FIRST PHASE

The morning of 18 October is clear and cold. The day holds the promise of sunshine and temperatures in the seventies, but at 0500 it is fifty-three degrees. The sun will not be over San Diego Bay for another two hours.

“Class Two-two-eight is formed, Chief,” Lieutenant Gallagher reports. “Sixty-nine men present.”

Chief Stephen Schultz quickly returns his salute. “Hit the surf, sir—all of you. Then get into the classroom.”

Class 228 races out of the compound and across the beach to the Pacific. A few moments later the men slosh into the First Phase classroom. After dropping several times for push-ups, they are given “seats.” The First Phase instructors file in and parade across the front of the room.

“Welcome to First Phase, gentlemen. Training begins today.” Ensign Joe Burns is a hard, well-conditioned six-footer with short salt-and-pepper hair. There is nothing frivolous or forgiving about him. He left college to enlist in the Navy and to become a SEAL. After rising through the enlisted ranks, he earned his commission and is now the First Phase officer. His brother is a lieutenant in the teams. Burns has a reputation as a harsh man with a wry sense of humor. This morning he is all business.

“This is a small class, but I understand all of you want to be frogmen, is that right?”

“HOOYAH!”

“Well, we're going to see about that. We'll see just how bad you really want it. I'm Ensign Burns. This is my phase and this is my staff.”

There are fourteen instructors including Burns. They go down the line and introduce themselves, names only—no background or bio. Instructor Mruk, the class proctor, introduces himself only as “Mother.” Introductions made, Chief Schultz drops the trainees for more push-ups as the instructor staff files out.

“Okay, on the grinder, ready for PT,” Schultz yells at them. “Move, move, move!”

At 0510 the class is back in PT formation. The men are arrayed in boots, long fatigue pants, and white T-shirts. This is their first PT inside the BUD/S compound, an honor reserved for First Phase trainees. They stand in places marked by miniature frog flippers painted on the blacktop. The paint and macadam are chipped and stained where generations of BUD/S trainees have toiled and suffered. They are armed only with canteens that stand in formation alongside each trainee.

“Okay, people, hit the surf; get wet and sandy!” Schultz orders, and the class races from the grinder. Moments later 228 tramples back onto the grinder. This time the men roll in the soft sand after diving into the breakers. They now have the texture of sugar cookies.

“Too slow, people, much too slow. Drop!”

There is a raised podium or platform on the north side of the BUD/S grinder. The three-foot platform fascia bears the tall gold numbers “226.” Class 226, now in Third Phase, is the senior class at BUD/S. From here, Chief Schultz leads Class 228 in its initial First Phase PT. The rest of the instructors move among the class like prowling lions, tearing into individual trainees.

“You're doing push-ups like a girl. Is that what they taught you in Indoc? Go get wet.”

Getting wet is different from hitting the surf. Before 228 formed up for PT, the men had to prepare two IBSs, one on each side of the PT platform. Both are filled with an ice-water slurry and have the two cross tubes deflated. A trainee ordered to get wet slides over the bow or stern and “swims” under the flat cross tubes to emerge from the other end. It only takes about five seconds to make the plunge. The trainee is no longer sandy, just wet and very cold. Two instructors roam among the lines of struggling trainees with water hoses, blasting their shaved heads with a stream of cold water. By a conservative count, Class 228 will do over five hundred push-ups and sixty pull-ups before First Phase training is an hour old. Chief Schultz takes the men from one exercise to the next with no break. For good measure, he mixes in an extra ration of flutter kicks and sit-ups.

Class 228 knew this was coming; the trauma of the first day of First Phase was passed on to them by Classes 226 and 227. But neither Indoc nor warnings from the senior classes prepared them for the intensity of this PT session. For the First Phase instructors, it is a calculated mayhem, designed to force each man in the class to reassess his personal commitment to the goal of becoming a Navy SEAL. Many in Class 228 are asking themselves, “Four weeks of this, then Hell Week? I don't know if I can I do it!” Across the grinder, a few members of Class 227 peek at the havoc being visited on the junior class. They are in Second Phase—dive phase. Many of them shudder as they remember their first day on the grinder. But they don't watch for long. It is too painful, and they are too busy with diving physics and air decompression tables.

“Hydrate!” Schultz calls from the platform. Stephen Schultz is a prototype BUD/S instructor: short, compact, and very muscular. He has a bachelor's degree in education. Before becoming a SEAL, he served with Special Boat Unit 24. Prior to coming to the Special Warfare Center as an instructor, Schultz completed an exchange tour with the British Royal Marines as an assault team leader with the famous Special Boat Squadron. Leading PT for Class 228, he does everything he asks the trainees to do, yet he seems to do it without effort.

“HYDRATE!” the exhausted trainees respond.

The men of Class 228 grab their canteens and chug. Thirst is the last thing on their minds, but they drink anyway. The order to hydrate is the only respite Chief Schultz gives them.

“Canteens down!”

“HOOYAH!”

“Push-ups!”

“READY!”

At 0615, they are sent into the surf one final time and released for breakfast.

“Form it up, running formation!” Gallagher calls to his classmates. “C'mon, guys, we don't have a lot of time.”

They seem tentative and confused. Their biceps and stomach muscles are on fire. Many in 228 are confused and in shock. Others are feeling sorry for themselves. A few of the stronger trainees try to help their classmates, but most think only of themselves; they are not yet a class. For the run to chow, they don their fatigue blouses, canteen belts, and helmets. The Naval Amphibious Base is still asleep as Class 228 jogs across the base to the chow hall for the first time in their green helmets—helmets that have 228 stenciled on each side in white letters. They have an hour to eat and make the mile run back to the BUD/S compound for the next evolution, a four-mile timed run on the beach. Three men quit after breakfast—the first three DORs from 228 in First Phase.

Last Friday there was a line of green helmets along the grinder next to the First Phase office, helmets with 227 stenciled on the side. Each helmet represented a trainee from that class who DORed. This morning at 0500 there were none. When Class 227 moved on to Second Phase, the helmets were removed to make room for the new class. Now the first green 228 helmets appear on the grinder next to the bell.

Secured to a stanchion just outside the First Phase office is a famous BUD/S institution—the bell. Tradition calls for a student who quits in First Phase to ring the bell three times and place his helmet on the grinder. Indoc DORs don't count. There was a time at BUD/S when there was no bell. Pressure from a kinder and gentler Navy thought it too demeaning to ask that a trainee publicly declare his failure in this way. But the bell came back. Since it returned in 1995, the bell has been a part of BUD/S training.

Many think the bell is a tradition that dates back to the early days of training Navy frogmen. Not so. When the current BUD/S training compound was built in 1970, training moved from the World War II-vintage Quonset huts on the Amphibious Base to the new facility on the Pacific side of Highway 75, or the Strand Highway, as it is commonly called. Before 1970, trainees who wanted to DOR went to the instructor hut, banged three times on the doorjamb with their helmets, and yelled, “I quit!” Master Chief Terry Moy was a legendary instructor at BUD/S in the late 1960s and early ‘70s. “Mother” Moy, as he was called, moved across the Strand Highway with BUD/S when they occupied the new facility. Moy, Class 35, was an old-school frogman who was justly proud of his new office quarters. When the first trainee banged on his new door to quit, he had to put a stop to it—not the quitting, the abuse of his new door. The next day he brought in a tugboat bell and lashed it to the stanchion outside the First Phase office. Except for the three-year exile in the early ‘90s, Mother Moy's bell has been there ever since.

After the brutal PT session on the grinder and a two-mile round trip for breakfast, Class 228 faces its first timed evolution in First Phase. It's a terrible day for running on the beach. The tide is dead high, which means the runners will have to thread their way along the high-water mark between the soft dry sand and the not-so-soft wet sand. The cutoff for this first timed run is thirty-two minutes. Eight-minute miles don't sound too demanding, but in wet trousers and boots, at high tide, it's not an easy run. The trainees stretch for a few moments behind the BUD/S compound, then line up across the beach near the water's edge.

“Okay, fellows, listen up,” says Chief Ken Taylor. “We're going south today. It's down and back in thirty-two minutes. This is your first timed evolution. Two miles down, two miles back, and you best be back here in thirty-two minutes—or else. Any questions?”

“NEGATIVE!”

“Get ready … Go!”

Class 228 charges down the beach toward Mexico. Soon the trainees begin to string out, each man trying to find that sweet, firm spot between the upsurge from the breakers and the soft dry sand. The first man, Petty Officer Lawrence Obst, arrives back in just over twenty-seven minutes. But twenty of them fail to cross the line under thirty-two minutes. Those that make it in the allotted time are allowed to turn right and join Obst in the soft sand. They form in ranks at a slow jog to cool down. Those who arrive later than thirty-two minutes turn left. First they do push-ups, then bear-crawl into the surf and join the growing line of slow runners in the Pacific. Here they link arms in a line, with the sixty-two-degree water up to their necks.

