Suffer in Silence

by David Reid

  ELEVEN

  INSTRUCTOR REDMAN AND THE rest of the night crew disappeared, and a new gang of instructors took charge. Grey immediately focused on Instructor Logan, the sunflower-seed-spitting goon that had been the bane of his existence during Indoctrination. Logan scratched at his neck and returned Grey’s gaze with an icy stare. The other instructors were a mixture of First Phase staff and a number of sadistic SEALs who took time away from their real jobs to volunteer for Hell Week duty. Logan barked an order, and the class took off at a run.

  A fire raged on Grey’s scalp. They were carrying their boats again, and the constant abrasion of it against his head was pulling his hair out. The class hurried across the Silver Strand Boulevard and onto the beach. Having Jackson back was a relief; he didn’t shy from the weight of the boat. Polkowski continued to swear, and Murray kept telling him to shut the hell up. They stopped just outside the BUD/S compound and dropped their boats on the sand.

  “What’s this?” Polkowski asked, eyes wide. “Why the rest?”

  “Hygiene check,” Grey said. “I’ve heard we get a five-second shower and then an examination by the docs.”

  “Sounds good,” Rogers added. “Maybe they’ll rub my feet. I could use a nice foot rub. I swear, nothing’s as good as a nice foot rub.”

  Larsen turned to look at him. “Homo.”

  Rogers glared back. “What? You in the closet? Come on out, the air’s a lot nicer outside. I’ll even let you rub my feet.”

  “You’re fuckin’ weird, sir,” Larsen muttered. “Must be a Princeton thing.”

  “Speaking of fucking,” Murray said. “How’s your woman, Mr. Grey? She’s one hell of a piece of ass, you lucky dog.”

  Grey shook his head. “Vanessa two-timed me. She’s seeing some old guy up at school.”

  “Who’s she boning, her professor?” Murray asked loudly. “I’m sorry to hear that, sir. What a waste! She must be fucking crazy to give you up!”

  “Let’s not talk about it,” Grey suggested. But it was too late. The damage was done. He remembered how good it used to feel to wrap his arms around her smooth, warm body. Then he thought of her sleeping with some old-fart lawyer and felt his stomach churn. The eggs were coming up. He could feel it. Pushing his way past his crew, he knelt at the edge of the sand and vomited an acidic stream of eggs, rice, and pound cake.

  “It’s that bad, is it?” Rogers asked, placing a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “You must really love the girl.”

  My girlfriend left me, my boat crew is the slowest in the class, and my body is already killing me. Grey cherished the moment of self-pity, then pried himself to his feet, wiped a sandy hand across his mouth, and joined his boat crew.

  “Guess what I heard,” Murray said as they fell into line.

  “What’s that?” Grey asked weakly.

  “I heard that all the cold we’re exposed to this week actually makes the hair on our balls grow faster. You know, extra warmth and all that. I think I might have to shave myself when the week’s over. Can’t get any play when you look like a Wookiee, if you know what I mean.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “Hairy balls, sir. Hairy balls.”

  Grey held up a hand. Enough. The shower line progressed quickly, and soon Grey found himself shuffling through the dripping-wet passageway of the old barracks. A giant fan was set up at the end of the corridor, blowing a torrent of cold air past the already chilled students. Grey stripped off his camouflage uniform and dropped it onto the pile that had formed. A roll back clad in a brown shirt and khaki shorts handed Grey a spongy scrub brush sealed in plastic wrap.

  “One minute,” the brown shirt said. “Any longer and you’ll regret it. You won’t be able to get out. Trust me.”

  “Thanks,” Grey mumbled. He stepped into the communal shower and was immediately overwhelmed by the heat. He basked in the glory of the warm water, scrubbing absentmindedly as he relished the sensation of the heated water against his numb skin.

  “Thirty seconds,” the brown shirt reminded him.

  Grey reluctantly stepped out of the shower and pulled a new pair of spandex underpants from a plastic bag hanging from the wall. After slipping them on, he ventured down another hallway and directly into the blast of a massive fan. Cold reclaimed his body as a brown shirt escorted him to medical. He shivered at the back door of the small clinic, patiently waiting his turn. Finally a doctor waved him in. Grey crossed the smooth floor in bare feet and stood at attention in front of the doc.

