Dropping to the concrete grinder, I assumed the push-up position and began my mandatory twenty-five push-ups.
“Mr. Mac, do you think you are going to get through Hell Week?”
“Yes, Senior Chief!” I yelled over the sound of machine-gun fire.
“Your class is weak, Mr. Mac. You’ll be lucky if half of them make it through tomorrow.”
As he completed his sentence, I could hear the sound of the brass bell ringing three times. Someone had already quit and we weren’t five minutes into Hell Week.
“See. Fucking quitters,” he said, his tobacco breath hot on my face. “I’m going to make you quit, Mr. Mac. All week long you are going to see me and tremble with fear. Because all week long I am going to bring you pain.”
Out of the corner of my eyes I could see the hose. He shoved it into my mouth before I could move and the full force of the water pressure blasted down my throat. I immediately turned away, but he followed my face back and forth as I shook from side to side.
“You’re going to quit, Mr. Mac. You might as well do it now and save yourself the pain. Just quit now!” Another three rings on the bell. Two men gone. Another three rings. Three men.
“They are dropping like fucking flies. Might as well join them, Mr. Mac. Just quit!”
The water was beginning to choke me. Struggling to get a breath, I jerked the hose out of Grenier’s hand. “I’m not going to fucking quit!”
Grenier reeled back, a look of surprise and anger on his face. You never challenged an instructor and got away with it. Pain was coming.
“Get on your feet, Mr. McRaven,” he demanded.
I promptly came to attention and the senior chief closed to within an inch of my nose, the tobacco-stained teeth and pockmarked face filling my entire view. Suddenly, I noticed a twinkle in his eye.
“Get back with your class, Mr. Mac, and don’t you dare quit on me.”
I smiled. “I won’t quit on you, Senior.”
“Hooyah, Mr. Mac,” he said softly.
The rest of the class was doing more push-ups when I joined them, but before I could get into position, I heard, “Hit the surf!” It was a familiar refrain in BUD/S training. Anytime anyone did anything that didn’t meet the instructor’s standards, which were very vague and quite arbitrary, the trainee, fully clothed, ran at full speed and dove into the Pacific Ocean, ensuring every part of his body was submerged. This drill was routinely followed by the “sugar cookie,” during which the trainee, thoroughly soaked, rolled around on the beach so that his uniform and his body were caked with sand—wet and sandy, a particularly uncomfortable feeling as the sand had a way of chafing you throughout the rest of the day.
“Hooyah,” we yelled as a sign of our class unity. Then, en masse, we ran to the beach, linked arms, and walked into the pounding surf. The instructors’ job was to break us. To find out who was weak and sort them from the strong.
“Lie down,” came the next command. Together we lay in the surf, head facing the ocean, feet toward the beach. The waves rolled over the top of us, cold water blasting across our bodies.
“Now,” Doc Jenkins began, “you will stay in this water until someone quits. Who wants to be the first?”
Arms linked, we held each other tight and whispered from side to side, “No one quit. Never quit.”
We held firm for thirty minutes, until someone in the ranks broke. I couldn’t see who it was from my prone position, but seconds later I heard the sound of the bell. Three rings. Down another man.
As promised, the instructors brought us back to the beach. After some obligatory yelling, we were ordered to change into dry uniforms and muster on the grinder in three minutes, which we all knew wasn’t enough time to switch uniforms.
Nevertheless, we sprinted back to the barracks. I had time to put on a dry T-shirt, grab a hidden Snickers bar, and dash back downstairs. Two and half minutes later, we were still late.
“Mr. Steward, do you have any control of this class?”
“Yes, Instructor,” came the reply.
“Then why aren’t they fully mustered on the grinder as I asked?”
“Sir, we still have thirty seconds.”
Never question an instructor.
“Then you know what you can do with those thirty seconds, Mr. Steward?”
Steward didn’t reply.
“Hit the surf!”
Once again, we all ran to the surf, plunged in, and returned to the grinder. The bell rang again.
