Suffer in Silence

by David Reid

  Murray coughed violently and held a napkin to his mouth. Once his hacking subsided, he glanced at his napkin, quickly crumpled it into a ball, and jammed it in his pocket.

  “What’s that all about?” Grey asked.

  “What are you talking about?” Murray couldn’t meet his gaze.

  “I’m talking about that cough. You sound like crap. And why were you in such a hurry to hide that napkin?”

  “It’s covered in snot, sir,” Murray explained. “I wouldn’t want to offend Rogers.”

  “Knock off the bullshit,” Grey said. “Let me see the napkin.”

  Murray leaned in close to Grey and whispered, “Blood brothers, right?”

  “Of course,” Grey whispered back.

  Murray suppressed a cough. “I think I’m in deep shit, sir.”

  “Do I need to turn you in to medical?”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Murray hissed. “A promise is a promise. The only way they’re getting me out of this class is by carrying me out in a coffin.”

  “Give me the napkin,” Grey insisted. “Let me see it.”

  Murray pressed a crumpled napkin into Grey’s hand under the table. Grey opened it up and recoiled in disgust. It was coated with slimy pinkish froth.

  “This is serious, Murray,” Grey whispered. “I can’t let you continue.”

  “It’s not your choice.”

  Not my choice? Grey suppressed his anger. “I can’t let you.”

  “Sir, we have a pact.” Murray shot him a plaintive look. “Blood brothers.”

  Grey handed the napkin back to Murray. “I won’t tell if you promise not to hide your condition if it gets much worse.”

  Murray smiled. “Deal.”

  “I don’t feel good about this.”

  “Don’t worry so much. Plenty of students have made it to the end of Hell Week with pulmonary edema.”

  “What are you two whispering about?” Rogers asked.

  “Nothing exciting.” Grey rolled his neck and looked away. “We were just speculating about the beat-down we’ll get tonight.”

  “Time to go, gents,” Chief Baldwin called out. “Say good-bye to the sun, because you won’t be seeing it for quite some time.”

  The class stepped outside into the fading light. The air was still heavy with moisture, ensuring that the class would never enjoy a dry moment. Grey and his crew hauled the boat onto their heads and waited for instructions.

  The lean instructor named Barefoot stepped in front of the class. With his big eyes, big ears, and small face, he bore a striking resemblance to a mouse. Unfortunately, he was a notoriously fast runner. “I’m going to haul ass back to the compound, so don’t get left behind. Stragglers will pay dearly.” Barefoot took off at a dead sprint.

  The boat pounded Grey’s tender skull as he tried to keep up. Big Blue pulled up next to his crew, and Chief Baldwin leaned out the window.

  “Motivate me, gents. How about a little ditty?”

  Murray didn’t hesitate. He coughed loudly, then launched into one of his favorite chants:

  I had a dog whose name was Blue.

  Blue wanted to be a SEAL, too.

  Bought him a mask and four tiny fins,

  Went to the ocean and—

  “Shut up!” Barefoot yelled over his shoulder. “I hate that lame-ass jody. Keep it up and I’ll run you dipshits into the ground.”

  “So much for that one,” Murray muttered.

  Chief Baldwin winked from his truck. “Better luck next time.”

  The class sprinted across the highway and onto the beach. Barefoot stopped at the surf line and ordered the class to extended-arm carry. “You guys ready for a long paddle?”

  “Hoo-yah!” the class responded. Paddling was infinitely less painful than running with a boat crashing up and down on their skulls.

  “Too bad, lazy turds. We’re running.” Barefoot’s mouse eyes fixed themselves on Boat Crew Six. “And you know why? I’ll tell you why. Because of that stupid jody you dumb shits started on the run over here. Hell Week is not a time for celebration. This is a somber fuckin’ experience, and I expect you to act accordingly.”

  “Bullshit,” Murray coughed.

  “Did I hear something?”

  “Negative,” Murray said innocently.

  “Listen, shithead, I know you’re a bad egg. You don’t want to play along? Then you’re fucked. You won’t make it through this week. You will not survive Hell Week. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Crystal clear.” Murray looked at his feet.

