Suffer in Silence Page 6

  “What’s up, John?” Grey was the only student who occasionally addressed Rogers by his first name.

  “Rien,” Rogers answered in a sneering French accent. “Je deteste Dimanche.”

  “There he goes again,” Smurf grumbled from his corner of the room. “Mr. Sophistication himself. I really wish you’d cut out that French crap.”

  “Imbecile,” Rogers huffed, then cracked a smile. “You need to learn to appreciate France, sir. Many of the finer things in life are French in origin.”

  “Like?” Smurf folded his arms over his barrel chest.

  “Cheese, wine, escargot, the Tour de France … French fries.”

  “Look, all I know is that we saved their sorry asses during World War Two. They don’t have to play their self-righteous, holier-than-thou games with us. Without our help, they’d all be doing the goose step right now.”

  Rogers’s smile widened. “Excellent point, sir. Well-taken.”

  “You two are ridiculous.” Grey pulled his uniforms from his locker and laid them on his bed. He smashed everything into his seabag and slung it over his shoulder. “Sir Rogers, Papa Smurf, I’ll see you at our new home. Don’t kill each other while I’m gone.”

  “Are you suggesting I’m capable of violence?” Rogers looked offended.

  “I sure as hell hope so.” Grey made for the doorway. “You’d better be.”

  As he walked away he heard Rogers call after him, “I’m no sissy, mind you. I’ll challenge you any day, my warmongering friend. Perhaps a duel…”

  Crazy, Grey thought. Absolutely crazy. The more stressed out Rogers got, the more frequent his bizarre antics became. The stress of the impending beat-down on Monday was getting to everyone. When the weekend was the only aspect of life students had to look forward to, starting a new week was a somber event. Grey slowly walked down Trident Way toward their new barracks, kicking loose pebbles across the asphalt as he went. A few wispy clouds slid overhead in the strong sea breeze, interrupting the bright blue canvas of the sky. The smell of seaweed was strong in the air, and the gleaming white sand berms rose up against the barbed-wire fence that surrounded the SEAL Teams. Trapped in paradise. Grey’s thoughts scattered as an out-of-breath Murray appeared at his side.

  “What’s up, sir?”

  “Not much.” Grey was struck by how horrible Murray looked. The man obviously hadn’t slept. “Thanks for putting together a good party on Friday.”

  “Not a problem. Glad you enjoyed it.” Murray waited a few breaths before continuing. “The rest of the night was interesting.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Redman came through my window at four in the morning.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish I was. I should have known better than to leave it unlocked. The fucker was drunk as hell.”

  “So what did he do to you?” Grey asked, genuinely disturbed.

  “First he peed all over the room. It just so happened that my uniforms were sitting conveniently in a pile. Go figure. Then he dragged me out to the beach and beat me until the sun came up. I spent some quality time in the surf, did a few thousand push-ups, played in the sand, whipped out my dick—”

  “Whipped out your dick?”

  “Yeah. He thought he’d get a good laugh at the size of my cock. Unfortunately for him, I’m hung like a horse—even when it’s cold.” Murray wrapped his arms tightly across his chest as he looked out toward the ocean. “That was some fierce surf torture. I don’t think I’ve ever been so cold in my life. I could laugh the whole thing off, but Redman said something that really got to me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He told me that he isn’t the only one who wants me out of here. He said that every instructor in First Phase was going to make it their personal mission to force me out of training.”

  “Bullshit. He’s just nursing his wounded ego. It’s not every day he gets tackled by one of his students.”

  “I know. But I think he had a good point. I’m dead if I don’t change my ways. Being the class turd might be entertaining for you guys, but I don’t want my sense of humor to force me out the door.”

  No shit. Grey looked away. “I’ve told you a million times, Murray, you’re a good guy. You just attract attention. You’re a lightning rod among BUD/S students. If you want to fix the problem, you need to learn to shut the hell up.”