Within minutes after returning we were in formation jogging to the other side of the Naval Amphibious Base. NAB Coronado was the home of BUD/S training. The BUD/S compound was on the beach side, but the main base was on the bay side. After shivering for the past hour, we were all happy to be jogging across the highway onto the main base.
Arriving at the piers that moored our Special Boat Squadron small craft, the class was now down to fifty men. The shock of the first hour had caused five men to ring the bell. They quit because they couldn’t conceive making it through another six days of being cold, wet, and miserable.
No sooner had we halted the formation than the order came to “hit the bay.” Once again, fully clothed and soaked to the bone, we plunged into the cold water of Coronado Bay.
“Mr. Steward, Class 95 will stay in the bay until two men quit. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Instructor,” Steward said stoically.
Swimming over to a group of five trainees, I circled the men and said to each one, “No one quits. They can’t keep us in here forever.”
“Are you sure?” came a reply.
“There’s one!” Senior Chief Grenier, standing on the pier, laughed.
Sure enough, climbing the ladder out of the bay was one of my original boat crew members. I had always questioned this sailor’s motivation, but had hoped for the best. He lifted himself onto the pier, approached the instructor, and asked to quit. To us trainees, the instructors were all sadists who wanted nothing more than for you to quit and never be seen again. In reality, they were all good men who wanted each trainee to succeed. I watched as the instructor pulled the sailor aside and asked him, man to man, “Are you sure you want to quit? You’ve come a long way. You can still do this.” I couldn’t hear the response, but the body language gave away his answer. With head down and shoulders slumped, the trainee nodded, then came to attention and promptly jogged to a nearby bus—the quitters’ bus. I would never see him again.
Moments later, another, then another, then another. In all, three more trainees quit and we weren’t even into the third hour. Six hours later, the night would turn into day and three more men would ring the bell. Over the next two days we were kept constantly cold, wet, and fatigued. Just about the time you dried off and began to get “comfortable,” some instructor would yell, “Hit the surf,” and we would charge into the waves like crazed lunatics. By Wednesday evening, most of us were operating on automatic. We went where we were told, without question, without emotion, and just pushed through the pain. But with Wednesday also came the mudflats, the most tiring event of the week and the one that broke most of the men.
The mudflats were part of the Tijuana slews, a swamplike drainage area that ran from South San Diego into Tijuana. The mud was deep and thick, with a stench that permeated the entire area.
Late in the afternoon we paddled our IBSs from Coronado down to the mudflats. By the time we arrived the sun was getting low on the horizon.
“Mr. Steward, your class looks entirely too clean. Are you clean, Mr. Steward?”
“No, Instructor Faketty. We are dirty, filthy tadpoles.” Petty Officer First Class Mike Faketty was our class proctor for First Phase. While he had to perform his duties as an instructor, it was also his job to get as many guys through First Phase as possible. Faketty was one of the few instructors who was not a Vietnam veteran, but as we would find over the course of the next few months, he was still one of the best SEALs at BUD/S. But for now his job was simple. Weed out the weak.<
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“No, Mr. Steward. I have conferred with my fellow instructors, and they agree, you are all way too clean.” He paused and had that sadistic grin that instructors got before they hammered you. Then very quietly he said, “Hit it.”
We all waded into the mud, which sucked you in up to your waist and made movement extremely difficult. The mud had been a way of life for the Vietnam-era SEALs. The Mekong Delta was filled with mud. The Viet Cong hid in the slews of the Mekong River thinking they were safe. But the SEALs earned their reputation by going where no else would go or could go—into the VC camps. Into the mangrove and mud bogs where the enemy felt they had sanctuary. Mud was a great equalizer of men. Big or small, weak or strong, if you fought the mud, it fought back, and it was tireless.
Over the next few hours, as the sun went down and the night got cold, we stayed in the mud. There were mud relay races. Mud diving. Mud wrestling. Mud swimming. Anything to keep us in the mud. By 1900 hours, the sun was going down and every inch of our bodies was covered with mud. Then the fun began.
At the edge of the mudflats the instructors had built a small campfire—a lure, an enticement, the flames calling us to quit.
“Man, it’s warm here by the fire. How’s your coffee, Doc?”