  Without another word, Barefoot turned and broke into a run. Cursing freely, the class followed him south along the water’s edge. Every step was a jolt of pain, and there was no end in sight. The mess of lights across the border grew brighter as the class limped toward Imperial Beach.

  “Where are we going?” Larsen asked. “Tijuana? Five-dollar blow jobs?”

  “Damn, that sounds good.” Murray grunted like an animal. “I could use a little girly action. Too bad we’re headed for the mud pits.”

  “What?” Larsen asked.

  “The mud pits. South end of the bay. Down by the marina.”

  “You serious?”

  “I’m willing to bet money on it. Prepare yourself for the bacterial invasion.”

  “What you guys talkin’ about, bacterial invasion?” Jones asked. “I’m lookin’ forward to a nice mud bath. Good for the complexion and all.”

  Barefoot picked up the pace, and the elephant train lurched forward, propelled by the threats of instructors riding in diesel trucks alongside them.

  “Switch me out, man! Switch me out! I can’t take it anymore!” Larsen’s neck folded over so that the boat bounced wildly on the side of his head.

  “I got it!” Grey yelled. He moved from his position at the stern and edged Larsen out of the way. Grey had never taken the bow position. It was an extremely unpleasant change. Not only had a load of sand slid toward the front of the boat, but instead of being pulled along by the momentum of the crew, Grey felt like he was being pushed over from behind. Please let us stop soon. Please.

  Barefoot kept right on running. Several minutes later he veered to the east and sprinted across the soft sand. The class followed. Soon they were limping through a large tunnel that crossed beneath the Silver Strand Boulevard. The headlights from the truck behind them played eerily against the dirty walls, and the slap of dozens of boots on concrete echoed in the confines of the tunnel. Barefoot sprinted through the tunnel and disappeared on the other side. As Boat Crew Six lurched back onto the sand, Grey immediately picked Barefoot out at the bottom of a gentle slope. Strangely, the water that stretched for fifty yards behind him didn’t shimmer. It stood still. Perfectly still. As his boat crew got closer, Grey realized his error. It wasn’t water. It was mud.

  “Way to call it, Murray,” Jackson said. “Time to play in the mud.”

  Barefoot ordered them to drop their boats at the edge of the sludge and line up in boat crews. “Time for a relay race. We’ll start with the basics. Each member of your crew will run to the far end of the mud flats and back. Those boat crews that have six members, pick one person to run twice.” Barefoot glared at the class. “Any questions?”

  A student raised his hand. “How do we know when we’re at the end of the flats?”

  “You’ll know because you’ll be swimming, you stupid piece of shit. The mud changes to bay water in matter of a few feet. Keep right on going if you want. I don’t give a shit.”

  “Mighty Mouse sure says ‘shit’ a lot,” Murray mumbled quietly.

  “Who wants to run twice?” Grey asked. No hands went up. “Fine. I will.”

  “Ready…” Barefoot raised an arm. “Go.” His arm cut downward, and the first competitors sprinted off in a flurry of arms and legs.

  Grey flew forward for several steps before the ground gave away. His forward momentum flung him facedown in the mud as his legs stuck knee-deep in the ooze. Grey struggled to get himself upright. He
futilely pushed against the mud with his arms. It squished past his elbows, moving all the way up to his shoulders. Now his head was the only part of his body clear of the mess. He spent several seconds frantically trying to reach something solid with his hands. His fingertips grazed against a rock, but he couldn’t leverage enough power from the hard surface to pull his upper body free. Working slowly against the weight of the mud, Grey pulled his legs underneath him so that he was kneeling. Then he gingerly squatted until he was standing knee deep in the filth. The stench of the putrid muck overpowered him. Grey tried to take another step, but stopped when he felt his boot sucking off of his foot. A quick glance around gave him a small degree of comfort. No one was making much progress.

  “Hurry it up, turds!” Barefoot yelled. “If you don’t want to play this game, I’m sure we can find something else to do. Something a little more challenging.”

  Grey slowly pulled one foot free from the mud. He threw the loose leg forward and lost his balance again as the muck swallowed it back up. Fuck. Grey tried another approach. He was already on his stomach, so he simply kicked against the semisolid bottom of the mud flat. His progress was slow, but it was progress.

