Suffer in Silence

by David Reid

  “Hurry up!”

  Redman’s voice spurred Grey onward. He climbed and climbed, finally stumbling up to the diving platform. Rogers appeared seconds later.

  “Why don’t they just get it over with and finish us?” Rogers asked between ragged breaths.

  “They’re not going to kill us,” Grey said. “They want us to ring out. They won’t try anything too crazy with Chief Baldwin on duty.”

  “I don’t think Baldwin is concerned about us.” Rogers bent over and rested his hands on his knees. “My body is destroyed. I don’t know if I can do this.”

  Grey looked down at the Second Phase grinder. Furtado and Redman were waiting with their arms crossed by the Wheel of Misfortune. “We have to try. We have to do it. We’ve come too far to give in to this bullshit.”

  “We’re finished.” Rogers turned and began limping down the dive-tower steps. Grey followed close behind, and soon they were standing in front of the wheel.

  “Grey, give it a whirl,” Furtado said. “Try your luck.”

  Grey stepped up to the wheel and yanked one edge downward. Click, click, click, click. The pointer settled on 50 squats.

  “Aw shit,” Redman said. “This one is gonna hurt.”

  Rogers and Grey began performing squats. The first few weren’t bad. By number thirty Grey’s field of vision began shimmering.

  * * *

  “Get up, you pansy-ass bitch!”

  Grey’s vision cleared, and he found himself looking up at Furtado’s angry face. The instructor’s tongue stud caught his eye, and he stared at it, mesmerized.

  “What the fuck are you looking at?”

  Grey didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He tried to drag himself back to reality, but his mind rebelled. The glimmering tongue stud held him captive.

  “Looks like we’ve created a vegetable,” Redman mused. “That’s a first.”

  “Grey, are you okay?” Rogers bent over and shook Grey by the shoulders.

  “I didn’t say you could touch him, dumb shit!” Furtado yelled. “Finish your squats.”

  Rogers continued his squats as Grey struggled to sit up.

  “The vegetable moves, but does it talk?” Redman asked.

  “I’m fine,” Grey slurred. He finally broke his gaze from Furtado’s tongue stud.

  “The vegetable does talk.” Redman flashed a wicked smile. “And I think the vegetable is all steamed up. I like mine cold and crisp. What do you think I should do, Instructor Furtado?”

  “Maybe a chilly dip would firm him up. But personally, I also like my vegetables salty. Maybe a trip to the surf is in order,” Furtado offered.

  No. No. No. Grey rolled over and startled crawling away on his hands and knees, his tanks awkwardly slumping to one side of his back. Please. Please. No.

  “What the fuck is wrong with this guy?” Furtado asked with a laugh. “I think he’s regressed to an infantile state.”

  “We better get the tanks off him,” Redman said. He turned his attention from Rogers, who had collapsed after forty-two squats, and stepped to Grey’s side. He reached beneath Grey and nimbly undid the straps holding on the twin-80s. After pulling the tanks from Grey’s back, he strode into the Second Phase building.

  “Don’t think you’re getting off easy just because your Stanford-educated brain is malfunctioning,” Furtado said, nudging Grey in the ribs with his foot. “If you can’t handle PT, you leave us with only one choice.”

  Grey looked over at Rogers, who was lying on his stomach several feet away. As much as the PT hurt, his mind refused to accept the possibility that he and Rogers would be surf-tortured. After Hell Week, surf torture was supposed to be a thing of the past, a punishment only inflicted under the direst of circumstances.

  “Can you form a sentence yet?” Furtado asked.

  “I can speak,” Grey said quietly, still straining to collect his thoughts.

  Furtado turned his attention to Rogers. “Give me your tanks.”

  Rogers slowly rose to his knees, pulled off his tanks, and handed them to Furtado.

  “Don’t go anywhere,” Furtado ordered. He turned and walked into the Second Phase building, leaving the two trainees alone.

  “Grey.” Rogers crawled toward him. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” Grey muttered. “I’m fine. I just lost it for a second.” He touched the sticky mess on top of his head where his scab used to be and then looked at the red stains on his hands. “This is insane.”

  “Should we run?” Rogers asked, glancing at the Second Phase building.