“Coffee’s great, Fak. How’s your chow?”
“Oh, I got the beans and franks. Great chow.”
Huddled at the edge of the mud pool, we sat shivering uncontrollably, hanging on every word the instructors said, but under our breath we whispered encouragement to each other.
Faketty approached the edge of the mud. “Gentlemen, I have to tell you it’s really nice and warm by this fire.”
I could see some of the other trainees eyeing the flames as they jumped upward with each draft from the ocean breeze.
Faketty continued, “You can come join me. All I need is for five men to quit. Just five men and you can all come sit by the fire and have some coffee.”
The trainees had linked arms both for warmth and for support. Faketty paced the edge of the mud. “Just five guys. I just need five quitters.”
I could feel the student beside me begin to loosen his grip. He was ready to bolt for the dry ground. “Don’t quit, man,” I whispered. “Hang tough, this will be over soon.” His arm broke free of mine and he started to push forward through the mud.
Suddenly, from the far end of the line of trainees came a familiar tune. One man began singing loudly. It was not a song for tender ears.
“Hey!” Faketty yelled. “Keep quiet! I didn’t say you could sing.”
Steward joined in, then another man and another. Before long the entire class was singing. The instructors threatened us with more time in the mud. But the singing persisted and the man next to me returned to his place.
From the light of the fire, I could see the instructors smiling contentedly. They knew the class was coming together, in spite of the pain. But the evening was just beginning and the night would get worse with each passing hour.
By 2100 hours we were out of the mud and sitting on the cold ground as the instructors continued the harassment.
“Mr. Steward, Mr. Mac, Mr. Thomas, and Mr. Artho. Front and center.” I unfolded my legs, struggled to my feet, and joined the other three officers next to the fire.
“Warm, isn’t it?” Faketty said.
None of us spoke.
“So, here are the rules for tonight’s follies. When I say, ‘Hit it,’ the entire class has five minutes to get as far away from here as possible. Then when you hear the sound of the air horn you will turn around and try to make your way back to the base camp. If you successfully elude the instructors, who will be out hunting for you, then you can sit by the fire and have some chow. If you get caught, however, you will spend the rest of the evening in the mud. Am I clear, gentlemen?”
“Yes, Instructor Faketty,” we yelled in unison.
“Good. Just remember—it pays to be a winner.”
After Steward gave a quick brief to the class, Faketty yelled out the start command and like drunken mice we all took off in different directions. The night sky was clear and cold. The stars were bright but there was no moon. It was dark, but my eyes had already adjusted to the ambient light.
Instead of running far, I decided that tactically it would be better to stay close to the camp, making the distance I had to elude the instructors much shorter. After about a hundred yards I stopped and found good concealment behind a mound of sand and scrub brush.
The starlight illuminated shadows of trainees dashing in every direction—freezing, coated with mud, slow-witted from exhaustion, their reasoning was elementary at best. Suddenly a figure came from my blind side and dove over the mound, settling down beside me. It was my fellow trainee, Seaman Marshall Lubin. Lubin was quite a character. The oldest man in the class at age thirty-two, he was a ’60s-style hippie who had traveled the world “escorting” women to exotic locations. After his last relationship went south, he decided to join the Navy and become a diver. During one of our classroom sessions on sentry stalking, Lubin approached me afterward with a stunning revelation—to him. “Mr. Mac, they’re teaching us to kill people,” he said with a look of horror. “Yes, Lubin,” I responded calmly, noting that SEALs in Vietnam often had to take out Viet Cong sentries in order to get to their objective. “What did you think this course was all about?” I asked.
“I thought we were learning to be scuba divers. Nobody told me we were going to kill people.” He was a lover, not a fighter. But, like most who came to BUD/S, witting or not of the product it produced, Lubin wanted to test his inner strength. To his credit, he stayed the course, would graduate a SEAL, and later leave the Navy to be a civilian chiropractor.
“Damn, I’m cold, Mr. Mac. I can’t last out here too long. We have got to get back to the fire.”
“Patience, Marshall. If we hurry we’ll get caught and spend the rest of the night in the mud.”
