Suffer in Silence Page 4

  “A poem, gentlemen,” he offered. “Your attention, please.”

  With ceaseless courage and unbridled fire

  Old Murray saved us from the mire

  Of logs and pain and cruel Mr. Redman,

  If he were here, we’d all be dead men.

  And now we sit in frosty bliss,

  Bathing in each other’s piss.

  A true, good friend became a martyr,

  And saved our class from working harder.

  Rogers smiled triumphantly as the students groaned. Although his fellow trainees teased him mercilessly on account of his archaic mannerisms, they always enjoyed his antics.

  “Well, I didn’t have time for anything better,” he explained as the jeering continued. “If you give me more time, I might be able to come up with something in iambic tetrameter, or maybe a nice Italian sonnet.”

  Grey closed his eyes and tried to capture the moment for posterity—the numbness creeping into his limbs, the scratch of sand against his butt, the pull and surge of the tide, the playful laughter, the gentle sun on his face, the wheeling cry of restless seagulls, the taste of salt on his lips. He braced himself for the ominous sight of the white ambulance as it returned from the medical clinic. When it finally rumbled onto the beach, he was mentally prepared to go back to battle with the logs. Apparently his classmates weren’t. A collective groan rippled up and down the line as they stood up in the surf and marched toward shore.

  Murray climbed out of the ambulance and met his class in the shallows. As they reached the beach, Logan moved his hand in a circle above his head.

  “School circle,” Smurf yelled, suddenly taking charge. Frothy spit flew from his mouth. “Let’s go, let’s go!” The class responded sluggishly to spite him. Much to Grey’s delight, it was becoming common knowledge that Papa Smurf was out for only one person—himself. Gradually everyone dropped to their knees and fixed their eyes on the stocky instructor in front of them.

  “Before we continue, I want to make a point,” Logan began. “We have a weak link in this class. A dangerous one. He’s like a plague, a pestilence, a virus.” Logan lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “A pussy. He’ll destroy your class. He’ll bring you down. He’ll make you weak. Hell, he’ll even try to make you crave cock.”

  The class laughed to humor Logan, but Grey could tell they were shaken. Murray’s eyes narrowed as he stared at an invisible point somewhere up the coast. A student next to him placed a protective hand on his back.

  “Murray, front and center,” Logan commanded. “The rest of you back away.”

  Murray pushed through the crowd and stood before his class.

  “This is your weak link.” Logan jabbed a finger into Murray’s back. “This piece of shit is only holding you back. If I were you, I’d take him behind the sand berm tonight and do it the old-fashioned way. Give him a choice: either he can leave, or you beat the crap out of him.” Logan scanned the crowd. “Is there anyone here who will come forward and honestly tell me that Murray is worth a rat’s ass? Do any of you really want to work with this shitbag?”

  The class fell silent. They all feared being singled out as a turd. Everyone knew that once you appeared on an instructor’s shitlist, life was bound to get very colorful in a hurry. Murray’s stone face suddenly melted. His lower lip trembled as he looked at the blank faces before him.

  “I’d work with Murray any day,” Grey said, stepping forward. He grabbed Murray possessively by the arm and yanked him back into the crowd. “He’s got a bigger heart than half the people out here.”

  Logan glowered. “Well, well. A shitty officer stands up for his shitty enlisted buddy. You two make a great pair.”

  “I’d take Murray as well,” Rogers said quietly. “I think he adds a lot to our class.”

  “See what’s happening, gents? The bottom of the BUD/S barrel is foaming to the top. All the people you should be concerned about are coming forward.” Logan threw up his hands. “Anyone else want to join the goon squad?”

  “Count me in,” Ramirez said. “I stand by my boat-crew leader.”

  “Me too.” Jones raised his hand. “I’m not lettin’ you suckers have all the fun.”

  “All right,” Logan growled. “Enough bullshit. Everyone back on their logs.”

  The log push-ups, sit-ups, side-straddle hops, and extended-arm drills lasted well into the morning. Grey puked twice, and the taste of bile stayed in his mouth until chow. As the day wore on, the class became less and less enthusiastic. The journey to and from chow seemed impossibly long, and Grey silently cursed the sand that stripped away the flesh between his legs. Thankfully, Instructor Redman didn’t show his angry face for the remainder of the day. After hours of boat drills, a thoroughly chilled Class 283 filed into the First Phase classroom for their pseudograduation from Indoctrination. Indoc was simply a warm-up for the rest of BUD/S. Its termination marked the beginning of six more months of torture.

