Suffer in Silence

by David Reid

  “Not again,” Jones moaned.

  “What? You’ve done this before?” Barefoot asked. He sounded disappointed.

  “Sure have,” Jones answered. “Once is enough, don’t you think?”

  “Nice try, hillbilly.” He dropped the MREs on the ground. “You know the drill. Eat up, but don’t let that boat touch your heads.”

  Barefoot sat in Big Blue and watched them struggle. Evil man. Evil, evil man. Jones ate first, and by the time he had scarfed down his vacuum-packed chicken and rice, the boat was wobbling out of control. They struggled, groaned, and shifted the weight of the craft from one hand to the other. The boat slipped from Grey’s grasp and flipped over onto the concrete with a crash.

  “What the fuck?” Barefoot yelled. “That’s bullshit! Bullshit! You never drop your boat! Never!” His large eyes bulged from his narrow face. “You don’t want to play my games? Fine. We’ll do something else. Get down in the push-up position.”

  Grey and the rest of his crew dropped onto their hands.

  “Now eat up, but don’t let me catch your knees touching the ground.”

  Holding himself up with one hand, Grey picked up an MRE with the other and tore the thick brown wrapper open with his teeth. He worked on opening part of his meal until his supporting arm couldn’t bear the weight any longer, then he switched arms and started again. Ten minutes later he had eaten most of his tuna noodles, but he was thoroughly exhausted and needed the support of both arms. He would have to forgo the rest of his meal.

  They spent the entire dinner period in the push-up position. Grey almost felt thankful when they lifted the boats onto their tenderized heads and followed Barefoot back to the beach. His relief was short-lived. They ran south on the beach toward the compound, but instead of stopping, Barefoot kept right on running.

  “Lord, have mercy,” Jackson moaned. “My legs are as raw as a bleedin’ side of pork.”

  “It can’t last forever,” Simpson stated.

  Grey looked over in surprise. Simpson almost never spoke.

  “You’re right, Simpson,” Rogers chimed in. “Absolutely right. The only eternal pain is the Inferno, and even Dante wielded a sarcastic pen when he wrote his book.”

  “You talking about hell, brother?” Jackson asked.

  Rogers laughed. “Dante’s version of it.”

  “Can’t be much worse than this,” Jackson said.

  “Oh, yes it can,” Grey said. “Trust me, it can and it is.”

  Rogers groaned. “Will you stop being so cryptic and just say what’s on your mind?”

  “Later. You’ll have to wait. Trust me, it’s not something you need to be stressing about right now.”

  The last traces of sunlight faded away as Barefoot stopped the elephant train half a mile south of the obstacle course.

  “Here’s what I want,” Barefoot began. “It’s a simple task. If you execute it according to plan, you will be rewarded. You fuck up, you’ll be punished. Makes sense, right?” Barefoot snatched a paddle from one of the boats. “You will use paddles to dig a pit—a rectangular pit three feet deep, ten feet in width, and twenty feet in length. You have less than an hour. Get started.”

  Ensign Pollock, the red-faced class OIC, immediately took charge and started directing the digging. The class had cleared away about a foot of sand when Instructor Barefoot strolled back over to the group.

  “You guys look like you’re heating up.”

  “We’re doing just fine, Instructor Barefoot,” Jackson said. “Nobody here is cold.”

  “No,” Barefoot corrected. “I think you’re getting overheated. Hit the surf, all of you. Wet and sandy. Make it quick.”

  Grey ran with his class through the damp evening air and dunked himself in the ocean. Moving as quickly as possible to generate heat, Grey ran back to his paddle and started digging frantically. He managed to stay fairly warm by flailing away at the sand with all his strength.

  Once the pit was dug, Instructor Barefoot had the class sit down while individual students climbed onto the lip of the pit and told jokes. Grey didn’t pay attention. He knew the routine. If the jokes sucked, the class hit the surf. If they were good, they stayed put. Murray would have saved us. Only he could come up with a joke raunchy enough to make instructors laugh. The jokes sucked and the class got wet. Repeatedly. The class would laugh extra hard at stupid jokes in the hopes that the laughter would somehow be contagious and the instructors would play along. No such luck.

