by David Reid
Grey didn’t respond. He was busy tunneling into the earth, flinging sand with as much energy as he could muster. Why? Why? Why? Grey felt tears welling up in his eyes again. Sand. Goddamn sand. Vanessa. Green hills. Vanessa. Hot chocolate. Grey groaned, a deep roiling noise rising from his chest. Pulmonary edema. Bloody hands. Bloody lungs. Redman. Furtado. Fucker.
Osgood stood silently next to Grey, his beefy arms crossed over his chest. Periodically he spat a stream of chew onto Grey’s head or kicked sand back into the hole. Grey didn’t notice. He clawed and clawed, his eyes fixed on the beach beneath him.
“That’s enough.”
Grey continued his frantic excavation.
“Stop!” Osgood yelled, grabbing Grey by the shoulders.
Grey twisted around and looked up at Osgood. The instructor’s face showed little emotion. Where Grey expected to find hatred, he found only emptiness. Osgood calmly flipped Grey onto his back in the hole and began pushing sand over Grey’s body with his foot. Grey didn’t resist. He couldn’t. He turned his gaze to the night sky and surrendered.
“Sleep.”
* * *
Grey awoke to a slight tickling sensation in his ear. Osgood dropped the strand of kelp he had been using to wake Grey and grunted an inaudible command at the officer.
“What?” Grey croaked. His arms broke free from the sand.
“CO called in, says it’s time to resume training. You in?”
You in? Grey repeated the question in his head. Osgood muttered the words so casually, as if he were asking Grey to join him for a night of drinking.
“Is Murray dead?” Grey asked.
“Yes, he’s dead.”
“Who killed him?” Grey pushed his upper body free of the sand and sat up in the pit. “Was it Redman?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“He’s dead.”
“I know.”
“How long have I been asleep?”
Osgood looked at him quizzically. “Long enough. Maybe an hour, maybe less.”
“And I’m supposed to just continue on like nothing happened?”
Osgood’s eyes narrowed. “If we were engaged in a war, do you think that God would just come down and say, ‘Stop! One of Ensign Grey’s enlisted buddies died?’ This isn’t prep school, sir. Your friends will die in this business. Your job as a leader is to continue on.”
“Where’s my boat crew?”
“Down the beach. Waiting.”
Grey eased himself to his feet and dusted the sand from his uniform. The short span of sleep Osgood had granted him left him feeling surprisingly alert. He jogged behind Osgood through the darkness, his eyes trained on the instructor’s back. Soon the sounds of his suffering class filled his ears. Ensign Ryder was making up for lost time. While waiting for the CO’s go-ahead, the class had grown complacent. The instructors darted among the trainees, shocking them back to life with a mixture of pain and cold. Grey joined his crew. He struggled through a series of push-ups, then bear-crawled to the surf. He squashed himself between Rogers and Jackson in the shallows.
“I’m sorry about Murray,” Rogers said gently. “He was a good friend.”
“Amen,” Jackson said. “I know you would have saved him if you could.”
Grey desperately wanted to tell them that Murray’s death couldn’t have been caused by pulmonary edema, that Redman and Furtado had drowned him, but he couldn’t. Hell Week would take a large enough toll on his crew’s psyche. Survival would take every ounce of strength they had. Grey’s crew shivered and chattered and writhed with discomfort. Osgood called them back from the surf, ordered them to roll in the sand, then directed them to prepare to move out. He took his position at the front of the elephant chain, and the class followed him south along the beach, racing the falling moon and the rising sun. The sand gave way to concrete as they turned through the beach gate. Cars honked encouragement as they sprinted across the highway and navigated the streets of the amphibious base. Osgood raced them around the parking lot behind the chow hall before finally letting them drop their boats. Grey’s head was battered beyond the point of discomfort. The top of his skull was so bruised, simply touching it sent jolts of pain up and down his spine.
“You look bad,” Felicia observed as Grey moved past the register. “You need sleep. Get some rest.”
“I would love to,” Grey said, “but that’s not about to happen. Three more days, Felicia. Three more days.”
