Monday, 4 October 1999. A fine mist hangs over the Naval Amphibious Base on Coronado as a cool marine air layer steals in from the Pacific, extinguishing the stars. The lights along Guadalcanal Road are a harsh, haloed yellow. The base is quiet. Behind a chain-link fence with diagonal privacy slats, Class 228 waits anxiously, seated on the concrete pool deck. The new BUD/S trainees wear only canvas UDT swim trunks. They are compressed into tight rows, chests to backs, in bobsled fashion to conserve body heat. The large clock on the cinder-block wall reads 5:00 A.M.—0500, or zero five hundred, in military jargon. They are wet from a recent shower. Neat rows of duffel bags that contain the students’ uniforms, boots, and training gear separate each human file. The pool—officially called the combat training tank, or CTT—has already been prepared for the first evolution. The students had arrived thirty minutes earlier to roll and stow the pool covers and string the lane markers.
“Feet!” yells the class leader.
“FEET!” The voices of nearly a hundred young men answer in unison as they scramble into ranks.
“In-struct-tor Ree-no!” intones the class leader.
“HOOYAH, INSTRUCTOR REE-NO!” the class responds in full roar.
The first day of training has begun for Class 228. It's pitch black except for the building lights that cut into the mist and the underwater pool lights that illuminate a blue mirror surface. The members of Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL Class 228 stand at attention in fourteen files, each file forming a boat crew of seven BUD/S trainees. Instructor Reno Alberto, Class 228's proctor for the two-week BUD/S Indoctrination Course, surveys the pool. Apparently satisfied the CTT is ready, he turns and regards Class 228 for a long moment.
“Drop,” he says quietly.
“DROP!” 228 echoes as the class melts to the deck, each student scrambling to claim a vacant piece of concrete. They wait, arms extended, holding their bodies in a rigid, leaning-rest position.
“Push ‘em out.”
“Push-ups!” yells the class leader.
“PUSH-UPS!” responds 228.
“Down!”
“ONE!”
“Down!”
“TWO!”
Class 228 loudly counts out twenty push-ups, then returns to the leaning rest. “In-struct-tor Ree-no,” calls the class leader.
“HOOYAH, INSTRUCTOR REE-NO!” the students yell in unison.
Reno stands off to one side, arms folded, apparently uninterested in the mass of students leaning on their outstretched arms.
“Push ‘em out,” he commands softly.
“Push-ups!”
“PUSH-UPS!”
After two more rounds of this, Reno leaves them in the leaning rest for close to five minutes. By now the students are twisting and thrusting their buttocks into the air in an effort to relieve the burning in their arms.
“Recover,” he says in the same measured voice.
“FEET!” the class responds, this time with less zeal.
“Give me a report, Mister Gallagher.”
Lieutenant (junior grade) William Gallagher takes the class muster board from Machinist Mate First Class Robert Carreola, 228's leading petty officer, or LPO. Gallagher and Carreola are the class leader and class leading petty officer, respectively, as they are the senior officer and senior enlisted trainee in Class 228. Carreola is five-ten, but he appears shorter— partly because he has a broad, highly developed upper body and partly because his lieutenant is six-two.
Bill Gallagher is a slim, serious young man with a shy smile. He came to the Naval Academy from northern Virginia, recruited to play lacrosse for Navy. Gallagher has wanted to be a Navy SEAL since 1982, when his father gave him an article from Parademagazine with pictures of SEALs and BUD/S training. He was seven years old. Bill Gallagher was unable to come to BUD/S from Annapolis, so he went directly from the Academy to the fleet. Now, as a qualified surface warfare officer with two years at sea, he stands at the head of Class 228. His goal is still to become a Navy SEAL. Bob Carreola has been in the Navy for eleven years; this is his second try at BUD/S. He is thirty-one years old with more than a decade of service in naval aviation squadrons. His goal is also to be a Navy SEAL.
“Instructor, Class Two-two-eight is formed; ninety-eight men assigned, ninety-five men present. I have one man on watch and two men at medical for sick call.”
“Ninety-five men present, Lieutenant?”
“Hooyah, Instructor Reno.”
“That's wrong, sir. Drop and push ‘em out. You too, Carreola.”
While Gallagher and Carreola begin pushing concrete, Reno turns to the class. “The rest of you, seats.”
“SEATS!” bellows Class 228 as the young men hit the concrete. They return to their compressed boat-crew files. They will sit like this often in the days and weeks ahead, hugging the man in front of them to stay warm. Gallagher and Carreola finish their push-ups and chant, “Hooyah, Instructor Reno!”
“Push ‘em out,” Reno replies.
This is not the last time that Lieutenant Gallagher and Petty Officer Carreola will personally pay for the sins of the class. One of the boat-crew leaders failed to report to Gallagher that one of his men was UA, or an unauthorized absence. This oversight caused Gallagher to give a bad muster; the actual number of men on the pool deck this morning is ninety-four. When one man in the class screws up, sometimes the whole class pays the tab. Sometimes a single boat crew pays or just the class leaders. But someone always pays.
“Now listen up,” Reno says, turning to the class, finally raising his voice. He glances at his watch; it's 0510. “This is bullshit. You guys better get it together … now! Things are going to start to get difficult around here. We know most of you won't be here in another two months, but if you don't start pulling as a team, none of you will be here! It's a simple muster, gentlemen. If you can't get that done, what are you going to do when you get into First Phase and things really become difficult?” The class listens silently. Gallagher and Carreola continue to push concrete.
Reno regards the files of young men seated on the pool deck, then turns to the two sweating trainees. “Recover.” They scramble up and take their places at the head of their boat crews. “This morning, gentlemen, we're going to take the basic screening test. You all passed this test at your last command or you wouldn't be here. If you can't pass it again this morning, you'll be back in the fleet just as soon as we can get you there. Understood?”
“HOOYAH, INSTRUCTOR RENO!”
BUD/S training is conducted in three distinct phases. First Phase is the conditioning phase, followed by Second Phase—diving—and Third Phase— weapons and tactics. In order to prepare them for the rigors of First Phase, the trainees must first complete the two-week Indoctrination Course. Here they will learn the rules and conventions of BUD/S training. They will learn how to conduct themselves at the pool, how to run the obstacle course, and how to maneuver small boats through the surf. They will also learn the complex set of procedures and protocols needed in First Phase and the rest of BUD/S training—customs they must observe if they hope to survive this rite of passage. During this indoctrination period, they also begin to learn about SEAL culture and begin to absorb the ethos of this warrior class. In these first few minutes of the Indoctrination Course, Class 228 has already learned something about accountability and leadership. An officer or petty officer must always account for his men. SEALs have died in combat, but never has one been left behind.
The Indoctrination Course, or Indoc, also helps the trainees to physically prepare for First Phase. Some members of Class 228 have been at BUD/S for a few days, a few for as long as two months. Eight are rollbacks from a previous class—men recently injured in training who are beginning again with Class 228. These two weeks of pretraining are designed to physically and mentally bring the class together. This is a very important time. Most of the students have prepared for this individually. Now they will live and train as a class—as a team.
One hundred fourteen souls were originally assigned, or had orders, to BUD/S Class 228. Most are relatively new to the Phil E. Bucklew Naval Special Warfare Center, Coronado, California, where BUD/S is conducted. Twelve members of 228, like Bob Carreola, are here for a second time. If a student quits, he must return to fleet duty for at least eighteen months before he can return for another try—if he demonstrated potential on his first attempt and was recommended for a second try.
