Suffer in Silence

by David Reid

  A shy young seaman named Gracy stepped out from under his boat. His crew leader lunged for his arm, but Gracy sidestepped him.

  “No harm in quitting,” Barefoot said as Baldwin ushered Gracy away. “This is not for everyone. Hell, I wouldn’t do it again.”

  Let’s get on with it. Cut the propaganda. Grey’s scalp was raw, his back was torqued, his legs were horribly infected, his skin was chaffed, his lips were chapped, his privates tenderized from sand. Despite his ills, he was more determined than ever to see the week through. Barefoot’s speech only added fuel to the fire.

  The class spent the next hour following Barefoot around the base. The skinny instructor ran impossibly fast, and a virtual symphony of groans, grunts, and the occasional whimper rose into the air as they followed his lead. Finally Barefoot came to a halt next to a long pier that jutted north into the bay. Five metal sheets, six feet long and three feet wide, sat at the base of the pier. Ice cubes completely covered the sheets.

  “No,” Jackson whispered. “Please God, no.”

  “Can’t be that bad,” Murray said, placing a comforting hand on Jackson’s shoulder. “What’s the worst that will happen?” He shrugged. “You’ll die, that’s all. But you’re a religious man, so you have nothing to worry about.”

  “Welcome to the Arctic research station,” Barefoot said. He pointed to the metal sheets. “We’ve got ice.” He pointed to three large fans. “We’ve got freezing winds.” He pointed to the bay. “And we’ve got cold water. What else could you ask for?”

  Chief Baldwin cut in. “Before I let Instructor Barefoot have his fun with you, we’re going to practice some survival skills. Everyone pick a partner.”

  Grey turned his eyes toward Murray, who nodded in affirmation.

  “You and your partner will enter the water next to the pier. One at a time, you will take off your boots, tie them around your neck, and then make a flotation device out of your pants like we taught you. Once you’re done, stand by for further instructions.”

  Grey and Murray filed down the pier and jumped into the bay. The briny water was only slightly warmer than the ocean. Grey treaded water while his partner struggled with his boots between violent coughs. Murray’s head disappeared below the surface, then reappeared seconds later as he gasped for air. After several minutes he lifted a pair of boots from the water and tied the laces together. He slung the boots around his neck, pulled his pants off, and tied the legs together. Grasping his pants by the waist, he flung them over his head and into the water, trapping a massive pocket of air in the legs. Holding the waist shut, Murray slipped his head through his new life preserver.

  “Your turn,” Murray said.

  “Right.” Grey took a deep breath, then disappeared below the surface. The absence of light and the murkiness of the water made it extremely difficult to see his boots. He groped blindly, trying to undo his knots with numb fingers. When his breath ran out he jerked for the surface. After several minutes of frustration, Grey finally managed to strip his boots off and tie them around his neck. His pants came off with less trouble. He tied the legs, whipped the pants over his head, and clasped the waist closed.

  Murray and Grey bobbed together in the bay, shivering, eyes turned expectantly toward the pier. Baldwin paced back and forth with a grim expression on his face, watching the students struggle. The class waited and waited. The shivering grew more intense, more desperate. Baldwin continued pacing.

  “This blows,” Murray chattered.

  “I know.” Grey forced a weak smile. “I don’t see how it can get much worse.”

  “Everyone out!” Baldwin yelled. “And make it quick!”

  The class made a mad dash for the single ladder that led back to the pier. One by one, they climbed out of the bay and filed down to the metal sheets. Instructor Barefoot eyed them hungrily.

  “First of all, get rid of your uniforms and boots. I want you in your underpants. Then I want Boat Crews One through Three to stay here. Boat Crews Four and Five, report to Senior Chief Lundin at the windstorm station.”

  Grey unbuttoned his camouflage top, stripped off his white T-shirt, pulled off his socks, and dropped them all in a pile along with his pants and boots. Herding his boat crew ahead of him, Grey shivered over to Senior Chief Lundin. Three metal fans with enormous blades sat behind the somber instructor.