Felicia shook her head sadly at Grey’s deplorable condition as he moved on. The old Filipino food servers clucked their disapproval and piled extra food on his plate. Oh, sir, you too skinny. You need eat more. Have more bacon, sir. More eggs. More French toast. Grey wasn’t in the mood for conversation. He forced a smile and moved on.
The table felt empty without Murray. The five remaining members of Boat Crew Five ate in silence, sloppily shoveling mountains of food into their mouths. Grey scraped his plate clean and stared into his cup of hot chocolate. His head dropped repeatedly as he lapsed in and out of consciousness.
“We have a winner,” Osgood announced from behind Grey’s chair.
Grey’s eyes snapped open. A bottle of Tabasco sauce slammed down on the table in front of him. Instructor Osgood snatched a donut from Jackson’s tray and coated it with salt from a salt shaker. Then he dripped soy sauce over it, and finally, as the crowning touch, he saturated the donut with Tabasco.
“Eat up.”
Grey’s stomach turned as he looked at the red-and-brown donut.
“Eat up, sir. You’re racking up penalty points.”
Grey popped the donut in his mouth and chewed. A fire raged in his mouth. He had to fight the instinct to spit the mess all over his tray.
“Swallow, sir.”
Grey swallowed and felt the spongy bits of flame sear a path into his stomach.
“Now are you going to stay awake?”
Fuck you. Grey reached for a glass of water and gulped it down. Osgood wandered off, chuckling happily, looking for another victim.
“Harsh,” Jackson muttered as Grey choked.
“Have some milk, sir,” Jones offered, pushing a full glass toward Grey.
Grey tilted his head back and chugged, spilling milk from the corners of his mouth. He didn’t bother wiping. The day shift wandered into the chow hall and took charge.
“Outside,” Logan said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Saddle up.”
The class filed out of the chow hall and hefted the boats onto their heads. Logan ran them to the athletic field at the east end of the amphibious base. After a few fast laps around the field, Logan stopped the class and ordered them to drop their boats.
“Relays,” Logan said. He stuffed a handful of sunflower seeds into his mouth. “You guys love relays, right?”
The class managed a weak “Hoo-yah.”
“Goddamn right you do. Here’s the deal: your entire boat crew will low-crawl across the field and back. Then one swim pair will wheelbarrow across the field and back. After that, some lucky bastard will play rolling pin and roll across the field.” Logan smirked. “Extra points for not puking. Lastly, the remaining swim pair will run the perimeter of the field—in a fireman’s carry.”
“Shoot,” Jones said. “None of them options sounds too appealing to me. I’ll volunteer for the wheelbarrow.”
“And I’ll join you on that one,” Jackson added quickly.
“I’ll do the fireman’s carry,” Simpson volunteered.
Rogers looked over at Grey. “Well?”
“Fuck it,” Grey said. “You join him. I’ll puke it out. I need to get the Tabasco out of my system anyway.”
Logan started the race, and all five members of Grey’s crew low-crawled across the grass. It was tough going and very hard on the elbows. They finished the hundred-yard crawl, and Jones and Jackson wheelbarrowed each other across the field. Jackson’s arms failed constantly, resulting in a series of face-plants as a light-headed Jones pl
owed him into the earth. They switched places at the halfway point, and Jones emulated Jackson’s performance nicely.
Grey was next. He dropped onto his stomach and started rolling. The world spun wildly as his breakfast slowly crept up his esophagus. He wasn’t even at the halfway point when he started forcefully throwing up. After a short stop, he rolled on. And on. And on. Grey’s head felt like it was swelling. The pressure became nearly unbearable. He finally rolled onto Jackson’s feet and dry-heaved twice.
Logan laughed and spit sunflower seeds on Grey’s head as he lay immobile. By the time he managed to rise to his knees, Simpson had already crossed the finish line with Jones over his shoulder. Simpson hardly looked winded at all. His posture was perfect, almost too strong. Looks like someone took a ramrod to his asshole, Grey thought.