  “At ease, sailor,” Doc Anderson said with a smile. He was a huge man, almost comically muscular. He had served as a SEAL for ten years before attending medical school and becoming a navy physician. “Any complaints?”

  Grey shook his head.

  “Good.” The doc peered in Grey’s eyes, then examined his torn up hands. His eyes wandered downward and stopped on his legs. “Rock portage?” he asked.

  Grey looked down at the huge scrape on his leg. “Tore it on a rock.”

  The doc scrubbed at the wound and poured disinfectant on it. “Watch it carefully. If your cut starts to smell bad or turn green, let a corpsman know.”

  “Don’t worry. I will.”

  “Hang in there,” Anderson said. “Only four and a half days to go.”

  Fuck you, too. “Thanks, doc.”

  Grey shuffled out the back door of the clinic. A young brown shirt grabbed him by the arm and sat him down on a picnic table.

  “Don’t get too excited,” the kid warned as he slathered Grey’s feet with a medicated salve. “Everyone gets the same treatment.”

  Grey didn’t want to admit it, but the foot massage felt incredible.

  “Okay. You’re done. Go get dressed.”

  Grey searched through the purple milk crates lined up against the wall, finally locating one with his name scrawled on it. Just as he started to pull on his clean set of pants, Instructor Petrillo wandered over with a garden hose. With his blue eyes, black hair, and perfect dark skin, Instructor Petrillo was undoubtedly a lady-killer. He was also one of Grey’s favorites. The man didn’t have a mean bone in his body.

  “Having fun yet?” Petrillo asked, holding the hose above Grey’s head.

  “Now that you’re hosing me down, I am.”

  “Nothing personal, man,” Petrillo said. “Just doing my job.”

  “I know.” Grey managed a smile. As much as he hated the cold stream of water that soaked his recently dry change of clothes, he felt no bitterness toward the instructor. “You missed a spot,” Grey said, pointing at his shoulder.

  “Thanks,” Petrillo said, watering down the dry patch of material. “Wouldn’t want to be accused of being too easy on you guys.”

  “No. You wouldn’t want that.” Grey sat down on the concrete and pulled a pair of socks from the crate. The name McWharter was stenciled on them in big clumsy letters. I don’t even get my own socks? Grey looked in a few other crates. Sure enough, the socks were universally mismatched.

  “It don’t matter,” Petrillo said, noting Grey’s frustration. “A little bit of athlete’s foot is nothing to worry about, especially when you consider all the shit you guys are exposed to this week.”

  Grey pulled the socks on and then slipped into his boots. Petrillo moved on as more students searched for their milk crates. The coastal wind picked up, chilling Grey’s skin beneath his drenched uniform. A few rays of light slanted through the holes in the cloud cover that loomed over the island, but they weren’t enough to generate any kind of heat. Grey climbed to his feet and moved along the ranks of changing students, looking for someone who needed help.

  “Mr. Grey,” Murray crowed, “could you hold my cock while I put on my boots?”

  Grey moved on. Sometimes it was better not to encourage him. Jones was standing in front of his crate with a dumbfounded look on his face.

  “What’s the matter, Jones?”

  “Socks. Ain’t got no socks, sir.”

  “Finish getti
ng dressed. I’ll find some for you.” Grey wandered to the end of the row. A huge pile of socks sat moldering next to the last crate. Grey grabbed the cleanest-looking pair and brought them back to Jones.

  “This is the best I could do,” Grey said, offering up the damp socks.

  “Ain’t no matter. I spent half my life in bare feet, digging chiggers from my skin. A little dampness won’t hurt me. ’Sides, look at you. You’re soakin’ wet.”

  “Petrillo will find you. Don’t get too excited about your dry uniform.”

  Instructor Logan rounded the corner of the building, and immediately the atmosphere changed. Students dressed more urgently, and Petrillo no longer smiled as he hosed them down.