  “I’d like to tell you this isn’t going to suck,” Lundin said. “But I’m not a liar. Just remember, this can’t last forever.” He arranged the frigid students in a line, then placed his hand on a switch. “Keep your arms out. I want exposed pits.” With a flourish he flicked the switch, and a torrent of cold night air whipped over the students. He turned the other two fans on, then stepped aside and watched the trainees squirm.

  Grey closed his eyes as the wind caressed his dripping body. His body lurched and jerked involuntarily as it reacted to the new chill. The fans hummed, the students cursed, and the raindrops started to fall. Lundin looked up and shook his head in disbelief.

  “You unlucky bastards. You poor souls.”

  They shivered, jerked, and drooled, moaned, groaned, and whimpered.

  “Let’s try to lighten the mood a little, shall we?” Lundin asked. “Who’s got a story or a poem, or something to share with the class.”

  Murray raised his hand.

  “Yes, Murray…”

  “I have something for show-and-tell,” Murray chattered.

  “Well, what could that be?” Lundin asked patronizingly.

  Murray pulled down his white spandex underwear. “The world’s smallest cock and balls, courtesy of BUD/S training.”

  Lundin didn’t bat an eye. “Very nice, Murray. Anyone else?”

  Rogers raised his hand.

  “Yes, Princeton…”

  “I have a few lines of verse.”

  “Of course you do, sir.”

  “They’re from The Tempest by Shakespeare.”

  Lundin nodded. “Fitting.”

  Rogers started reciting, but he was chattering so hard he could barely form the words. Finally he pulled himself together enough to whip through a few lines. Grey tried to listen, but the verse went right through him. Something about “ebbing Neptune,” “mutinous winds,” and “heavenly music.”

  “Nicely done, sir,” Lundin said. “Now kindly remove the silver spoon from your mouth and keep suffering.”

  Jones snorted a laugh. Grey dreamed of hot chocolate.

  “Time for a rotation,” Lundin said. “Go report to Instructor Barefoot.”

  Grey stumbled away from the whirring fans and padded through the rain toward the dreaded metal sheets. Boat Crews One, Two, and Three passed by, looking like the living dead with their blue skin and sunken, wild eyes.

  “Welcome,” Instructor Barefoot said. He gestured toward the ice-laden metal sheets. “Please, lay down. Make yourselves comfortable.”

  “Do we have to?” Murray asked.

  “Shut the fuck up.” The smile was gone. “Get down there. Now.”

  Grey chose a spot next to Murray and Jackson. He stepped onto the sheet, and his feet immediately burned. He sat down, and his ass was on fire. Finally he lay back and cringed as a million little campfires erupted across his body.

  “Put your heads down,” Barefoot ordered. “Don’t try to cheat the system.”

  Grey lowered his head onto the cubes of ice and shuddered. It felt like someone was cracking a ball-peen hammer against his skull.

  “I want you to lay there and think about what you’re doing. I mean, why the fuck are you putting up with this? This is ridiculous. You should be home in bed, and you’re lying on a metal sheet covered with ice.”

  Soon a drumlike rattle filled the air. It gradually grew in intensity, and Grey realized it was the sound of frozen bodies shivering and bouncing on top of the metal sheets. Ratta-tat-tat. Grey clenched his jaw shut to stop the chattering of his teeth. Jackson mumbled next him. “Oh, God. Oh, Lord.”

  “On your stomachs,” Barefo
ot ordered.

  Grey rolled over and had to bite his hand to keep from screaming. His testicles sang with pain. He looked over at Murray, hoping to gain some comfort from his friend. Instead, he was met with a blank stare, a look totally devoid of feeling.

  “Murray?” Grey hissed. “You okay?”

  Murray’s eyes flickered. “What?”

  “You okay?”

  “A little cold, but that’s part of the game.”

  “Okay. Just checking.”

  “On your backs,” Barefoot ordered.

  Grey rolled back over. Ratta-tat-tat. The drum roll of clattering bodies started again. Grey tried to bring himself to another place, tried to imagine himself in bed with Vanessa, but then he remembered the old man and his flowers. He tried to picture himself in Palm Springs, lounging by a pool in the desert heat. No good. Too fucking cold.

  “Up, up, up,” Barefoot ordered. “Go take a dunk in the bay and report back to Senior Chief Lundin.”

