by Tom Clancy
Another pyramid of hooyah logs waited for him, this one built with ten logs instead of six — steeper and taller. As he came over the top, his boot gave way, and he crashed face-first into the dirt. Before he knew what was happening, he was being hauled to his feet.
Carmichael, bug-eyed, screamed in his face, “Let’s go!” Then turned and ran.
Moore set off after him.
What resembled a pair of giant ladders lying at forty-five-degree angles stood in their way. Killian was shouting at them, “This is the Weaver! You weave in and out of the poles!” Moore clung to the first pole, hurled himself around, swung onto the next, and continued the process, like a needle and thread, sewing himself up and down through the poles, growing dizzy as he did so. Carmichael worked the obstacle beside him and was down the forty-five-degree backside a few seconds before he was.
The rope bridge, better known as the Burma Bridge, was a single piece of thick rope on the bottom, with support lines attached to form a v-shape. Carmichael had already climbed to the top of the bridge and was out on the rope. Moore took his first step on the single piece of braided line and realized the best place to step was on the sections where the support lines were tied. He moved from knot to knot, the bridge swinging as Carmichael finished his crossing and Moore came up behind him. By the time he reached the end, he’d felt a sense of rhythm that he vowed not to forget for the next time he hit the obstacle.
He and Carmichael ascended one more ten-log pyramid of hooyah logs, then approached the towering platform of the Slide for Life, a four-story affair that had them swinging up onto each platform (no ropes or use of the ladder) until they reached the top. There were two ways to take the obstacle: go to the top and then work your way down the ropes strung at about forty-five-degree angles from there, or simply go to the first platform and work the low ropes, which Killian was saying would burn the forearms but was less dangerous. First time around, though, he wanted them to go to the very top. Once there, Carmichael grabbed the left rope and Moore grasped the right. He leaned forward, hooked his right leg back over the line, and then, with the rope between his legs, he slid down face-forward, using both hands to draw himself across the line. He wasn’t even halfway down when all points making contact with the rope began to burn. He beat Carmichael to the bottom, hit the ground, gaining about two seconds on his buddy, then launched himself toward the rope swing that would take him to a log cross, a set of monkey bars, and then one more beam. He seized the rope, hauled himself forward, and missed the log. Carmichael, on the other hand, ran past the rope, grabbed it, then pendulumed himself easily onto the log. Moore did likewise on his second attempt, but now Carmichael was back in the lead.
After navigating a second bed of tires, they reached a five-foot-tall incline wall they hit from the back side and slid down the front. That led them to the Spider Wall, which was about eighteen feet high, with pieces of wood bolted onto its side in two stair-step patterns to form a very narrow ladder. It was all fingertips and toes moving along the stairs to reach the top; then Moore had to shift down sideways, all the while clinging closely to the wall like a spider. With hands still burning from the rope slide, Moore lost his grip on the very last step but hopped off the wall before he fell.
Meanwhile, Carmichael’s boot caught one of the wooden steps at a bad angle. He fell and had to start over, losing precious time.
With only a single obstacle and sprint left, Moore dashed on toward the set of five logs lying on their sides and suspended to about hip height. The logs were spaced about six feet apart, and the entire contraption was called the Vault.
“Don’t let your legs touch!” Killian warned them. “Only hands!”
Well, that drew a few inward curses as he slapped his palms on the first log and hauled his leg over. Again. And again. Carmichael was just behind him. Moore slipped on the very last log and banged his knee hard. He went down, groaning in pain. Carmichael arrived, dragged him back to his feet, grabbed Moore’s arm, and threw it over his shoulder. Together, they finished the sprint (more a fast limping march) to the end.
“You, Carmichael, did the right thing,” said Killian. “I saw you guys racing, but you did not leave your swim buddy behind. Not a bad first time.” He regarded Moore with a frown. “How’s the leg?”
The leg was beginning to swell like a grapefruit. Moore ignored the pain and shouted, “The leg is fine, Instructor Killian!”
“Good, get down to the beach and get wet!”
The O-course was just one of many more evolutions they faced, and even when they weren’t training and simply trying to get their barracks ready for inspection, the instructors would come in and tear apart their rooms, testing to see how they handled the setbacks. Moore hung on through it all, through the final part of INDOC, where they trained with their IBSs (Inflatable Boat, Small). The boats were thirteen feet long and weighed about 180 pounds. Working in seven-man boat teams, the crews learned how to paddle, how to “dump” the boat by flipping it over, and how to carry the heavy bitch on their heads. They were told that once they were in BUD/S, they went everywhere with their boat. They engaged in a series of races, and even did push-ups with their boots up on the rubber gunwales. Carmichael, despite being somewhat lanky, was a remarkable paddler, and with his help, their crew often won races. Winners got to rest. Losers dropped to the beach for push-ups. All of them were taught how to read the surf and when to make a mad dash into it so they could get their boat past the breakers before it capsized.
By the end of the second week, twenty-seven men from Moore’s class had dropped. They were good men who’d chosen something else. That’s what Killian told them in a warning tone that implied the DORs were not to be mocked.