  “Get the fuck out of here!” Logan yelled. “You think you can just take your time, don’t you? You’re all dead! You’re all fucking dead! The second you finish pulling on your nasty uniforms, hit the surf and line up on the beach!”

  Grey joined most of the class as they sprinted around the barracks, through the gate, over the sand berm, and into the ocean. A few trainees whooped with forced enthusiasm, but most of the class immersed themselves in the frothy surf in silence. Logan was waiting when they returned.

  “Get in your boat crews, now! I don’t care how many people you have; I want those boats on your head!” Half-chewed sunflower seeds spewed from his mouth like casings from a machine gun.

  Grey took a quick muster of his crew. Jones and Murray sprinted onto the beach, arms windmilling wildly with effort. Jackson, Polkowski, Rogers, and Larsen were nowhere to be seen.

  “Prepare to up boat!” Grey yelled. Jones and Murray took positions on either side of the boat. “Up boat!” They heaved mightily against their handles, torquing their backs as they lifted the craft from the ground. It didn’t help that it was full of sand. The instructors must have decided that an inflatable boat wasn’t heavy enough by itself.

  “Fuck,” Murray complained. “There’s no way we can handle this piece of shit with three people. Not with all this sand.”

  “What the hell did you say?” Logan asked, jogging over. “Can’t handle it? If you think this is bad, you haven’t experienced pain. Squatting position, move!”

  The three of them bent their knees at ninety-degree angles. The boat immediately started wobbling as they strained to keep their legs from giving out. Grey knew they wouldn’t last more than thirty seconds.

  “You drop that thing, and you turds will be my bitches for the rest of the day.”

  “Let’s keep it up,” Grey groaned. “We can do this.”

  Jackson, Polkowski, and Rogers appeared and joined the effort. Larsen stuffed his lanky frame beneath the boat seconds later. The pain in Grey’s legs diminished, but he knew he wouldn’t last. He felt tears squeeze themselves out of the corners of his eyes, and he felt ashamed as they trickled down his cheek. He wasn’t feeling sorry for himself; his body was just reacting to the stress.

  “Recover,” Logan muttered. “Not fuckin’ bad for a bunch of no-loads.” He turned his attention to the class. “Now, gents, the moment you’ve been waiting for! Log PT!”

  “Please, no,” Polkowski whispered.

  “Lord, deliver us,” Jackson murmured.

  “Motherfucker!” Murray yelled.

  “What?” Logan snapped his gaze in Murray’s direction. “Who said that?”

  “I did,” Murray said. “I said ‘motherfucker,’ Instructor Logan.”

  “I know you did.” Logan looked confused, as if he had forgotten what upset him. He spat out a stream of seeds and returned his attention to the class. “You have two minutes to be in the ready position with your logs. Move!”

  Boat Crew Six ran to the log pile. They hoisted a splintery telephone pole onto their shoulders and jogged back to Instructor Logan. Lift, squat, press, sprint. The next two hours consisted of a series of excruciating exercises. They sprinted back and forth to the surf, dunking their logs each time for that extra bit of weight. They held the cursed poles over their heads for minutes on end and even survived a lengthy stint with Old Misery. The session ended with a dose of surf torture. Murray and Grey clamped themselves around Jackson in an attempt to trap warmth in his trembling body. They carried him from the surf half an hour later. He was babbling and foaming slightly at the mouth, but he managed to pass the corpsman’s inspection. Grey and Murray leaned against him, keeping him upright as he answered the standard questions.

  “What’s your name? Where are you from? What’s your rank?” Heisler looked at Grey leaning up against his freezing teammate and shot him a look as if to say I know what you’re up to. He shook his head and moved on.

  “The cold, sir,” Jackson stammered. “It’s gonna kill me. It’s worse for the black man. Wish I was Scandinavian. Ain’t no Arctic water in Africa.”

  “You’ll make it, Jackson,” Grey said. “Just stick close to me. I’ll keep you warm.”

  “Thanks, sir.”

