Suffer in Silence

by David Reid

  “Get down!” Instructor Batman yelled through his megaphone. “I should only see your eyes!”

  Grey slunk down into the nauseating pool of gunk as he waited for the rest of the class to filter in. The students slid out of the pipe one by one until all twenty-four formed a large circle around the perimeter of the pit. The M-60 fell silent, and the simulated mortar rounds stopped thundering in.

  “Time for a little rodeo fun!” Logan yelled. “Officers first. How about you?” Logan pointed at the class leader. “Your leadership skills during the week have been less than ideal. Here’s a chance to vindicate yourself. If you can make it all the way across those lines, I’ll secure your whole class right here and now. That’s a promise.”

  Pollock adjusted his mud-caked camouflage hat, then rose out of the stinking pool and climbed up to the two lines. Grey realized where the challenge lay. He hadn’t noticed a series of thin lines tied to the two larger ones. Four brown shirts stood at the side of the pit, ready to jerk Pollock from his perch.

  “If the roll backs can’t get you off the line in less than a minute, they all take a dunk in the pond of pain. How’s that sound?”

  The four brown shirts belted out a loud “Hoo-yah.”

  Pollock stepped onto the lower line and grabbed the upper one. Moving deliberately, he inched outward over the pool. The brown shirts pulled at the line, gently at first, then more violently as Pollock advanced farther. Once he was safely above water, they jumped up and down, yanking on their lines with all their might. Pollock’s feet slipped off the bottom line, but he managed to keep his grip on the upper one. The thirty-foot rope jerked four feet to each side at a dizzying speed. After a brief fight, Pollock lost his grip and flew headlong through the air. He landed flat on his back, sending a sheet of mud into the air. The students and instructors cheered loudly.

  “Not bad,” Logan said, “but not good enough. I want a real cattle rustler.”

  “I ain’t a cattle rustler,” Jones piped up, “but I’ve tamed my fair share of mustangs.”

  “Since we have no Texas trash in this class, I guess we’ll settle for a Tennessee hillbilly.”

  Jones climbed up onto the lines. He moved with lighting speed, catching the brown shirts by surprise. By the time they reacted and started jerking the lines, he had already managed to scamper a considerable distance. After a few yards of hard-earned progress, his feet slipped from the line. Instead of dangling free like Pollock did, Jones wrapped his legs around the upper line and clung to it like a koala bear. The brown shirts heaved and strained, but Jones wouldn’t be deterred. He slowly inched onward. By the time he hit the halfway point, the brown shirts were sweating from effort. The line whipped eight feet to each side, and Jones looked like a human bumblebee, zooming back and forth across the pit at lightning speed.

  “Yee-hah!” Jones whooped, inching even farther across.

  “They’re going to kill him,” Grey muttered. “This is ridiculous.”

  “No joke,” Rogers said. “At that velocity he might—”

  The audience whooped with excitement as Jones shot free from the line and catapulted into the air. He flipped end over end and splashed into the pond several feet from Grey’s head.

  “That’s a record!” Logan yelled. “Not bad, Uncle Jeb!”

  Jones rubbed his head and grinned from ear to ear. “Don’t ask me to do it again.”

  The mood in the pit shifted dramatically. The instructors laughed and offered words of encouragement from above while the students tested their strength on the line. It almost felt as if Hell Week were already over. Grey’s turn came, and he performed dismally. His mud-slicked hands slipped free from the line almost immediately. The instructors shook their heads in disgust as he belly flopped into the muck.

  Chief Baldwin stood at the edge of the pit with a megaphone in hand and waited for the laughter to subside.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “you have been through the hardest week of training anywhere in the world. You have done things that would make ordinary men run home and cry to momma. You have surmounted obstacles that most people will never be able to comprehend. And now, gentlemen, I have just four words for you.”

  “Four words?” Rogers whispered. “That can’t be right.”

  “Four simple words that will change your life forever,” Baldwin continued.

  Hell Week secure? Grey mulled it over in his sleep-deprived mind. Hell Week secure. That was only three words. His heart sank.

  “Get under your boats!” Baldwin yelled.

  A collective groan echoed throughout the pit.