  “You’re probably right.” Murray cracked his knuckles. “I’ve got other ideas, though.”

  “Explain.”

  “Redman’s bad news, sir. We both know that. He has to have a past, a few skeletons in the closet.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “I’m not going to let him force me out.” Murray kicked at a pebble, launching it down the street in a graceful arc. “Sir, he won’t get rid of me. I won’t let him. If he wants me to ring out, he’ll have to tear my arm off and beat the bell with it.” Students who had reached their breaking point and wanted to be dropped from training were required to ring a polished brass bell near the grinder.

  Grey chuckled at the macabre image of an instructor whaling away at the brass bell with a severed limb. His smile faded and he regarded Murray coolly. “I’m still not following you, Murray. Are you suggesting blackmail?”

  “That’s one way to say it.”

  “Bad idea,” Grey stated firmly. “Real bad idea.”

  “Sir, what am I supposed to do—just stand by passively and let him destroy my life’s ambition?” Murray spat on the ground. “No fucking way. If he wants to play that game, I’m not beyond defending myself.”

  “Okay, so let’s pretend this is a reasonable idea, which it isn’t. How are you going to dig anything up?”

  “Jeff Thompson, one of my brother’s buddies from high school, is an East Coast SEAL. He’s the guy who got me interested in the Teams in the first place. Redman spent a tour over in Virginia. I’m sure Jeff could dig something up.”

  “What if there is no dirt?”

  “I’m willing to bet that there is, sir.”

  “And what if you get caught snooping around? Redman’s not someone to be trifled with.”

  “It’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

  Grey shook his head. “Murray, I still think it’s a bad idea, but I’m not going to stop you. Just be careful. I think you’re taking a bigger risk than you realize.” Grey started up the steps that led to the courtyard of Building 618. “One more thing, Murray.”

  “What’s that, Mr. G.?”

  “Why do you look like crap?” He gestured at Murray’s sunken eyes. “I understand you had a bad time Friday night, but you should have been able to rest up yesterday. What’s the deal?”

  “Oh, sir, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me.”

  Murray flashed a self-satisfied smile, then drew in a deep breath as if preparing for a long speech. “Well, I met these two sorority sisters last night. They’re both hot—tight little asses and nice perky tits.” He cupped his imaginary breasts to emphasize the point. “Anyway, these two hotties were drunk off their asses and horny as hell. Little did I know they were bisexual. We took a cab to their apartment, which cost me about thirty bucks, but it was well worth the money. Sir, these chicks were on to me so quick, we didn’t even step through the door before one chick had her hands down my pants. Then they started kissing each other. I almost had a heart attack at that point. Have you ever seen two girls kiss? You’ve got to see it to believe it, sir. But it gets better. Then they—”

  “Enough, Murray. If I want to hear any more, I’m sure I can just pick up a copy of Penthouse and read all about it.” Grey looked Murray in the eye. “Just don’t forget, if you start pissing flames because you catch some VD, it might affect your training.”

  “You serious, sir?”

  “Yeah, I’m serious. How’d you like a nice case of herpes during Hell Week? Little sores are very prone to infection. I wouldn’t be surprised if you got a little flesh-eati
ng bacteria on Mr. Happy. And you know what happens then. There’s no cure; they just have to cut out the affected area.”

  The color drained from Murray’s face. Grey was amused to see he’d grossed out the raunchiest student of them all. Murray instinctively reached down his pants and felt his package. “No more messing around, sir, at least until Hell Week is over.”