  “And then what?” Grey shook his head. “Chief Baldwin knows about us, and he’s a senior instructor. If he endorses this beat-down, there’s not much we can do.”

  “What if we ring out?”

  “Are you kidding?” Grey slowly eased himself to his feet. “No fucking way.” He stood unsteadily, looking down at Rogers. “I’d rather die.”

  Grey extended a hand and pulled Rogers to his feet. The two trainees clung to each other for support.

  “Mark, I don’t know about this anymore,” Rogers said. “I think we’ve outsmarted ourselves. I think Redman and Furtado had very little to do with Murray’s death.”

  Grey’s chest tightened. He doesn’t trust me.

  “It just doesn’t make any sense. Nothing adds up. There is no Armstrong.” Rogers stepped away from Grey and then collapsed backward onto his ass. He looked up at Grey and shook his head sadly. “We’re insane.” He slapped the asphalt in frustration with the palm of one hand. “We are clinically insane, Mark. We haven’t slept, our bodies are shutting down. We can’t trust our own minds.”

  Maybe you’re insane. I’m not.

  “You can’t even follow me,” Rogers said in exasperation. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Grey nodded. You think I’m insane.

  “Say something.”

  Grey extended his hand to Rogers. He spoke slowly. “We can’t quit. That’s all that matters now. We can’t quit. Murray would never forgive us.”

  Rogers took Grey’s hand, and Grey tried to pull him to his feet. Rogers was halfway off the ground when Grey pitched forward and crumpled on top of him.

  “Fucking homos!” Furtado yelled. “You two just keep asking for trouble. You can’t keep your hands off each other.”

  Redman grunted in disgust and walked past the two trainees, a folding beach chair clamped under one arm. He didn’t look back as he walked toward the ocean.

  “Follow him!” Furtado ordered. “Move!”

  Grey and Murray rose to their feet and shuffled toward the beach. Furtado walked behind, whistling merrily. They trudged across the parking lot, over the sand berm, and across the beach. Redman, who had unfolded his chair and taken a seat at the edge of the surf, extended an arm toward the ocean.

  Here it comes. Grey’s body twitched uncontrollably as he stepped into the shallows.

  “Down,” Redman barked.

  As Grey turned to face shore, he noted the tears streaming down Rogers’s cheek. He squeezed Rogers’s arm hard and took a deep breath. They flopped backward into the ocean, letting the icy coastal current surround them. Grey’s body thrashed against the horror of the cold, and a fire raged on his scalp as the salt water saturated his wound. He tried in vain to bring his limbs under control. Rogers shivered next to him, and the hollow sounds of the ocean echoed in his ears. Murray, keep a warm spot for me. Grey’s entire back seized up, and he gritted his teeth in pain. Keep a spot for me, you dumb motherfucker.

  After a few minutes of immersion, Grey felt Rogers struggle to sit up. He grabbed the back of Rogers’s shirt and pulled him back. You’re not quitting. Grey closed his eyes and thought of Vanessa. He wanted to disappear between her perfect breasts, snuggle into a warm spot and hide forever. Her smooth skin, flawless and brown, radiated heat against his body. Her laughter rang in his ears. God, I love you.

  On your feet. On your feet. On your feet. The phrase turned in Grey’s head like the refrain fr
om a musical. Grey felt Rogers struggle to sit up, and again Grey pulled him back. Rogers responded by grabbing Grey’s testicles and squeezing hard. Grey’s mouth opened in shock, and a stream of salt water rushed in. He lifted his head clear of the surf and coughed violently.

  “Redman’s calling for us,” Rogers chattered. “Stop your games.”

  Grey gazed at the beach. Sure enough, Redman beckoned from the comfort of his folding chair. Coughing salt water and crippled by the searing pain in his groin, Grey rose to his feet and staggered toward shore.

  Furtado intercepted the two chilled trainees as they trudged up the beach. “Halt.”

  They stopped. Grey knew what was next.

  “Shirts off.”

  Rogers moaned softly as he stripped his drenched T-shirt from his body and dropped it on the sand.

  “Arms out.”

  The coastal breeze scorched Grey’s armpits with icy flames. Furtado watched him closely.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Ensign Grey,” Grey chattered.

  “And you?” He nodded at Rogers.