  Logan directed them back to their milk crates by the barracks. He gave them five minutes to suit up for a one-and-a-half-mile ocean swim. Grey knew this would be the easiest evolution during Hell Week: no harassment, a wet suit top, and a chance to work the kinks out of their already-destroyed muscles. He pulled on his UDT life jacket, strapped on his web belt, secured his dive knife and flare, pulled on his hood and booties, and spit in his mask to keep it from fogging up. As always, fish-eyed Murray would be his swim buddy.

  The class waded into the ocean and kicked beneath the large breakers rolling toward shore. Grey kept one hand locked onto Murray’s web belt. He didn’t want a wave to separate them. A safety violation was the last thing he needed. Once they reached the calm offshore waters and Pollock reported a full muster, the class was off and swimming. Murray kept looking over at Grey with his ridiculously large eyes. Fish eyes in a round face with a round fish mouth. Grey laughed, inhaling a stream of salt water. He slowed the pace as he struggled to recover. The instructors wouldn’t be recording times during Hell Week, so Grey was in no hurry to make it back to the start. In fact, he crossed the finish line with a pang of regret. It would only get worse from here.

  Grey and Murray swam in to shore and stripped off their swim gear. They were one of the last pairs in, so they had to hurry to get back into uniform. Less than a minute later Boat Crew Six was formed up on the beach. They hoisted the boat onto their heads and waited for Logan. They didn’t wait long. The instructor stepped onto the beach and immediately began running north. The class struggled to keep up, their legs shuffling clumsily in soft sand as the boats bounced crazily on their bobbing heads.

  The goofy-looking blond instructor named Dullard ran next to the class, screaming at boat crews, warning them to stay bow to stern. The class shuffled along next to the towering sand berm. Suddenly Dullard sprinted to the top of the berm and continued shadowing the class. What the hell is he doing? Time seemed to slow as Grey watched him pick up speed then hurl himself through the air with a violent leap. He arced skyward, then came down with a crash on top of Pollock’s boat crew. A scream of pain pierced the damp morning air as a student fell to the sand. Grey had to stop his boat crew to avoid running the injured man over. Dullard jumped down from the boat as the class froze, unbelieving.

  “Instructor Dullard!” Rogers yelled. “What’s wrong with you? You probably broke that guy’s back!”

  A murmur of surprise rippled through the class. Accusing an instructor of anything was generally a bad idea, but Dullard was clearly in the wrong. He had the look of a schoolboy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Grey was outraged and embarrassed for the other instructors. How could he be so stupid?

  The ambulance raced over, and the corpsman jumped out. He trembled with anger as he rolled the crippled student onto a backboard. Dullard watched guiltily as the student was lifted into the ambulance and the doors slammed shut behind him. Ensign Ryder, an old former chief who had earned his officer commission late in life, grabbed Dullard by the arm and marched him back toward the BU
D/S compound.

  “His career’s over,” Rogers said. “And he deserves it, too.”

  “You’re right about that one,” Jackson added. “Anybody know the guy who went down?”

  “His name’s Smith,” Polkowski said. “Lives next door to me. Quiet guy. Nice.”

  “What a waste.” Grey shook his head in disbelief. “What an amazing waste.”

  “Shit happens,” Larsen said. “Big fucking deal.”

  Rogers lunged at Larsen and clamped a hand around his throat. “Listen up, you pathetic headbanging piece of white trash. You ever say anything like that again, and I’ll snap your neck. I mean it.” Rogers’s eyes were wild.

  “Good Lord,” Jackson said, prying Rogers’s hands away. “I didn’t know you had it in you, sir.”

  “Neither did I. But I won’t tolerate that kind of disrespect. I’m absolutely certain about one thing: I never want to operate with someone who could care less about his teammates—someone like you, Larsen.”

  Larsen looked at the rest of the boat crew to see if anyone was outraged by Rogers’s behavior. No one was. He turned away in shame. Red warning lights went off in Grey’s head. A factious boat crew would be the end of the road. It was crucial that they all at least tolerate one another if they wanted to survive the week.

  Grey put a hand on Larsen’s shoulder. “Maybe if you apologize we can forget this whole thing. I don’t want hard feelings between anyone in my crew.”

  “I’ll apologize if Mr. Rogers apologizes for choking me out,” Larsen sulked.

  Grey looked at Rogers. “Well?”