Class 228 had 114 men who thought they wanted to become Navy SEALs. But only 98 are on the roster on the first day of indoctrination. A few of the no-shows were sailors who were unhappy with their ship or duty station. They were fit enough to pass the BUD/S screening exam and accepted the orders to BUD/S as a way to make a change. Others found the relatively modest conditioning swims and runs before Indoc more than they bargained for. And there are always a few who, upon their arrival at BUD/S, are simply intimidated. When they see what SEAL trainees are asked to do, they quit before they begin. So the attrition began even before Class 228 started its first official day of training. Any student at BUD/S, at any time, can DOR—drop on request. All he has to do is say, “I quit.” Those assigned to Class 228 who quit prior to the beginning of Indoc will be reassigned back to the fleet.
Today, Class 228 has to earn the privilege of continuing with the Indoctrination Course. Each trainee must again pass the BUD/S screening test:
1. A five-hundred-yard swim using the breast- or sidestroke in twelve minutes, thirty seconds
2. A minimum of forty-two push-ups in two minutes
3. A minimum of fifty sit-ups in two minutes
4. A minimum of six dead-hang pull-ups
5. A mile-and-a-half run in eleven minutes, thirty seconds wearing boots and long pants
All but one in Class 228 passes the screening test. This buys the trainees a ticket to proceed with their training for two more weeks. A few of the men are close to the minimums, but most handle the run and the swim with at least a minute to spare. Eighty push-ups, a hundred sit-ups, and fifteen pull-ups are not uncommon. There are those in the teams and among the instructor staff who think the screening minimums are too low—that the bar should be higher for those entering BUD/S.
This test is not a perfect predictor for who will succeed and who will fail. In the demanding days ahead, a few of those who struggled to pass the screening test will make it to graduation. Those are the ones who arrived at BUD/S with a soft body and a strong spirit. Some of the more physically gifted will find that they have no stomach for the punishment that lies ahead, and they will quit as soon as they become tired and cold. They will be timed and tested during Indoc, but only two things can remove a student from the two-week Indoctrination Course: a DOR or failing a comprehensive psychological evaluation given to each new arrival. Only one member of Class 228 fails the psych exam.
After the screening test, the men of Class 228 gather their gear from the pool deck and hustle off to chow. Following their morning meal, they will run in formation across the Naval Amphibious Base to the Special Warfare Center located on the ocean side of Highway 75, which bisects the base. The Amphibious Base is the host facility for the West Coast SEAL teams and other Naval Special Warfare commands, as well as the Naval Special Warfare Center.
Coronado is a near-island that sits in the center of San Diego Bay, connected at its southernmost tip to the mainland by way of a narrow, eight-mile-long sand spit called the Silver Strand. The Naval Amphibious Base is located on the northern portion of this narrow strand, just south of the village of Coronado. The north end of Coronado proper is occupied by the massive North Island Naval Air Station. Known as NAS North Island, this facility is a major maintenance, training, and repair depot for the naval air arm of the Pacific Fleet. Aircraft Carrier Number One, the USS Langley, moored at North Island in 1924 and pioneered naval aviation in the Pacific. Today, North Island is home for two West Coast-based aircraft carriers. The Naval Amphibious Base, built on reclaimed land in 1943, is a relative newcomer.
Nestled between NAS North Island and the much smaller Naval Amphibious Base on the Silver Strand is the idyllic resort community of Coronado. “Idyllic” is an understatement; Coronado is a neat, manicured residential setting of expensive homes with broad, white-sand beaches on the Pacific side and the San Diego skyline on the bay side. Anchoring the western end of Orange Avenue, a palm-lined main boulevard of eateries, boutiques, and art galleries, is the famous Hotel del Coronado. This historic hotel has been a favorite of presidents, royalty, and movie stars for over a century. When it was built in 1887, it was the largest resort hotel in the world. Today it stands as an elegant architectural monument to the grace and splendor of a past era. Just south of the Hotel del (as it's sometimes called), between the hotel and the Amphibious Base, is a series of modern, high-rise beach condominiums. These stark, concrete towers, punctuated by pools, gardens, and verandas, couldn't be more dissimilar to the graceful wooden curves and red-pinnacled roofs of the historic and charming Hotel del Coronado. Further south, the contrast increases. Less than three hundred yards from the concrete condo towers on this gorgeous strip of white-sand beach, the U.S. Navy conducts the toughest military training in the free world.
“Feet!”
“FEET!”
There is a mass scraping of chairs as Class 228 comes to attention. Some are already standing along the back and side walls of the classroom because there are more students than seats. This student-chair ratio will change as the number of DORs increases. The room is ripe with the smell of sweat, chlorine, and wet clothing. Instructor Reno works his way to the front of the room and the raised podium. Once again he quietly surveys the class.
“Drop,” he deadpans.
“DROP!” the class responds. Now there is a serious amount of commotion as the members of Class 228 compete with the school chairs for a piece of the classroom floor. While the class pushes linoleum, other BUD/S instructors assigned to Indoc quietly make their way to the front of the room. When the twenty push-ups are completed, the trainees “hooyah” Reno and are allowed to take their seats.
The origin of the term “hooyah” is unclear. It originated on the West Coast, as it was seldom heard on the East Coast during those years when the Navy conducted UDT/SEAL training on both coasts. One theory attributes the expression back to a popular mid-1950s UDT instructor named Bud Juric. An aggressive volleyball player, he used to yell “poo-yah” when he spiked the ball. It is said that the trainees of that era took the term and converted it to “hoo-yah.” Other old SEALs claim that another BUD/S instructor in the mid-’50s named Paul McNalley coined the term. A third theory simply holds that earlier training classes simply adopted a syllable reversal of “yahoo.” Whatever the origin, it has evolved into a universal trainee response during all phases of BUD/S training and a favored expression in the teams.
Petty Officer Reno Alberto, who insists the trainees use his first name, is one of the junior BUD/S instructors assigned to Indoc. At five-six he is also one of the shortest, but he is compact, muscular, and very fit. He speaks with the precise, measured accent of someone for whom English is a second language. Reno has a degree in business administration from USC; he left the corporate world to become a Navy SEAL. He opens a three-ring binder and sweeps his eyes over the class.
“All right, listen up. I will be your class proctor for the two-week Indoc course. I have some word to put out and it will behoove you all to pay attention. Better still, take notes.” He watches while some of the trainees pull out Ziploc bags with dry paper and pencils. Other students don't move or look down to avoid Reno's stare. “How many of you do not have paper and pencil?” Several hands go up. “Drop—all of you!” Reno lets them push out a set of twenty and holds them in the leaning rest.
“Listen up, people. You were told to have a pencil and paper on you at all times. So why don't you?” Silence. “This is a school for warriors and it's serious business. If you don't want to do this, then get the hell out. Start thinking. Get your heads in the game. Anticipate. Now, push ‘em out.”
“HOOYAH, INSTRUCTOR RENO!”
When the students complete the round of push-ups, Reno orders them back to their chairs and the class quiets down. They're starting to sweat again, and the air in the classroom reeks. One by one, Reno introduces the other BUD/S instructors who will be putting Class 228 through the Indoctrination Course. Each instructor steps forward with a modest tenor fifteen-second oral bio. Most have ten or more years in the teams and are veterans of multiple SEAL platoon deployments. They file out and Reno has the class to himself. He is taking the trainees through a litany of what they can expect for the next two weeks, when he sees a man start to nod off.
“Feet!”
“FEET!” The class members scramble to their feet.
“Seats.” The class sits and Reno steps from behind the podium. “You've got to pay attention, gentlemen. If you start to fall asleep, stand up. What I have to say is important. It's for your benefit, so I want all eyes on me, understood?”
“HOOYAH!”
“This is high-risk training. We define high-risk training as any evolution where there is potential for serious injury or loss of life. Safety is our primary consideration. If you observe any unsafe condition or feel that your own safety is in jeopardy, you are to call it to the attention of an instructor, or the attention of your boat-crew leader or the class leader. Understood?”