  “Ensign Buttercup.”

  Grey felt a flutter of joy in his stomach. Despite the pain, the never-ending progression of abuse, Rogers still had some life in him.

  Furtado reached out and gently tweaked Rogers’s nose. He spoke softly. “I thought you might make it through tonight, you fucking faggot. I thought you might have a little common sense in that Ivy League brain of yours. Now you’re finished. You’re finished.”

  Grey stood silently, mulling over Rogers’s insolence. Fearless, just like Murray. The thought didn’t sit well. Like Murray. He remembered his swim buddy’s devilish smile, his crazy blue eyes, the way he always had a joke ready. Murray.

  After minutes of standing in silence, Furtado turned Grey and Rogers over to Redman, who ran them through a series of push-ups and berm sprints from his beach chair. The beefy instructor watched them impassively, barking out his orders mechanically. Unlike Furtado, who seemed to enjoy himself immensely, Redman was all business.

  When their legs failed, Redman ordered Grey and Rogers to crawl to the surf. The sun slipped below the horizon, casting a purple glow over the beach. Should be beautiful. The water rose up to his thighs, then savagely slapped his crotch.

  “And halt!”

  Grey stopped.

  “About-face.”

  Grey turned around just in time to watch Chief Baldwin lead Jones and Jackson over the sand berm.

  “I found these two snooping around, looking for your prisoners,” Baldwin announced. “Instructor Redman, they’re all yours.”

  Redman nodded in reply. He motioned for Jones and Jackson to approach. Grey couldn’t hear the conversation that ensued, but his friends’ faces said it all. They knew they would be lucky to survive the night. Jones and Jackson listened intently to Redman, then turned and jogged toward the surf.

  “Welcome to the party, shipmates,” Grey said. “The water’s nice and warm for you.”

  “Dang it, sir. This ain’t good,” Jones said, his eyes wide with terror. “I can’t take any more of this cold. I just can’t.”

  “Amen to that,” Jackson said, dropping to his hands and knees next to Grey. “Cold and I don’t agree with each other. We’re well acquainted, but we just don’t get along.”

  “It will be a long night,” Grey said, “but we’ll get through—”

  “About-face!” Furtado yelled.

  The four trainees turned and faced the oncoming waves.

  “Forward crawl!”

  They crawled deeper into the ocean, cringing as the whitewash slammed into their faces. Once they could no longer keep their heads above water, they planted their feet beneath them and continued walking. Furtado stopped them in chest-deep water. They linked arms and pulled each other close.

  “What happened?” Jones asked. “We got worried when you didn’t answer your cell phone.”

  “We were caught,” Rogers chattered, “like a bunch of amateur sleuths. Like the Keystone Cops, except with less skill.”

  Grey’s jaw ached violently from shivering so hard. It took a considerable effort to string together a few words. “We told you to say put,” he chastised. “You should have listened to us.”

  “Well, excuse me for caring,” Jones said. “Where I’m from, friends don’t let friends suffer alone.”

  Grey gave his arm a feeble squeeze in reply. The four trainees endured the rest of the surf torture in silence. The minutes passed slowly, and Grey marked time by counting the waves that crashed into the back of his head. By the time Furtado called them back and they reached the shore, Jackson’s eyes had glazed over. The minister’s lips were blue, his body limp as a noodle. Grey and Rogers each took an arm and propped him up.

  “This one’s done,” Furtado observed casually.

  “He’s done,” Redman agreed.

  Furtado inched closer to Jackson so that his nose nearly touched Jackson’s forehead. “So what’s it going to be, brother? Another round of surf torture, or is it quitting time?”

  Jackson looked over at Grey pleadingly. Long strings of spittle dripped from the corners of his mouth.

  “Don’t even think it,” Grey said.

  Jackson released a deep, guttural sob. He turned his eyes back to Furtado. “I’m done.”

  “No!” Jones yelled. “C’mon now! No way!”

  “He said it,” Furtado observed. “The rest of you would be wise to follow his example, because we’re not going to stop this game until you all quit.”

  Redman slowly rose from his beach chair. “You sure you want to do this?” he asked Jackson. “I’ve got no beef with you. It’s these two cake eaters I want to get rid of.”