  “That’s right. It’s not over yet, motherfuckers!” Logan shouted. “Get moving!”

  Grey scaled the steep sides of the pit and ran through the gate surrounding the compound. Once his crew had assembled, he gave the order to prepare for an elephant run. Logan appeared moments later, chuckling softly to himself.

  “This is going to suck,” he said, “real bad.”

  The class struggled to keep up as Logan took off at a sprint. They ran along a loose sand road at the edge of the highway. Just when Grey managed to close the gap between his bow and the stern of the boat ahead, Logan turned up the pace a notch. The rumble of a diesel truck grew louder as the instructors closely tailed the struggling class.

  “What the heck is that?” Jones asked.

  A nursery rhyme reverberated through the morning air.

  This old man, he played three,

  He played knick-knack on my knee.

  With a knick-knack, paddy whack,

  Give a dog a bone,

  This old man came rolling home.

  It took Grey a moment to process what he was hearing. It wasn’t his fatigue-warped mind playing tricks on him. The familiar song blared from the PA system on Big Blue. Despite the painful slap of the boat as it bounced on his inflamed scalp, Grey managed a smile. Sick bastards.

  Logan turned up the pace even more as they neared the BUD/S compound. Instead of running directly to the gate, he zigzagged up and down the sand berm, occasionally looking over his shoulder to shout insults at the lagging boat crews. After several minutes of agonizing berm sprints, the stocky instructor headed for the gate in the chain-link fence. Please, please, please.

  Logan turned at the last second and doubled back toward the berm. Jackson’s breath came in ragged gasps, and Smurr limped badly. Grey didn’t know how much longer his crew would last. Logan took them back and forth over the berm six more times before finally leading the class into the compound. After ordering the crews to drop their boats in the parking lot, Logan led them onto the grinder. They stood at attention as Chief Baldwin strolled through an office door.

  Several minutes later a gray-haired admiral decked out in dress blues strode purposefully to the front of the formation. The gold trident that marked him as a SEAL gleamed above a chest full of ribbons. He cleared his throat, then spoke in a low, resonant voice. “I don’t need to lecture you guys on the hardships you endured. Any one of you could describe the pain, the discomfort, the freezing temperatures, the sleeplessness. I’ve been there, the instructors have been there, and so has every SEAL. By completing this week you have taken a huge step in the realization of a dream. Not many will understand what you have gone through. It is an experience unlike any other. Every SEAL remembers his Hell Week, and every SEAL draws upon the misery he endured during those long nights when the going gets tough. You are changed forever, men. You will never look at a hot shower the same way again.”

  A few students laughed quietly. A few choked back tears. Grey floated in a stage of foggy disbelief. It couldn’t be over. It was another trick.

  “I’m proud of each and every one of you. I’ve heard good things about this class, and I’m honored to have the opportunity to say the words you’ve looked forward to hearing for one sleepless week.” The admiral paused for effect, then said solemnly, “Hell Week secure.”

  The instructors smiled, and Grey suddenly felt more tired than he ever
had in his life. The admiral moved down the line, shaking hands and offering his congratulations. After he departed, Chief Baldwin ushered the class back to the showers. Grey examined his wounds as a stream of warm water splashed over his filthy body. The inside of his thighs oozed yellow fluid from tender pink patches of flesh. The gash on his leg was a veritable rainbow of colors: rings of red, white, yellow, green, and black circled the deep wound. Grey reached up and felt the top of his head. His scalp was a patchwork of tender coin-size bare spots.

  As he stepped out of the shower, he received a clean pair of shorts, sandals, and a brown T-shirt with his name already stenciled on the front and back. He pulled the shirt over his chest and checked himself in the mirror. A zombie stared back at him. His eyes were deeply sunk and rimmed with red, and his face sported five days worth of stubble. Suddenly the tile floor looked extremely inviting. Grey wanted to curl up and fall into a prolonged coma.

  “Chief Baldwin wants you back in the classroom,” a brown shirt said. “The sooner you get out there, the sooner you can sleep.”