But the fact remained that they would not receive their Naval Special Warfare Classification (NEC) Code, a great honor but proof positive that an operator had survived the ultimate test of one’s physical and mental motivation. A sign at the center reminded them all of the SEALs’ motto: “The Only Easy Day Was Yesterday.”
At their final briefing of INDOC, Killian gave Moore a firm handshake and said, “You got a lot of talent. I want you to make a name for yourself. And don’t you forget — you’re one of my recruits. Do me proud.”
“Hooyah!”
Moore and Carmichael sang to themselves while they moved their gear into the Naval Special Warfare barracks. They weren’t visitors anymore. They were real candidates.
The jubilation didn’t last long.
Thirty-one guys dropped in the first hour of BUD/S. They rang the bell outside the CO’s office, then placed their green helmets with white class number in a neat row outside his door.
In that initial hour, the instructors had wrought sheer chaos on the group with repeated wet and sandy evolutions, followed by huge workouts on the grinder, followed by men throwing themselves into rubber boats filled with ice water. Guys were shaking, crying, suffering hypothermia, passing out.
The instructors were just getting started.
Four-mile runs on the beach were frequent and brutal. Seven-man teams were introduced to the new evolution of log PT. The eight-foot-long log weighed about 160 pounds, but some logs were a little lighter, some a lot heavier. Teams were stuck with the one they could grab first. They dragged the log into the surf, got it wet and sandy, carried it around, marched miles with it, and all the while they were being checked, scolded, and harassed by their instructors, especially the shorter guys, who could more easily dump their load on the taller ones. Moore and Carmichael hung on and were even able to keep their log from falling when, during one evolution, the man at the back of their team had lost his balance and fallen into the surf.
Nine more men dropped by the end of the first week. Class 198 had 56. The line of helmets outside the CO’s door had grown at an alarming rate, and Moore gazed on it every day with equal parts determination and foreboding.
It was during breakfast at the end of the first week that Carmichael said something that resonated deeply wi
thin Moore: “Those guys that dropped? I think I know what tipped them over the edge.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, one minute they’re in it, hard-core, the next they’re out. Like McAllen, for example. Good guy. No way would he drop. He had no intention of quitting, and then the next minute he’s running up the beach to ring the bell.”
“So you know why he quit?” Moore asked, with a dubious look.
Carmichael nodded. “I know why they all quit — because they didn’t take it one hour, one evolution at a time. They started thinking too much about the future and how many more days they had to suffer, and that drove them over the edge.”
Moore sighed. “You could be right.”
During week three the class was introduced to rock portage, an evolution that had them landing their inflatable boats on an outcropping of rocks. The surf was beating down on the stones like a heavy-metal drummer, the spray shooting into their eyes, as Carmichael got out with the painter tied around his waist. He got up on the rocks, found good purchase with his boots, then leaned forward to be sure the boat didn’t slip back into the ocean. It was Moore’s job to grab the team’s paddles, jump out, swim onto the rocks, climb out of the surf, and store their paddles on dry ground. After he’d climbed out, the others followed, each man trying to haul himself out of the rising and falling water, waves slapping at their faces.
Then Carmichael shouted that he was moving up, and Moore raced back to help him guide the boat up and over the rocks, as the others finally came out of the surf to assist.
When they were finished, they all stood there up on the outcropping, gasping for breath, the wind whipping the seawater from their faces as their instructor shook his head and shouted, “Way too slow!”
Fourth-week assessment was a painful time for both the men and the instructors. Guys who’d stuck it out, tried their best, would not drop, ever, had to be cut from the class because they simply lacked some of the physical qualifications necessary: the stamina, endurance, times on the O-course, and so on. These were men who truly had the hearts and souls of Navy SEALs, but their bodies could not carry the burdens of the position.
Moore and his swim buddy Carmichael survived those fourth-week tests and were preparing themselves for the notorious, the legendary, the dreaded Hell Week, five and one-half days of continuous training evolutions, during which time they were allowed a total of only four hours sleep. Not four hours of sleep per day but four hours of sleep over the entire five days. Moore wasn’t even sure that the human body could remain awake for that long, but he’d been assured by his proctor and instructors that “most” of them would manage.
Moore was chosen as a team leader for his continued and exemplary prowess in the water and during the runs. He’d already proven he could hold his breath longer than anyone else in his class, could swim harder and run faster. On the Sunday afternoon before Hell Week was to begin, they all waited inside one of the classrooms, locked down. They were fed pizza and pasta, hamburgers and hot dogs, Cokes. They watched some old Steven Seagal films on videotape and tried to relax.
At about 2300 someone kicked in the classroom door, the lights went off, and gunfire popped and banged everywhere. The “breakout” had begun — simulated combat chaos. Moore hit the deck, trying to convince himself that despite the racket, those men were firing blanks. One instructor had a fifty-caliber machine gun, and the weapon was thundering so loudly that Moore could barely hear a second instructor yelling, “Hear the whistle? Hear the whistle? Crawl toward the whistle!” He and Carmichael did, making it out of the room and out onto the grinder, where they were hit with fire hoses for fifteen minutes and given no orders. All they could do was raise their hands to shield their eyes and try to run out of the blast. Finally they were ordered down to the surf. Instructors continued firing guns, and Moore saw that there must have been more than two dozen instructors brought in to help challenge them for Hell Week.
