Hemingway - Zoe Dawson Page 0,60

anything above the small-arms and artillery fire, which only added to the mass confusion.

“Keep your goddamned heads down! Crawl to the whistle! Crawl!” That was Cheezer’s voice, and he remembered that the man’s compliment really meant nothing right now. He wasn’t going to go easy on Hemingway because he thought he’d make a fine officer, because of his performance at BUD/S. That was all in the past anyway, and they were onto the toughest week of their lives.

“Bring it on,” he murmured. Cold water sluiced off his face to pool under him on the smooth black surface where numerous men, like him, had faced this challenge.

So many of them were exhausted, beat down after the hammering of BO and First Phase. But the instructors knew that, and it only added fuel to their fire to get whoever didn’t have the mettle to be here to quit. Hell Week was all about weeding out the men who couldn’t hack it when it got tough. No Navy SEAL wanted a man on his team who would quit when it got rough.

“The bell is waiting for anyone who wants out! That’s all you have to do, gents, and three ringy-dingies later, you’re dry, belly full, warm and settling that tired body down on a soft mattress to sleep as long as you want. There’s a donut and hot coffee in it for you if you listen to that voice inside you telling you to give up.”

He lay there in the dark anarchy, ice cold, soaked to the skin, not able to stand up, refusing to even think about ringing out. There would be no bell for him, no warm bed, no hot shower, no out except on a stretcher or body bag.

“No takers?” Cheezer said, “I guess we have nothing but ballbusters here. Up and at ‘em and into the surf!”

Hell Week started in earnest, as Hemingway immersed himself in the fifty-something degree surf. He was already wet. What was another dunk in freezing water? The whistles started blaring again and instead of being forced to crawl on asphalt, he was now moving on his belly in the soft sand. Blast after blast, he had to change direction to follow the sound. Soon his elbows and knees were getting raw, but he ignored the pain and kept crawling.

Then it was back into the surf, the saltwater stinging against abraded skin. Linking arms was the usual drill until there were more whistles, and he was back on the sand crawling as if his life depended on it.

It was endless, the whistle drills, the cold water, flutter kicks with his face toward the waves, more crawling, more cold water and flutter kicks.

“Immerse everything but your eyes and mouth.”

Hemingway slanted his head back until he was looking directly up. The ocean closed over his ears, filling his head with the quiet surge of collapsing waves. Without verbal stimulus and with nothing but the gloom to stare at, Hemingway battled to keep his mind off the debilitating cold. He thought about his cute little niece, about his sister and how much he wanted her to be proud of him. He fantasized about Shea, thinking there was more there than either one of them were acknowledging.

Suddenly the male links rippled. Hemingway lifted his head and watched as three guys broke free and were splashing out of the water. One of them was an officer, a strong runner, a great swimmer, and one of the lead swim pairs. The quitting was in full swing. Soon the entire chain was wobbling. The shocks created by dozens of trembling bodies raced up and down the line. Hemingway locked his jaw tightly and stretched his leg muscles to stop them from twitching.

There was silence from the instructors for a moment, then it passed. “Heads back in the water. This ain’t no show, slipknots. And lock those arms. Get cozy.”

The class moved to comply as quickly as they could. Hemingway reformed his hold with Professor and Hitchcock, basking in the warmth from their bodies. The night was coal black, the moon hidden behind a thick layer of clouds. The instructors, meting out the punishment, were murky purple and gray shadows.

Hemingway locked eyes with Professor, and he shook his head. “Damn shame,” he said. “Don’t you quit on me, Atty.” He tightened his arm.

“Not on your life, Milo,” Hemingway said.

“Now let me see some pretty flutter kicks. Don’t skimp! We want them to be the most amazing flutter kicks in BUD/S history! Count them