| |
It is a perfect storm.
Hour after hour, a total assault on the senses. Artillery simulators and machine guns firing blanks nonstop, the noise crackling through my nerves like lightning. Smoke grenades spewing out a putrid fume. The stink of body odor. The scrape of sand on skin already rubbed raw and bloody. Running down to the tideline where the cold waves wash over me, sapping my strength until I’ve got nothing left to give.
The worst part though is that voice. A low flat monotone, barely distinguishable from the pounding surf. I wouldn’t be able to hear it at all if not for the amplification of the bullhorn, but it resonates through me, dragging me molecule by molecule into a black pit of despair, sucking away what’s left of my resolve.
“You don’t have to keep doing this,” the voice drones.
And I know he’s right.
“You can go get in my truck right now. I’ve got some hot cocoa for you. That sounds good, doesn’t it? Come ring my bell and you can have some.”
There are a few defiant shouts. “Hell no, chief.”
My voice is not among them. Even if I wanted to, I don’t think I could get the words past my chattering teeth.
The voice drones on for a while, alternately elaborating on the effects of hypothermia and then, with something that sounds almost like sympathy, offering absolution. “Not everyone is cut out for this. This is what we do, every day... Is this what you really want? To be miserable all the time? Hot cocoa in the truck... All you have to do is ring my bell.”
Is this what I really want? I can’t remember why I ever thought it was.
“Boat crews,” the voice says abruptly. “Line up.”
I look left then right, seeing the others. Our arms are linked but we might as well be on different planets. As another wave crashes over my head, I see some of the others responding. Thrashing in the surf, struggling to rise. Struggling to help each other.
Then I’m moving, too.
We all stumble up onto the beach, assembling into our six-man boat crews, only none of the boat crews are complete. How many are left? I can’t tell. There had been seventy-two of us at the start, but more than a dozen folded in the first hour.
How long ago was that? I can’t remember.
“You look tired,” drones the instructor as he paces up and down the line. Viewed in profile, the bullhorn looks like a part of him, a strange deformed animal muzzle, braying constantly. “Maybe you should all lie down.”
A groan ripples through the rank; we all know what’s coming.
I drop to my back with everyone else and immediately begin kicking. Flutter kicks. God, I hate flutter kicks. My abdominal muscles scream in protest.
The instructor counts out the rhythm for a while—“One, two, three...” We are expected to keep the count, sounding off at the top of our lungs, but the only sound I can make is a mewling grunt. Then the instructor breaks off to ask, “How was the water? Did you enjoy your swim?”
A ragged chorus of “Hooyah, chief,” goes up.
“I’ll bet you’d really like to get back out there, wouldn’t you?”
“Hooyah, chief.”
“On your feet.”
I’m supposed to bound up, but it feels like I’m trapped in quicksand. Every muscle screams in protest.
“What’s this?” the instructor says, his voice rising ever so slightly, a mockery of sincere interest. “I thought there were supposed to be six men to a boat crew.” He looks over to one of the other instructors, who nods, right on cue. The chief shakes his head. “Some of these boat crews are light. Looks like we’re going to have to change things up a little.” He paces up and down the line for a few minutes. “Well this is a little awkward. I count fifty-six maggots lined up in front of me.”
The instructor stops abruptly—
No. Not me. Don’t look at me. Keep going.
—and looks right at me. “Maggot, how many times does six go into fifty-six?”
My teeth are chattering involuntarily, but some part of my brain has already done the math. “Nine, chief. Remainder of two.”
I’ve always been good at math. I’m good at almost everything.
Except this.
Another voice, one that I’ve come to despise over the last two weeks, snarls from somewhere off to my right. “Teacher’s pet.”
It’s the big Indian, though in this moment, I can’t remember his name. I can barely remember my own.
“Remainder of two,” croons the instructor. “Well that makes this easy. As soon as two of you maggots ring my bell, we can move on with the next activity.”
He pauses, allowing this to sink in. “You already know that you’re not going to make it,” he continues, easing back into the monotone. “You know that you’re going to quit. Why put yourself through this?”
I know that some of them are already considering it because I am, but none of us break ranks.
“No one?” The instructor feigns disappointment. “All right then. Go for a swim and think it over.”
I groan. I think about stumbling out into the surf again, and I think about doing that over and over and over... And then I think about what it would be like to just take that step in the other direction. End the nightmare. It would be so simple....
“Jimmy, don’t!”
The shout snaps me back into the moment. I look around and see a young man from one of the other boat crews shambling forward. Until this moment, I didn’t know his name—he’s maggot, just like me, just like everyone else—but I know his face to the extent that I know any of them.
But in a minute or two, he’ll be gone like he never even existed.
The same voice of protest sounds again. “Jimmy! Come on, buddy. We’re in this together, remember? We promised each other we’d finish it together.”
Jimmy’s friend I do recognize. It’s the young junior lieutenant, the one the Indian calls... What was it, again?
Pope.
Pope Maddock.
Jimmy just shakes his head. “I can’t, Dane... Can’t do it.”
I see the hollow look on Jimmy’s face as he turns away, and I know that, no matter what promises he made, he’s done.
“I quit,” Jimmy mumbles, and staggers toward the chief.
I quit.
The words strike against something in my core, like steel striking flint, and then I’m moving, heading down toward the surf again.
Because I won’t quit, no matter what. And whenever I think about ringing the bell, I see his face, and it reminds me that I’m not him....