  “Good. Now go square away your crap for the inspection tomorrow. I’ll come by your room later tonight to make sure you’re done.” Grey walked off toward his new room. The horseshoe-shaped three-story building was officially the bachelor enlisted quarters, but all the officers in BUD/S called it their home. The central courtyard contained three metal drying cages where students stored their wet gear. A rusty pull-up bar leaned heavily to one side next to a battered tree. The concrete courtyard was surprisingly well swept, and the few patches of grass on the perimeter were actually green. The place wasn’t bad looking. Most importantly, it was a quarter mile from BUD/S, which meant instructors wouldn’t be dropping by quite as often. Grey walked around to the western side of the building. He climbed up the stairs to room 310 and admired the view. The Point Loma peninsula jutted out into the Pacific, and the old lighthouse sat at its tip, a majestic crown jewel wedged between the limitless sea and sky. Several ships steamed out of San Diego Bay, slowly making their way past the Mexico-owned Coronado Islands. Once again, it should be paradise, Grey thought. He looked down over the walkway wall and froze in disbelief.

  “No!” Grey yelled. His stomach churned as he watched his classmates apply the last coat of green paint to their helmets. He had completely blown it. His helmet currently sat unpainted at the bottom of his seabag.

  “What’s the problem?”

  Grey looked over at a smug Ensign Pollock, who was carefully applying the sticker numbers 283 to his helmet.

  “I forgot about my helmet. I’m dead.”

  “That sucks,” Pollock added helpfully. “You haven’t even started sanding yet?”

  “No. How long does it take?”

  “A couple of hours.” He admired the placement of his numbers before continuing. “Then you have to apply a few coats of primer. After that dries, you can start with the paint.”

  Grey turned and banged his head lightly against the door to his room. I’m finished. He shuddered when he imagined the poor impression a crappy-looking helmet would make with the First Phase instructors. The next eight weeks of his life would be unimaginably bad. Grey opened the door to his room. At least his living conditions would be greatly improved. Instead of four beds, there were two, and in addition to metal lockers, the furniture included wooden nightstands and cabinets. Grey sat on one of the saggy mattresses and closed his eyes. Another sleepless night. He sat motionless for several minutes before pulling himself together. After digging his rough-edged, chipped helmet from his seabag, he made his way downstairs. As he walked, he examined his helmet closely. The Kevlar dome was in worse shape than he remembered. Smoothing its surface out would take most of the night and might even require a power sander.

  “Watch yourself, sir,” Murray said as an oblivious Grey bumped into him.

  “Sorry.” Grey held up his helmet. “I’ve got a small problem.”

  Murray snatched the helmet from Grey’s hands and felt its surface. A smile slowly spread across his face. He waved the helmet in front of Grey, then quickly flung it over his shoulder, launching it across the courtyard. It landed on the concrete with a crack, sending chips of old paint flying.

  “What the hell did you do that for?”

  “Sir, it’s my turn to do you a favor.” Murray placed a hand in the middle of Grey’s back and pushed him toward his room. He opened the door and gestured toward his bed. Two identical green helmets sat side by side on his mattress.

  “Take your pick.”

  “What?”

  “I said take your pick. You can have either one.”

  Grey looked at Murray in disbelief. “How’d you get two?”

  “I bought one at a surplus store. I heard the instructors like to smash helmets—throw them against the concrete. That way we have to stay up late repainting them. With two helmets I’m a step ahead of the game.”

  “Good thinking,” Grey said, genuinely impressed.

  “Thanks. Now hurry up and grab one before I change my mind.”

  “You sure?”

  “Sir, I’m sure. I’m not going to let my one opportunity to save your sorry ass slip away.”

  Grey picked up a helmet and admired its shiny smooth surface. He was torn. Although he had covered for Murray more than once, by taking a helmet, the balance of debt would swing in Murray’s favor. Grey felt nervous about the prospect of owing the troublesome sailor anything. After a moment of deliberation, he came to a compromise.

  “I’ll take it, Murray. But only for two days. That way I’ll have time to get my own helmet ready while I wear one of yours.” He reached out to shake Murray’s hand. “Thanks. I owe you one.”

  Murray gripped his hand firmly. “De nada, señor. What goes around comes around.”