  “That’s the way, sir!” Jones yelled. “Just like a bird dog in a pond!”

  A bird dog … Grey kicked and kicked. The mud oozed through the neck of his shirt and down the front of his body. It slicked over his groin and slipped down his legs. The other students watched his progress and imitated his technique. Grey’s arms finally plunged into a substance that might pass as water. He turned around and started the journey back.

  “This is ridiculous,” Grey moaned as he pulled himself from the muck.

  “Good job.” Rogers slapped Grey’s mud-slicked back. “We’re in first place.”

  “Now watch this here,” Jones said. “I’ll show you city boys how it’s done.” He took a few steps backward, then took off at a dead sprint. At the edge of the mud flat he launched himself into the air. Grey smiled as he watched Jones fly gracefully through the darkness. He sailed a good ten feet before his body slapped into the muck with a crack and a slurp. Jones immediately rose to his feet and moved forward. His technique looked absurd, but he made progress. Jones jerked his legs up and down rapidly, keeping the mud from establishing a firm hold on his legs. By the time he reached the far side of the flats, Grey could see that his sides were heaving with effort.

  “I’m finished,” Jones croaked, collapsing at the starting line. Jackson leaped into the mud and thrashed toward the far side. Then came Larsen, then Murray, and then Grey was up again. He did slightly better this time, although he was once again forced to pull himself along on his stomach. He lurched across the finish line in first place.

  “Sit butts to nuts in the mud,” Barefoot ordered. “Pays to be a winner.”

  Grey gathered his crew and they waded into the mud and sat down, sandwiching their bodies tightly together to conserve warmth. Despite the nauseating smell, the mud was strangely soothing. Grey watched, satisfied, as the rest of the class repeated the race. I’ll close my eyes, just for a second. He awoke with a snap as Murray’s palm connected with his head.

  “Next race, boss.”

  “Already?”

  “Already.” Murray helped Grey to his feet, and they slurped back over to the starting line.

  “Time for something a little more fun,” Barefoot said. His big eyes shone in the darkness. “You all know how to do somersaults, right? Of course you do. The relay race is the same, only you will somersault to the end and back.” Without missing a beat he added, “Ready, go.”

  Grey stepped to the edge of the mud flats and reluctantly lowered his head into the filth. It seeped around his ears, his eyes, his nose, blocking all his senses. He felt himself suffocating in darkness. He kicked with his legs and couldn’t seem to bring them over his head. As his head slipped farther into the mud, two slimy tendrils of ooze snaked up his nose and into his ears. He tried his legs again. No luck. Shit. Shit. Shit. Grey desperately tried to yank his head free. It wouldn’t budge. He was getting hypoxic. To die like this. To die with my head in the mud … A raw sense of rage gripped his body as he strained against the mud with all his might. His head slid upward, then popped back into the night air. Grey wheezed a desperately needed breath. He gingerly opened his eyes; everything was brown. He couldn’t hear a word. He tried to pick the mud from his ears, but only managed to push it in farther. Suddenly a figure appeared at his side. Grey turned in surprise. Judging by the brown vein that stood out on Barefoot’s brown face, the instructor was yelling.

  “Get back down there,” came the muffled order. “What is this? Some kind of rest break? Bullshit. You haven’t gone anywhere yet.”

  Stomach churning with fear, Grey plunged his head back into the mud. Slurp. The world went completely silent. Grey kicked and kicked. Ever so slowly, he managed to direct his momentum forward. He rolled onto his back, then pulled himself to his knees. The mud swallowed his head again, and the process repeated itself. Every few turns his head would get stuck, leading to a panic-induced rage. By the time Grey made it back to the start he was cursing and sputtering with anger.

  Jackson mouthed a few words in Grey’s direction. Something went pop in Grey’s ear, and he caught the end of Jackson’s sentence. “… over this.”

  “Over?”

  “I don’t get your meaning,” Jackson said with a perplexed look.

  “I couldn’t hear you.”

  “I was just saying you shouldn’t get all worked up over this ridiculous parade. I’ve never seen you so worked up. You were cursing like a sailor.”