  “You guys are the worst group of joke tellers I’ve ever encountered,” Barefoot said. “I’ve been here a year, and you are hands down the worst. Poor performance results in poor treatment, ladies. Now for our next game.” He grinned from ear to ear. “This one’s my favorite. Let’s start by hitting the surf.”

  The class turned and trotted toward the ocean. They were in no hurry. Whatever was in store would not be pleasant. Suddenly the beach lit up with a dazzling display of flickering yellow light. It took Grey a moment to realize what he was seeing as he rose from the water. The instructors had ignited a huge bonfire farther to the south. Warmth. Grey could imagine how good it would feel to stand next to the blaze and dry out his uniform. Barefoot met them as they slogged out of the ocean.

  “Nice little fire, isn’t it? Why don’t we take a little walk down the beach and get a closer look?”

  Barefoot led the class down the beach, stopping twenty feet from the fire.

  “You can almost feel it, can’t you? Almost feel the beautiful warmth enveloping you? It’s good, isn’t it? You want to get closer, don’t you?”

  The class nodded vigorously. Yes. Take us closer.

  “Too fucking bad for you guys. If you had managed to tell one good joke—just one—you would be warm and toasty right now. Instead you’re going to suffer. Line up in a semicircle around the fire, but keep twenty feet away.”

  The class spread out around the fire. Grey fought the impulse to charge forward and flop down in front of the blaze. Rivulets of water streamed from his uniform, and if he could just get a little closer …

  “Now take off your tops and your shirts and drop them on the ground.”

  The class obeyed, and soon twenty-nine bare-backed students shivered in the ocean breeze.

  “Now drop your pants around your ankles.”

  Grey unbuttoned his pants and shoved them down around his ankles. He stood transfixed by the fire, shivering, hugging his chest with his arms.

  “Now hold your arms out to the side.”

  No. God no. Grey slowly lifted his arms and immediately cringed as the cold breeze whipped over his damp skin, burning past his exposed armpits.

  “Now, gentlemen, we’re going to watch the fire die. What a shame. What a God-awful shame. All that heat, and you’ll never get a taste of it.”

  This is really perverse. This is beyond sadistic. This is nothing short of evil. Grey looked over at Jackson. The Reverend’s jaw clattered noisily, and a moist sheen coated his brown eyes. Grey shivered so hard that his back muscles cramped up. He thought of Murray, and his throat constricted painfully. The fire grew smaller and smaller as the flames consumed the pile of wood. Eventually a faint orange glow from a mound of ash was all that remained.

  “Bye-bye, fire,” Barefoot squeaked in a girlish voice. “Bye-bye, warmth. Time for more cold.” He pointed toward the surf. Two students broke away from the crowd and headed for Big Blue, which was parked off in the darkness. Grey recognized one as Simpson.

  “Hey!” Grey yelled. “Hey, Simpson! Get back over here!”

  The proud marine kept walking and didn’t look back. Another one. Beautiful. Grey joined his class in the surf zone. Barefoot ordered them out of the ocean half an hour later, frigid, stumbling, delirious. After a round of poorly executed push-ups and sit-ups, the class reorganized boat crews. After a new wave of DORs, the class was now down to twenty-four students. The students voted on which boat crew should be dissolved. Pollock’s crew was the unanimous choice, and he was clear
ly devastated. In truth, taking away the class leader’s boat crew demonstrated a disturbing lack of confidence in his leadership. Grey’s crew, renamed Boat Crew Three, took on two new crew members: a beefy-looking kid with deep-set green eyes named Smurr, and a redhead named O’Patry. Grey welcomed them to his crew unenthusiastically as they hefted their boat and followed Barefoot to the chow hall.

  Despite the running, Grey remained chilled to the bone as they stopped in the parking lot next to the cafeteria. He could hardly wait to get his hands on a nice steaming cup of hot cocoa. Jackson, Jones, and Rogers were equally addicted to the cocoa, the only comfort they could count on.

  Grey piled his tray with leftovers from dinner and moved on to the container of hot water. He filled a cup with the steaming liquid and thrust his hand into the bin containing the cocoa packets. It was empty. Grey looked around in panic. Jones was moving away toward a table, head down, muttering.