“HOOYAH!”
“We've already talked about accountability. Use the chain of command. Let your boat-crew leaders and class leaders know if you're excused from an evolution. Stay with your swim buddy. I don't care if you're going to the head, you stay with your swim buddy, understood?”
“HOOYAH!”
“Respect. I expect you to show respect for the instructor staff, the class officers, and the senior petty officers. You're in the military; you will be courteous at all times. Understood?”
“HOOYAH!”
“Integrity. It's a simple thing, gents: you don't lie, cheat, or steal. If you lose a piece of gear, you put in a chit and report it. You do not take someone else's gear. That's happened here in the past and those guys are gone. You respect your classmate and his gear, and that means you don't take what is not yours. Got that?”
“HOOYAH!”
“I'm your class proctor for the next two weeks. I'm here to help you if you need help. If you have a pay problem, we'll get you over to the disbursing office and get it fixed. If you have a personal problem or a family problem, I'll see that you get to the chaplain. If you become injured, go to medical, get it fixed, and get back into training. I'm your proctor; I'm not your mother. I'm here to teach you. You stay in the box and I'll help you. You get outside the box and I'll hammer you. Understood?”
“HOOYAH!”
“One more thing. For those of you who make it through this training and go on to the teams, your reputation begins here. Your reputation as a class begins here. And your reputation as a class is a reflection of your proctor. I take that very personally. Reputation is everything. Pay attention. Keep your head in the game. Put out a hundred percent, because we'll know it if you're not. And never leave your swim buddy.” He looks at the class and closes the notebook. “Any questions?”
“NEGATIVE!”
“Fair enough. Lieutenant Mahoney will be here in a few minutes. Stand by for him.”
“Feet!” Carreola yells as Reno leaves the podium.
“FEET!”
Class 228 stirs about the classroom while it waits for Lieutenant Mahoney. One member of the class stands guard at the door to alert the others of the approach of the instructor. The others mill about near their seats or in the back of the room. The guard announces the arrival of Mahoney and Class 228 comes to attention.
“Take your seats, gentlemen, and welcome to your first day of Indoc.” Lieutenant Bill Mahoney is a sturdy six-footer dressed like the rest of the enlisted BUD/S instructors: blue T-shirt, khaki shorts, and polished black military boots with white socks rolled over the top. Lieutenant Mahoney, a Villanova graduate, is the basic training officer. He is responsible for the three regular phases of BUD/S, as well as the Indoctrination Course. He looks up from his notes and surveys the class.
“This block of instruction is designed to give you an idea about life in the teams and the overseas deployment opportunities available to those of you who graduate from BUD/S and go on to earn your Trident pin.” He squares his shoulders and looks directly at the class. “Now, I'm really only talking to the twenty percent or so of you men who will actually make it to graduation. The rest will be long gone by then. Most of you have already decided if you're going to make it. Whether you're at graduation or not is entirely up to you.” Mahoney pauses and rubs the side of his face. “You see, it's like this; if you can get through training, life in the teams can be terrific. There's excitement, adventure, travel, and a chance to serve with a great bunch of guys—a chance to be one of the best. But you have to get through this first. Some of you can see the cost-benefit of what we do here. You'll take the pain and the cold water because you think it's worth it to get to the teams; you'll pay your dues because you want to be in the club. A few of you will stay no matter how hard we try to get rid of you—no matter how cold you get or how much you hurt. We'd have to kill you because you won't quit. And that's okay; that's what we're here to find out. Who wants to be in the teams and who's willing to pay the price of admission? Most of you here simply don't want it that bad. We'll see.”
Mahoney drags a computer keyboard to the top of the podium and taps in a few commands. The presentation software kicks into gear and an overhead projector flashes the Naval Special Warfare emblem onto the screen— the gold SEAL Trident that all qualified SEALs proudly wear.
“So let's see what's in store for you if you manage to survive the next twenty-seven weeks.” Mahoney presents a brief history of the teams, beginning with the frogmen in World War II through the formation of the first SEAL teams in 1962, and up to the current configuration of the SEAL and SDV (SEAL Delivery Vehicle) teams. Then he clicks through a slick presentation that highlights the ongoing training, deployment, and operational life of a Navy SEAL. For the most part, he has their attention, but a few of them succumb to the warm classroom and start to nod off.
Each day of Indoc seems to be a little longer and a little more intense than the previous one. Each morning of Indoc begins at the pool at 0500. After a two-hour pool evolution that is half physical harassment and half water training, the students don their fatigues and boots. When they are fully dressed, the instructors usually order them into the pool along with their gear. They then run to the chow hall for a quick breakfast and back across the base to the Special Warfare Center to continue their training. Days— and sometimes nights—at BUD/S are a series of training evolutions. As the days become weeks, the evolutions seem endless. The students run six miles each day just to eat. BUD/S trainees live on the run and are always cold and wet. When they are at the Center, they make several trips a day to the Pacific and are made to roll on the beach after returning from the surf. Now they are cold, wet, and sandy.
The instructors appear insensitive and often cruel. A great deal of what they do is to test the spirit and character of their charges, individually and as a class. They are instructors, but they are also gatekeepers, and they take this job very seriously. Yet, along with the harassment and misery, there is the teaching. Even though the primary purpose of Indoc is to prepare the students for the physical ordeal that will begin in First Phase, they also begin to learn skills they will need as Navy SEALs here.
The teaching begins in the pool. “You have to be good in the water,” Instructor Tim King tells Class 228. Like Reno, King is a short, powerful man. And like many enlisted SEALs, he has a college degree; Tim King's is in criminal justice. “This is what separates us from all other special operations forces. For them, water is an obstacle; for us, it's sanctuary.” I noted many changes at BUD/S since Class 45 graduated, but the most dramatic are in the swimming curriculum. In the past, it was simply a matter of showing the trainees a basic stroke and making them swim laps; kick, stroke, and glide. Now it's all about technique. The instructors begin with teaching buoyancy control and body position in the water. The basic stroke is a modified sidestroke that the trainees will later adapt to the use of fins. Much of what is taught is taken from the work of Terry Laughlin and his “Total Immersion” training technique. Laughlin is a noted civilian instructor who developed innovative long-distance swimming techniques for competitive and recreational swimmers. A few in Class 228 were competition swimmers before coming to BUD/S, but most are not. All will learn the Laughlin method. According to Laughlin, it's all about swimming more like a fish and less like a human. The instructors say it's like swimming downhill. It has to do with making one's body physically longer in the water and reducing drag.
“Before Terry Laughlin,” King says, “it was just a matter of getting in the water and getting it done. When I was in BUD/S training, my instructors taught us the way they learned it from their instructors. Now, that's all changed; technique is everything.”
The trainees do lengths in the pool using just their legs. Then they add a new method of breathing, rolling in the water to get a breath rather than lifting their heads. Arms are used for balance and to make the swimmer longer in the water. As the trainees practice, the instructors are right there, coaching and teaching.
“There's not a lot we can do to make them run faster,” explains Instructor King. BUD/S instructors are addressed as “Instructor” unless they are a chief petty officer, in which case they are addressed by their title. “But if they can master these techniques in the water, we can dramatically get their swim times down. The staff here at BUD/S can be a very skeptical bunch. We tend to resist anything from the outside. But when our personal swim times came down using Laughlin's methods, well, we knew this was good information. We try to do as much teaching as possible here in Indoc—help them improve their technique. The First Phase instructors can't do this; they don't have the time. They'll just put them in the water and expect them to perform. They'll have to make the minimum swim times or they'll be dropped from the class. For some of them, this training will make the difference between making it to graduation or washing out. We've been able to cut swim drops by twenty-five percent,” he adds with a measure of pride. “This stuff really works.”