While the slow twenty endure the cold water, Lieutenant Gallagher leads the rest of the class in stretching exercises on the beach. Instructor Dan Maclean watches the trainees in the water carefully and checks his watch. Maclean is the corpsman on this evolution. He came to BUD/S from SEAL Team Five, where he made four platoon deployments. Maclean is responsible for the trainees’ immersion times. Over the years, the BUD/S medical department has developed an immersion table based on water temperature and activity. Hypothermia is no stranger at BUD/S training, and Maclean scans the line of immersed men for any sign of it. At sixty-two degrees, trainees whose movements are restricted can stay in the water for only twenty minutes. Within the hour they can go back in, but not for as long. While the faster portion of the class continues to stretch, the slow runners are called out of the water one at a time. Chief Taylor logs their times and scolds them for failing the evolution. The trainees return to the edge of the surf zone and are made to lie on their backs, feet toward the sand. They now do flutter kicks while the expended waves surge up over their heads and shoulders. By doing flutter kicks, they go off the restricted-activity time limit and can stay in the water longer.

“All right, listen up,” Taylor tells the men kicking in the surf. “See the rest of your classmates up there on the beach taking it easy?”

“HOOYAH!”

“Those guys are winners; you guys are losers. You better start taking this training seriously or you're not going to be around here much longer. They paid the price up front and now they get a little time off. You didn't. You failed. And now you're paying a bigger price. Is there anybody here who does not understand the difference between putting out and giving up?”

“NEGATIVE!”

“Anybody not understand the difference between a winner and a loser?”

“NEGATIVE!”

“Give me twenty, then get up there with your class.”

The slow runners push them out while still in the surf, then join the class as they move on to the next evolution, log PT.

Log PT is older than the Navy frogmen of World War II. In 1943, the U.S. Marines landed at Tarawa. Because of faulty intelligence about the offshore reefs surrounding the Tarawa beaches, the Marines suffered terrible casualties. Something had to be done. A colorful officer by the name of Draper Kauffman was sent to Fort Pierce, Florida, to train men who would go onto the landing beaches ahead of the Marines. Fort Pierce became the incubator of the Navy frogmen and Kauffman the father of UDT Prior to his service in the U.S. Navy and our entry into World War II, Kauffman served as an ambulance driver and bomb disposal expert in England. There he observed the newly formed British commandos exercising with sections of telephone poles to build strength and teamwork. He introduced those same techniques at Fort Pierce when he began to train the first Navy frogmen. Much like surf drills with the IBSs, log PT encourages teamwork and spirit. It also pays to be a winner.

When the instructors arrive at the log PT area, Class 228 is standing by its logs, one log for each boat crew. The trainees now wear their longsleeved fatigue blouses buttoned to the collar and soft hats. Each log is eight feet long and a foot in diameter—about 150 pounds each. A single log sits at the head of the two files of logs and their crews. This log is engraved with the title “Old Misery.” It is slightly shorter than the other logs, but bigger in diameter and much heavier.

“Get wet and sandy, people,” Instructor Michael Getka tells them over the electronic bullhorn. “I don't want to see any piece of green fabric or flesh that does not have sand on it.”

The log PT area is directly behind the BUD/S training compound. Between the log PT area and the Pacific is a fifteen-foot, dunelike sand berm built by the Seabees to protect the compound from the winter storm surf. Class 228 charges up the berm and down to the surf some fifty yards away. Once again the men are cold and wet. On the way back they roll down the berm to the log PT area—cold, wet, and sandy.

“The logs, people. I want the logs wet and sandy.” The boat crews retrieve their logs and head back for the surf. They carry the logs in front of them at a waist carry to go over the berm, then up to a shoulder carry to the water. On the return trip, the boat crews carefully roll their logs down the berm. One crew's sandy log slips from their grasp and they drop it.

“Don't pick it up; drop down and push ‘em out. The rest of you get those logs in the extended-carry position.” Instructor Getka turns his attention back to the crew doing push-ups. Michael Getka is a lanky six-footer from upstate New York, with thick blond hair and mustache. He served with the East Coast SEAL platoons before coming to BUD/S and is a Gulf War veteran. “If you ever drop one of my logs again, your pain will be legendary.”

“HOOYAH!”

Soon all the crews are standing under their logs. While they hold them over their heads at arms’ length in the extended-carry position, instructors roam among them with IBS paddles, shoveling sand on them. Whenever they see or sense that a trainee is not supporting his share of the log, the instructors drop him. The individual pays with push-ups and his boat crew pays with one less man to bear the weight of the log. As the boat crews twist and strain under the weight of their logs, more individual trainees are dropped for push-ups.

“This slacker was holding back on you; he wasn't holding up his end of the log. You want him back?”

“HOOYAH, INSTRUCTOR!”

“He was cheating you—and himself.” The trainee pushes sand and the rest of the crew fights to keep the log aloft. “You sure you want him back?”

“HOOYAH, INSTRUCTOR!”

“Get back under there, slipknot, and quit making your crewmates pull your weight.”

After more extended-arm harassment, the trainees circle up and learn the mechanics of log PT. Log PT is the only evolution Class 228 did not learn in Indoc. Using the class rollbacks as demonstrators, the rest of 228 learns the basic exercises for log PT: squats, jumping jacks, sit-ups, overhead tosses. Most of these are four-count exercises.

“Now pay attention,” Instructor Maclean tells them. “If I hear a loud head-to-log crack, or one of you sees a man go down, put up your hand and call out, ‘Man down!’ We'll be right there. The safest way to do this is to work as a team. If you work as team, nobody'll get hurt.”

“Fall in on your logs,” yells Getka over the bullhorn. Class 228 breaks from the circle and races for their logs. “Too slow, too slow. Get wet and sandy.”

The class finally settles on their logs and Getka begins to drill them. Log PT puts a premium on teamwork and spirit. Strength is important, but secondary. The midsize crews of uniform height have a slight advantage. Ensign Birch's smurf crew is the first to lose momentum and teamwork in handling their log. After fifty push-ups as a crew, they take up Old Misery for punishment drills. The big log is heavy and hard to handle, straining arms and backs that are already tired and cold. The smurfs struggle as best they can and are spared only when Ensign Clint Burke and the big crew are singled out for extra instruction.

Ensign Burke and Ensign Birch. The instructors confuse the names but not the trainees. The two boat-crew leaders couldn't be more physically dissimilar. Birch is short, burly, and black. Burke is tall—about six-five— rangy, and blond. They were classmates at the Naval Academy and both want to be Navy SEALs. Ensign Burke's crew is very tall. They begin at six-foot one and go up to a lanky seaman who is six-seven. This six-inch height differential is not helping them with log PT, and Old Misery emphasizes their problems. The tall men are butt to belly button as they crouch under the big log.

The boat crews gradually begin to get the hang of working together; they talk it up, motivate each other, and pull as a team. The First Phase staff is on them relentlessly—shouting, dropping individuals and whole crews for push-ups. In the midst of this, one crew begins to excel; it is the other smurf crew. They have a lot of spirit and are able to loft their log well above their extended hands on the overhead toss. They're beginning to move as one. Instructor Getka, who has been in a mock rage since the evolution began, stalks over to them.

“Right-hand starting position,” Getka orders. Ensign Chad Steinbrecher and his crew bring their log down to the sand on their right side and crouch next to it, expecting the worst. “Seats.”

“SEATS!”

“Good job, guys. You're showing some teamwork. Take a break.” Getka moves on to the other crews.

“Nice goin’, guys,” Steinbrecher tells his men as he sits warily at the head of the crew, watching the instructors continue hammering the other crews, “but let's stay alert.”

They sit quietly like grade school kids who have survived the first round of a spelling bee. They have earned a brief respite, but they know they'll be back in the fray soon enough.

This crew is led from the front by Steinbrecher, another ensign from the Naval Academy, and from the rear by Airman Harry Pell. Junior enlisted men in the Navy are designated seamen, airmen, or firemen. Airmen are normally assigned to naval aviation squadrons. The airmen at BUD/S are usually parachute riggers, and will be in great demand if they can make it through training to the teams. Pell is just one of the interesting personal stories of Class 228. Airman Harry Pell used to be First Lieutenant Harry Pell, U.S. Marine Corps. He is a short, powerful man who left the Corps to become a Navy SEAL. Pell is about five-six and very fit. He is average in the water, a solid runner, and very strong at PT. But he has spirit, and spirit in a BUD/S boat crew is contagious. He either genuinely loves BUD/S training or he should be up for an Oscar. Whenever an instructor sends an individual trainee out to the surf, that trainee has to take along a swim buddy—an innocent classmate who must also suffer. No SEAL or aspiring SEAL goes in the water without his swim buddy. When the call goes out, “Need a swim buddy,” Pell is the first to his feet. This is not lost on the instructors. He brought a reputation as a team player with him from Indoc, and he's keeping it up in First Phase. All the First Phase instructors are curious about this little guy with the bulldog and USMC tattoos—the one who gave up his commission in the Marines to become an enlisted BUD/S trainee.

After log PT, the class quickly gets into running formation and slogs off to chow. Three of them don't; they go to the First Phase office. An instructor leaving the office sees them lined up on the grinder just outside the office, next to the three helmets that were deposited by the bell after breakfast.

“What are you doing here? Drop.” The trainees drop and start doing push-ups. “So, why are you here? How come you're not on your way to chow?”

While two of them continue to push away, the third looks up from the leaning rest. “We want to DOR, Instructor.”

“You want to quit?”

“Yes, Instructor.”

The instructor is at a loss for words. “Uh, recover. Wait right here.” He returns to the office. “Hey, Mruk, get over here. I got some of your guys outside.”

Mruk steps from the office and looks at the three wet trainees. “You're quitting?”

“Yes, Instructor.”

“All three of you?”

“Yes, Instructor.”