  “Any hot cocoa?” Grey yelled, directing his question toward the brown shirts who served food.

  “All out,” they replied in unison.

  Grey’s heart sank. His eyes watered. He needed that cocoa. Needed it like oxygen. He stood motionless for a minute, then dragged himself to the table where his boat crew had assembled.

  “Here,” Jackson said, pushing his cup toward Grey. “Take a sip. I know you want it. It’s written all over your face.”

  Grey looked down. The cup was filled with chocolaty warmth. It swirled beautifully, little whirlpools of taste and comfort. Grey smiled sheepishly and took a long sip. He closed his eyes and savored the moment before passing the cup back.

  “Thanks,” Grey said. “You saved me.”

  “Not a problem, sir,” Jackson answered. “It’s my Christian duty to share.”

  Grey ate in silence, brooding over the remaining forty hours of training. He knew the worst of it had passed, but the sleep deprivation was getting ridiculous. After every third or fourth bite of food his head dropped. Each time he’d look around in alarm, expecting a bottle of Tabasco sauce to appear on the table.

  A familiar figure strolled into the chow hall. Redman. Grey could barely contain his hatred. You will go down, you cowardly bastard. And I will be there to watch it all. Furtado followed, sliding his glinting tongue stud along his moist lips. You too, fucker.

  The class filed outside and immediately resumed shivering.

  “Time for the treasure hunt,” Furtado said. “I’m going to give you a clue, and you dumb assholes are going to try to figure out where you’re supposed to go. If you guess wrong, it’s a thirty-second penalty. You will keep guessing until you get it right. Then you will go to the location and check in with the instructor who is there. He’ll give you the next clue, and the race will continue. Any questions?”

  Jones raised his hand.

  “What do you want, Uncle Jeb?”

  “What’s the prize for winnin’?”

  “I won’t beat the shit out of you. How’s that sound?”

  “Sounds great,” Jones drawled. “Sounds like a party.”

  “Here’s your first clue: cake eaters sleep here with full checkbooks and full bellies.”

  “Easy,” Grey whispered. “The Bachelor Officer Quarters.”

  His crew nodded in agreement, and Grey ran over to Instructor Furtado.

  “The BOQ,” he blurted.

  “Wow,” Furtado exclaimed in mock surprise, “amazing powers of perception. I knew you went to college for a reason. Now get moving.”

  Grey’s crew limped down the road toward the BOQ. The rest of the class followed close on their heels. Another crew overtook them, and they reached the high-rise building in second place. Instructor Heisler waited in Big Blue.

  “Second place equals the first losers,” Heisler reminded them. “Extended-arm carry.”

  As his crew held the boat above their heads on shaky arms, Grey reported in for his next clue.

  “Since I was such a fucking nerd in high school, this is where I spent all my time.”

  Easy. Grey didn’t need his crew’s help for the this one. “Base library,” he answered.

  “You are absolutely correct,” Heisler crooned in his game-show voice. “You win a fabulous trip to the base library, departing now.”

  Grey turned and rejoined his crew. They spent the next two hours crisscrossing the base, limping from one location to another and solving simple riddles. Instructor Redman finally guided the class through the fence that bordered the outdoor swimming pool.

  Instructor Furtado addressed the class from his perch on the three-meter platform.

  “I don’t want you to get the impression that the midnight shift is no fun. You don’t have that impression, do you?”

  “No, Instructor Furtado,” the class answered in unison.

  “Good, because we’ve decided to spend some time in the pool playing games—fun games like water polo and king of the mountain.”

  You’ve got to be kidding me. Grey warily eyed an inflatable boat positioned at the edge of the pool. He didn’t need a closer look; he could see the ice cubes from where he stood.

  “We’ll start with water polo. Winners will get a warm shower. Losers will get the ice boat. Boat Crews One and Two are shirts, Three and Four are skins. I’m the referee, and any decision I make stands firm. Any questions?”

  Grey and his crew stripped off their clothes. Clad in nothing but spandex underwear, they jumped in the sixty-two-degree pool and treaded water. The two new guys, Smurr and O’Patry, were accomplished water polo players. Grey’s team quickly took control of the first game. O’Patry hurled the ball past the opposing team’s defense with frightening speed. He was a fish in the water, confident, quick, and ruthless. Grey was delighted. A warm shower awaited.