  “Drop.” Logan peeked his head through the doorway. The class immediately assumed push-up position. He disappeared again, and the class adopted the leaning rest. Five minutes later Grey’s arms were trembling violently. Following the lead of his classmates, Grey started alternating body positions. First he would rest his stomach on the tile floor so that his back ramped downward, then he would lift his ass high into the air and rest his arms. Unfortunately, even this tactic couldn’t salvage enough strength from his sorely depleted triceps and chest. Grey’s arms gave out and he crashed to the floor.

  “Get up,” Rogers pleaded. “Don’t let—”

  The door crashed open, and a string of instructors filed into the room. Grey tapped into the adrenaline coursing through his veins and managed to push his chest off the ground. He was too late.

  “Who the fuck are you?” A black-haired instructor with small dark eyes pointed a long finger in his direction.

  “Ensign Grey, instructor.”

  “Why the hell was your stomach on the ground?” Something metallic flashed in the instructor’s mouth as he talked. Grey was caught off guard, and it took him a moment to respond.

  “No excuse, instructor.”

  “Damn right, no excuse.” His mouth gleamed again. Grey realized the flash came from a metal tongue stud.

  That can’t be regulation. Grey glanced around and found that his classmates were equally mesmerized. Something about a BUD/S instructor with a tongue stud was perversely intriguing. How am I supposed to take this guy seriously?

  The new staff arranged themselves in a single-file line and glared at Class 283. A tall, rangy instructor with a handlebar mustache stepped forward. He spoke slowly, as if addressing a classroom full of children.

  “Welcome to First Phase,” he droned. “I’m Chief Baldwin.” He casually paced back and forth in front of the class as he spoke. “You can call me Chief Baldwin. You will not call me simply ‘Chief’ or ‘Baldwin’ or ‘Dude’ or ‘Man’ or any of that other crap you dope smokers picked up in high school. Is that clear?”

  The class responded with as much volume as they could muster: “Hoo-yah, Chief Baldwin.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?” Chief Baldwin asked, his brow furrowing in anger. “Someone tell me what you meant by that pathetic ‘hoo-yah.’”

  “It meant, ‘Yes, we understand,’” a voice blurted out.

  “You will never use ‘hoo-yah’ to answer a question. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Chief Baldwin,” the class answered.

  “Good, because I refuse to speak hoo-yah-nese. That lame-ass expression can mean ‘yes,’ it can mean ‘fuck yeah,’ it can mean ‘I heard you,’ it can mean ‘I’m only saying this because I have to,’ or better yet, ‘If it were up to me I’d stick my foot up your ass.’ I only speak English. So if I ask you a question in English, I expect a reasonable answer.” Chief sat on the edge of a table. He arched a dark eyebrow as he watched Class 283 drip sweat onto the floor. “I’ll be your proctor, which means it’s my job to take care of you sor
ry little dimwits. First off, recover yourselves.”

  The class thankfully scrambled to attention. Chief Baldwin motioned for them to take their seats.

  “Here’s what I’m not going to do: I won’t hold your hand when you pee, or find you a tampon when that time of the month rolls around, or pop the zits on your adolescent faces. I will listen to your serious grievances, and I’ll try to keep First Phase running smoothly. That doesn’t mean you can come up to me and say, ‘Chief Baldwin, Instructor Osgood keeps making me hurt. Tell him to stop.’ I’ll either laugh in your face or beat you, depending on my mood. However, if you say, ‘The chow hall stopped serving food; we’re starving,’ I’ll see what I can do. Now, on to the fun. I’m going to introduce you to the First Phase instructors. They’re going to say their names once and only once. I expect you to remember them. Understood?”

  “Yes, Chief Baldwin.”

