

  “Down boat!” he yelled.

  Rogers beamed at Grey as they lowered the boat to the ground. Grey smiled back.

  “Not you, dipshits!” Redman yelled from the window of a parked truck. He climbed out and casually strolled over to Boat Crew Six. “Extended-arm carry. Now!”

  They hoisted the boat to their heads, then extended their arms, holding the craft high in the air. This isn’t so bad, Grey thought. At least the damn thing’s not bouncing on my head. Redman stood by silently.

  “You taking care of these guys?” Osgood asked.

  Redman nodded and folded his arms over his massive chest. “I think you guys owe me the whole chow period. Isn’t that right? I know you lost contact for at least thirty seconds. Thirty multiplied by two is sixty. Yes, gents, sixty minutes. That’s too bad, because I really wanted some breakfast. Now I have to stand out here and watch you guys, because I know if I turn my back for a second, you’ll cheat.”

  Within a few minutes Grey’s arms trembled from the strain of keep the boat aloft. The novelty of this new position quickly wore off. Grey wanted the boat back on his head.

  “I’ll let you in on a little secret,” Redman said. He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I actually have to let you turds eat. Commander’s rules. Can you believe that? Lucky for you, I brought some food along with me.” Redman turned and strode back to the truck. He returned carrying seven MREs. The Meals Ready to Eat were suction-sealed in brown plastic wrapping, with the name of the main entrée printed in block letters across the front.

  “I always enjoyed chicken with rice,” Redman mused. “Tuna noodles isn’t so bad either. Let me take a look at what we’ve got here, and you losers can fight over who gets what.” Redman sorted through the MREs, pausing to read off the contents of each. “Reconstituted pork slice.” He shrugged. “Beef franks. Not bad, not bad … spaghetti … another pork slice … sweet and sour chicken.” Redman made a sour face. “Stay away from that one. Tastes like shit.” He continued sorting. “Barbecued monkey entrails, and my favorite, scrambled eggs.” He held up a brown packet. “Whoever gets the scrambled eggs should feel lucky. The factory stopped producing these a few years back. Apparently it wasn’t a popular dish. Well, some lucky trainee is going to dine in style courtesy of Yours Truly.” He dropped the scrambled eggs. “Now you guys need to figure out a way to eat breakfast while keeping the boat at extended-arm carry.”

  Grey’s stomach turned. Not at the thought of eating an MRE, which was usually a decent meal, but at the thought of keeping the boat in
the air for an hour with five people. His lower back shuddered in anticipation.

  “We’ll do this one at a time,” Grey said, “starting at the front. Murray, you first. Grab an MRE and eat it as fast as you can.”

  Murray kneeled down and tore at the wrapper on his MRE. Each part of the meal was vacuum-packed in a separate bag, and Murray ripped into each one with gusto. He squeezed gummy spaghetti into his mouth, inhaled two giant crackers, slurped up some applesauce, and devoured a tiny candy bar, all in less than two minutes. Redman walked across the parking lot and leaned against a truck. He picked at his teeth and watched the groaning students with mild amusement.

  “Can’t hold out,” Polkowski groaned. “Motherfucker. Piece of shit. Goddamn heavy piece of motherfuckin’ shit.”

  “Shut the hell up!” Murray yelled. “If you don’t shut your trap I’m going to kick your ass, Polkowski!”

  “Fuck you! It’s harder for me!”

  “Like hell it is!” Murray threw down his empty MRE bag and pushed Polkowski out of his position. “Go eat, you pussy.”

  Polkowski needed no further encouragement. He ate ravenously. Just as he finished, the ambulance pulled up and Jackson climbed out. His brown skin still had an ominous undertone of blue, but he at least looked coherent. Without a word he rejoined the crew. Grey felt like Atlas, holding up the world on his weary arms. The pain wasn’t as intense as having a boat slam against his head, but it was constant and it was wearing him down steadily. He would give anything to let the boat drop to the ground.

  After Rogers quickly scarfed down an MRE, Jackson took his turn. Grey at last let his arms drop to his side. Thank you, God. The relief was incredible, almost orgasmic. Grey fell to his knees and ripped open the last MRE. Scrambled eggs. He should have guessed. The eggs were atrocious. Despite his hunger, he felt himself choking up. Not only did they taste like crap, but they looked like they could have been scraped from puke-covered Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras. Grey scarfed down the eggs, inhaled a package of gummy Spanish-style rice, and pushed a dry loaf of pound cake into his mouth. Still chewing the unappetizing mixture of foods, he rejoined his crew. Immediately the flush of lactic acid swept back into his arms. The minutes ticked by, slowly, slowly. The rest of the class filed out of the chow hall refreshed and ready for more.