  Furtado blew his whistle. “Team Two wins, four to nothing. Team Two, you have five minutes to enjoy a victory shower. Team One, line up by the ice boat.”

  Grey pulled himself out of the pool and padded into the bathroom. Twelve shower nozzles spouted warm water, filling the room with steam.

  “Praise be to God,” Jackson cried, positioning himself underneath a stream of warm water. “I’ve never played water polo before, but I love the sport already.”

  Grey thawed out underneath the heavenly spray, relishing the strange sensation of hot water against his skin. A chorus of ecstatic moans echoed in the tiled room. The minutes flew by, and Furtado strode into the bathroom far too quickly.

  “Back in the pool,” he ordered. “Time for round two. Only this time, O’Patry and Smurr are going to the other team. Maybe that will give Team One a fighting chance.”

  Grey’s heart sank. He knew the game was lost already. The pool felt exceptionally cold after the hot shower, and he had a hard time rousing any enthusiasm from his exhausted body. As he expected, they were crushed three to zero. Smurr and O’Patry moved like lightning and instantly took control of the game.

  “Into the boat,” Redman ordered, pointing at the mixture of ice and water. “Everyone should spend at least five seconds in there. If you try to cheat me, I’ll remediate you with extra time.”

  Grey uneasily watched his teammates flop down in the boat and emerge seconds later with faces contorted with pain. Grey waited his turn, then lowered himself into the icy mix. A tiny hammer cracked against his skull, sending a wave of pain up and down his spine. His whole body throbbed as a thousand explosions spread fire across his skin. Grey patiently counted to five and then crawled out of the boat. Must get back in the pool. He eyed the mass of chlorinated water hungrily. The wind raked against his ice-coated skin like a set of claws.

  Several minutes later a satisfied-looking Team One strolled out of the bathroom. Furtado switched up the teams again, and the games continued. Grey’s group won two more matches and lost two more. The juxtaposition of ice and hot water was dizzying, but it sure beat surf torture. Finally Furtado grew tired of water polo and gathered the class around him.

  “New game,” he said. “It’s called K
ing of the Mountain. The rules are simple. Two boats will be positioned upside down in the pool. Whichever team takes over the boats and manages to keep all opposing players off wins. It’s simple.”

  A crew of brown shirts carried two inflatable boats to the edge of the pool and threw them in. Then they jumped into the water and secured the boats in the middle of the pool using lines that attached to the bottom.

  “Team One is shirts, Team Two skins. Line up on either side of the pool.”

  Grey led his shirtless team to the far end of the pool. They lined up along the edge of the water and coiled their muscles, ready to explode into action.

  “Go!”

  Grey jumped headfirst into the water and took a few strokes beneath the surface. In an instant he was next to one of the boats. He pulled himself up onto the slippery surface of the craft and immediately engaged in combat. A skinny kid in an oversized white shirt grappled with him, vying for supremacy. Grey easily tossed him into the pool. He glanced around and surveyed the situation. Three skins and one stubborn shirt battled on the boat. Grey pushed against the huge body of an opposing player, heaving with all his might. Just as the massive body teetered over the edge, a meaty arm reached back and grabbed Grey’s ankle. Grey struggled to stay on the raft, but the weight of the huge student pulled him over the side.

  Bruises and scratches, inhaled water and torn shirts—the pool raged in absolute chaos. Finally one of the students yelled victory. The shirtless team sat proudly on the boats. Shower time.

  Grey enjoyed another round of warm water. He could definitely get used to this. Furtado kicked them out of the bathroom after a five-minute break.

  “Round two,” Furtado announced. “Only this time, I want some narration.” He looked toward Rogers. “Sir, why don’t you entertain us with some moving shit like one of your pansy poems? Go ahead, climb up on the high platform. When you start reciting, the rest of the class will start fighting.”

  Grey lined up on the edge of the pool with the rest of his team while Rogers climbed the stairs to the three-meter platform. The poet took a deep breath, and the class leaned forward in anticipation. Puffing out his chest, Rogers held out one hand and recited in his manliest voice.