“I hate you,” he grumbles. “Go sit on the bench.” The three trainees shuffle over to the green bench between the First Phase office and the First Phase classroom. They quietly take a seat.

Instructor Sean Mruk doesn't really hate them. Few instructors have much empathy for trainees who quit so early in the program, and most have learned not to take it personally. They prefer that those trainees who want to leave do so; it's better for the class and better for the men who don't want to be there. But Mruk does hate the process. If a trainee DORs during a training evolution, he first goes to the senior instructor in charge of the evolution and tells him that he wants to quit. The instructor may or may not try to talk him back into the evolution and back into training. Then he sends the DOR requestee to the class proctor. If a trainee quits between evolutions—as these three did—he goes straight to the proctor. The proctor will either counsel him, if he feels there may be something to salvage, or process him for disenrollment. For these three trainees, at this stage of the game, there is little to be saved.

Mruk retrieves the three men's training records and attaches DOR chits to them. All trainees who quit must do so by the chain of command.

“Okay, guys,” Mruk says as he again emerges from the First Phase office, “let's get this done.” He sets off across the grinder with the three trainees in tow to find Ensign Burns.

Following lunch, Class 228 is standing by for its first barracks and personnel inspection of First Phase. Inspection is a weekly event. Over the weekend, the class buffed out their rooms and carefully stowed all their personal gear. When the instructors arrive, the trainees are standing by in starched fatigues, freshly blocked covers, and spit-shined boots. The rooms and the trainees are very squared away. Lieutenant Gallagher follows the inspection party around with a clipboard and watches them tear through room after room, including his own. Mattresses are overturned, and the contents of drawers and lockers spilled to the floor. Only three rooms pass, and they are virtually indistinguishable from the ones that didn't. Chief Schultz looks over the destruction in the last room that failed the inspection.

“What kind of pigsty are you running here, Mister Gallagher? These rooms are terrible and your uniforms are not up to par. Hit the surf, sir, all of you.”

“Hooyah, Chief Schultz.”

Class 228, all starched and spit-shined, heads for the Pacific. Neither Gallagher nor any of his officers can remember any room inspection at the Naval Academy as harsh or capricious as this BUD/S room inspection. Certainly the consequences of failure at Annapolis were not so immediate or severe.

After the barracks and personnel inspection debacle, 228 forms up and runs down the beach to the BUD/S area. The next evolution is IBS surf passage. Ten boats are lined up at the staging area just off the grinder near the Indoc barracks. They are rigged, fully inflated, and ready for sea—paddles and life jackets are all in place. The boats were prepared by the class that morning well before 0500 and the start of PT Ten boats were prepared, but because of the DORs, only nine are needed.

Their first First Phase surf passage evolution is directed by Chief Taylor. Ken Taylor is an eighteen-year veteran of the teams who is on his second tour as a BUD/S instructor. He has handsome, classic features and an animated, professional manner. Taylor saw action in the Gulf War and has a solid reputation as an operator. He and Chief Schultz seem to be cast from the same mold: short, muscular, and very fit. Both are compact, powerful men who exude confidence and authority. Chief Taylor is a most innovative instructor. The trainees learned the basics of IBS surf passage during Indoc, but nothing has prepared them for the mischievous ways of Chief Taylor. He makes a game of surf passage, but it's a cold, punishing game. This is their last evolution of the afternoon and their last time in the surf. Taylor works them hard, making them remove their blouses and T-shirts and roll in the sand under their boats.

“Okay, fellows, on the next race, everyone faces aft in the IBS and you have to paddle backward through the surf. Then back in stern first, paddling forward. Ready … Go!”

The class fights their way out through the surf and back. The winning crew gets to rest, and the other eight boats line up for another race.

“All right, this time you paddle out, dump boat, and store your oars in the righted boat. Then I want you to swim your boat back through surf. As always, it pays to be a winner. Ready … Go!”

Chief Taylor is a very clever tormentor, but each IBS race puts a premium on teamwork. He also blends a measure of humor with the pain, and always looks for ways to reward spirit and leadership. Class 228 will come to Taylor's evolutions with mixed feelings. The trainees know they will suffer, but they will have a little fun as well. They also know that Chief Taylor is scrupulously fair. At 1700, the class secures from the last surf race. Back at the Center, a weary Class 228 washes down its boats and prepares to run to evening chow.

The last evolution of this long and ruthless day is an evening class on surf observation, or SUROBS. After chow the trainees straggle into the classroom, where Instructor Mruk teaches them the accepted way to gauge and classify surf, and shows them how to record the data in the proper format. They get no harassment from Mruk this evening, only information. Tomorrow morning at 0500 they will be out on the beach with Mruk for a SUROBS practical. Each morning thereafter, a swim pair from Class 228 will be on the beach at 0430 to observe the surf conditions and complete a SUROBS report. This report will be used by the instructors for water-training evolutions. If there are discrepancies in the surf reports, or in the wind and tide data, the whole class will pay for the oversight of the reporting swim pair.

Tuesday is not an easy day, but it is nothing like the trauma of Monday.

After PT and the run to morning chow, they are scheduled for classroom briefings through 1000, when they take to the O-course. Two trainees don't make it that far. They DOR before breakfast. One of them is Petty Officer Carreola. He has pneumonia and training is over for him. Losing the senior petty officer is never easy for a class. In the case of Class 228, it's still early in the game and the trainees have yet to gel as a class in First Phase. For Robert Carreola, this is a bitter personal tragedy. He nearly made it through the Hell Week of a previous class. Now he is out of 228. Carreola has a good career ahead of him in the Navy; he is a first class petty officer with an outstanding Navy record. He is only a few credits short of gaining his bachelor's degree in resource management. But at this point, it looks doubtful that he will ever become a Navy SEAL.

The trainees’ first classroom evolution on the second day of First Phase is a briefing by the First Phase leading chief petty officer. Chief Bob Nielsen appears different from the other phase staffers. He is tall for a SEAL, about six-two, and slender, with dark receding hair and a push-broom mustache. He looks more like an academic than a BUD/S instructor. Nielsen has a casual manner and a dry sense of humor. He came to BUD/S from the East Coast, where he deployed with SEAL Teams Two and Eight, and saw action in the Gulf War.

“Feet!” Bill Gallagher calls out.

“FEET!” Class 228 responds.

“Drop!” Nielsen intones.

As the members of Class 228 begin to count them out, Chief Nielsen asks that they do so quietly. Golf course, they call it—the trainees count out push-ups in hushed tones. The class continues to push linoleum while Nielsen adjusts the remote control for his presentation slides.

“Okay, take your seats. My name is Chief Nielsen and I'm the phase leading chief. This briefing is to let you know what we expect of you during First Phase. First of all, what's my job here as the leading chief?” He doesn't wait for an answer. “My job is to ensure training is conducted safely and to see that you get quality training. I'm also here to see that the First Phase staff excels at their job.” He gives the trainees a crooked smile. “Some of you may think they excel just a little too much. And finally, I'm here to see that the training goals established by the Special Warfare Center for First Phase training are met.”

While Nielsen speaks, the topic headings of his presentation slide into view on the screen behind him. Nielsen cautions them about their dealings with his staff. “Don't try to get one over on us; we've seen it all. You can try, but when we catch you, we'll make you pay.

“All right, let's take a look at the phase schedule. We have you for eight fun-filled weeks. The first four weeks are conditioning—running, swimming, log PT, the O-course, surf passage, and all that. What does this mean?” Again the wry smile. “The first four weeks are a kick in the crotch. It means we're gonna hammer you, right?”

“HOOYAH!”

“Conditioning and cold water is the name of the game. That's our job; that's your job. Week five is Hell Week. The last three weeks, we concentrate on hydrographic reconnaissance and mission planning. This will allow those of you who are still here to heal up a little while we try to teach you something.” He clears the screen and brings up the next topic.

“Standards. If you cannot meet these standards, you will be dropped from First Phase. Most of you will be dropped and never return. A few of you will have a chance to come back through with a later class, but don't count on it. So here they are, gentlemen; this is what you have to do—at a minimum. Run four miles on the beach in thirty-two minutes. If you can't do it in that time now, what are you going to do when the minimum times come down in Second and Third Phase? I understand a third of you failed the first timed run; this won't cut it, gents.” He calls another line of text to the screen with his remote control. “Two-mile open-ocean swim. Ninety-five minutes before Hell Week and eighty-five minutes after Hell Week. Obstacle course. You guys have the O-course later today, right?”

“HOOYAH!”

“The first time through, you will be expected to do it in seventeen minutes. You can walk that course in seventeen minutes. By the time you leave First Phase, you will be expected to do it in thirteen minutes. Feet.”

“FEET!”

“Seats.”

“SEATS!”

“Don't be falling asleep on me or you'll wish you hadn't. I'm putting this information out for your benefit. We can always go out on the grinder and do this another way.” Nielsen again has their full attention. Several men rise and go to stand in the back of the room. Two of them go for the ice bucket. Before each class in First Phase, one of the trainees is assigned to see that a pail of ice and water is in the back of the lecture room. The two sleepy trainees dunk their heads in the slurry and return to their seats. They'll manage to stay awake for a while.

“Okay, let's talk about academics. You will have to pass a written test; seventy percent is passing for enlisted men, eighty percent for officers. Who're the officers here?” Nine hands go up. “How many from the Academy?” All the hands stay up. “All of you from the Naval Academy?” Nielsen raises his eyebrows in a neutral gesture. This was not the first time, nor the last, that the class officers will be surveyed for their Academy/ non-Academy affiliation. “You officers have more schooling and more responsibility, so we hold you to a higher standard. And not just for the written test. We expect you to be leaders in training, understand?”