During the first week of Indoc, the trainees practice surface-swimming skills without fins. The second week they put on standard-issue duck feet. The instruction and coaching continue—along with the physical harassment.
A number of other pool competency skills are taught during Indoc. There are basic knots the trainees need to know and must be able to tie underwater while holding their breath. These are knots that they will later use to rig underwater explosives in simulated combat conditions. The Indoc instructors explain each knot, some of its applications, and how it can be tied quickly underwater. Each student carries a section of line tied to the neck of his canteen with which to practice and to take into the water for knot-tying drills. Along with knot tying, the trainees are graded on underwater swimming. In Indoc, they have to swim underwater without fins for thirty-five meters. The secret to underwater swimming is going deep early. The trainees learn that if they swim along the bottom in deeper water, the increased partial pressure of oxygen in their lungs will allow them to hold their breath longer and swim farther.
The most intimidating of the pool competency skills is drown proofing. Trainees’ ankles are bound together and their hands tied behind their back. Trussed in this manner, they are introduced to a number of underwater maneuvers and drills they will be required to perform during First Phase. The point of these exercises is to teach trainees to be comfortable in the water and to stay calm. The instructors constantly remind them to relax, but it's not easy for some. Tim King watches as members of 228 are bound hand and foot then rolled off into the deep water. Alert instructors with fins and masks swim among them like sharks.
“Now we find out which ones played in the swimming pool as kids and which ones played in the fire hydrant.” He grimaces slightly as one student wriggles to the surface for a bite of air and disappears. “You guys have to be good in the water,” he reminds other members of 228 waiting for their turn at drown proofing. “You'll never be a SEAL unless you first become a frogman.”
Next to swimming, the obstacle course is the most technically demanding challenge for the Indoc trainees. There are fifteen major obstacles the trainees have to negotiate. This obstacle course is a tough one—a series of walls, vaults, rope bridges, and logs with a short sprint in the soft sand between obstacles. One of the most daunting is the cargo net—a rope latticework stretched on a tall wooden frame. They must climb this rope web and slither over a log at the top, some sixty feet in the air. Other obstacles require that they crawl under barbed wire and hand walk on parallel bars. On the first day at the “O-course,” the instructors walk them through the course and explain the various ways to handle each barrier. Then Class 228 runs it for time. This is not a confidence course, as some are called; these are real obstacles, and the Indoc trainees struggle with their first attempt.
“Each one of these obstacles was designed to challenge you in some specific way and prepare you to function as a Navy SEAL,” the trainees are told. “Whether it's parachuting, working in small boats, boarding a ship under way, or rappelling down the face of a cliff, this course will make you a more proficient operator. Guys in the teams come here and run this O-course to prepare for overseas deployment.”
The O-course requires a blend of technique, stamina, confidence, agility, and upper-body strength. “You have to attack it; throw your body into it,” an instructor shouts as one of the trainees scrambles up a vertical wall. “Don't hold back.”
It's also a little man's game. The taller and stockier trainees tend to have more trouble with the O-course. Some of the best times are registered by the smaller men. The O-course is a venue in which some members of 228 will excel. It will weed a few of them out. In any case, it's high-risk training, as Class 228 quickly finds out. One obstacle, called the Slide for Life, features a long, three-inch diameter nylon line that loops down from a thirty-foot tower to a ten-foot vertical bar. The trainees have to pull themselves up the three-story tower a level at a time to get to the top, then slide or pull themselves down the line. One member of 228 loses his grip on the line and falls to the sand below. He breaks his arm and pelvis and the class shrinks by one.
Indoctrination also introduces Class 228 to group physical training, or PT. Physical training is a full range of highly regimented calisthenics led by an instructor. During First Phase, the class will do PT on the famous BUD/S grinder, the blacktop expanse in the middle of the main BUD/S compound. But Indoc trainees do not have that privilege. For now, they will do PT on the beach behind the BUD/S compound.
“A-one, two, three—”
“ONE!”
“A-one, two, three—”
“TWO!”
No single exercise, in itself, is too strenuous or difficult, and many are designed to balance and stretch certain muscle groups. But two areas are hammered again and again: abs and arms. Each third or fifth exercise is a set of push-ups, usually a count of twenty but often as many as fifty. For the abdomen, there are sit-ups and leg levers, but the ab exercise of choice at BUD/S is flutter kicks. Again and again the trainees will be on their backs, legs six inches off the deck. In this position they will count off flutter kicks with their legs straight, toes pointed. This builds stomach muscles and will help prepare Class 228 for the long ocean swims later in training. While one instructor calls the cadence and leads the class in exercises, the other instructors walk among the trainees offering encouragement and a liberal dose of verbal harassment. During PT the trainees, individually and as a class, must show spirit and motivation, and loudly maintain the exercise count. If they don't, the instructor leading PT will periodically send them into the surf—cold, wet, and sandy.
Following PT, Class 228 forms up for a four-mile conditioning run in the soft sand. The uniform for PT and the beach runs is white T-shirts, long pants, and boots. Several times during the run, 228 is sent up and over the large berm dunes, across the hard sand, and into the surf. Cold, wet, and sandy is a permanent condition for a BUD/S class, and it will take its toll. By the end of the first week there are seventy-four members in Class 228.
Indoc includes instruction as well as physical training. One lesson that is particularly helpful is a one-hour presentation on nutrition. This is the province of Hospital Corpsman Second Class Brandon Peterson, one of three hospital corpsmen assigned to the Indoc staff. HM2 Peterson is a full-time BUD/S instructor, a part-time triathlete, and a part-time college student. His wife is a nutritionist. Like Instructors King and Reno, he is not a big man, but very fit. His presentation on nutrition is a slick PowerPoint delivery, but he begins the class in the normal fashion.
“Drop.”
“DROP!”
“Push ‘em out.”
After three sets of twenty, he commands, “Seats.” Class 228 scrambles into the one-arm classroom chairs. There are now enough for everyone, and all of them have paper and pencil ready.
“I want you all to pay attention because what I have to say is important to you and your success here at BUD/S. Today we're going to cover what you should be eating and taking and what you shouldn't be eating and taking. You guys getting enough to eat at the chow hall?” There is a rumble of negative comments. “Well, that's bullshit. You should be getting all you want to eat over there. We'll look into that.” He pauses to jot down a notation. “Let's talk about what you should be doing.” He takes up a laser pointer and stabs at the screen as various food groups slide into view.
“It really comes down to this: there is no substitute for a well-balanced diet that is heavy in complex carbohydrates with lots of fruits and vegetables. Some of you guys think you need a high-protein diet or an all-protein diet. Not so. You need sixty percent carbohydrates with a blend of fats and protein. Don't forget the fat, especially you thin guys. When you get into the long ocean swims, you're going to need those calories to fight the cold. Eat whenever you can and eat all you can. If you can sneak a PowerBar between meals, do so, but stay away from the quick fixes like sugar or honey. You'll get a spike of energy and then you'll go flat. Otherwise, eat sensibly and eat often. No one burns calories like a BUD/S trainee. You can take in as much as six thousand calories a day and we'll see that you burn them off. Feet.”
“FEET!”
“Seats.”
“SEATS!”
“Don't be nodding off on me,” Peterson warns them. “Supplements,” he continues. “Stay away from them. The only thing you might need is a good multivitamin. If you take vitamin C, take no more than six hundred milligrams—otherwise it might give you diarrhea. Vitamin E, no more than four hundred milligrams. Nothing else. Aside from the illegal stimulants that you all know about, stay away from Creatine. I know it's an over-the-counter supplement and that it's legal, but it's strictly illegal here at BUD/S. Half the time when we find one of you musclemen face down in the sand on a beach run, we find Creatine in your locker. It causes leg cramps. It may help build bulk and upper-body mass, but it will not make you a stronger trainee. If we find Creatine in your locker, we'll kick you out of here, understand?”