Suddenly another figure came out of the shadows. “Hey, you guys want some hot chocolate?”
“What?”
“Hot chocolate. You guys want some hot chocolate?”
It had to be a trick, I thought. Or maybe the hallucinations had already started, those thoroughly exhausted moments when your mind visualized what you really hoped to see. It was a well-known phenomenon during Hell Week. I could smell the warm chocolate and hear the milk pouring into a canteen cup.
“Here, here. Drink it. I’ve got to go.” Without hesitation, Lubin and I drank what was given to us and the shadowy figure departed. I watched as the apparition moved from mound to mound like Gunga Din, pouring cups of hot chocolate into freezing trainees. The sweet taste on my swollen tongue told me the experience was real, but still very strange.
Lubin and I began to move closer to the fire. Bounding from one small mound to the next, we closed the distance until we were within sight of the fire and could hear the instructors. But this was the danger zone. Close enough to see the prize—close enough to be caught.
Lubin was shaking so hard it was making me colder. “Lubin, stop shaking, man. You’re making noise,” I whispered.
“I can’t stop, sir. I’ve got to get to the fire.”
“Not now,” I warned. “There are too many instructors moving around.” But before I could stop him, Lubin was on the move.
I could see his lanky figure slithering across the sand trying to make it to the next mound, but I could also see an instructor, eyeing his prey. Hunkering down next to a small bush, Lubin was within twenty-five yards of the fire.
“Well, well, what do we have here?” yelled Petty Officer Faketty. “Seaman Recruit Lubin.”
Lubin stood up and faced the music. As I watched, the instructors surrounded him. I thought it was my time to make a dash for the fire.
“Lubin, where is your swim buddy? Surely you are not out here alone without a swim buddy. That would be a violation of BUD/S regulations.”
Swim buddy. I was screwed and I knew it. In BUD/S you always, alwa
ys swam, ran, dived, ate, and, in the field, slept with a swim buddy. But the rules of this nighttime folly had not mentioned swim buddies.
“Here’s the deal, Lubin. Either you give up your swim buddy or every trainee will spend the evening in the mud.”
I knew that there was no way Lubin was going to give me up, but the instructors were going to make it very painful for him. I stepped forward and identified myself.
“Mr. Mac,” Faketty said with a chuckle. “Looks like you and Seaman Lubin have a date with the mudflats.”
I sighed.
“Hit it,” Faketty yelled.
Lubin and I nodded and we plunged into the waist-deep mud, where we would stay for the next hour, watching as our fellow trainees sat by the fire and ate C-rations.
When we were finally set free of the mudflats it was about 0100. We had been assigned “tents,” which were actually lean-tos whose open side faced the ocean breeze, making them no better than sleeping outside.
Now, barely able to move with a core temperature well below normal, I fell into the tent and was immediately grabbed by my tentmate, Petty Officer Earl Hayes. A former junior college running back, Hayes, a large, muscular African American from Alabama, was one of the best enlisted men in the class. He had natural leadership abilities and was a two-time rollback, making this Hell Week his third. To my knowledge, no man had ever completed three Hell Weeks.
Draping his large body over mine, Hayes tried to stop my shaking. It was uncontrollable, though. For the next several hours Hayes lay on top of me, transferring what little body heat he had to me.
By 0600, the sun was up and I had survived another day. Hump day was over. Only three more days to go.
Over the course of the next two days, we continued with the unending series of physical events. As every day passed we lost a few more men, but with the strong leadership of Dan’l Steward and the senior enlisted men in the class, we were actually doing quite well.
Friday evening brought the infamous Treasure Hunt, a string of clues that led each seven-man boat crew on a long hike and paddle around Coronado Island. Ordinarily, this wouldn’t have been a difficult evolution, but by Friday evening most of the trainees could barely walk from swollen feet, chafed groins, and just pure exhaustion. Additionally, many of the men had begun to hallucinate from the fatigue: sharks on the beach, sea monsters rising from the waves, bikini-clad women waving to us from imaginary boats. It made for interesting conversations.
Sea Stories Page 5
