Suffer in Silence Read online

  Grey was growing used to this drill. The instructors would watch the students carefully. When it seemed they simply couldn’t complete another push-up, they were sent to the surf. This way they were cold, wet, and physically exhausted all day—the perfect recipe for misery.

  “This sucks!” a student yelled as they sprinted toward the surf. Grey looked over and made a note of his face. Students who complained excessively tended to disappear. If a trainee didn’t truly want to be at BUD/S, he would go away. No doubt about it.

  Grey leaped into the dark ocean, cringing reflexively as the water closed over his head. Although he hated the cold, he found his current situation perversely romantic. All his life he had dreaded the prospect of a desk job. He longed for adventure, and here it was, aching in every bone, coursing through every strained muscle. The bite of the ocean, the briny smell of rotting kelp, the sand abrading his legs—it all pointed to one glorious conclusion: he was living his dream. A smile broke out on his face as he sprinted back to the grinder.

  “Are you fucking crazy?” Ramirez asked, eyeing Grey’s ecstatic expression. “Sir, with all due respect, I think you’ve lost it.”

  The horrifying scene that greeted them back at the grinder quickly shattered Grey’s private revelry. A dozen instructors were stationed at various points on the pavement. Two held hoses, one brandished a bullhorn.

  “Morning, gents! Ready to PT?”

  “Hoo-yaaaah,” the class answered. They sustained the traditional battle cry, holding it for minutes on end. The brick walls of the compound magnified the eerie sound until it reached a fevered pitch. Grey could easily imagine that they were Viking warriors preparing for a raid, emptying their lungs in a display of raw masculinity. He felt alive: every nerve in his body was on edge. This was the instructors’ motivation check. They were always eager to find out who really wanted to be at BUD/S and who was just along for the ride. Grey yelled until his voice cracked, and then yelled some more. The result was a hoarse cry that modulated in pitch like the voice of a pubescent schoolboy.

  Instructor Redman raised a clenched fist, signifying that he’d heard enough. He was an imposing figure: six feet four, arms bulging with muscle, a chest that seemed impossibly big. His skin was leathery, and his beady black eyes peered from beneath a prominent brow. A thick patch of spiked black hair crowned his head, and his nose looked like it had been broken at least a dozen times. The students were terrified of Redman. Especially Grey …

  I’m invisible. Grey knew what was coming. You don’t see me. I’m not here.

  “Grey!” Redman bellowed.

  “Hoo-yah,” Grey responded. He winced as his voice rose an octave.

  The class laughed. Redman’s eyes narrowed even farther.

  “Is that what they teach you at Stanford? How to scream like a woman?”

  Grey felt like melting into the asphalt. At Officer Candidate School the instructors had stressed the importance of maintaining an aura of professionalism in front of the enlisted men. Over three-quarters of Class 283 was comprised of enlisted personnel, and they were currently having a nice laugh at his expense. So much for image.

  “Think you can do proper sit-ups today?” Redman asked.

  Grey nodded.

  “What?”

  “Hoo-yah,” Grey croaked, straining to keep his voice low.

  “We’ll see about that.” Redman laid a foam pad on the platform and assumed the sit-up position. “Sit-ups … ready?”

  The students dropped onto their butts. “Ready!”

  The instructors strolled between the ranks of trainees, hosing them down and assaulting them with a torrent of verbal abuse. Grey felt the scab on his ass scrape off as he completed sit-up after sit-up. The salt that clung to his uniform ground its way into his open wound, making his eyes water uncontrollably. The sit-ups progressed into push-ups, then lunges, pull-ups, dips, leg lifts. An agonizing hour later the madness stopped.

  “I’m not impressed,” Redman said, shaking his head in disgust. His blue T-shirt rippled as he tensed and relaxed his muscles. “Look at me.” He jumped off the platform. “I’m not even sweating, and you guys look like a bunch of underfed refugees. You’ve got ten seconds to get off my grinder. Move!”

  The students tripped over one another as they scrambled out of the compound, eager to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the instructors. The sun peeked over the coastal mountains, casting a pale glow over the base’s cream-colored buildings. Grey gathered his boat crew up in the open space next to the barracks that was simply referred to as “the pit.” It was a patch of concrete hidden from instructor view yet large enough to accommodate ninety-six trainees—an ideal place to spend a few precious seconds getting reorganized.