  “The cold … I can’t do it anymore.”

  “Well, that’s a fucking shame,” Redman grumbled. He planted a palm on Jackson’s back and pushed him toward the grinder.

  Grey’s heart sank as he watched the preacher stumble over the sand berm. Follow him. The thought flitted through his mind. A few steps was all it would take. Grasp the lanyard, ring the bell, end the pain. Grey glanced at his two remaining boat crew members, and his self-pity was quickly replaced by angry resolve. Rogers and Jones needed him to be strong.

  “He wouldn’t have made it anyway,” Furtado observed. “He was a freak in the water. He would’ve drowned in Second Phase.”

  “Like hell he would have,” Jones said. “Ain’t no way.”

  Furtado sized him up. “You’re not looking so good yourself, Hillbilly Bob. Are you next?”

  “Not a chance.”

  Furtado turned to Rogers. His tongue stud clicked against his teeth. “How about you, Socrates?”

  Rogers shook his head.

  Furtado glanced at Grey. “I know it won’t be you. You’re too fucking stupid to quit.” He rubbed his hands together. “Well, there’s no sense in waiting for Instructor Redman to return. Go ahead and drop down.”

  Grey fell forward onto the sand and struggled through twenty push-ups. His arms spasmed wildly as he held himself in the upright position.

  “You stupid fucks are failing,” Furtado said. “If you can’t do push-ups, we can always play in the ocean.”

  Three sharp peals of a bell rang out in the evening air.

  “Hear that, gentlemen?” Furtado asked, kicking sand into the faces of the trainees. “That’s the sound of freedom.”

  Rogers collapsed and lay motionless, his face buried in the sand.

  Furtado nudged Rogers with his boot. “If that’s the way you’re going to be…” He bent over, grabbed Rogers under the arms, and dragged him into the shallows. “If you’re gonna play dead, you’re gonna play dead cold.”

  Grey turned around so that he was facing the ocean. “Request permission to join my shipmate.”

  “Me too,” Jones added.

  “You fucking homos want to join Socrates in the surf?” Furtado laughed. “Go ahead, and since you’re a bunch of gay fucks, why don’t you
get really cozy.”

  Grey bear-crawled across the sand and settled down next to Rogers.

  “I said get cozy!” Furtado yelled. “Get on top of him! Both of you!”

  This fucker has a serious problem. Grey crawled up on Rogers’s back, then Jones crawled on top of Grey.

  “I don’t think Ensign Rogers is getting any air,” Grey said. He watched with concern as Rogers struggled to keep his face clear of the surging tide.

  “A homo pyramid! Beautiful!” Furtado stepped into the ocean and squatted in front of the trainees. He lifted Rogers’s head. “See. He can breathe just fine.” A rush of icy water surged up the beach, and Rogers’s face temporarily disappeared beneath the surface.

  “This isn’t safe,” Grey said. Motherfucker. I am two seconds away from killing you.

  Furtado scoffed. “Danger is the name of the—”

  “Knock it off!”

  Furtado spun around. “Chief Baldwin—”

  “Jones, Grey, get off him!” Chief Baldwin strode to the waterline and watched as Grey and Jones climbed off Rogers’s back. Redman followed close behind.

  “They were getting carried away,” Furtado explained casually.

  Rogers shakily rose to his knees and coughed up a stream of salt water. Chief Baldwin stroked his mustache and eyed Furtado. For several tense seconds, all was quiet but the rush of the tide and the rumble of crumbling waves. Rogers stood up and swayed from side to side.

  “This is unsat,” Baldwin grumbled. “Mr. Rogers, get over here.”

  Rogers took one step, then flopped facedown in several inches of water. Baldwin strode to his side and lifted his head.

  “What’s your problem, sir?”

  Rogers gurgled something comprehensible only to Baldwin.

  “You what?”

  Rogers struggled to rise to his knees, but his rubbery arms wouldn’t lift his torso.

  “You’re finished, sir.” A look of concern crossed Baldwin’s face. “You should DOR.” He grasped Rogers under the arms and yanked him to his feet with a violent heave. The officer’s body was dead weight in his arms. “Sir, do you quit?” he asked slowly.

  Rogers dangled helplessly, his chin resting on his chest.