  Grey slipped into his sandals and shuffled across the grinder and into the First Phase classroom. He sank into a hard plastic seat and flipped open the lid of the pizza box sitting on his desk. He ate quickly, but the food gave him no satisfaction. The other students scarfed down slices of greasy pizza with blank faces. No celebration, no cheering, just dumbfounded silence.

  “Well, shitbirds, you’re done,” Baldwin said, striding into the room. He rubbed his mustache thoughtfully. “I think the admiral pretty well summed it up. Good job on surviving Hell Week. You started the week with forty-seven, and the twenty-four of you made it. I’m going to pull a bus into the compound in about ten minutes. I’ll give you guys a ride back to the barracks. Before I can cut you loose, though, there are a couple of things you need to know. First of all, you need to elevate the end of your bed. If you don’t keep your legs raised, they’ll swell up like sausages. Use a drawer from your desk—just jam it under your mattress. Second, a crew of roll backs will be roaming the barracks, checking on you guys as you sleep. The X of masking tape on your door is to indicate that you’re a Hell Week survivor. Don’t take it off. We don’t want any of you turds passing away in the night.” Baldwin belched loudly. “Someone will wake you up tomorrow morning at eleven A.M. Be back at the clinic by twelve so the docs can check you out.” He looked around the classroom, appraising the faces of the survivors. “Get some sleep.”

  Baldwin strode out of the room. After prying themselves from their chairs, the students limped out of the classroom and onto the grinder.

  “Good job, men!” the chaplain shouted from across the pavement.

  The class was too fatigued to respond. They helped one another across the grinder, the stronger students supporting those whose legs had locked up in the classroom. Jackson leaned heavily against Grey, apologizing under his breath for his weakness. They climbed aboard a white bus piloted by Chief Baldwin and rumbled back to the barracks.

  Rogers opened the door to their room and stepped inside. Grey followed him in and immediately flopped down on his bed.

  “Don’t forget to elevate,” Rogers said groggily.

  “Right.” Grey pulled a drawer from his dresser and slid it under his mattress.

  Rogers examined their door. “I’ll be damned.”

  “What?”

  Rogers fingered the cross formed by white masking tape. “If this was made from lambs blood, we’d have a nice biblical parody on our hands. We are the chosen few.”

  “Right,” Grey mumbled, “whatever you say.”

  “I’m hitting the sack. I recommend you do the same.”

  “I will.”

  Rogers flopped onto his bed and immediately fell into a deep sleep. Grey peeled the strips of tape from the door. He didn’t want anyone prowling his room. He pushed the door shut and locked it. As a final touch, he took an empty glass bottle from his tiny fridge and propped it on top of the doorknob. After easing himself onto his bed, Grey reached over and set his alarm clock for 11:00. That done, he shut his eyes and immediately exited the conscious world.

  SIXTEEN

  BULLETS OF SWEAT OOZED from Grey’s forehead and back, saturating his brown shirt and soaking his sheets. Grey looked at the clock: 3:00 A.M. He stood up slowly, flinching in pain as his rigid muscles stretched. Taking baby six-inch steps, Grey tottered over to the bathroom and pulled a towel from the rack. After stripping off his shirt and wrapping his body in the towel, he inched back to his bed and closed his eyes.

  * * *

  Grey bolted upright in his bed. Groping blindly, he fumbled for his small alarm clock. Once his fingers closed over it, he hurled the clock across the room. It continued to buzz in the corner of his closet. Grey rubbed his eyes and scanned his room. Rogers snored like a chainsaw, sound asleep and dead to the world. Grey gingerly eased himself out of his bed and shook his roommate awake. Without a word, they both slipped into their shower sandals and limped toward the BUD/S clinic. The class was strung out along the road like a trail of refugees leaving a prison camp.

  “What’s up, sir?” Jackson asked as he caught up to the pair. “How you feeling?’”

  “I’d be lying if I said I felt human,” Grey said. “Truth is, I feel like I slept about ten minutes. Those damn cold sweats…”

  “I know what you’re saying, sir. It’s like the thermostats in our bodies blew out.”

  “I slept like a baby,” Rogers chirped. He smiled sheepishly. “Sorry. Inappropriate comment.”

