Hemingway - Zoe Dawson Page 0,35

lot riding on finishing BUD/S.

“You’ve got this, Matt,” Hemingway said. “Dig deep man.”

“The only easy day was yesterday,” Professor chimed in.

Matt’s eyes flared, and he shot Hemingway an appreciative look. “Hoo-yah,” he grunted.

Hemingway noticed a few guys from the class ahead of them. They were in Second Phase and it was easy to see that all of them were remembering their first day, their eyes roving over the trainees with a strong sense of a shared experience.

Hemingway understood immediately why they were all being put through this. It’s how they built team spirit and tight-knit special operators.

He was determined to be one of those guys looking at them with that shared memory.

“Surf, you have two minutes.”

Hemingway was up again and then back as fast as he could run. Some guys seemed confused on whether they should get sandy again, but there was no order to get sandy, so he skipped it. Behind him, instructors were yelling at the guys who were getting sandy again, and it looked like they were going to be held up for breakfast.

Back at the grinder, Walker shouted, “Form for breakfast, you are released.”

Hemingway grabbed his fatigue top, canteen, belt and helmet, the muscles of his chest, shoulders and arms burning, and got in line for the mile jog over to the base chow hall.

Suddenly everyone froze as the bell clanged. Three rings, six, nine, twelve, and finally fifteen. “Five,” someone murmured in a small voice as if he had been thinking about quitting.

The class had just dropped to one hundred and forty men.

The jog to the chow hall wasn’t pleasant, especially in wet, sandy uniforms, but once inside, the smell of food hit Hemingway so strongly, he forgot about anything else. During this training, he could easily eat upwards of five thousand calories and still lose weight. Grabbing a tray, he filled up his plate with eggs, bacon, toast, pancakes and all the fixings.

He found a table with Lane, Professor, Hitchcock and Brown. Just as he was digging in, Shea settled down next to him. “Is it okay that I sit with you guys?” she asked.

Brown’s eyes were round, and he nodded as he shoveled food into his mouth. None of them could speak because their mouths were too full.

Shea’s plate held a smaller portion compared to all of them who had heaped on food. Hemingway smiled at her, and she smiled back. “Do you mind if I ask questions when you’re done eating and if I film it?”

They nodded their heads. They were instructed to talk to her in their down time. This was as down as they were going to get.

“Something to think about while you’re fueling up for the rest of the day.”

“Timed run,” Lane said after swallowing what he’d been chewing, washing it down with more water. They had to drink a lot to keep up with dehydration, especially after being immersed in water.

Shea nodded. “Although I train hard as a triathlete, I don’t have somebody making me run into the ocean, get sandy, and do exercises on asphalt. Quite a different training regimen.”

“That’s cool,” Lane said. “Do you compete?”

“Yes, but in the past when I was younger. I keep up with my fitness and still cycle, run and swim a lot.”

“It shows,” Professor said with a wink, and Hemingway narrowed his eyes at him.

“So, I’m going to ask the question that most of you guys get asked by anyone who is curious about why you want to do this. Why put yourself through all of this? What is your motivation? I’m aware this is internal and personal.”

“Chicks,” Professor said, and all the guys laughed. “Naw, just kidding. I was pretty lanky and nerdy growing up. I excelled in academics, but not so much in sports. Both my parents are professors, one in law and the other in poetry. They laughed when I told them I wanted to do this.” He was silent for a moment and even though Hemingway had heard a lot of what Professor was saying, his next words surprised him.

His voice hushed as the din of the mess hall roared around them, Professor looked down at his plate. Shea leaned forward, her interest intent. “I had an uncle who was a New York City firefighter, a Rescue Squad lieutenant, and he and eleven others of his squad perished when the South Tower fell. I was only one at the time. I never knew him, but my dad talked about him often. He was thirty-three years old.” He