  Grey tried to stand up but slipped on a piece of ice. He crashed down on his ass, scattering cubes everywhere. Moving more cautiously, Grey slowly rose to his feet. He tested his balance, taking a few delicate steps. Satisfied with his coordination, he shivered over to the side of the pier and jumped into the bay.

  The water was warm. So warm … like a Jacuzzi. Nothing like a little ice to put things in perspective. Grey worked the feeling back into his limbs.

  “Hot damn!” Jones exulted. “I never thought the bay would feel so good.”

  “Lundin’s waiting,” Grey said. “Sorry to disappoint, but we better get moving.”

  They climbed up the ladder and back into the windstorm. They did four rotations through the circuit: windstorm, ice, bay. By the time the drill ended, Grey’s mind slipped and misfired constantly. Jackson was another story altogether. He refused to answer any of Grey’s questions. He simply shook his head when asked if he was okay. Grey and Murray sandwiched him, trying to force some warmth back into his body. They huddled at the back of the group as Barefoot addressed the class.

  “All right, girls, enough of this cold bullshit. I prefer running. Get dressed and get under your boats. Make it quick.”

  Grey quickly pulled on his pants, his shirt, and his top. He yanked on his socks and slipped into his boots, only to look up and see that Jackson hadn’t moved. He was still standing in his underwear in the midst of a group of dressing students. Shit.

  “Jackson, buddy, time to get dressed,” Grey said, gently shaking Jackson’s arm. He picked up a pair of pants and held them out. No response. He could see this would be a challenge. “Murray, get over here.”

  Murray appeared at his side. “Jackson, bro, pull it together.”

  Grey grasped Jackson by the shoulders. “Lay down,” he ordered.

  Jackson slowly lowered himself to the concrete. Grey started yanking the pants on his legs while Murray worked on his T-shirt.

  “What the fuck is going on here?” Barefoot asked.

  “Nothing,” Grey lied. “Jackson’s fingers are numb. He’s having trouble with his buttons.” Wake up, Jackson. Snap out of it.

  Murray subtly inched his hand toward Jackson’s pants. Moving with lighting speed, he grabbed Jackson’s balls and gave them a hard squeeze. The dazed trainee sat bolt upright, eyes wide.

  “See, he’s fine,” Grey said.

  “You guys are pathetic,” Barefoot sneered. “Just hurry it up. Don’t make the class wait for you. I can always put you back on the ice.”

  Jackson slowly regained his alertness as Grey and Murray pulled on his boots. They sprinted to their boat just as Barefoot led the elephant train away from the pier.

  “Up boat!” Grey yelled. They lifted the boat onto their heads and took off at a full run. Barefoot led the class across the amphibious base, across the highway, and onto the beach. He turned north and ran past the rock pile, past the Hotel del Coronado, past the gate to the North Island Naval Air Station. The bouncing boat was as uncomfortable as ever, but Grey had grown partially numb to the constant pounding on his skull. They had covered at least three miles by the time Barefoot stopped the elephant train.

  THIRTEEN

  THE MIDNIGHT CREW WAS already positioned on the beach, waiting to take over. Instructor Osgood emerged from the shadows. “It’s my show now, turds. We’re playing a new game. It’s called Escape and Evasion. First, why don’t you refresh yourselves and hit the surf.”

  The class ran into the shallows, flopped down, and ran back.

  “Now that you’re suitably cold again, I want each boat crew to dig a shelter. It should be a pit big enough to fit seven people inside. You can use your boat as a roof. Just make sure you conceal the damn thing. You have thirty minutes.”

  Grey chose a patch of sand at the edge of the beach bordering a large stand of dense bushes. Each member of his boat crew grabbed a paddle and dug quickly. Once they had excavated a good-size pit, they flopped their boat on top of it and covered the whole thing with sand. As a final touch, Murray ripped a plant from the sandy soil behind them and placed it on top of their shelter. Not bad. Grey crawled inside. A bit cozy, but workable.

  “Time’s up, dipshits!” Osgood yelled.

  Grey scrambled out of the shelter. He joined the class in a school circle around Instructor Osgood.