  “Sir, it’s simple, really. You’re just some kind of freak,” Jackson said. “We’ve come to expect that kind of nonsense from you.”

  Jones ambled up alongside them. “You wouldn’t believe what I did last night.”

  “What’d you do?” Grey humored him.

  “I knocked one of them brown shirts square in the jaw when he came to wake me up. Popped him a good one, just like this.” Jones punched at the sky. “Poor guy didn’t even hit me back. If he had been one of my brothers, I would’ve expected a good beatin’. But no, not this fella. He just shook his head and walked out of the room. Almost made me feel bad. ’Course, he should know better than to wake a man who hasn’t slept in five days.”

  The four students walked on, arms slung around one anothers’ shoulders.

  “We made it,” Jones said with finality. “I’ll be damned.”

  “Amen, brother,” Jackson added.

  Grey touched his arm. Blood brothers. Celebrating didn’t feel right without Murray around. After all, the scrappy seaman was the architect behind nearly every class celebration. Grey missed him deeply.

  The class formed up behind the clinic and checked in for their last hygiene exam. Doc Anderson looked Grey over quickly.

  “Nasty cut,” he said, eyeing the green, black, and yellow tear on Grey’s leg. “Our tests came back negative for any flesh-eating bacteria. It might look and smell foul, but you’ll live. Just keep it clean, air it out, and keep taking antibiotics.”

  “Anything else I should know?”

  “No, you’re good to go,” Anderson said. He slapped Grey on the shoulder. “Go get some more sleep. You still look like shit.”

  “Thanks.”

  Grey met up with Jones, Jackson, and Rogers and hobbled back toward the barracks.

  “Sir, there is definitely somethin’ you ain’t tellin’ us here,” Jones drawled. “I know you too well by now. It’s about Murray, ain’t it?”

  Rogers looked over with interest. “Tell us, Mark. You promised you would.”

  “I guess now’s as good a time as any,” Grey conceded. “But if I let you into my fucked-up world, you’ll be sacrificing a lot of sleep, and I know you need it.”

  “Forget the sleep,” Jackson said, his puffy, blistered lips turning up into a smile. “Sleep is for the weak. There’s time for that later.”

  “And it will be dangerous,” Grey added.

  “We’re training to be SEALs, not Girl S
couts, sir,” Jones said. “Give me a break.”

  “Point well taken,” Grey said. “So, who wants in?”

  “As Murray would say, ‘Fuckin’ A,’ sir!” Jones clapped Grey on the shoulder.

  “I’m in,” Rogers stated solemnly.

  “Me too,” Jackson said, “although I’d like to know what I’m getting into.”

  “Meet in my room in fifteen minutes,” Grey said. “I’ll fill you in then.”

  Jackson and Jones split up as Rogers and Grey walked to their room. Grey’s head ached intensely. A vicelike pressure crushed his temples, only furthering his desire to crawl back into bed. I should be done with this bullshit. I should be passed out, drooling happily on my pillow. Grey knew his current condition made him extremely vulnerable. In addition to fighting the mental effects of countless hours of sleep debt, his body had been battered beyond recognition.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” Grey said. “There’s a call I need to make.”

  Rogers nodded, and Grey stepped outside of their room, cell phone in hand. His heart still ached from the last attempt he had made to visit Vanessa, but he needed to hear her voice. She knew him better than anyone, and he wanted to straighten things out. He dialed her number, and seconds later the phone picked up.

  “Hello?”

  “Vanessa, it’s me,” Grey said softly. “I just finished Hell Week.”

  “I knew you’d make it,” she said. “I never doubted you.”

  “I know,” Grey said. He closed his eyes. “About last week—”

  “Forget it,” Vanessa cut in. “It wasn’t what you think. He was a friend who got carried away.” An uneasy silence followed. “I miss you. Can I come see you?”

  “No, and that’s part of the reason I called.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I need you to stay in L.A. this weekend.”

  “Why?” Vanessa asked. “Why can’t I come see you?”

  “Because Murray died, and I know it wasn’t an accident. My boys and I have some investigating to do, and just to be safe, I’d appreciate it if you’d lay low for this weekend.”