“HOOYAH!”
“The best thing you can do to help yourself through BUD/S is to eat a balanced diet, heavy on carbohydrates, and—I can't stress this enough— eat a lot. And don't forget to hydrate. Keep those canteens full. You should all be drinking one and a half to two gallons of water each day. When the instructors give you a water break, take it. Mister Gallagher, I want you and your officers to see that your men get plenty to drink and that they begin each evolution with a full canteen.”
“Hooyah, Instructor Peterson.”
“There are no shortcuts here—no secret formulas and no magic potions. Give your body what it needs—a balanced diet and lots of fluids. Take care of your body just like you take care of your equipment, and your body will take care of you. Then you can give a hundred percent to this training, which you will have to do if you hope to make it through. Any questions?”
A hand goes up. In keeping with BUD/S classroom protocol, the student comes to attention and states his name and rate.
“Instructor Peterson, what about things like Motrin and aspirin?”
Peterson smiles. “You mean vitamin M. Most of you will need ibupro-fen, especially during Hell Week. In fact, it's tough to get through Hell Week without it. The Medical Department will see that you get all the ibuprofen you need, but no more than you need. As for Excedrin, Tylenol, or Aleve, don't exceed the recommended doses. They're okay if you have a fever or for some of your aches. But don't overuse these drugs. You're going to hurt while you're here. Part of our job is to induce pain—not permanent injury, but we will make you hurt. You're all going to have to learn to play the game with pain. It's all part of becoming a SEAL. Your best defense against the pain and abuse is your personal motivation and your class spirit. Just how much do you really want to be here? You must decide that. Any more questions?” No hands. “Okay, then, that's it. Feet.”
“FEET!”
The class scrambles to attention as Peterson steps from the podium and leaves the room. The men form up on the grinder and run to the next training evolution.
Class 228 will run the gauntlet of BUD/S training as a class. The trainees will acquire an identity as a strong class or a weak one; one that is motivated and pulls together or one that struggles. But between the training and the testing there is a good deal of leeway. The instructors can make the students’ lives simply miserable or nearly impossible. They can cause a man to drop the course as surely as a failed swim or a broken leg. The class's only defense against this discretionary harassment is spirit and teamwork. This is the primary lesson of Indoc for 228. Teamwork makes life easier for the class as a whole, but for many in Class 228, it will also mean the difference between becoming a SEAL or a BUD/S dropout.
During the second week of Indoc, Class 228 begins IBS surf passage. IBS officially stands for inflatable boat, small; unofficially, itty-bitty ship. Up to this point, the trainees have functioned as individuals and as a class. Now they will learn to perform as boat crews. An IBS crew is made up of six to eight men. In the SEAL teams, the basic combat unit is the same size, only they will be called squads or fire teams. During First Phase training and especially during Hell Week, boat crews have to function as a team.
The IBS is an unwieldy, 170-pound, thirteen-foot rubber boat. It would be a miserable choice as a recreational boat for running a white-water river. They are poorly designed and too cumbersome for just about anything except teaching BUD/S trainees to work together in the surf zone—to pull together as a team. Initially, 228 learns the procedures and protocol for rigging the IBSs and aligning them on the beach for inspection. When the boats are rigged and the trainees are ready, the men stand at attention in life jackets by their boats. Their fatigue hats are attached to their blouses by a length of orange parachute cord. The paddles are wedged in a particular manner between the main tube and the two cross tubes; bow and stern lines are carefully coiled on the rubber floor. After each surf passage race, the crews must return to this same spot, prepare their craft for inspection, and wait at attention for the next race.
In front of the line of boats the coxswains, or boat-crew leaders, stand in a line abreast holding their paddles at the order-arms position, as if they were some kind of a long-barreled rifle. In turn, each coxswain salutes the instructor in charge and reports his boat rigged and his crew ready for sea. Meanwhile, the other instructors roam the line of boats looking for discrepancies. If they find a paddle that is not tightly stowed, they fling it across the beach. If a student runs to retrieve it without his swim buddy, the whole boat crew drops for push-ups. During IBS drills, trainees do push-ups with their boots atop the main tube of their boat and their hands down on the sand. Instructor Steve Ryback is in charge of Class 228 for their first day of surf passage. He is a wiry man who grew up in Chicago. Ryback served with SDV Team Two on the East Coast before coming to BUD/S. He gives the coxswains the rules of each surf passage race. The coxswains then brief their boat crews and direct their crews as they paddle out through the surf zone, clear of the breakers, and back. After several races, Ryback drops the coxswains for several sets of push-ups.
“Recover, gentlemen,” he says. They grab their paddles and come to attention. “I'm not seeing enough teamwork and spirit out there. We'll be here all day unless you guys start pulling together. Mister Gallagher.”
“Hooyah, Instructor Ryback.”
“You and your crew take seats.”
“Hooyah, Instructor.”
Gallagher's crew won the last race, so it is allowed a rest while the other crews must go back out. Class 228 is not only learning the value of teamwork, but that it also pays to be a winner.
“The rest of you guys listen close, because I will not repeat myself. Now, here's the drill.” He motions the leaders into a close horseshoe formation and gives them their sailing orders. “Coxswains, you have one minute to brief your crews. Go!”
Ensign Jason Birch races back to his boat. He's not in the best mood; it's been a long day and this is now their fifth boat race in the 63-degree water. His boat has finished last or next to last in all the races. Birch is at a slight disadvantage because his is one of the smurf crews. The boat crews are organized by height since the trainees must often carry the boat on their heads. Seven bigger men are generally able to lift and carry more weight than seven smaller men—less IBS per inch of trainee. Many training evolutions at BUD/S favor the smaller men, but IBS surf passage is not one of them. Ensign Birch races back to his IBS, where his boat crew is completing a set of push-ups for doing so poorly in the last race.
“Okay, guys,” he tells them, “here's the deal.” Birch is a powerful twenty-three-year-old Annapolis graduate from Crofton, Maryland. While at the Naval Academy he boxed and ran cross-country, a good combination for a BUD/S trainee. “We gotta paddle out past the surf line, dump boat, then hang a left and paddle up the beach to that range marker.” The crew follows his outstretched hand, which points to a wooden tower with a marking stripe on it. “We dump boat again and come straight in to the beach. Now here's where we gotta pull together; we take the boat at a head carry up the sand dune, around the ambulance, and sprint back down the beach to here. Got it? Okay, guys, get ready!”
While the crews prepare, instructors work the line of boats. Some of them use boat paddles to shovel sand onto the backs of trainees still doing pushups and into their boats. Others remind the trainees that if they don't want to go back out into the cold water, all they need to do is quit; there's a warm shower in the barracks back in the BUD/S compound. As Ensign Birch finishes his brief, Jeff Rhodes approaches from behind. Rhodes is a chief petty officer with a great deal of experience in the teams and at BUD/S. During this tour at BUD/S, he is finishing his M.B.A. at San Diego State.
“Okay, Ensign, pull your head out this time,” he says quietly. “You should already be watching those sets of breakers as they come in. Learn to anticipate. If you get a strong set, try to lay back and let them spill over before you take them on. If you can't wait for a slack set, don't take your boat out where they're plunging unless you can take the wave directly bow on. If you get sideways, have the guys on the seaward side backpaddle. As soon as you're bow on, give it hell. And try to stay out of traffic, understand?”
“Hooyah, Chief Rhodes.”
