Hemingway - Zoe Dawson Page 0,12
the infamous BUD/S Grinder. It’s where they would spend the first three weeks considered Basic Orientation or BO doing PT and generally getting a beat down by the instructors. He felt a chill go down his spine when he stepped onto the frogman hallowed ground.
The courtyard was a square expanse of black asphalt where generations of sailors had ground sand into many parts of their bodies while performing PT soaking wet. Around several sides were the pullup bars and the notorious bell where candidates would ring out when they quit.
He wasn’t going to touch the polished brass bell but gave it the respect it was due. When a student DOR’d or Dropped on Request, he must ring the bell three times to show that he was a quitter, then place his helmet to the left of the bell. Hemingway was in this for the long haul and nothing was going to get him to quit. He was not ringing that bell.
As in any introduction to a group, there was a jumble of faces, but Hemingway realized right away these would be his “teammates” through this ordeal. There would be time to meet them and get to know them later, especially when they were assigned their rooms.
He got into line, setting the soles of his polished shoes over the painted white frog feet with the rest of the class, standing at parade rest as the third sailor in from the left in the second row.
An instructor stood on a raised platform of wood. His order was loud and harsh through a bull horn. “Dump out your duffel.” Hemingway didn’t pause, he reached down and dumped as he was told, the feeling of urgency in everything he did. The items were read off: inspection uniforms, Underwater Demolitions Team or UDT khaki shorts, knife, mask, UDT vest, fins, wetsuit, articles of underclothing and boots. There was also his green BUD/S helmet stenciled in white with the class number. A few trainees had additional items not on the inventory list, and the instructors scowled as they dumped the contraband in the trashcan.
Once that was done, they were given their barrack assignments. They would have Friday night and the weekend to get squared away, including stenciling their gear with their names. Hemingway broke ranks when the order was given. After stuffing everything back into his duffel, he headed toward the barracks, a squat long building behind the grinder.
The door opened and men came shuffling in carrying their duffels. Hemingway chose a bunk nearer the head and stowed his gear in the box at the end of the lower of the two-man bunk. A guy passed him and took the next lower bunk. He was just a bit shorter than Hemingway’s height, with the same lean build and a shock of sandy brown hair.
“Hey,” he said, setting down his duffel and reaching across the expanse. “Milo Prescott.”
“Atticus Sinclair,” Hemingway said, shaking the guy’s hand and noting his strong grip.
“Like the book?”
“Yeah, my dad loved To Kill a Mockingbird.”
“Mine, too. Sad she wrote so little, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“So you’re like the moral hero?”
“I’ve got my principles,” Hemingway said. “And what’s a hero anyway?” He shrugged.
“A dumb fuck who runs into all kinds of danger when it matters?”
Hemingway laughed. He had a feeling he was going to like Prescott.
More guys filtered in. A dark-haired guy took Prescott’s upper bunk. He was taller than Prescott, but a tad shorter than Hemingway. He eyed the two of them, then broke off contact as he snagged the bunk. He didn’t say anything to them as he started to unpack his duffel. Hemingway exchanged a look with Prescott, who grinned, then said to the guy, “Milo Prescott and Atticus Sinclair.”
The guy glanced at them and grunted, “Daniel Wilson.”
Suddenly there was a press of bodies and a guy stumbled and rammed into Wilson. “Oh, sorry,” the guy mumbled.
Wilson shoved back, sending the guy and all his stuff toward the floor. Hemingway reached out and caught him before he could fall.
“What the hell is wrong with you, man?” Wilson growled, then seemed to settle himself as if he was surprised he’d had such an outburst. Without an apology he went back to his rack and unpacking.
“You like to make an entrance,” Prescott said good-naturedly. “The cranky guy is Daniel Wilson. I’m Milo Prescott and this is Atticus Sinclair.”
“Like the book,” the kid said, and Hemingway could see he was young—a baby-faced, blue-eyed kid.
“Yeah, like the book.”
“William Brown, but most people call me Will. Sorry for being