  “It’s zero six hundred,” Smurf announced to the class. “We have to be back here by zero seven. If you guys want a decent breakfast, we better get moving.”

  Murray jumped onto Grey’s back and clung to him like a koala bear. “I’m tired, sir. How about a piggyback ride? You’ve got enough endurance for both of us.”

  “Murray, lock it up,” Grey commanded. “We’re late.”

  “Get in line, puta!” Ramirez yelled. “If I miss breakfast ’cause of you, you’ll be wishin’ you were dead.”

  Murray reluctantly dropped to the ground as Petty Officer Burns formed the class into ranks and led them onto the beach. The chow hall was a little over a mile away, a distance that at first seemed trivial. However, Grey quickly learned that six extra miles of running a day took its toll on the body. Many students in the class were already coming down with shin splints and stress fractures. The energy the class had displayed on their first chow run last week was gone. Grey noted with amusement that his fellow students naturally settled into the crippled gait known as the BUD/S shuffle. By shuffling their boots along the pavement rather than picking up their feet, they saved precious energy and minimized chafing. As they made slow progress toward the chow hall, Petty Officer Liska, a mild-mannered student with a golden voice, began calling out a jody. He sang a refrain, and the class echoed his declarations.

  I don’t want to be no Army Ranger,

  I want to live a life of danger.

  I don’t want to be no Green Beret,

  They only PT once a day.

  I don’t want to be no fag Recon,

  I’m gonna stay ’til the fightin’s done.

  The jody and the high morale of his class lifted Grey’s spirits. The thought of eating a nice hot breakfast made his stomach churn in anticipation. At BUD/S Grey learned to live moment by moment. Some days were too painful to contemplate as a whole entity. Instead of focusing on getting secured for the day, Grey focused on surviving until the next meal.

  Class 283 stopped in front of the chow hall and formed into ranks. Papa Smurf ushered the first group of enlisted students into the building. The officers always ate last. It generally left Grey with little more than five minutes to scarf down his favorite morning meal: bacon and eggs, hash browns, five pieces of toast with peanut butter and jelly, hot cereal, orange juice, milk, and a huge piece of coffee cake. All told, Grey estimated that he took in about three thousand calories a meal—and he was still having trouble maintaining his weight. The constant shivering combined with up to six hours of physical conditioning a day turned his body into an insatiable furnace. Rogers often joked that he saw Grey’s food catching on fire before he even swallowed it.

  “Hello, Mr. Grey.” Felicia flashed a pearly white smile from behind her cash register. She was Grey’s favorite food-service worker, and like everyone else who worked there, she had the lilting accent of a recent Filipino immigrant. Several of the members of Class 283 had a crush on the five-foot beauty.

  “How’s it going, Felicia?”

  “Not bad, Mr. Grey.” Her smile faded. “I worry some, though.”

  “About what?” Grey leaned in closer and motioned the other officers to pass him in line. Felicia waited until they were out of hearing range to
answer.

  “Someone say bad things about you.” She looked down at her feet. “I think he want you to go away.”

  “What do you mean?” Grey felt his heart constrict. If an instructor didn’t want you to make it through BUD/S, you almost certainly wouldn’t.

  “He say you think you so smart—you know, too good for the rest.”

  “Who?” Grey’s hoarse voice faltered. “Who said that?”

  “Big guy, dark skin, sticky hair. Mean-looking.”

  Redman. Grey felt the excitement that had coursed through his veins on the way to chow slip away. Motherfucker. He pressed Felicia’s hand gently as a show of thanks and made his way down the chow line. After collecting his usual assortment of nourishing navy foods, he found Rogers sitting alone at a table.

  “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

  “It’s worse than that,” Grey confessed. “I just learned that Redman thinks I’m a self-righteous, cocky son of a bitch, and he’s going to try to get rid of me.”

  “Does that surprise you? Redman hates all officers.”

  “I know, but I think it’s different this time.” Grey forked a load of scrambled eggs into his mouth. “The only thing that comforts me is the fact that we’re graduating from Indoc tonight. I probably won’t see him until Hell Week.”