  “Right. See you tomorrow.” Grey climbed back upstairs and rode on a wave of relief, enjoying the release of anxiety that comes after a close call. Thank God for Murray. The thought was an amusing one, if only because it seemed so improbable. Having something to thank him for was a refreshing change of events. Grey stepped through the door to his room and was surprised to find Rogers standing naked in front of his locker. He appeared to be checking himself out in a small mirror mounted on the locker door.

  “Grey!” Rogers exclaimed. An awkward silence followed. “What’s up?”

  “Not much. Is there a reason you’re naked, besides wanting to check out your sexy body in the mirror?”

  “Yeah, I was about to try out our new shower.” Rogers turned toward the bathroom. “You know, see if it works and everything.”

  “Right.” Grey plopped down on his mattress. “John, do you ever think you would have been happier growing up in ancient Greece?”

  “What? So I could have sex with older men?”

  “No. I was thinking more along the lines of being able to train butt-naked.”

  “That would be excellent,” Rogers mused. “I could have a harem of slave girls rub me down before I went to compete at the stadium.” His voice took on a dreamy quality. “The fearless warrior, muscles rippling and glistening with oil, strides into the arena. The boisterous crowd suddenly falls silent at the sight of the champion. With the victory laurel in view, he fearlessly tackles his opponent and pins him to the dirt. The slave girls rejoice as they anticipate the night of lovemaking that lies ahead.”

  “I always imagined you as a warrior poet,” Grey stated. “You know, the perfect fusion of mind and body—the Greek ideal.”

  “I’m flattered.” Rogers disappeared into the bathroom. His voice became slightly muffled. “No really, I am. I take that to be the highest compliment anyone could receive.”

  “Well, one thing’s for certain. You’re probably the only BUD/S student who can recite Homer in ancient Greek.” Grey curled up on his mattress and closed his eyes. He still had a lengthy list of chores to complete before tomorrow morning rolled around, but he found the pull of gravity on his eyelids irresistible. Just a short nap.

  FOUR

  MORNING PT, IBS, INTRODUCTION-TO-KNOT-TYING brief, chow, knot tying, conditioning run, core values. Grey ran over the schedule of the day’s events. Briefs provided a nice break, although they often involved quite a few push-ups. IBS, however, was always a painful experience. The evolution involved crews racing one another through the surf in hard rubber boats. If the surf was big and boats were being overturned at a sufficient rate to keep the instructors entertained, the punishment on shore was light. If the ocean was flat, the instructors utilized a wide array of torturous land drills to keep things adequately difficult. Grey prayed for large surf.

  Morning PT blurred into a haze of discomfort. Drop. Get wet. Surf and back,
two minutes. Push-ups—ready? Crunches, pull-ups, dips, leg levers, flutter kicks, atomic sit-ups—ready? As he struggled through his push-ups, Grey looked to his left and listened as Instructor Furtado whispered into Rogers’s ear. The instructor was bent at the waist, hovering over the prone trainee.

  “You gay, sir?” The question came with a silver flash of tongue stud.

  “Negative, Instructor Furtado.”

  “You don’t sound so sure about that. I’ve heard you like to hang out at those gay bars over in Hillcrest. I bet you’re some old guy’s little bitch.” Furtado spat on the ground, nearly missing Rogers’s head. “In fact, I bet that’s how you got through college. I bet you dished out blow jobs like candy. Anything for the grade, right, sir?”

  Rogers didn’t answer. Grey knew he had maintained friendships with a handful of gay students back at Princeton. The subject was a sensitive one.

  “Come on, admit it, sir. You crave cock.” The silver stud flickered. “Say it. Say, ‘I crave cock.’”

  “And what if I did?”

  “Then you’d be gay,” Furtado said stupidly.

  “No shit.” Rogers’s words rang out across the grinder.

  Grey smiled to himself as Instructor Furtado strolled away, at a total loss for words. Chalk one up for Rogers. After three trips to the surf and countless push-ups, the class finished PT and sprinted off the grinder. Grey walked over to Rogers and threw an arm around his shoulder.