The area known as the demo pits is really just one huge hole in the ground surrounded by a fence. During Hell Week, they pumped the hole full of seawater, creating a revolting slurry of muddy salt water, sweat, and greasy bubbles that popped with orange residue.
As we ran into the demo pits, a whistle blew, and we dropped to the ground. Smoke grenades exploded, and artillery simulators boomed. Two whistles blew, and we started to crawl.
The stench of sulfur assaulted me. I blew my nose and caught a wad of purple snot on my sleeve. Purple snot. Excellent. We crawled into the pit, immersed up to our armpits in sludge. Two ropes were stretched across the pit, one of them strung about a foot over the scum; the other was five feet higher than that. Our job: to climb onto the ropes and then—with our feet on the bottom rope and our hands on the top rope—inch across the scum pond while the Brown Shirts shook the ropes.
I knew from Hell Week lore that this was the last evolution of the week. As my fellow students climbed across the ropes, I sat in the disgusting muddy water, the sun beaming, and I was very, very happy. Hell Week was about to end. I’d made it. We’d made it.
A whistle blew. Then two whistles.
The instructors called, “Get back to your boats. Get back to your boats. Paddle down to the compound.”
I crawled out of the pit, my mind reeling. Were they serious? Weren’t we finished? Anger lashed through my haze of exhaustion. These instructors screwed up! We were supposed to finish back there; they don’t know that we’re supposed to be done!
We ran to our boats, paddled out through the waves, then rowed north back to the compound. My crew was running on frayed nerves. “What the f—k is this! What the f—k!”
I didn’t know. I couldn’t believe it.
When we had rowed to the compound, the instructors started to beat us again. “Hit the surf, go get wet and sandy.”
We could no longer dive into the ocean. We simply fell over in the water, got soaked, and then fought our way back to our knees and limped back onto the beach. We held on to each other to keep standing.
“Drop down! Face the ocean!” They made us do pushups, and then the instructor yelled, “Recover.”
When we stood and turned around, every instructor and all of the SEAL staff of the Naval Special Warfare Compound stood in a line atop the sand berm.
The commanding officer called down to us. “BUD/S Class 237, you are secured from Hell Week!”
Really?
We looked down at our boots, up at the instructors. Was this a trick? Then Franklin leaned back, open-chested, and let out a roar, and we all started to shout.
We turned and hugged each other. We’d made it.
We shook the hands of every one of the instructors, and then we staggered over the sand berm to medical. After a final check, we walked out into the sun and found, laid out for us, two large pizzas and a bottle of sports drink for every man.
I sat on the concrete next to my guys. We were too tired to talk. Too tired to shout. But definitely not too tired to eat. It was the most delicious pizza I’ve ever had in my life.
People always ask me, “What kind of people make it through Hell Week?” I don’t really have an answer to that. I do know—generally—who won’t make it through Hell Week. The weightlifting meatheads who think the size of their biceps indicates their strength: they usually fail. The kids covered in tattoos announcing to the world how tough they are: they usually fail. The preening leaders who don’t want to be dirty: they usually fail. The “me first, look at me, I’m the best” former athletes who’ve always been told they’re stars: they usually fail. The blowhards who have a thousand stories about what they’re going to do but a thin record of what they’ve actually done: they usually fail. The whiners, the “this is not fair” guys: they usually fail.
The vicious beauty of BUD/S is that there are no excuses, no explanations. You do or do not.
It seemed clear to me that the week revealed character, but didn’t transform it. I thought of the stories that people in Bosnia and Rwanda had told me about their neighbors. They’d told me stories about people who took extraordinary risks to save the lives of others; and they’d spoken of those they’d known all their lives who—when tested—abandoned their friends and neighbors. Who could have known?
BUD/S was the same way: who knew until the test came?
After the final medical check, we returned to our barracks. I went to my room and dragged myself to my bed. I sat down on it. I had half a pizza left, and I set the box on the ground. That’ll taste good in the morning, or whenever I wake up. Will I sleep until Saturday?
I set a pillow at the foot of my bed and kicked my feet up on the pillow. I wanted to keep my feet raised to reduce swelling. I set another pillow behind my head.
I smiled. Hell Week was over. It was the best time I never want to have again.