The races continued. The next event required that each crew run twenty laps around the road surrounding the athletic field. They were well into their fourth lap and had built up a sizable lead when Jones inexplicably stopped in the middle of the road and unbuttoned his fly. He smiled stupidly as he urinated all over the pavement.
“Jones,” Simpson barked, “cut that out. We have the lead.”
“I gotta take a piss,” Jones said. “Sorry, it just can’t be helped. Nature calls sometimes, and you just gotta answer. Know what I mean, Devil Dog?”
Simpson’s face turned red and his cheek twitched. “Don’t push me.”
“Hold your horses, Leatherneck.”
“Jones!” Rogers exclaimed.
“Sorry, I was just trying to tell this jarhead that pissing is a natural thing, like eating and sleeping. You just can’t avoid it.”
Simpson turned his back to Jones as another boat crew ran by. Grey knew Jones was simply a little punch-drunk from all the PT and the lack of sleep. He was the last guy on Earth to be belligerent. Jones buttoned his fly back up and they continued on. They crossed the finish line in second place and spent the next two hours immersing themselves in the bay and warming up with calisthenics. Another run around the base, and it was chow time.
Instructor Petrillo pulled Grey aside as the class funneled into the mess hall.
“I’m sorry about Murray. I know you two were tight.”
“I’m sorry, too.”
Instructor Petrillo thrust his hands into the pockets of his blue windbreaker. “It’s not your fault.”
Grey stared at Petrillo. “Who said anything about it being my fault?”
“Word on the street is that you knew he was dying.”
“Who said that?”
“The night shift.” Petrillo’s eyes dropped to the concrete. “Redman and Furtado, among others. They’re claiming you killed him, that you should have pulled him out twenty-four hours ago. I know you, sir, and I think it’s bullshit. If you were keeping Murray’s secret, I know he put you up to it.”
Grey opened his mouth to reply, but Petrillo had already moved on. Redman and Furtado. They’re the fucking murderers. Grey moved through the chow line mechanically. His mind clumsily sorted the events of the last few weeks: gun store owner murdered; Master at Arms reports poor ammo inventories at BUD/S; Murray investigates; Murray disappears. Grey sat down and tried to make a compelling case out of the facts clanging in his head. He couldn’t do it. He needed more.
“You okay, sir?” Jackson asked. “Besides being absolutely miserable?”
“Don’t worry about it. Let’s just get through this week.” Grey didn’t even look up. He methodically forked food into his mouth. His stomach churned as he remembered his last glimpse of Murray stumbling toward the surf with Redman and Furtado behind him.
Logan herded the class out of the building and led the elephant train across the highway and back onto the BUD/S compound. Now that the week was well underway, Logan had subdued his manner somewhat. His temper evened out as inflicting suffering took less and less energy. Every step the class took was pain, every waking minute a tribute to discomfort.
Grey stripped out of his clothes, filed down the windswept hallway, and stepped into the steamy shower. The warm water stung at first, and by the time Grey started to relax, it was time to step out. Doc Anderson probed and prodded Grey’s oozing leg wound.
“Good thing I put you on antibiotics,” Anderson said. He pointed at several red streaks extending upward from Grey’s cut. “You were developing a nice case of cellulitis. Keep taking those pills, and you should pull through. You’re borderline for a medical drop, though.”
“Don’t even think about it,” Grey said, staring the hulking doctor in the eye. “I’m not going away. If you have to amputate, so be it.”
Anderson smiled and slapped Grey on the back. “Like I said, keep taking the pills.”
Grey turned to walk out of the clinic, but stopped short. “Doc?”
“Yes?”
“How did Murray die?”
Anderson froze. “Why?”
“I need to know. He was a member of my boat crew. He was my responsibility.”
“Well…” Anderson’s cheeks flushed, as if what he was about to say embarrassed him. “Pulmonary edema. Blood in the lungs. He drowned.”
“Drowned in his own blood,” Grey repeated softly.
“I should have caught it earlier. I—”
“It’s not your fault, Doc. Murray was keeping a secret.”
“That’s a damn hard secret to keep. Usually we know when someone is that far gone.”
Grey scanned Anderson’s face. He could sense the doctor held himself accountable. “Maybe it wasn’t an accident.”