“HOOYAH!” the class officers respond.

“Hell Week. You'll get more on this later; but for now, let's just say you have to perform and survive. In the past, all you had to do was to survive Hell Week. Now you have to perform as well. You officers and petty officers have to lead. You have to function as boat crews and as a class in Hell Week, okay?”

“HOOYAH!”

Nielsen gives them a doubtful look and scans his notes. “Pool standards. We lose guys out of every class because they can't pass all the pool evolutions. There are four performance tests you'll have to pass. You all learned drown proofing in Indoc, right?” He holds up a fist to cut off the standard response. “Here in First Phase, you'll have to put all of that together to pass the drown-proofing test. You've practiced your knot tying underwater, right? You'll have to do all your knots at fifteen feet. Then there's the fifty-meter underwater swim without fins. Fifty-five yards—kick, stroke, and glide. You do this or you get dropped. And finally, you have to pass a lifesaving practical. You have to be able to handle yourself in the water in this business and be able to take care of your buddy as well.”

Nielsen pushes through a standard set of dos and don'ts while in training. Basically, BUD/S trainees are expected to train during working hours and to use their nontraining time to prepare for training. This means preparing their equipment and resting their bodies when not actually engaged in training evolutions. Working hours for a BUD/S trainee are 0500 to 1700—longer if they have to come in for a night evolution, but fourteen hours at a minimum. Chief Nielson touches on safety issues, and the zero-tolerance policy on drugs and alcohol-related incidents.

“Let's talk about the philosophy of getting through training. What's it take to make it through here? First of all, this training is not for everyone. Being a SEAL is not for everyone. A lot of good guys come here and for one reason or another decide that this is not for them. So be it; let them walk away, and let them do so with dignity. You laugh at someone who quits or make fun of a man because he DORs, and we'll hammer you—big time. The cold facts are that at least two-thirds of you sitting here will quit.” He steps away from the lectern to one side of the room. “Okay, there's seven rows of you here in the classroom. These two rows will be there on graduation. Maybe a few more, maybe a few less. All the rest of you guys, these five rows, are gonzo—history—back in the fleet. That's reality; that's the way it is. As a class, you may fool us and more of you will be here on graduation day. We'll see. It's really up to you.

“How do you get into these first two rows? Have a positive mental attitude. Pay attention to detail. Take it one day at a time, one evolution at a time. Mentally rehearse things; it really works. Before you go down to tie your knots, rehearse in your mind exactly what you're going to do. Mentally go over it. And you know what? You'll do it. Expect to have weak areas; we all do—drown proofing, O-course, whatever. Work on your weaknesses. If you need help or extra instruction, we'll see that you get it. That's part of our job. Overcome your weaknesses and you can get through this course.

“Now, you've heard this before, but you need to hear it again. Your reputation in the teams begins here. How do you want to be remembered? As someone who just did the minimums and barely got by? That might sound acceptable to some of you right now, but it's not the way we do business in the teams. You want a reputation as a guy who has spirit and can be counted on; someone who gives it his best shot. Who do you want in your platoon—someone who only meets the minimums, or someone who always tries to excel? Think about it. And remember, there's only one person here in this room who knows if you are going to make it through this training—that's you. Think about that, too. Feet.”

“FEET!”

“What's your next evolution, Mister Gallagher?”

“The commanding officer's briefing.”

“Then I guess you better stand by for the CO.”

Nielsen leaves them. Some of the trainees turn and talk quietly among themselves, others bend or stretch to relieve sore muscles. Still others sit back down to get off their feet. As a group, they don't seem to know how to act unless someone is telling them what to do.

“Okay, lock it up,” calls one of the trainees, and the class quiets down. It's Daniel Bennett, an easygoing second class petty officer from Alabama. With the departure of Carreola, he is now the class leading petty officer, or LPO. “We've got to pay attention and keep an eye on each other. Nobody falls asleep or we'll all pay for it. If you start to nod off, go stand up in the back of the room. If someone taps you, don't argue; just go stand up.”

Bennett has been here before. He DORed with Class 208 on the second day of Hell Week. After two years in the fleet, he's back to try it again. He is a serious trainee, and he has good rapport with the other petty officers. Bennett knows the game; he's like a border collie, quietly moving around the class, offering advice and giving direction.

“Stand by!” yells one of the class door sentries. “Feet!”

“FEET!”

There's a mild commotion and scraping of chairs as the members of 228 get back to their places. A moment later a Navy captain enters the classroom, followed by a half dozen instructors. The instructors take seats in the rear of the class while the captain makes his way to the front of the room.

“Please, take your seats,” he says in a pleasant voice, “and carry on.”

He regards the class with an easy smile, then drags a chair from one side to the center of the classroom. “I really don't have a speech or any prepared remarks. I just thought I'd take a few minutes and talk with you about training.” He has the appearance and manner of Mr. Rogers, and he probably doesn't weigh more than 150 pounds.

Captain Ed Bowen is the commanding officer of the Naval Special Warfare Center. As the CO, he is responsible for all the courses taught at the Center, as well as the East Coast Naval Special Warfare Center extension. There are some twenty-six courses taught at various times at his command, but 90 percent of the money and manpower, and 100 percent of the public attention, are on BUD/S.

“They treating you all right here? Nobody is being too mean to you, are they?” Eyes roll and a murmur runs through the class. “I was an eighteen-year-old seaman when I came through this training back in 1964. I know some things have changed since then, but I'm sure a number of things haven't. It looks like the instructors are still keeping you cold and wet. How many officers in the class?” He counts the hands. “That's a good ratio of boat-crew leaders for this size class. Any from the Academy? All of you? Even better. Academy officers tend to do well here.”

Officers at BUD/S have a lower dropout rate than enlisted men. They tend to be older and, as a group, better educated. In 1970, the first Naval Academy ensigns began to show up for BUD/S directly from the Academy. Because of the highly competitive selection process at Annapolis, they have a history of success in training. However, one Naval Academy ensign from the class quit during the first week of Indoc. He was not injured, nor was it a conditioning or harassment issue. For reasons known only to this young officer, he decided this duty and this lifestyle was just not for him.

“What does it take to be successful in this training?” Captain Bowen continues. “I guess what it really comes down to is this: do you really want to be in the teams? Those of you that do will make it through this course. But you have to want this program—this kind of life. If you want it, then you'll put up with all the harassment those instructors in the back of the room dish out. You'll take it so you can get to the teams.” He pauses a moment to frame his words. “I suppose I really have only two pieces of advice for you. First of all, don't give in to the pressure of the moment. If you're hurting bad, which will happen often, and you don't think you can go any further, just hang on. Finish the evolution; finish the day. Think about what you really want; make your decision then—after the evolution or at the end of the day. Secondly, take it one day, one evolution, at a time. Don't mentally DOR because you're looking ahead to all the pain and suffering in the days and weeks ahead. Just focus on getting through the day. Any questions?”

Class 228 looks around warily. BUD/S trainees are not the most forthcoming; anonymity is a virtue in a BUD/S class.

“When I was in training some thirty-five years ago,” the captain continues, “the senior instructor got us together and briefed us on training. I remember one of my classmates asking that instructor just what he expected from my class. ‘What we expect,’ he told us, ‘is all you have to give.’ I think that still holds true. Yes?”

“Ensign Birch, sir,” Birch says as he stands and comes to attention. “We understand that you're the Bullfrog. Could you tell us something about that and your career?”

Bowen smiles self-consciously. “It seems that I'm the last one of my generation of SEALs to quit.” In the reception area of the Naval Special Warfare Center is a tall, garish trophy with a huge bronze frog affixed to the top of it. Ed Bowen's name placard is the most current on this statue. “I have been on active duty longer than any other Navy SEAL. Some say I'm either a glutton for punishment or very lucky. I think I'm lucky. I began my naval career as a seaman recruit. I came straight to BUD/S from boot camp. While I was an enlisted man, I made chief petty officer. I was very proud that I made chief in the Navy. Then I had the opportunity to become an officer. I worked my way through the ranks from ensign to captain. And here I am, commanding officer of the Center. One reason I say that I'm lucky is because I broke into the platoons as an enlisted man. Officers are fortunate if they get two or three platoon deployments before they have to move on. I was able to make several operational deployments as an enlisted man and several more as an officer. So I got to see this business from both sides. I'm proud of these,” he says, holding one of the captain's eagles on his collar, “but I made chief petty officer in only eight years. I worked very hard to make chief that quickly. As I look back over the years, the decades really, I'm most proud of having been a chief petty officer in the United States Navy.”

Bowen says nothing of his combat record, which is legendary in the teams. Aside from his platoon combat deployments, he served with the Provincial Reconnaissance Units, or PRUs, in Vietnam. Ed speaks Vietnamese fluently. His PRU teams were particularly effective and savaged the Vietcong cadres in the Mekong Delta. Whenever the Vietnam-era SEALs gather to swap stories, there is a special reverence for Ed Bowen. He is considered by many as the best jungle fighter ever produced by the SEAL teams—a true warrior. His place in the lore of the teams is not just from his combat record. After thirty-five years in uniform, his character and his commitment as a leader are also legendary.