  One by one, the instructors blurted out their names: Instructor Dullard, Instructor MacLean, Chief Lundin, Instructor Osgood, Instructor Barefoot, Instructor Furtado, Instructor Smith, Instructor McNeil, Senior Chief Ortiz, Instructor Petrillo, Instructor Heisler, Instructor Johnson, Instructor Heffner, and Chief Nebrinski. Grey frantically tried to attach faces to names, but the only one that stuck in his mind was Instructor Furtado, the tongue-studded warrior.

  “Let’s jog your memory.” The suggestion came from a bald instructor built like a fireplug. He smiled mischievously. “Drop.”

  The tiny desks squealed as the students pushed them aside. Due to a lack of space, they did their push-ups crowded together like toppled dominos. All the eyes were on Papa Smurf, who by virtue of his position as class leader was responsible for calling out the instructor. He squirmed uneasily.

  “Instructor Heisler,” he yelled in a faltering voice.

  “Hoo-yah, Instructor Heisler,” the class answered.

  An uneasy silence followed. The instructors stood by, coiled and ready to spring. Grey held his breath reflexively as he prayed for mercy. Please be Heisler.

  “Wrong!” the stocky instructor yelled, and the room erupted into chaos. Instructors danced about, punishing students with push-ups when they couldn’t recite the correct name.

  “What did you call me?” incredulous instructors asked as they leaped from desk to desk. “What’s my name?”

  When Grey was sure he would pass out from the strain, his tormentors stepped off their desks and stood by passively. Seconds later a lieutenant clad in dress blues walked in the room.

  “Sir, what can we do for you?” Chief Baldwin asked pleasantly.

  “Don’t mind me,” the officer said. “Please, carry on.” He was a friendly looking fellow, and Grey sincerely hoped that he would end their misery.

  “Class, meet Lieutenant Fuchs,” Chief Baldwin said. “He’s the director of First Phase.”

  The class watched his face expectantly. The lieutenant merely smiled and strode out of the room. The interruption diminished the instructors’ zeal for punishment considerably. They filed out the door, leaving only Chief Baldwin behind.

  “I expect you’re having a class-up party tonight. You invite women?”

  “Hoo-yah!” the class screamed in reply.

  “What’d I say about answering my questions with that lame-ass phrase? You’ll pay later. Now, I’ll give you some advice.…” He paused and stroked his mustache thoughtfully. “The command does not condone using class funds to hire strippers. The last couple of parties involved strippers, and I was happy to attend. Catch my drift?”

  “Yeah, you just want to see some ass. Fuck the command policy, right?”

  The class looked around in horror. Sassing the class proctor was as close to suicide as anything a BUD/S student could imagine. Grey immediately recognized the voice. Damn it, Murray. Much to the surprise of the class, Chief Baldwin grinned broadly, showcasing his tobacco-stained teeth.

  “I like an honest man,” he said. “I also like a student who isn’t afraid. Just watch your attitude, ’cause most of my cohorts aren’t quite as genial as I am. Catch my drift?” He squatted in front of Murray. “What’s your name, son?”

  “Murray.” He lifted his head and eyed the instructor warily.

  “Well, Murray, you just finish those push-ups you were working on. I’ll keep my eye on you.” Chief Baldwin stood and walked out of the room. “Recover yourselves,” he yelled over his shoulder. “I’ll see you ladies tonight.”

  The students of Class 283 hobbled to their feet and headed for the door. They formed two columns and limped across the grinder, dripping salt water, sweat, and sand across the pavement as they went. Once they reached the pit, Papa Smurf gathered everyone around him. “Passing word,” or reviewing the day’s events and planning for tomorrow, always took far too long. Grey liked to keep things moving so the guys could get a shower and get on with their nights.

  “Listen up,” Smurf ordered. He assumed his defensive body position—legs spread wide and arms crossed tightly over his chest. “Today went better than it could have, so good job on not screwing things up even more. Murray, thanks for passing out.” The class cheered loudly, and Murray got his butt pinched and his head slapped several times. “One thing we need to work on is respecting the chain of command. We are in training, but that doesn’t mean that you can blow off your boat-crew leader, even if he is a lowly ensign.”

  “Fuckin’ A, sir,” a sandy-haired seaman named Larsen cut in. “I know you’re talking about me. I didn’t mean any disrespect when I told Ensign Rogers to go fuck himself. I was simply suggesting that we might actually win a race if we cheated like the rest of you bastards. Sir, with all due respect, most of our boat-crew leaders don’t know what the hell is going on.”