“Hit the surf,” Ryback calls over the bullhorn and nine boats charge the water. Gallagher and his crew watch. The trainees move their craft along at a low carry just off the sand, one hand grasping the lifting strap and the other clutching their paddle. With the boat crews dead even, they splash into the shallows. The surf waiting for them is a moderate line of breakers just under six feet. There's a slight offshore breeze blowing straight into the curl, making their plunge a little more vicious.
“One's in!” Birch calls and the first two men vault into the bow and start to paddle.
“Two's in!” The next two board the IBS amidships and pick up the stroke. When the water surges to his chest, Birch orders his last two men into the stern of the boat. They struggle aboard, and then reach back to drag their officer over the stern. Birch sees a few low breakers just in front of him and a big set following just beyond them. His boat is headed straight into them and he has a chance.
“Let's go for it! Stroke, stroke, dig, dig … !” While his fellow smurfs paddle hard, Birch fights to keep the bow heading straight into the breakers. They punch through one wave and ride dangerously high over the second, but they make it. “Keep digging!” he yells. Without taking his eyes from the line of oncoming waves, he catches a glimpse of an IBS to his left as it capsizes, scattering its trainees and paddles. “Stroke! Stroke!” the six paddlers cry in unison. They manage to clear the surf zone as another big set of swells begin to break. Once safely past the breakers, Birch orders them to dump boat.
The three starboard paddlers tumble over the side, taking their paddles with them. The three remaining men on the port side lean across the IBS and grab the inside carrying straps, canvas loops attached to the starboard main tube near the bottom of the IBS. Standing on the port main tube, they pull the boat over on top of them. As the boat goes over, the three men from the starboard side scramble atop the overturned boat, grab the starboard outside carrying handles, and pull the boat back upright. Ensign Birch and his six paddlers pull themselves quickly back into the boat as the swells nurse them dangerously back toward the surf zone. All the while Birch is watching the waves and the beach.
“Let's do it!” Birch yells. “Starboard ahead, port guys backpaddle.” The IBS spins around. “Okay, give way together—stroke, stroke!” As they paddle in unison heading south just outside the surf zone, Birch notes they are fifth in the nine-boat regatta—an improvement, but still not good enough.
Ensign Jason Birch has already gained the attention of the instructor staff. At the end of one of the first-week pool sessions, the class was quickly dressing on the pool deck to get to the next evolution—breakfast. The pool session had dissolved from instruction to harassment, and the trainees were being given a steady diet of push-ups as they struggled into their fatigues. Two instructors worked the class over with water hoses, ensuring the men would run to chow in wet clothes. Instructor Troy Casper watched from the three-meter concrete tower as his tired, wet charges struggled with their gear.
“Okay, gents, let's see if you like to gamble,” he called over the bullhorn from his perch. “If one of you can give me twenty dead-hang pull-ups from my tower, I'll let you go five minutes early for chow. But, if your champion fails, you owe me—all of you.”
Birch came forward. “I'll take that bet, Instructor Casper.” Casper motioned him up to the tower. Birch quickly climbed onto the platform and slipped over the side. He is in full fatigues and boots—and he is soaking wet. Hanging over the water with only his fingers grasping the concrete ledge, he does twenty dead-hang pull-ups. The last ones are not easy, but his class is with him, counting them off: “… EIGHTEEN … NINETEEN … TWENTY!”
“Okay,” Casper conceded. He tried to sound gruff, but like all the BUD/S instructors, he's pleased to see leadership and spirit in the class. “You're secured early.”
“Stroke … stroke …,” Birch exhorts his crew now as they continue to paddle south along the Strand just outside the surf zone. Ensign Birch keeps a close eye on the swells to his right, the breakers on his left, and the boat just ahead of him. Occasionally, he glances over his shoulder at the crew that's trying to gain on him. As the boat crews come abreast of the range marker on the beach, the crews begin to dump their boats. But Birch encourages his men to paddle past the other boats.
“Now, sir?”
“Keep paddling; I'll tell you when.” His head's on a swivel, alternating between the breakers and the swells. “Now!” he yells when they are finally well past the other boats. “Dump boat!”
The crew repeats the drill, flipping the boat and righting it. The cold is starting to take its toll and their movements are clumsy. They appear to be in slow motion. They've been in the water or standing in wet fatigues on the beach for close to two hours.
Once back in the boat, Birch gets them pointed toward the shore. He watches as a large wave capsizes one of the boats just ahead and off to his left. The capsized boat falls onto another IBS, knocking one of the paddlers into the water. His swim buddy quickly tumbles into the water to join him.
“Now!” Birch calls to his crew. “Stroke! Dig! Dig hard!” With a quick glance back at the swells, he steadies the boat with his paddle, which he uses as a rudder, and studies the breakers ahead. He commits his crew into the surf zone. They catch a big roller and surge forward. As the wave breaks around them, the IBS slews precariously to the right.
“Port side back! Port side back!” he yells desperately and the three men on the left side of the boat backpaddle furiously. The IBS hesitates, then straightens and rides the next wave into the shallow foam off the beach. They're through.
“One's out!”
“Two's out!”
“Three's out!”
Birch and his men quickly dump the water from their IBS. They sling it between them at a low carry as they run up to the soft sand. There they heave it up over their heads as they shuffle heavily across the soft sand to the base of the dune. The crews who spilled in the surf zone are quickly sorting themselves out and crossing the beach. Birch and his crew have moved into third place as they climb the sand dune, but another two boats are closing on their heels.
While the six crewmen carry the IBS up the fifteen-foot berm dune on their heads, Birch pushes from the stern. They're bone-weary, but they struggle over the dune and around the parked ambulance. Instructor Tim Cruickshank, the duty corpsman, shouts encouragement as they head for home. A hospital corpsman is present for every physical training evolution. Birch shifts his command to the bow of the IBS for the trek down the dune and across the soft sand to the finish. When in the head carry, the coxswain cannot carry his share of the weight from his position at the stern. Going downhill, most of the weight is carried by two men in the bow. One of his “ones” is struggling, so Birch trades places with him as they begin their shuffle-sprint to the finish. One of the tall guys’ boats overtakes them, but they are able to hold off the other for a fourth-place finish.
“Good goin’, guys,” Birch tells his crew as they line up their IBS and prepare for inspection.
“Not bad, Ensign; you guys are learning.”
“Hooyah, Chief Rhodes.”
“Now get down there and start pushing them out with the rest of the losers.”
“Hooyah, Chief Rhodes.”
The last day of Indoc for Class 228 is graduation day for Class 225. The normally sterile BUD/S compound at the Naval Special Warfare Center has taken on a festive look. Known simply as the grinder, the blacktop where BUD/S trainees in First Phase endure grueling PT is now lined with metal folding chairs shrouded in blue cloth. Surrounding the chairs on three sides of the grinder, flags of the fifty states partly hide the BUD/S training offices and classrooms. A huge, two-story American flag hangs from the second-story balcony of the west end of the compound, serving as a backdrop for a raised platform with an elegant wooden podium. The raised dais is decorated with red-white-and-blue bunting. Three naval officers and a civilian in a coat and tie sit in a shallow arc around the podium. Their attention is focused on twenty-two men in crisp white uniforms seated in the first two rows of chairs. Behind these men in uniform are several hundred guests. Most are friends and family who have come to witness the graduation. Sprinkled among the gallery are SEALs, active and retired. Like old parishioners of an orthodox faith, they have come to renew their ties to the church.
Lieutenant (jg) Gallagher's voice echoes across the grinder, “Two … Two … Five!”
“HOOYAH, CLASS TWO-TWO-FIVE!” roars Class 228.