Many officers and enlisted men who have made a career in the teams have served as a BUD/S instructor or phase officer. Ed Bowen did neither. He was, however, a SEAL cadre instructor. In the Vietnam era, SEAL Team One on the West Coast and SEAL Team Two on the East Coast conducted their own training in jungle warfare. The SEAL teams—there were only these two at that time—assigned a selected cadre of combat veterans to teach the new men about SEAL operations in Vietnam. For close to ten years, the SEALs did little else but deploy to Vietnam and fight in the jungle. Cadre training was intense and very focused; the new SEALs would be in the Mekong Delta and in combat within a few months of their BUD/S graduation.

In 1970, with several tours under his belt, Ed was taken out of deployment rotation and assigned as a cadre instructor at SEAL Team One. The following anecdote, as told to me by Commander Gary Stubblefield (USN, Ret.), former commanding officer of SEAL Team Three, illustrates the character of Ed Bowen.

Early one morning, Ed was bringing his cadre class back from the mountains near Cuyamaca, California. At the time he was a first class petty officer. They had been on a land navigation exercise and patrolling in the mountains the whole night. The entire class of sixteen new SEALs were crowded in the back of a 6X.6 canvas-covered truck—bone-tired, cold, and hungry. They lined either side of the truck bed on wooden benches with their weapons and gear piled between them. It was a long, uncomfortable ride back to the team area. As they made their way up the Strand on Highway 75, Ed shouted over the noise of the truck.

“Okay men, here's what we have to do. I want all the weapons cleaned and the gear properly stowed. I know we'll miss morning chow, but we all have to be in dress whites and standing tall for the awards ceremony at zero eight hundred.”

There was a chorus of complaints and groans. The students had been up for a day and a half, and were in no mood to get cleaned up to parade for a ceremony.

“Stop the truck!” The usually mild-mannered cadre instructor pounded through the canvas to the cab of the truck. “Stop this truck right now!” The truck lurched to a stop on the shoulder of the highway, causing the packed SEALs to accordion forward on their wooden benches.

“Now you guys listen to me,” Ed continued in a quiet voice. “In this business, you will often have to work all day and all night, and then keep going. This is not a profession where you can quit when you're tired or when you think you've done enough. You're a Navy SEAL. We're in this business because we believe in it—because of who we are. If this doesn't set well with you, then make other arrangements. You're still volunteers. You don't have to be in Team One and you don't have to go to Vietnam. But if you want to be in my team and in my cadre class, clean your weapons, stow your equipment, and be standing tall at zero eight hundred in dress whites.”

Ensign Stubblefield and the rest of his cadre classmates were standing tall at the designated time in the proper uniform.

Now Captain Bowen sweeps Class 228 with his eyes. “I don't know what else to tell you men, other than to wish you good luck in the days ahead. If you can get through this training, there's a wonderful career ahead of you in the teams. That much I do know.” He rises to face the class. “Thank you for your attention.”

“Feet!”

“FEET!”

After Captain Bowen leaves, the class remains at attention. When he is out of earshot, one of the instructors barks out, “Drop!”

“DROP!”

“I saw one or two of you clowns nodding off during the captain's briefing. How dare you fall asleep in the presence of a man of his caliber? You guys are gonna pay for this.”

They pay dearly. The next evolution is the obstacle course. Before they even get started, the class is sent on multiple trips over the dune berm and into the surf. Between trips, the trainees push ‘em out. Times on the O-course are not up to par and the class is sent back out into the surf. Finally they are released for chow. Not all of them go.

Another young trainee has had enough. He goes to the First Phase office and waits for Instructor Mruk. There are tears in his eyes and he is ashamed, but he will not have any more of this. Finally Mruk joins him on the grinder.

“You ready to quit?”

“Yes, Instructor Mruk.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, Instructor.”

“Okay, ring the bell.”

He does not move or give any sign that he heard Mruk. He just stands there, staring down at his feet.

“Hey, c'mon, man,” Mruk says gently, “it's tradition. Ring the bell.”

Finally the trainee takes the lanyard and, holding the lip of the bell with his other hand so as not to add decibels to his shame, he quietly rings out. Then he walks slowly off the grinder. Sean Mruk has a lot to do and is anxious to get the paperwork started to process this man out of BUD/S. Yet he knows this ex-trainee needs some time alone to get himself together. He watches him for a moment, then goes back into the office.

Next to Hell Week, the first week of First Phase causes the greatest percentage of attrition. It's as if some of the trainees simply wanted to get to First Phase before they DOR. Somehow, there is less shame in quitting during BUD/S phase training than during Indoc. Much of the first week's attrition comes on the first day, but it goes on all week. The evolutions take their toll on the class. The most demanding are the conditioning runs, log PT, and IBS surf passage. All are conducted with liberal doses of harassment from the First Phase staff. In all evolutions, the winners get a brief break from training and the losers earn more torment. From the trainees’ perspective, the punishment handed out by the instructors seems capricious and arbitrary. In fact, these are very well-planned and closely monitored evolutions. This was not always the case.

In years past, there were no specific performance standards. Instructors laid it on their trainees as hard or harder than their instructors did to them. If a man was still standing at the end of training, he was graduated. Trainees were sometimes made to sit in the surf until one or more of their number quit. It has always paid to be a winner, but there were times past when this was carried too far. Trainees were put in a classroom and told that the last two men remaining in the room were winners. In the brawl that followed, bones and skulls were sometimes broken. Now First Phase training is performance based. Leadership and teamwork are stressed along with harassment and cold water. Training is just as hard, just less abusive.

During the first week of First Phase, Class 228 prepares for open-water swimming. For the first time, they don fins in the pool and begin doing laps using the accepted, modified sidestroke. In the teams, they'll swim with any fins they like, but at BUD/S they wear the same standard duck feet that have been used by frogmen since the 1950s. After instruction, critique, and lap swimming, it's harassment time. The trainees are made to lie on their backs with their heads over the edge of the pool. With their masks full of water and heads tilted back, they do flutter kicks. The class did this during Indoc, but now with the addition of the big duck feet, the flutter kicks are much harder. With stomach muscles burning, the men have to sing the BUD/S version of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game”:

Take me out to the surf zone,

Take me out to the sea,

Make me do push-ups and jumping jacks,

I don't care if I never get back,

For it's root, root, root for the SEAL teams,

If we don't pass it's a shame,

For it's one, two, three rings you're out,

Of the old BUD/S game.

Yet there is reason for the harassment, a purpose to this singing with a face mask full of water. It will help them in Second Phase when they have to breathe underwater from their scuba rigs without a face mask. After a choking, Donald Duck-like version of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” they're ready for the open water—almost. Before they muster by boat crew and leave the pool, Chief Taylor drops them for more push-ups. Then he singles out a group of trainees.

“I want to see the senior enlisted man in each boat crew—no officers, just enlisted.” While the rest of the class waits in the leaning rest, eight trainees gather around Taylor. “You men are the senior petty officers in each of your boats, right?”

“HOOYAH, CHIEF TAYLOR!”

“Okay, I want you guys to take this on board. The success or failure of your boat crew can depend on you. Your officer is in charge and he gives the orders, but there's a lot you can do to help him. You have to be leaders as well. When he's getting instructions for the next evolution or away from the boat, you take charge and organize the rest of the crew. It's your job to support these officers. If your boat crew has problems or performs poorly, it's a reflection on you as well as the boat-crew leader, understand?”

“HOOYAH!”

“Now, I'm going to be watching each one of you. I expect you to lead by example and to motivate the rest of your crew. Sometimes, an officer is a good boat-crew leader or a poor one depending on the support he gets from his senior enlisted man, understand what I'm saying?”

“HOOYAH!”

“Get back with your boat crews and push ‘em out.”

After Taylor dismisses them, they leave the pool on the run and head for the eastern side of the base on San Diego Bay.

The first open-water swim is a one-mile bay swim to gauge the relative speed of individuals in the class. This is the one and only time they swim without a buddy. Swim pairs will be assigned by comparable ability, so a fast man will not have to wait for a slow one on a timed swim. As with most evolutions, there are inspections and protocol. The instructors inspect the UDT life jackets and diving knives closely. Both are relics from the past. The inflatable rubber life jackets worn on the chest are identical to the one I trained with in the late 1960s. So is the leather-handled Ka-bar knife. The temperature in San Diego Bay is sixty-six degrees, so the trainees swim without protection. This is their first and only bay swim on the surface. It is also their shortest. All other swims will be in the open ocean and longer than a mile, but they will be allowed wet-suit tops in the Pacific.

Perhaps the most critical evolution of the first week, aside from pure survival, is the fifty-meter underwater swim—fifty-five yards without fins. They have to do this to continue in First Phase. It's an honest fifty meters— no diving start. The trainees must jump in the water, do a front somersault underwater, and begin their swim across the twenty-five-meter pool. After touching the wall, they swim back. The instructors test four trainees at a time. As they turn and head for home, four instructors close in on them, swimming just above and behind. The instructors watch them closely. As they touch the wall, the trailing instructor grabs them by the waistband of their trunks and helps them from the water. A corpsman is there to check each man. All make it but two, who will be retested next week or face being dropped from training.

