“You two need a room?” Kyle said with a chuckle, and it almost seemed as if he was human…almost. He handed Hemingway the pills, and he washed them down. Then the instructor did something even more out of character. “Keep both of your heads in the game. You’re almost there.” He slipped Hemingway a Snickers.
Hemingway chuckled softly. Maybe Vile and Kyle were such big assholes during BUD/S because they only wanted the men who could tough this out in the teams and at their backs. Maybe. The jury was still out on that one.
“Okay, you’re done. Let’s move, ladies!” Vile called out.
Hemingway sprinted out of the hall to where his boat crew was mustering. “Up boat,” Vile said. “Keep up no-loads!” He took off at a run, the class sprinting to catch up with him, their train momentarily derailed. He moved south along the water’s edge. With every step, pain jolted through his scalp and down his back, his knees protesting, his hip flexors stiff. Lights in the distance grew brighter as the class limped toward Imperial Beach.
“Time to act like piggies,” Vile said with an evil cackle. The laugh track from Big Blue complemented his joyous outburst.
“Mudflats,” Brown said with dread.
“I don’t know, man. You look like you could use a facial,” Hitchcock said.
“Shut up,” Brown snapped.
Hitchcock laughed.
Vile looked back. “You guys are always having so much fun. Let’s see if you can keep up.” He increased his speed and the class sped up. When they reached a large tunnel that went under Silver Strand Boulevard, the thunder of a multitude of rubber soles on concrete resonated in the closed, dank passageway. The headlights from Big blue pacing them danced ominously against the grimy walls. Vile sprinted through the tube and disappeared on the other side. As they lurched back onto the sand, Hemingway immediately saw Vile at the bottom of a gradually declining hill. He knew what they were in store for as he looked out over the still, dull flats.
The instructors lived up to their names. They kept them in the mud for an hour and a half running all kinds of races, wheelbarrow, relay, leapfrog, fireman’s carry, crawling on their stomachs, facedown.
Winners got to sit by the fire and losers had to race again. Hemingway lost some of his lunch, but it didn’t slow him down. Professor was coughing again, and Hemingway looked over at him.
“I’m fine.”
“What did the doc say?”
“A little pneumonia.”
“What?”
“I’m fine. I’m going to do this or die trying, Atty. There’s no turning back for me.”
“Milo—”
“Just support me like I support you, and we’ll get through this together. We’re swim buddies, roommates and crewmates. I won’t let you down.”
“I won’t let you down either.”
The rest of the day they were doing surf immersion drills, and with Hitchcock helping, they did their best to keep Professor between them for warmth.
They had been up now for thirty-six hours straight.
Wednesday morning dawned with the threat of rain and most of what they had done for the rest of Tuesday night was a blur of cold, wet, and sand. Hemingway’s scalp was raw, his back aching, leg infected, skin chaffed, lips chapped, his junk tenderized, but there was only one clear thought. Get through it. It seemed like nothing but harassment, but BUD/S was a sorting process to identify those who have a will to win—to win under any conditions.
They were ordered to the tents and like zombies they shuffled inside, Hemingway choosing a cot in the corner. He lay down, so exhausted he slipped into sleep immediately. He woke in pain but found Shea beside him, massaging the leg that was cramping. There were two brown shirts inside as well. They were working tirelessly to support the class. If it wasn’t slipping food to them, it was encouragement and that was worth so much more than the food. They were survivors of Hell Week. They were moving on, and Hemingway wanted to be where they were.
“Anywhere else you’re hurting?” she asked.
He chuckled, and she shook her head. “Pervert,” she whispered. “Go back to sleep.”
When the blast of a whistle woke him from a sound sleep, it was the worst wakeup call of his life.
“Into the surf, sleepyheads.”
Guys groaned, but they all started to move, some classmates crawling out of the tent, over the sand berm and into the surf. Surprisingly, there were no quitters. They got surf tortured for fifteen minutes, then head-carried their boats to chow.
More of the same evolutions, and after the evening hygiene inspection at the CTT, they got to do pool games. The water was a balmy seventy degrees, and Hemingway was never so thankful in his life.
Following the pool evolution, they were once again soaked and cold after a CTT decon area dousing.
“You guys didn’t suck,” Vile said, and Kyle’s cackle made Hemingway want to deck him.
“We’ve got a long night ahead, ladies. Let’s get ‘er done.”
The twins took them on a four hour long walk and most of the class could barely stand when they got back.
“Ready for down boat,” Vile ordered. “Down boat.”
Hemingway’s head stung and burned. But he barely had time to catalog his aches and pains as they had to rig for surf passage. An hour later, they were hefting the boats back on their heads and doing the elephant train for midnight rations, but everyone called them midrats which meant Cheezer and the torture gang would be back.
After chow, six boats and thirty-nine trainees jogged over to the combat training tank for a quick hygiene inspection. It was a miserable cold-water treatment, but they’d all been through it before.
Two more DORs.
From CTT, six boats bounced a few hundred yards to the SDV piers, but BUD/S candidates called them the steel piers due to their structure. The piers had been the training area for SDV Team One boat crew until they moved to Hawaii.
Just off the dock wall, there was a floating chamber with a steep lip. Cheezer ordered them to take off their boots and muster along the edge of the steel caisson. Pausing, he looked them over without saying a word, but Hemingway suspected this was their chance to DOR.
Two guys stepped forward and were ushered to the truck.
“Everyone in the water,” he ordered. The remaining thirty-five members jumped into the dark waters of San Diego Bay.
It started to rain, and Hemingway heard one of the brown shirts say, “Poor souls.” He was remembering his own pier experience.
Then out of nowhere, Professor started comically singing the song “Poor Unfortunate Souls” from The Little Mermaid, including all Ursula’s funny inflections, styled in a combination of Broadway theater with Burlesque, while his teeth chattered. There was laughter all around. There were rounds of a fifteen-minute dip and the removal of articles of clothing until Hemingway shuddered and jerked with uncontrollable shivering in nothing but his white spandex.
After the move from the water to the quay and back again for what seemed like an eternity, they were allowed out, told to dress and given hot chicken broth.
Brown said, his teeth still chattering, “I don’t think I’ve ever had anything taste this much like heaven.”
The rest of Wednesday night and Thursday daylight were a blur of surf torture, running, a soccer match, O-course, escape and evade until they made it all the way around and back to Cheezer. After the last sleep period and another really ugly waking up routine, Hemingway joined his boat crew for the agonizing run to chow.