You must have a never-quit attitude, he told himself. Never quit.
The evolutions came fast and furious: workouts in the surf followed by log PT, and they were even tasked with carrying their boat as a team across the O-course. They faced repeated drills of rock portage, followed by carrying their boats to chow after nearly ten hours of hard work on the very first day.
Because they were too excited to sleep the day before, and they had trained throughout the night, by morning of the first day sleep deprivation was already taking its toll. Moore’s brain had become fuzzy. He’d call out for Instructor Killian, and Carmichael would remind him that they weren’t in INDOC anymore, that this was the real deal, it’s Hell Week. They were all heavy-eyed, saying things that made no sense, having weird conversations with ghosts in their heads.
This was a major problem, especially for team leaders who had to pay close attention to their instructors — because the instructors would deliberately leave out directions for a task to see if team leaders were still on the ball. If team leaders caught the error and brought it to the attention of their instructors, their team’s task could become much easier — or they might even be allowed to skip the task altogether.
But Moore had been too exhausted, ready to pass out, and certainly not ready to carry a heavy log with the rest of his team.
“Grab your logs and get ready!” came the order.
Most of the men rushed back to their logs, but several team leaders remained behind. Moore was not one of them. Over his shoulder, he heard one of the other team leaders say, “Instructor, don’t you mean you want us to grab our logs and get them wet and sandy?”
“Yes, I do! Your team sits this one out.”
Moore’s shoulders sank. He’d screwed up, and the entire team would pay for his mistake.
That evening, during a rare one hour and forty-five minutes of rest, Moore draped an arm over his eyes. Carmichael had been right. Moore couldn’t stop thinking about all the pain and suffering to come and the pressure of being responsible for the others. They’d given him a leadership position, and he’d failed.
“Hey, bro,” came a voice from the darkness.
He removed his arm and saw Carmichael leaning over him. “You fucked up. So what.”
“You were right. I’m ready to quit.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I failed. Let me quit now so I don’t drag down the rest of the team. I’m making it harder for all of us.”
“Maybe we needed to carry the log.”
“Yeah, right.”
Carmichael’s eyes grew wider. “Here’s the deal. Our training will be even harder than everyone else’s. When we get through this, we got bragging rights to say we took on every challenge, and we did ’em the hardest way possible. We weren’t looking for the easy way out. We’re the best team.”
“They haven’t said it, but I know the other guys are blaming me for this.”
“I talked to them. They’re not. They’re as strung-out as you are. We’re all zombies, man, so get over it.”
Moore lay there, just breathing a moment, then said, “I don’t know.”
“Listen to me. You keep paying attention — but even if the instructor leaves out an order, don’t say anything.”
Moore shivered. “You’re crazy, man. We won’t survive.”
And Moore wasn’t kidding. It was the end of the first day of training, and more than half the guys were gone.
Carmichael’s voice grew more stern. “We’ll make a bold statement. A few weeks ago they asked us to commit to the warrior’s life. You remember that?”
“Yeah.”
“We came to fight. And we’re going to show them how hard we can fight. Are you with me?”
Moore bit his lip.
“Don’t you remember the quote they told us? We can only be beaten in two ways: We either die or we give up. And we’re not giving up.”
“Okay.”
“Then let’s do this!”
Moore balled his hands into fists and sat up in his bunk. He loo
ked at Carmichael, whose bloodshot eyes, battered and sunburned face, blistered hands, and scab-covered head mirrored his own. However, Carmichael still had a fire in those eyes, and Moore decided right then and there that his swim buddy was right, had always been right. One evolution at a time. No easy way out. No easy day.
Moore took a long breath. “I screwed up. It doesn’t matter. We’re not taking the breaks. We’re kicking ass and taking names. Let’s rock-and-roll.”
And by God they did, crawling under barbed wire on the O-course with simulated charges going off and smoke pouring in from everywhere.
Covered in mud, his heart filled with sheer terror, Moore talked himself through it. He would not give up.
Then the time came when the instructor left out a command prior to one of their four-mile runs. The other team leaders caught it.
“Missed it again, Moore?” cried the instructor.
“No, I did not!”
“Then why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because this team is not looking for a free pass! This team came here to fight harder than any other team! This team has the heart to do so!”
“Dear God, son, that’s impressive. That takes courage. You’ve just doomed your entire team.”
“No, Master Chief, I have not!”
“Then go show me!”
They charged off with their team. It was the fifth day of Hell Week, the last, and they were running on four hours of sleep, running on a sense of sheer willpower none of them knew they possessed until now.
In fact, the intestinal fortitude displayed by Moore and his team was awe-inspiring, he later heard. They powered their way through more runs, rock portages at night, an “around the world” paddle covering the north end of the island and then back to San Diego Bay and the amphibious base. They cast themselves into the scummy muck of the demo pits and clawed their way out, looking like brown mannequins with flashing eyes.