Friday afternoon of this first terrible week finally arrives. Class 228 has only two evolutions to get through—log PT and IBS surf passage. The trainees are starting to gel as a class. They began the week with sixty-nine men and they are now down to fifty-two. Seventeen men who survived Indoc failed to make it through the first week of First Phase. Those who remain move more quickly as a class; musters are delivered smartly and there are fewer stragglers. For the survivors, log PT is a much smoother evolution than it was on Monday morning. Not easy, but smoother. For those crews who work together and show spirit, the log exercises are manageable. For those who don't, there are trips into the surf and Old Misery. After log PT, they run across the beach to the BUD/S compound to fill canteens and get the IBSs. Chief Taylor is waiting for them as they line up the boats.

“God help me, but I just love IBS surf passage. How about you fellows?”

“HOOYAH, CHIEF TAYLOR!”

“Just a few boat drills and we knock off for the weekend. Piece of cake, right men?”

“HOOYAH, CHIEF TAYLOR!”

“But you better show me something. I can stay out here as long as it takes. Coxswains, front and center.”

The boat-crew leaders scramble up to the front of the line of boats and stand facing Taylor. There are now seven boats, seven boat-crew leaders.

“Report.”

Each officer in turn comes to attention, salutes Taylor. The chief crisply returns their salutes.

“Listen up for your instructions, men.” They lean in to hear him as they know the chief will not repeat himself. “Paddle out beyond the surf zone, dump boat, paddle back in, and line up your boats. When you get back here, I want you to swap life jackets, properly set up your boats, and report back to me. Now, when you swap life jackets, no one can touch his own life jacket while taking it on or off. You have to buddy up, dress and undress each other—learn to work together, as a team. No crewman touches his own life jacket. Questions?” There are none. “You will have thirty seconds to brief your crews. Go!”

The coxswains race back to the stern of the IBSs. They quickly tell their crews the rules of the race. Taylor gives boat leaders a few extra seconds to plot strategy and fire up their crews. His surf evolutions are clever; the crews have to follow directions as well as pull together to win a surf race.

“Ready?”

“READY!”

On the coxswain's command, each crew takes up its IBS, three men on a side holding the boat off the sand by the rope carrying handles. They crouch at this low carry, ready for the sprint into the surf.

“Hit the surf!” Taylor calls, and the seven boat crews charge down the slope of the beach to the surf. The surf is relatively low today. The boats return quickly and all are still in contention. There's a collective scramble as the trainees strip off each other's life jackets and make the swap. While the coxswains race to report to Taylor, their crews dress their boats for inspection. It's a close contest, but there is a winner—Boat Three, Ensign Will Koella's crew. The other six boats are losers. Boat Three takes a seat on the beach while the other crews, feet on the IBS main tubes, push them out. As winners, Koella's crew gets to sit out the next race.

“All right, I want to see the junior man of each crew.” Soon there are six men standing in front of Taylor. They are not nearly so crisp or military-looking as were the officers who directed the boats in the first surf charge.

“You guys are now in charge,” Taylor tells them as he moves down the line correcting their posture and showing them how to properly hold the paddle when making a report. “Instead of taking orders, you'll be giving the orders. You're the coxswains. Now, here are your instructions for the next race.”

For the next hour and a half Class 228 does surf passage drills. Each time there is one winner and six losers. On one race, Taylor takes the number-two paddlers on the starboard side of each IBS and makes them coxswains. They take the boats out through the surf backward and back in the same way. Winners get a break; losers do push-ups or have to drag their boats over the berm dune and back. The races are spirited, and Chief Taylor likes what he sees. His drills are designed to give a taste of leadership to each crew member and to force the crews to think and work together. He works them hard, but the class likes Taylor and they give him a good effort. They come off the beach in good spirits. One man does not.

At the start of the last race, one of the boats comes down from a high carry onto the head of Petty Officer Shawn Groves and knocks him to the sand. He quickly recovers and rushes to rejoin his boat crew as they head for the surf. But he's walking funny and having difficulty finding his IBS carrying handle.

“Hey, Groves, get over here,” Taylor yells at him.

Groves isn't sure what to do. He doesn't want to leave his boat crew, but Chief Taylor is calling to him. He turns and tries to catch up with his boat. Taylor and Corpsman Dan Maclean seem to materialize on either side of the stunned trainee. Taylor pulls Groves aside and sends his IBS ahead without him. Groves again tries to resist this and rejoin his boat crew. Taylor and Maclean gently escort him up to the soft sand. They make him sit, and Maclean begins to ask him some simple questions.

“What is your name?”

“Where are you?”

“Who is president of the United States?”

Groves is clearly dazed, yet he gets most of them right. He wants to get back to his boat crew, but Maclean restrains him.

“What do you think, Doc?” Taylor says.

“Probably just a mild concussion or a compressed vertebra in his neck. Or nothing at all. I don't want to take any chances, though.” Two other instructors bring a rigid litter from the ambulance and help Maclean to strap Groves to the board. Maclean wraps a padded collar to Groves's neck and they strap him to the board so his neck, head, and torso are immobile. Another corpsman radios the BUD/S clinic. The wet, bound trainee is then loaded in the back of the 4X4 ambulance for the thirty-second drive to the BUD/S medical facility. The loss of Groves and their delayed charge to the surf means Groves's boat crew gets a bad start on the race. They finish last and have to pay the price for being losers.

One week down, three to go. Then Hell Week. There are no defections on Friday afternoon. Fifty-two trainees, including Groves for now, have survived the first week of First Phase. The second week of Phase One is more of the same. Whether by design or by schedule, the pace is not so intense as week one. On Monday, the four-mile timed run is scheduled at low tide when the trainees can run on flat, hard-packed sand. All but three are under the thirty-two-minute minimum.

On Monday of the second week of First Phase, Class 228 reports to the CCT after morning chow. Only two members of the class have yet to pass the fifty-meter underwater swim. One of them is Petty Officer Mark Williams. Williams is the old man of the class at thirty-three. He's a powerful man from Sacramento who played football in high school and college. Before he came to BUD/S, Williams was a staff sergeant in the Marine Corps. He left his Force Recon company to become a SEAL. Williams comes from a service family. His mother is a lieutenant colonel in the Army Reserve; his father was killed in Vietnam.

As a second class petty officer he, along with Daniel Bennett, is one of the enlisted leaders of Class 228. He is a strong trainee, but has problems in the water. Mark Williams should have been in Second Phase, but he came down with pneumonia during Class 227's Hell Week. He was coughing blood by Wednesday of that week and medically rolled back to 228. During First Phase with Class 227, he passed the fifty-meter swim, but he also passed out as he touched the wall. Now he has to make the swim again. The first deficient trainee passes the swim; now it's Williams's turn.

“C'mon, Williams, you can do it.”

“Yeah, man—kick, stroke, and glide.”

As his classmates cheer him on, Williams takes a deep breath and drops into the pool. He does his somersault and heads for the bottom, knowing that deeper is better. A key to the underwater swim is a long, precise glide between strokes. Too many strokes use too much oxygen; two few and you can't go the distance. Once again, Williams coasts home to complete the swim, but once more he passes out. The unconscious trainee is quickly hefted from the pool; the corpsmen are on him instantly.

“Did I make it?” he asks as he comes around. The former marine wants to be a Navy SEAL very badly.

“Yeah, Williams, you passed the swim,” growls one of the instructors. “Now get over there and start pushing ‘em out for scaring us like that.”

Williams's problems in the water are not yet over. Each trainee must pass drown proofing before he leaves First Phase. Many blacks who come to BUD/S, like Williams, are men with a heavy muscle mass. They tend to sink like a stone. With hands and feet bound, BUD/S trainees must travel several lengths of the pool and tread water for a period of time. Then, after executing an underwater somersault, they have to “swim” or wriggle to the bottom and retrieve their face mask in their teeth. In two tries at the pool, Williams is unable to pass drown proofing. If he is to stay with Class 228, he will have to pass this evolution.

On Tuesday Groves rejoins the class. After his injury on Friday during surf passage, he was examined by Lieutenant Josh Bell, one of the BUD/S medical officers. He was then taken immediately from the BUD/S medical facility to Balboa Naval Hospital for X rays. He also received a head CAT scan. The tests revealed nothing, but the BUD/S medical staff is very careful with head and neck injuries. Dr. Bell came in on Sunday to reexamine him and adjust his neck collar. On Monday, Groves was held out of training for the day and sent over for additional X rays. All through this, Groves maintained that he felt fine and just wanted to get back with his class. This is not the first injury Petty Officer Groves has suffered in BUD/S. He was here before in Class 226. He broke two ribs just before Hell Week, but tried to gut it out. By Tuesday of Hell Week, the pain forced him out of training, and he was medically rolled from 226 back to 228. This is his last chance to get through BUD/S. Trainees are allowed only one medical pardon. Groves is a solid trainee, and his boat crew is glad to have him back.

On Friday morning of the end of week two, the class is dragging, but just one man has DORed over the past four days. The prospect of a weekend keeps many of them going. At 0450 they muster at the rear of the BUD/S compound and prepare for PT

“Mister Gallagher.”

“What is it, Dane?” This is a busy time for the class leader. He has to make sure that all the overnight chores for which the class is responsible have been done. This includes preparing the IBSs, vehicles, first aid equipment, and classrooms for the day's training. He also has to take an accurate count to the instructor leading PT or suffer terribly for a bad muster.

“That's it for me, sir; I want out.”

Gallagher looks up from his clipboard and focuses on Seaman Wesley Dane. “You want to quit?”

“Yessir. I've had it. I'm going to DOR.”

“But why now? You've only got one more day before the weekend.”

“I know, sir, but I just don't want to do this anymore.”