  “Like I said, this is Escape and Evasion. Your goal is to not get caught.” He scanned the fatigued faces in front of him. “Trust me, you don’t want to get caught. Your goal is to get from the drop-off point to your shelter without getting intercepted by one of the hostiles. You’ll have a few hours, so don’t try that bullshit where you think you can sprint the whole way. None of that. You should be on your bellies most of the time. Use any cover available and keep a low profile. By the way, you’re operating in swim pairs, not boat crews. I recommend staying away from big groups. Now form it up for a run. Instructor Redman is going to take you to the start.”

  The class formed into three ranks, and Instructor Redman stationed his hulking form at the front of the formation. The run was relaxing. Grey knew he could outpace Redman in a heartbeat, and now that he didn’t have a boat on his head, he felt surprisingly good. They ran for several minutes before coming to a stop next to Big Blue. Furtado and Heisler regarded the class coolly from the warmth of the truck.

  “Stay off the airfield,” Redman ordered. “Stay off the roads. Use common sense. Prisoners will be tortured. Now get lost.”

  Grey scanned his surroundings. A straight shot along the beach would be suicide. No cover. A shallow gully ran to the east, ending at a playing field ringed by trees. Beyond that was the airfield and the Navy Lodge. They would have to try their luck with the gully. Grey and Murray ran over a small sand berm and dropped into the gully.

  “The farther we get in our first few minutes, the better,” Grey said.

  “Good call,” Murray agreed. “Let’s at least get to the field.”

  They ran at a crouch, shuffling through the soft sand at the bottom of the gully. Once they reached the perimeter of the field, Grey dropped to a prone position. He crawled along the edge of trees, moving toward the airfield with Murray at his side.

  Murray put a hand on Grey’s shoulder. Grey froze. Someone with a flashlight moved slowly along the opposite side of the field. They slowly backed behind a tree. The figure prowled around for a few minutes before turning to the south. They continued crawling until they reached the end of the field. Across a narrow road lay a large dirt field, approximately fifty yards on a side. A small shack sat in the center of the clearing. Grey pointed across the sparsely vegetated terrain and shrugged. He knew the instructors wouldn’t expect them to cross over to the Navy Lodge at the far end of the clearing. Murray nodded his assent.

  They scrambled across the road and dropped onto their stomachs. The field provided little cover, just a few knee-high brambles. Grey crawled quickly, dragging his torso across the dirt. He stopped behind the sheet-metal shack to catch his breath. Murray appeared at his side
seconds later.

  “I’m never going to forget this,” Murray whispered.

  “Forget what?”

  “This week. Everything. All the shit we’ve been through.”

  Grey nodded. It wasn’t like Murray to get all nostalgic.

  “Thanks for always looking out for me.” He coughed loudly into his hand and wiped the reddish goo on his pants.

  “You should turn yourself in,” Grey said quietly. “This is getting ridiculous.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Murray smiled weakly.

  Grey squeezed Murray’s shoulder before continuing across the field. A two-foot-high cement wall surrounded the clearing to the east. Grey gave a quick glance over his shoulder then rolled over the wall and flattened himself against the pavement on the other side. Murray flopped down next to him, and they surveyed the parking lot. The area was cluttered with cars—good cover. It was past midnight, and most of the hotel-room windows were dark. Moving from car to car, Grey crawled on his hands and knees toward the building.

  Suddenly a beam of light cut toward them. Murray and Grey hit the deck and held their breath. Footsteps sounded in the parking lot, and the light bounced from car to car. Murray started to lift his head, but Grey yanked him back down. Whoever was roaming the parking lot was looking for something—probably them.

  Grey lay a short distance from an open corridor that cut through the center of the hotel. The north side of the hotel bordered a sizable plot of land covered with thick, head-high bushes. The vegetation would provide optimal cover, but Grey knew they couldn’t risk moving that far. They would have to try their luck with the corridor. The light suddenly vanished. Grey ventured a peek over the hood of the Mustang he was using as cover. A lone figure slowly worked the parking lot in the opposite direction, sweeping a beam of light back and forth to the south.

  “We’re taking the corridor,” Grey whispered. “I’ll lead. I’m going straight through. I’ll look for cover at the opposite end. Give me a few minutes before you follow.”