Anderson shook his head. “You’re tired. Your head will clear once this week is over. Now get out of here.”
Grey shuffled over to the corpsman, swallowed his pills, and stepped outside. As always, Petrillo hosed him down as he dressed himself in his clean uniform. Petrillo was silent for once, brooding over something. He sprayed Grey absentmindedly and then moved on. The class assembled back on the beach.
“Line up and link arms,” Logan ordered casually. “You know the drill. Out you go. Out into the warm ocean. Out where you belong.”
After a half hour of shivering in the shallows, Osgood recalled the class and directed them over the berm. A half dozen instructors wielding paddles stood by silently.
“I want you to bury yourselves,” Logan said. “Get comfortable. Dig into that nice warm sand and cover yourselves with it.”
The students obediently dropped onto their backs and started pushing sand onto their chests. The instructors helped out with their paddles, generously heaping sand on their heads.
“Lights out,” Logan ordered.
FOURTEEN
GREY WOKE UP WITH a start. A hideous cackle squawked from Logan’s megaphone. What’s going on? Grey knew he couldn’t have slept more than five minutes.
“Rise and shine, ladies!” Logan yelled. “Hit the surf.”
For the first time in nearly three days, Grey felt warm and dry. The sun poked through the clouds, and the sand on his chest radiated like a furnace. He didn’t want to move.
“I said hit the surf, dipshits!”
Grey struggled to his feet. His quadriceps stretched painfully as he hobbled over the sand berm and down to the ocean. The class linked arms at the water’s edge.
“I thought I’d died and went to heaven,” Jackson said as they marched into the frigid shallows. “Damn, that was good.”
“And I tell you what,” Jones added. “I ain’t never complaining about where I sleep again. Ever.”
The warmth ebbed from Grey’s body as he lay back in the water. The notion that the week would never end flooded back in its place. Grey tried to relax, to become one with the cold, to accept the discomfort. He closed his eyes and visualized a better life. A cottage in the countryside with a fireplace that burned year-round, even in the summer. A beautiful dark-skinned woman that looked remarkably like Vanessa to keep him warm. A gigantic bowl of steaming hot chocolate, and a never-ending supply of Big Macs and French fries.
A huge hot tub that overlooked miles and miles of empty rolling hills. I will never take these things for granted. Never.
Logan called them in from the surf, and they spent the rest of the afternoon executing boat drills. The waves had died down, so paddling to the offshore area and back presented little challenge. Logan quickly grew bored.
“Out and back upside down,” he barked. “And I want a good show.”
Too exhausted to provide any entertainment, they obediently paddled in and out of the surf with their boats flipped upside down. The carnage was minimal. Logan expressed his displeasure by ordering another round of surf torture. More blue skin, more violent shivering, and more urination to stay warm. Logan finally stalked off the beach when the evening shift arrived.
“Get under your boats,” Barefoot ordered.
Grey immediately felt uneasy. The instructor glared at him with his big mouse eyes as Grey hoisted his boat onto his head. Grey met the instructor’s stare: there was more than disgust in it. Genuine hatred brewed somewhere in Barefoot’s big-eared head.
“I want your crew in the lead position,” Barefoot said, “and if you don’t keep up, we’ll spend some quality time together over dinner.”
Great. Grey urged his crew on as Barefoot ran north through the sand. They stayed on his heels for a short distance, but the pace was just too fast. They fell back, and another boat crew passed them up.
“C’mon now,” Jones said. “I want dinner. Let’s get a move on.”
Grey knew it was futile. They were the only crew with five people, and Jackson could barely walk, let alone run. Jackson’s legs were so chafed that he had to waddle, and the rest of the crew ended up virtually dragging him along with them. The elephant train weaved through the amphibious base, finally stopping at the chow hall. Grey’s crew ended up solidly in last place. Barefoot was delighted.
“Well, well, not only did you not keep up,” he crooned, “you slow motherfuckers ended up in last place. Extended-arm carry.”
They held the boat above their heads. Barefoot returned with an armful of MREs.