“Hey, Lieutenant, we better get—”

“In a minute,” Gallagher snaps, and turns back to his seaman. “Look, Dane, we all have bad days; we all get down. Why don't you gut it out one more day and think about it over the weekend? It'll give you time to rest up—make a better decision.”

“C'mon, sir! If we're late for PT, we go into the surf.”

“We go in the surf anyway,” Gallagher replies. He's back to his classmate. “Dane, we gotta go. Just one more day. How about it? I know you can do it.”

“Thanks, sir, but this just isn't for me. Good luck to you and the rest of the guys, sir.”

Seaman Dane turns away and walks toward the First Phase office and the bell. Gallagher watches him for a moment, then swings back to the waiting class. “Let's do it.”

With Ensign Jason Birch chanting cadence, the class troops into the BUD/S grinder.

“Left! Left! Keep it in steh-hep!”

“LEFT! LEFT! KEEP IT IN STEH-HEP!”

“Two!”

“TWO!”

“Twenty-eight!”

“TWENTY-EIGHT!”

“Two!”

“TWO!”

“Twenty-eight!”

“TWENTY-EIGHT!”

The class halts in front of the elevated platform with Class 226's large gold numbers on it. The trainees are dressed for PT—fatigue trousers, boots, white T-shirts. Each man has a full canteen.

“Class Two-two-eight is formed, Instructor,” Gallagher reports. “Fifty-one men assigned, fifty men present, one DOR.”

“One DOR—this morning?”

“Hooyah, Instructor.”

“Get wet and sandy.”

“Hooyah, Instructor.”

Another day of misery and it's the weekend. Weekends are small islands in the sea of pain for BUD/S trainees. They have official duties, like standing watches at the Center and preparing equipment for the coming week, but there are no training evolutions. They eat, sleep, and eat again; treat blisters and raw skin; and try to rest battered joints and aching muscles. Often, only the thought of getting to the weekend gets a man through a week of training. BUD/S trainees dread Monday morning like inner-city high school teachers.

On Monday of week three Class 228 begins rock portage. Rock portage is IBS surf passage with an attitude. The boat crews bust through the breakers in front of the BUD/S compound and head north, just beyond the surf zone. Instead of taking their boats back in across the beach, they wait just off the rock jetty in front of the Hotel del Coronado. While curious hotel guests gather to watch, Instructor Timothy Hickman signals the first boat crew to come ashore. Hickman is a solid, no-nonsense first class petty officer from Boise, Idaho. Like Williams, he was a marine before he became a SEAL. The teams attract men from all services, but most cross-service transfers are from the Marine Corps. Hickman is a veteran of five platoon deployments and the Gulf War. He stands on a pile of boulders the size of Volkswagens while the breakers boil around him. The first boat comes in.

“Bow man out,” cries Ensign Clint Burke to his boat crew over the crash of the surf. As the nose of Boat One slams into the rocks, Petty Officer Scott Carson with bow line in hand jumps onto the boulders amid the churning surf and scrambles for high ground. Boat One is the tall-guys’ crew. While the rest of Burke's crew paddles furiously to keep the IBS against the rocks, Carson quickly wedges himself into the boulders and wraps the line around his waist.

“Bow-line man secure!”

“BOW-LINE MAN SECURE!” echo Boat One's paddlers.

“Water!” yells Burke as a breaker smashes into the stern of the boat, nearly capsizing them. The back surge tries to carry them seaward, but Carson has a good purchase on his boat.

“Paddles forward!” Burke screams.

“PADDLES FORWARD!”

One man with all the paddles gathered in his arms slips over the bow and begins his journey up and over the slippery rocks. He stacks the paddles on the beach and scrambles back to where Ensign Burke and his crew-mates, now out of the boat, are starting to horse the IBS onto the rocks.

“Bow-line man moving!” Carson yells.

“BOW-LINE MAN MOVING!”

While the boat crew fights to hold the IBS, Carson scrambles forward to a new position in the rocks. This is a critical time, and a breaker almost wrests control of the boat from Burke and his men. The trainees, who now wear hockey-style helmets, have been briefed never to get between their boat and the rocks. Rock portage is serious business; several corpsmen are standing by as well as Lieutenant Peter Witucki, the BUD/S senior medical officer.

“Bow-line man secure!”

“BOW-LINE MAN SECURE!”

“Ready!”

“READY!”

“Heave!”

The IBS begins its torturous journey over the rocks toward the beach. Burke sets his men; they call “Ready” and heave the boat forward. All the while, the surf is crashing around them, fighting to reclaim the boat and its crew. Finally the men crest the rocks with their boat.

“High and dry! Bow line over.”

“Bow line over!” Carson replies and returns to the boat. He throws the bow line into the boat and helps his crewmates heave the IBS down the rocks to the sand.

“Stop what you're doing,” says Instructor Hickman.

Burke and his men instantly stop and wait for the instructor to climb down from his perch atop the rocks.

“That's not bad for your first time,” he tells them, “but you have to be quicker. Bow-line man, you have to be more nimble. You left your crew exposed to those breakers for too long. Mister Burke, wait a bit longer after you call ‘ready’ and make sure your men are in position to lift the boat. Understand?”

“Hooyah, Instructor Hickman.”

“You paddlers, get set quickly. If you aren't ready, you have to let your coxswain know that you're not ready, okay?”

“HOOYAH, INSTRUCTOR HICKMAN!”

“You have to move quickly, but remember, three points of contact while you move over these rocks. No balancing acts. Again, not a bad job on your first try. You get a pass this time, but I won't be so easy next time. Now get out of here.”

“HOOYAH, INSTRUCTOR HICKMAN!”

The tall guys take their IBS down off the rocks to the soft sand. Rock portage is a mixed evolution for the tall crew. The big men have more brute strength, but pulling the cumbersome boat from the surf over the rocks also requires agility and quickness. Once on the soft sand, the crew restows its paddles and awaits inspection.

“Drop,” intones Chief Bob Nielsen.

“DROP!” Burke and company do push-ups with their toes up on the main tube of the IBS.

“Did you pass?”

“Hooyah, Chief Nielsen,” Burke replies. Nielsen makes a check mark in his notebook. Crews that don't pass get immediate and more severe attention from the phase leading chief.

“Very well, recover and go see Chief Taylor.”

The tall boat crew slings its IBS at the low carry and jogs a short distance to where Chief Taylor is waiting. Taylor then sends the men back out over the rocks and into the surf. Getting back into the surf from the rocks is almost as dangerous as coming in. In order to make a game of it, Taylor times them, urging each crew to try to better the previous crew's time back out over the rocks. Each boat crew must make three successful landings, then drag their boat back out over the rocks and launch it into the plunging surf.

That evening, after dark, Class 228 again paddle their boats north toward the Hotel del Coronado. This time they will do rock portage at night. BUD/S trainees will remember night rock portage like naval aviators remember night carrier landings—with respect and a full measure of terror.

Week three costs 228 one more trainee. He is a medical drop and is sent back to the fleet to heal with a recommendation that he come back and try again. With one week to go before Hell Week, Class 228 is down to forty-nine men.

Week four, the week before Hell Week, is more of the same—but different. There are conditioning runs and PT and surf passage and ocean swims, but each evolution seems to be conducted under a cloud of what is to come.

“If you can't do this now,” an instructor barks at them, “what are you going to do when you haven't slept for three days?”

The instructors keep the pressure on, but they are attentive to trainees who may be limping or have other injuries. The First Phase corpsmen make a point of being a little more approachable. At the same time, the instructors are more intolerant of trainees whose negative attitude or lack of motivation seem to be hurting their boat crews. Officers who show poor leadership on an evolution are shown no mercy. The First Phase instructors are subtly taking ownership of the class; the performance of Class 228 is a reflection of their ability to instruct and motivate.

On Tuesday of week four, the class runs across the base to the combat training tank for their lifesaving practical. Lifesaving training at BUD/S is basically a condensed Red Cross senior lifesaving course. Passing the practical exam is a requirement for completion of First Phase. The instructors act the part of drowning victims and the trainees must rescue them. At civilian lifesaving courses, drowning victims struggle to test the technique of the rescuer. At BUD/S, the lifesaving practical is basically a water buffalo rodeo. These are vicious aquatic contests with trainees clamped to backs of thrashing instructor-victims. One trainee comes out of the tank with a bloody nose, and two of them vomit on the pool deck from the exertion. Another, who is recovering from pneumonia, is put on oxygen to recover from his struggle to rescue a recalcitrant instructor. All but three in the class pass the lifesaving practical. At the end of the day, another man DORs, bringing Class 228 down to forty-eight men.

Also, during week four, they have their last two-mile ocean swim. To be allowed to continue on to Hell Week, trainees have to make the swim in under ninety-five minutes. The ocean temperature is now fifty-nine degrees. The trainees wear wet-suit tops, UDT life jackets, masks, and fins. First they swim out through the surf zone to a safety boat waiting a hundred yards offshore, just beyond the breakers. They then swim north past the rocks off the Hotel del Coronado and back—one mile up and one back. After checking in with the timekeeper in the boat, they return through the surf to the instructor on the beach. He checks the swim pairs off to fully account for all the trainees who entered the water. Then he drops them for push-ups.

“Hooyah, two-mile ocean swim.”

“Recover and get out of here.”