Class 228 is in tight formation dressed in starched fatigues, spit-shined boots, and starched covers. The trainees are standing tall off to the side of the seated guests, at attention and looking good. There are now seventy of them.
“Two … Two … Eight!”
“GOOD LUCK, CLASS TWO-TWO-EIGHT!” the twenty-two soon-to-be-graduates loudly reply.
This is all part of the ritual. The junior class hooyahs the graduating class and the graduating class wishes the junior class good luck. Classes 226 and 227 are absent, both away from the Center on training evolutions. In keeping with current tradition, the graduation speech is delivered by an older BUD/S graduate. In the case of Class 225, the graduates are honored by having Lieutenant Commander Scott Lyons, USN (Ret.), Class 25, as their speaker. Scott Lyons graduated from an early equivalent of BUD/S training in the mid-1950s and served as First Phase officer in the early 1970s. Lyons also saw his share of combat with multiple tours in Vietnam, where he collected a Silver Star, five Bronze Stars, and a Purple Heart. Class 225 began with 146 men reporting to BUD/S. Today it graduates 22 men— 3 officers and 19 enlisted personnel.
The remarkable thing about the members of Class 225 is their overall appearance; these BUD/S graduates look terribly average. They are all alike—white, boyish, clean, and healthy; most are five-foot nine or ten with a few just over six feet. This is not lost on Class 228, where the trainees range from six-foot seven on down to five-six.
Lieutenant John Dowd, 225's class leader, mounts the raised dais and salutes the Navy captain who has stepped up to the podium. “Sir, request permission to ring out Class Two twenty-five.”
Captain Ed Bowen, the commanding officer of the Naval Special Warfare Center, returns his salute. His smile is almost as wide as Dowd's. “Permission granted, Lieutenant.”
Lieutenant Dowd turns and bails from the platform in a single bound. Tossing his hat to a classmate, he sprints around the seated guests to where the famous BUD/S bell is lashed to a stanchion just outside the First Phase office. He rings it three times, almost tearing the lanyard from the clapper. A roar goes up from the men of Class 225; it's officially over. They are not yet SEALs, but they are now BUD/S graduates.
“I've never been so jealous of anyone in my life,” Ensign Chad Stein-brecher will remark later that evening at 228's Indoc party. “I watched three classes graduate ahead of me at Annapolis and never felt the envy that I did for those guys in Two-two-five.”
Class 225's graduation was just one evolution during Class 228's last day of Indoc. Like all Indoc mornings, 228's day began at the pool at 0500. This is the trainees’ last morning at the pool with the “teachers” of the Indoctrination Course. First Phase, which begins on Monday, will be light on the teaching and heavy on the trauma. For many trainees in 228, it seems like they just arrived at BUD/S. As one student put it, the days are long but the weeks go by quickly. It's important that the class has a strong finish and builds momentum going into First Phase. After an intensive pool session, the men run to breakfast, then across the base to the Naval Special Warfare Center. After PT on the beach, a run in the soft sand, and a few trips into the surf, they double-time back to the barracks to change for the graduation ceremony. Indoc is essentially over for 228. While Class 225 celebrates at a reception for family and friends at the Naval Special Warfare Center, Class 228 runs across the base for noon chow. The trainees are back in the classroom at the Center at 1300.
“Feet!”
“FEET!”
“Push ‘em out.”
Bill Gallagher counts them down and 228 cranks off twenty and waits in the leaning rest.
“Recover.”
“HOOYAH, INSTRUCTOR RENO!”
“Seats.”
“SEATS!”
“Give me a muster, Mister Gallagher.”
“Seventy men assigned, Instructor Reno. All present except for one man over at medical.”
“That's close, sir, but not your fault. Since you mustered, another man quit out back, just a few minutes ago.” With Reno's announcement, the heads of the boat-crew leaders snap around surveying their boat crews. It's starting to get personal and they want to know if it was one of their men who quit. “So this is it, gents. You'll class up in First Phase with sixty-nine men.”
Class 228 gives out with a roar. Reno gives the men a rare smile and lets them go on for a moment, then calls for quiet.
“All right, listen up. This is your final Indoc briefing. You guys had a tough two weeks; I think you're ready for First Phase. And it's going to get a lot tougher. It will never be easy—not here; not in the teams. We're in a tough business. If you think the staff did a good job here in Indoc these past two weeks, you can show your appreciation by spending some time with these critique sheets. Now, we don't want a free pass. If you've got a bitch, we want to know about it. Each and every one of the instructors at Indoc will read these critiques, so give us your best shot, okay?”
“HOOYAH!”
“Now, I've got a few things to say. You're on your way to First Phase, so make me proud of you. After Hell Week, those of you who survive will still have to face the scuba pool comps in Second Phase and weapons practical in Third Phase. I'll want to shake your hand at graduation. When you get there, I want to think of you as one of Reno's warriors.”
There's another roar from the class. Reno is very popular with Class 228. While he has frequently made them suffer, the trainees know that Reno and the other Indoc instructors have tried to give them what they need to survive in First Phase.
“Be on time. Be alert. Be accountable for your actions in and out of uniform. You officers, look out for your men and your men will look out for you. Your reputation is everything in the teams. Remember this if you remember nothing else. For each of you, a chance to build on that reputation begins on Monday morning at zero five hundred in First Phase.” He looks around the class; every eye is on him. “For those of you who do get to the teams, I want you to take this on board. The guys in the teams are a brotherhood. You'll be closer to them than you ever were to your friends in high school or college. You'll live with them on deployment and some of you may even die with them in combat. But never, ever forget your family. Family comes before teammates. Most of us will grow old and die in bed, and the only people who will be there to help us die will be our family. Put your family first. I want you to never forget that.”
Reno's eyes sweep across the class. “Good luck, gentlemen,” he says as he heads for the door.
“Feet!” Gallagher shouts.
“FEET!”
“In-struct-tor Ree-no!”
“HOOYAH, INSTRUCTOR REE-NO!”
After Reno leaves them, the trainees begin to mill about and talk quietly. They're excited, they're pumped—and they're very apprehensive. Most of them hurt and all are very tired. During Reno's epilogue, an instructor had quietly slipped into the back of the room. He is not one of the Indoc instructors. Class 228 has yet to notice him.
“Drop,” he quietly commands.
“DROP!”
He threads his way to the front of the classroom through the sea of prone bodies frozen in the leaning rest.
“Recover and take your seats,” he says, and the class scrambles for their chairs.
He's taller than Reno and has a rounded, softer look to him. Reno hardly ever smiled, but this instructor seems to have a permanent, affable grin.
“My name is Instructor Mruk [pronounced Mur-rock], and I'll be your First Phase proctor. Do we have any first class petty officers here?” Only Carreola raises his hand. “Okay, how many second class?” A number of hands go up. “And how many rollbacks?” This time he counts them. “Seven rollbacks—good. You rollbacks know the deal. You can help the others with all the after-hours stuff—prepping the boats, the vehicles, the supply chits, that kind of thing. As you guys know by now, a lot of things have to get done outside of training hours. In First Phase, you'll have a lot less time and a lot more to do. It all has to get done or you'll pay for it as a class, believe me.
“I've been here for about two years and you're the second class I've proctored. I made some mistakes with my first class, but I'm going to try to do a better job with you.” The class stares at Mruk dumbly; it's like God saying he's sorry. “But you have to pay attention and give me a hundred percent. That means that you put out during training and don't slack off on the after-hours stuff. Get all your gear ready to go before you secure for the night and keep your assigned spaces in order. The days are long, but you have to get it all done. Understand?”
“HOOYAH!”