  “Just wait until it’s your turn to drown in the mud,” Grey said as he glanced at Murray. Grey did a double take. Murray lay face down in the mud, and Instructor Barefoot had a boot planted against the back of his neck.

  “What’s going on?” Grey yelled.

  “This doesn’t concern you, sir.”

  “Yes it does. That’s a member of my boat crew that you’re drowning.”

  “I’m not drowning him, fuck nut.” Barefoot lifted his boot, and Murray flung his head upward, gasping for air. “Since you’re so concerned, maybe you should take his place.”

  Grey pulled Murray from the mud and then dropped to his knees. He heard Murray protesting as Grey lowered his head into the filth. He rolled and rolled, propelled forward by raw hatred, the strongest hatred he had felt toward anyone in years. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, he chanted in his head. Someday I’ll be your OIC, and I’ll ruin you. I’ll absolutely destroy you. I don’t care if this is supposed to make me stronger. I will find a way. Grey rolled right onto Larsen’s boots. He stood up and staggered to the end of the line. The drills continued well into the night. Somersaults, backward running, wheelbarrow races. Nearly deaf and blind from the mud, Grey strained to decipher Chief Baldwin’s instructions.

  “… mud men … time … paddle … chow…”

  Grey looked at Murray in confusion. Murray nodded, signaling that he understood the orders. Grey followed his crew back to the boat. Together they picked it up, perched it on their heads, and carried it across the mud flats. Grey pushed the boat from the stern as they dropped it into the murky water. Soon he was in above his head. After swimming behind the boat for a few strokes, Grey pulled himself in.

  “Wow. You sure clean up nice,” Murray exclaimed, noting Grey’s wet uniform. “I think I’ll take a dunk myself.” He slipped over the side of the boat and into the bay, and the rest of the crew followed suit.

  “I’m just happy I can hear again,” Grey muttered to himself.

  A mess of wet bodies flopped back into the boat. Grey looked at Murray expectantly. “What’s the word?”

  “We’re supposed to paddle north and guide off Big Blue’s headlights at the edge of the amphibious base. Shouldn’t take more than a few hours. Of course, Barefoot did call it a race.”

  “Let’s get moving. Murray, you can start with the cadence. We’ll rotate positions
at the halfway point.”

  They stroked in time with Murray’s voice, gliding north through the bay. The lights of the downtown glowed in the distance beneath the arc of the Coronado Bay Bridge. To the east Grey could barely make out the ghostly outlines of old ships in the maritime graveyard. The battered hulls had long since been abandoned, left to rot in the southern reaches of the bay. They continued on, quietly dipping their wooden paddles beneath the smooth surface of the water.

  “Stop splashing me,” Larsen complained.

  “Sorry,” Jones drawled. “Didn’t mean to.”

  Two bright dots appeared in the distance. Headlights. They looked deceptively close. Grey continued to paddle patiently, but the lights remained stubbornly out of reach.

  “I said stop splashing me!” Larsen screamed.

  “Quiet down!” Rogers scolded. “Jones doesn’t mean to do it. Give him a break.”

  “You try getting splashed with cold water every other stroke.”

  Jones turned and looked at Larsen. “Hey, no need to make a big fuss. I’ll change places with you right now. Then you can splash me all you want, okay?”

  “Fine.” Larsen climbed into the bow, and Jones scooted backward.

  They stroked onward. Two boat crews had a commanding lead on them, and three were trailing behind. Grey knew they didn’t have to win. Winning was nice, but the key to survival was not losing. Getting beat during Hell Week was more than just a discomfort. Everyone had a breaking point, and each additional beating brought their abused bodies one step closer to failure.

  “Sir, why’d you join up?” Murray asked, looking back at Grey.

  “What?” Grey was caught off guard. “Why’d I join up?” His mind blanked. “Why’d you join?”

  “Nice try. I asked you first.”

  Grey watched the swirling wake behind his paddle. “Because this is hard.”

  “Because it’s hard?” Murray asked. “Jesus. I’ll give you a two-hundred-pound pack and put you on a six-month forced march. There has to be something more than that.”