  A silence followed, in which the gaggle of ring knockers stared incredulously at the enlisted puke who dared to defile their leadership. A red-faced ensign named Pollock stepped forward.

  “Look, I don’t know where you guys went to boot camp, but at the Academy I was taught to show a certain amount of respect to my superiors. I know BUD/S is a vacuum. You can say whatever you want and get away with it, because we’re all classmates here. Just remember that when and if you graduate, everything will change. We’ll be giving you orders, and you’ll either be following them or getting the hell out of the teams.”

  “That’s bullshit, sir!” Larsen yelled. “If you want your every command executed without question, you should have joined the surface community. Nearly half of us have college degrees. The only reason we’re not officers is that we couldn’t get billets, so we enlisted. If I have a good idea or a suggestion, I expect you to listen, bars or no bars.”

  “You want EMI?” Pollock yelled back. The class groaned. Threatening Larsen with Extra Military Instruction, aka punishment, was a cheap shot.

  “You can have me stand all your watches! I’ll stay up every goddamn night. But just know this: you won’t have one ounce of my respect.” He gestured at the crowd behind him. “Or any of the other lowly enlisted folk in the class.”

  Grey stepped into the center of the circle. He had to restrain the urge to take both Larsen’s and Pollock’s heads and knock them together.

  “Listen up, everyone!” Grey called out. The noise level quickly died down. Grey rarely spoke out, and the class immediately gave him their attention. “I want you all to step back and take a look at the situation we’re in. We’re setting ourselves up for disaster. Come next week, you know what the instructors will be looking for?” He wiped a hand across his sweaty forehead. “They’ll be looking to see if we work as a team. If we can’t handle petty disputes like this, they’re gonna tear us apart. If they sense a lack of teamwork, we may as well kiss our chances of graduating good-bye.”

  “So what do you suggest, sir?” Larsen asked.

  “Well, first of all, the officers in the class, myself included, need to listen more carefully to the suggestions of the enlisted. Second of all—”

  “Excuse me, brother,” Petty Officer Jacks
on said. “I know what you’re trying to say. With all due respect, I’ll take it from here.” Petty Officer Jackson was the only black student in Class 283. He was well liked by everyone, and he had a notoriously sharp wit. He launched into his fabled preacher routine. “My brothers in Christ-uh. What we have here-uh is a failure. A failure of brotherly love.”

  “Amen,” the class responded. Smiles broke out all around.

  “The Lord—the Lord above-uh—he’s a watchin’. He’s a wishin’ that e-dogs and o-dogs could struggle hand in hand. Yes-uh. That’s right. Struggle together.”

  “Sing it, brother!” Murray yelled.

  Jackson picked up the intensity. “And we need respect, brothers. We need it now like no other time. Yes-uh. We should be like Moses. Like Moses in the face of the Lord’s awesome power! Yes-uh! Respect, brothers.”

  “Hallelujah!”

  “But we need just rulers! Yes-uh! Like the people of Israel, who were delivered from the oppression of the pharaoh, we need fair leadership! What we need-uh, is the shepherds and the sheep united together. Yes-uh. Show me the love.” Jackson grabbed Pollock and Murray by the wrist and jammed their hands together. “That’s right, brothers. Show me that brotherly love!”

  Students embraced and wept theatrically.

  “That’s right-uh. I feel it now! I feel it in my achin’ bones. We must strive to understand. Yes-uh! We will listen and understand each other! We will not fight! No-uh! We will unite together, and we will escape from this place! We will be delivered from the tyranny of BUD/S.”

  “Amen!”

  “We will struggle and toil, but we will leave it all behind one day. Yes-uh. We will pin on that trident, and we will know we earned it together, brothers! Yes-uh. Together!” Jackson raised his arms to the sky. “Let me hear a ‘together’!”

  “Together!” the class yelled.

  “Let me hear you say, ‘united in brotherly love’!”

  “United in brotherly love!”

  “Let me hear an ‘amen’!”

  “Amen!”

  A profusely sweating Jackson stepped back into the crowd. Class 283 erupted into applause. Papa Smurf stepped forward.