Sean Mruk graduated with Class 162. Like a surprising number of SEALs, he is from the Midwest—in his case, Lakewood, Ohio. He came to BUD/S from SEAL Team Two, where he completed three deployments in Europe. The measure of an instructor—or of a Navy SEAL, as Class 228 is coming to understand—is the number of deployments he has made. The more deployments, the more experienced the SEAL. It's a measure of knowledge and respect. As Mruk moves through a litany of things 228 has to do to get ready for First Phase training, Class 228 scribbles in their tattered notebooks.
“Class leader?” Gallagher is on his feet. “Did you get your guys moved over to the other barracks?”
“Hooyah, Instructor.”
During Indoc, Class 228 lived in the small barracks just behind the BUD/S grinder. Now the class will live on the third deck of the Naval Special Warfare barracks, about 150 yards north of the Center. These newer barracks are relatively spacious two-man rooms with a shared bath between rooms. The building is situated directly on the white-sand beach with an unobstructed view of the Pacific. If these were condominiums, they would be priced at close to a million dollars each. But the cost to Class 228 will be much higher. To remain at the Special Warfare barracks, a trainee has to stay in Class 228. If they DOR or get rolled back to another class, it's back to the cramped quarters at the Center.
“Good,” Mruk continues. “I'll be over there on Sunday at ten hundred and show you how to prepare your rooms for inspection. You have to keep your rooms and the drying cages picked up and squared away. And the rooms have to be spotless, understand?”
“HOOYAH!”
“Now, as you know, First Phase starts with PT here on the grinder at zero five hundred Monday morning. Use your time well between now and then. There's a stack of helmets by the First Phase office. Get them repainted and your class numbers blocked on. You're officially a class now; First Phase owns you. Any questions?” There are none. Either 228 has no questions or they do not entirely trust an instructor who is this civil to them. “Uh-oh.” Mruk frowns for just a moment as he looks past the class to the rear entrance. “Here comes Instructor Register. He was the proctor for Class Two-two-seven and I was kind of rough on his class. Looks like it might be payback time.” Then the pleasant grin returns to Instructor Mruk's face.
“Drop!” calls a harsh voice from the back of the room.
“DROP!”
“Push ‘em out,” Instructor Bill Register tells the new First Phase trainees.
The class-up party on Gator Beach gets under way at 1800, just as the last of the commuters pour out of NAS North Island and down Highway 75 for Imperial Beach. It's 15 October—twelve days after they began Indoc. The Gator Beach picnic area is conveniently located a half block from the Special Warfare barracks. This is the first time 228 has been together out of uniform and in a nontraining, nonmilitary environment. Off duty, the trainees look like any other gathering of college students—baggy shorts, T-shirts, jeans, baseball caps. A few of them are in bib overalls, others are in sweats. The class-up party is a traditional celebration of sorts to mark the end of their two-week Indoc and the beginning of First Phase. They've come a long way in a short time. Their spirits are good. Yet the specter of First Phase and what's ahead of them hangs over the gathering. There are overtones of a wake as Class 228 celebrates the end of Indoc.
The Indoc instructors are invited and many of them show up. Sean Mruk is the only First Phase instructor present. I, too, was invited, as I have become an unofficial member of Class 228. My presence has added a very subtle element to the journey of this class, a guy in his mid-fifties following them around with a notebook. I can usually be found wandering about the O-course or behind a row of IBSs as they prepare for surf passage. I'm often in the back of the classroom or jogging along behind the class from one evolution to the next. Some trainees think it's neat that someone is going to write about their class, but most are too busy to give it much thought. Occasionally, I'm favored with a “Hooyah, Captain Couch.” Once a week I do one PT with the class and go on a conditioning run with them. This goes a long way with Class 228 and the staff. It's like someone trying to speak the language in a foreign country.
My official permission to mingle with the inmates at BUD/S only goes so far. BUD/S training is administered by the enlisted instructors under the supervision of the phase officers. It's well-guarded turf. I carefully maintain a Star Trek-like prime directive; I do not interfere with training or talk with trainees during training evolutions. One by one, the instructors approach me and ask about what I'm doing, even though most of them already know. They are invariably polite. Many of them have read my novels because they were about SEALs and by an ex-SEAL. They usually ask, “Has training changed much since you went through?”
That's not an easy question. Only two members of Class 228 were alive when I came through training on the East Coast with Class 45. Structurally, training was very different then; there were no Indoc or pretraining courses in 1968. My training was less regimented and I don't recall my class being so pressed for time as is 228. We had fewer duties and responsibilities outside of training hours. On the other hand, much of it was the same. We ran to the pool and learned to swim with our hands and feet bound. We did the same basic exercises at PT, but without the stretching routines. There was no such thing as hydration; you drank water at meals to wash down food. My O-course was much the same as the one 228 must negotiate. We ran daily in the soft sand. Mine was also a winter class, but winter in southern Virginia is different than in southern California. The waves were smaller and the waters of the Chesapeake much colder when Class 45 did the same surf passage drills as Class 228.
“But was it harder?” they all ask.
I don't know yet. I think BUD/S training may be like childbirth; the pain is quickly pushed aside by the joy of having it behind you. Unlike BUD/S graduates, women don't sit around and brag about how hard it all was. If Indoc is any indication, the days are longer, but most of the trainees arrive in better condition than in my day. They are wet much more than I was during the first weeks of training. Like Class 228, I'll have to wait for First Phase to see just how hard the training really is.
“Ready for next week, Billy?” I ask Lieutenant Gallagher as he comes over to say hello.
“I don't know, sir; I guess so. I know I want to get started with First Phase. The sooner it begins, the sooner it'll be over.” He grins and shrugs. “I guess I don't need a lot of time to sit around and think about it.”
I was surprised to see Bill Gallagher at the head of Class 228. We first met, by chance, when he was a plebe at the Naval Academy. He was assigned as my escort for noon meal in King Hall; that was seven years ago, in the fall of 1992. He was almost as tall as he is now but much thinner. I recall asking my standard Academy midshipmen question:
“Mister, Gallagher, what do you want to do when you graduate from here? Aviation? Submarines?”
I remember that he didn't hesitate. “I want to be a Navy SEAL, sir.”
Now Bill Gallagher will lead sixty-eight other young men into First Phase BUD/S training. It is a small world, and one of cycles—old guys, new guys. I retired with thirty years of active and reserve service the same day Bill Gallagher was commissioned an ensign in the U.S. Navy. We are Academy men, thirty years apart: Class of 1967—Class of 1997. I, too, came to BUD/S from the fleet as a junior grade lieutenant; I was also my class leader. A little more than seventy trainees began with Class 45; only thirteen of us graduated. I wonder how many of Class 228 will make it through the next twenty-five weeks to graduation. Will Bill Gallagher graduate with his class? I think so. It seems to me he has the right stuff, but so do all of them. I envy Gallagher and the others. I envy their youth and their chance to come of age in the Navy SEAL teams. I don't envy them the price they'll have to pay to get there.
Each trainee I talk with is both optimistic and apprehensive. One man is at the grill flipping burgers. A short distance away, a trainee-turned-barber is shaving the heads of his fellow BUD/S trainees. This, too, is a class-up tradition. On Monday, the first day of First Phase, the entire class will pay if just one of them shows up with more than a stubble on his head. Suddenly, there is a slight commotion as a man in T-shirt and jeans walks from his car to the picnic area.
“In-struct-tor Ree-no!” shouts one of the class officers.
“HOOYAH, INSTRUCTOR REE-NO!” Class 228 crowds around its former proctor. This is a cultural shift from the days of Class 45. We never socialized with our instructors until after graduation. For me, it's fascinating to watch. Reno and the other instructors were pounding on these trainees only a few days ago; in some cases, a few hours ago. Now here they are sharing a beer and talking about how to get through First Phase.