Hemingway - Zoe Dawson Page 0,70

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.

At the table Professor hacked softly into his napkin, and Hemingway was relieved to see there was no blood. “You hanging in there?” he asked. Shea was a soft warm presence at his side.

“Hoo-yah,” Professor said, shoveling in more food while some of the guys at his table were working hard not to doze off.

“It’s Thursday, right?” Easy said. Somewhere along the way, everyone started calling Hitchcock that. He nudged