  Rogers played with the last bits of hash browns on his plate. After mashing them into an inedible greasy sludge, he looked up at Grey apologetically. “Redman’s going into First Phase with us.”

  “Shit.” Normally the instructors in charge of Indoctrination were replaced by an entirely new crew for First Phase. The room suddenly grew quiet. Grey lowered his voice. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Can he do that?”

  “That’s the rumor.”

  “Two-eight-three, on your feet!” Smurf stood up and walked toward the door, signaling that chow was over. Grey had only managed to fork in one mouthful of food. He turned his back to the class, then greedily used his hands to scoop a massive handful of bacon and eggs into his mouth.

  “Barbarian,” Rogers muttered. “Cretin.”

  TWO

  GREY FLUNG OPEN THE door to his locker and pulled out his pressed camouflage uniform. Inspection was in five minutes, hardly enough time to change. Rogers rooted around frantically in the locker next to him.

  “Where’s my knife?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Where’s my knife?” Rogers repeated, this time more urgently. Staying calm under pressure was not his forte. Grey sometimes wondered if being a SEAL was a wise career path for his scholarly friend.

  “Check behind your seabag,” Grey offered.

  Rogers dropped to his knees and pulled his seabag out of the locker. “Eureka!” He stood up holding his knife appreciatively, as if he had never seen anything so beautiful. “Thanks for the tip, chum.”

  “You better get your ensign asses moving,” Smurf said. “Don’t make me look bad.” He dropped to his knees, pulled a stack of dog-eared magazines from the bottom of his locker, and carefully arranged them on his neatly made rack.

  “Why the magazines?” Grey asked.

  “Bribery,” Smurf said. “It’s the only sure way to pass a room inspection.”

  Grey stepped closer and glanced at the titles. Backdoor Babes, Barely Legal, Uncensored XXX, Buttman—an astonishing array of hard-core pornography.

  “Nice,” Grey muttered sarcastically.

  “Hey, I don’t make the rules,” Smurf said defensively. “I just want to pass.” After admiring the glossy finish on his boot tips, he adjusted his belt buckle and strode out the door.

  Grey and Rogers threw on their uniforms as they raced the clock. Grey finished first by a long shot; he tied Rogers’s boots while his roommate frantically buttoned up his top.

  “Let’s go, Socrates,” Grey urged. “Time waits for no one, and Redman certainly won’t wait for me.”

  A minute later Grey stood in formation outside the barracks. A quick glance around suggested everyone had done their homework. Boots were shined, uniforms were starched and pressed, covers were blocked, haircuts were fresh.

  “Stand by!” Petty Officer Burns yelled. “Feet!”

  The class snapped to attention. A string of instructors clad in blue shorts and sweatshirts strolled to the front of the formation. They all sported nearly identical, ultratrendy sunglasses and wore the same disgusted scowl on their faces.

  “Silver Spoons, front and center!” Instructor Logan yelled.

  Rogers clumsily broke ranks and jogged to the front of the class. He towered over the stocky instructor, and for a lack of anything better to say, shouted, “Hoo-yah, Instructor Logan!”

  “Hoo-yah yourself, you stupid, overpaid cake eater.” Logan looked Rogers up and down and then hocked a mixture of sunflower seeds and spit onto his boot. “Boots look like shit,” he observed. “What’s your excuse?”

  Rogers remained silent.

  “Excuses are like assholes: everyone’s got one.” He spit again. “What’s yours?”

  “No excuse, Instructor Logan.”

  “Fine. You’ll pay later. For now, recite.”

  “Recite?”

  “Yeah, stand up on that table and let the class hear some Greek shit.”

  Rogers jumped onto the picnic table behind the instructors and cleared his throat.

  The man for wisdom’s various arts renown’d,

  Long exercised in woes, O Muse! resound;

  Who, when his arms had wrought the destined fall

  Of sacred Troy, and razed her heaven-built wall,

  Wandering from clime to clime, observant stay’d,

  Their manners noted, and their states survey’d.

  The instructors began their inspection as Rogers continued. The soothing sound of the recitation combined with the instructors’ furious yelling sent Grey’s head reeling. He tuned out the verbal abuse and tried to focus on the beauty of The Odyssey. The epic poem had a timeless quality that seemed to rise above the chaos surrounding him.

  “Drop down, fuck stick!”

  Grey snapped out of his reverie. Everyone in the class had dropped into the push-up position. Instructor Redman’s angry face was inches from his own. Grey dropped down and started cranking out push-ups.

  “Recover!” Redman yelled.

  Grey jumped to his feet.

  “Drop!”

  Grey dropped. This sequence continued until his breath came in heaving gasps—drop, recover, drop, recover.

  “Think you can pull your head out of your ass now?” Redman screamed.

  “Hoo-yah!” Grey answered.

  “We’ll see about that. Let’s check out that uniform of yours.” Redman looked Grey over quickly and smiled deviously. “What did we say before? Each inspection hit is worth a hundred push-ups?”

  “Hoo-yah,” Grey answered quietly.

  “Well, let’s have a look.” Redman grabbed a tiny thread between his fingernails and started pulling. Once the thread had unraveled several inches, he turned to show off his prized find.

  “Instructor Logan, check this out!” Redman shouted. “Have you ever seen an Irish pennant this long? I could rappel off it!”

  “I think that’s worth at least three hits,” Logan suggested. “Maybe four.”

  Grey felt like disappearing again. Special attention was becoming a way of life.

  “And look at those boots,” Redman clucked. “Scuffed.”

  “And all that sand on his chest,” Logan added. “Dirty bird!”

  Grey felt his face flush with anger. The six-inch Irish pennant was one thing, but nailing him for messing up his uniform while doing push-ups was absurd.

  “Jesus Christ!” Redman bellowed. “You are pathetic! Hit the surf! You have two minutes.”

  Grey dutifully immersed himself in the ocean and returned to find Redman standing in front of a ring knocker. Although the term ring knocker had lost its prestige years ago, Grey still used it to describe the U.S. Naval Academy officers in
his class. They rarely messed up, always managed to land the choicest collateral duty assignments, and were fiercely protective of one another. They were secretive and defensive, yet they always managed to put on a cool, friendly face. Rogers had once likened the phenomenon of the insular Academy brotherhood to the Freemasons. To be fair, Grey had met a number of Academy officers he thought were outstanding leaders and fine human beings, it just happened that none of them were in Class 283.

  “Nice boots, Mr. Wright,” Redman stated. “Good uniform, clean haircut—over all, not bad.”

  “Thank you, Instructor Redman.” Ensign Wright smiled broadly.

  “Don’t thank me, dumb-ass,” Redman muttered. “You want to hit the surf, too?”

  “Negative, Instructor Redman.” Wright’s gap-toothed grin disappeared.

  As Redman moved down the line, Grey noticed that he would glance in his direction frequently. The devilish look on the instructor’s face suggested that he delighted in the knowledge that Grey was keenly aware of the unfairness of the situation. He only sent one other student to the surf, and that was because his buckle was on backward. The last student Redman inspected was Seaman Jones, the “Tennessee Wonder.”

  “What are you smiling about, you inbred, backwoods, banjo-strumming fool?” Redman asked.

  “I was just thinkin’ about what a nice day it is and all,” Jones drawled. “This here is real outdoors weather.”

  “Real outdoors weather,” Redman repeated, poorly imitating Jones’s accent. “Well, ain’t that nice.” He brushed some imaginary dirt off Jones’s shoulder. “You a fag, Jones?”

  “Negative.” Grey could hear the nervousness creeping into Jones’s voice.

  “You sure about that? Cause I sure could imagine you and Murray getting hot and heavy back there in the shower.”

  Jones tottered perceptibly. Grey hoped he didn’t pass out.

  “C’mon, Instructor Redman!” Murray cried, breaking the silence. “You know I could do better than that old hillbilly piece of ass. I’m a sexy bastard.” He cupped his pecs and rubbed them provocatively. The class laughed.

  “You are one sick fuck.” Redman covered the distance to Murray in a few gigantic strides. “And you are not allowed to be funny. Only instructors should attempt humor. And just to drive the point home, I’m going to beat the shit out of you. Time for some reindeer games out on the beach. Jones, you can join us.”