Two by two, they run up over the berm back to the BUD/S compound. As a class they are strong in the water. All are under the pre-Hell Week ninety-five-minute minimum, and all but three pairs are under the post-Hell Week eighty-five-minute time. This is a tribute to Tim King and the Indoc instructors who worked with them on swimming technique.

The pivotal event of week four for Class 228 is pre-Hell Week screening. This consists of performance and medical screening. The most difficult and contentious is the performance screening, which is the work of the First Phase Review Board. Review boards, in all phases of BUD/S training, meet periodically to review individual trainee performance and his fitness to continue training. Aside from the physical performance standards, there is a requirement that trainees must demonstrate teamwork, professionalism, and a can-do spirit. In First Phase, this board is chaired by the phase officer, Ensign Joe Burns, and consists of his First Phase senior petty officers. The First Phase Review Board met once before during week two of Class 228's First Phase training. Their objective at that point was to counsel marginal trainees and warn them of the consequences if they didn't improve their performance. On Wednesday of week four, Ensign Burns convenes his phase review board with a more serious agenda. They must decide who will, and who will not, begin Hell Week with Class 228.

Thirteen men are brought in for phase board review. All have at least one adverse performance chit in their training files. Most have failed to make more than one of the four-mile timed runs, failed drown proofing, or failed the lifesaving practical. Some have chits in their file for leadership or motivational reasons. One man has an unsatisfactory time on the obstacle course. All performance chits are reviewed and signed by the individual trainees, so their sins are well known to all before they get to the board. The files are reviewed by the First Phase board, and the trainees are called in individually. Only one of them is a class officer.

Ensign Burns and his First Phase instructors sit along one side of a long, polished conference table in the newly refurbished BUD/S conference room. The well-appointed interior is in sharp contrast to the rough, serious men seated at the table. It's Instructor Mruk's duty as class proctor to escort each trainee into the room. They are in starched fatigues and spit-shined boots. Each, in turn, stands before this board of inquisitors, green helmet cradled in the crook of his arm, and announces himself “Reporting as ordered.”

They are called in by order of the seriousness of their transgressions. The first eight are given a tongue-lashing and asked to speak to their poor performance or lack of motivation. The trainees, knowing that their quest to become a Navy SEAL could end right here, are appropriately contrite.

“We're going to send you into Hell Week,” Burns tells one of the initial eight, “but the staff is going to be keeping a close watch on you. You start dragging down your boat crew or whining, and you're history. We don't need crybabies or no-loads in this outfit. It's time to pull your weight or get the hell out, understand?”

“Hooyah, Ensign Burns.”

The trainees are also cautioned that if they should make it through Hell Week, they have to correct their performance deficiencies or they won't graduate from First Phase. Not all the trainees are taken over the coals by the First Phase board. One of those is Mark Williams.

“Petty Officer Williams, reporting to the phase board as ordered.”

“Williams, you're a good trainee,” Burns begins, “but you're going to have to do something about your swimming.”

“Hooyah, Ensign Burns.”

“If you get through Hell Week, you'll have to pass drown proofing or we'll have to drop you from training. You understand this?”

“Yessir.”

“Otherwise, keep up the good work. Now get the hell out of here.”

“Hooyah, Ensign Burns.”

Five members of Class 228 will not go on to Hell Week. The First Phase board reaches this decision quickly but not easily. The merits as well as the shortcomings of each trainee are debated. Some of the phase instructors are quick to point out where one of the unlucky five did well or demonstrated spirit. Yet most of these trainees are deficient in more than one area. There is a consensus; they will not continue with Class 228. The board has only the authority to remove a trainee from First Phase. They cannot remove him from BUD/S training.

Lieutenant Bill Mahoney, the basic training officer, and Chief Jeff Rhodes, representing Indoc, are sent for. The assembled group now forms the Academic/Performance Review Board, with Lieutenant Mahoney serving as chair. The training of Class 228 has yet to include academic subjects; today this board will only evaluate physical performance, attitude, and potential to successfully continue training. They are also joined by Rick Knepper, the BUD/S curriculum specialist. Knepper is the only civilian and a nonvoting member of this board, but his opinion carries weight. He is a retired master chief petty officer and a former BUD/S instructor. While on active duty, he also served as the Center's command master chief petty officer. The Academic/Performance Review Board decides whether these five trainees will be rolled back to Class 229 or sent back to the fleet.

The First Phase staff and the three new board members again plow through the training records. Now the debate becomes more spirited. An agreement is quickly reached on four of the five. They are to be sent back to the fleet; they can come back at a later time, but they will have to leave BUD/S and reapply for SEAL training. The decision of what to do about Seaman Chris MacLeod is not so easy. MacLeod is by far the weakest member of the class. He has poor upper-body strength, and his lack of stamina has been hurting his boat crew. He is the only trainee to fail the O-course, and he has great difficulty with PT But MacLeod has guts. He has held back nothing, and the First Phase staff respects him for this. Trainees with heart, but who lack the necessary physical tools, are not easy for the board. They call him back in.

“Seaman MacLeod, reporting as ordered.”

“MacLeod,” Mahoney begins, “this is the Academic Review Board. Do you know why you're here?”

“Yes, sir. My performance has been unsatisfactory and not up to standards.”

“You know that you are no longer with Class Two-two-eight.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you know this board is convened to decide whether you will or will not remain in BUD/S training.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay. Why don't you tell us why you're here? Why did you come to BUD/S?”

“I want to stand with the best,” MacLeod replies. He is crying and makes no attempt to wipe his eyes. The tears roll off his cheeks. “I want to stand with the best and fight for my country.” This declaration is met with a respectful silence.

“Any questions for this man?” Mahoney says, looking around the table for help. More silence. “Okay, MacLeod, you can wait outside and we'll tell you what we decide.”

After the tearful trainee leaves, more debate. In the eyes of the senior First Phase staff, motivation and desire trump physical ability, but MacLeod is very weak. Ensign Burns looks down the table to Chief Rhodes.

“Jeff, if we send him back to PTRR, can you fix him?” The Indoctrination Course is part of the PTRR (Physical Training, Rehabilitation, and Retraining) phase at BUD/S. “Can you get him ready for the next class?”

Chief Rhodes remembers MacLeod from Indoc. He is an experienced instructor and knows the limits of what PTRR can and cannot do for a weak trainee.

“Look, Joe, if you want to send him back to us, we'll give it a try, but you want my honest opinion?” Burns does. “We'll break him. He's a good kid, but he just has too far to go. Two-two-nine will class up in seven weeks. There's just not enough time, even with the Christmas break.” Rhodes shrugs. “Like I said, we can try and I know he'll try. But I think we'll break him, and it'll take six months to fix the damage. We'll have him here for a year or more.”

The review board is looking for a way to keep this man, but Chief Rhodes is not giving them one. There is no alternative; they recall MacLeod to the tribunal.

“Seaman MacLeod, reporting as ordered, sir.”

“The board has considered your case,” Mahoney tells him. “MacLeod, it is our decision that you will not be rolled back. I'm sorry, but you will be dropped from training altogether.”

“You've done a helluva job here, MacLeod,” Chief Taylor tells him from his seat at the end of the table. “And you've got nothing to be ashamed of. You've given it your best shot. We all know that. It's just that it's not fair to your boat crew for you to continue with them.”

“Chief Taylor's right, MacLeod.” Ensign Joe Burns is a hard man, but his tone with MacLeod is gentle. “This training isn't for everybody, and right now it's not for you. Go back to the fleet. Get yourself built up, and then come on back for another try. We'll be here when you're ready.”

MacLeod regards them a moment. He doesn't wait to be dismissed; he simply turns and walks from the conference room. The instructors glance at one another uneasily and the meeting begins to break up. Mruk gathers up the training records as the others file out. Aside from the performance standards, the review boards are guided by two principles: what is best for the program, and what is best for the trainee. The design is clear, but the calls are not always easy. Underlying this process are the requirements of the end user—the active duty SEAL and SDV teams. If they allow a marginal trainee to continue on, he may survive Hell Week and make it to the teams. Once in the teams, he could become a weak link in a platoon and cause a teammate to get hurt or killed. Or cause a mission to fail.

MacLeod has choices. The First Phase and Academic/Performance Review Boards have done him a favor. He's bitterly disappointed, but he knows their decision was right—and fair. MacLeod has a degree in chemistry from the University of Maryland. He can go to the fleet, improve his fitness and strength, and return for another try. Or he can put in for a commissioning program and try to come back as an officer. Either way, he now knows what it takes to get through BUD/S. He also knows that he personally has the grit to make it through this training. Now he has to take the time to better prepare himself physically.

Each of the forty-three men of Class 228 who will go on to Hell Week are also carefully screened by the BUD/S Medical Department. They are told to refrain from taking any Motrin or aspirin during the weekend. Motrin or any other pain medication will be given to them as required. Hell Week is going to hurt, they are told; it's supposed to. But they won't be given pain medication until they really need it. They are also told to report serious symptoms, such as coughing up blood or skin infections.

Nearly all of the men in 228 have some injury or ailment. Many have respiratory problems or some fluid in their lungs. Others have cuts or abrasions from rock portage or the O-course. Most are experiencing some tendinitis or joint pain. And a good many have blisters on their hands and feet that are in various stages of healing. The BUD/S medical staff catalogs each trainee's list of afflictions. They will closely monitor these in the week ahead. Everyone in Class 228 gets a heavy dose of antibiotics by injection to help ward off infection. Hell Week will test their immune systems as well as their bodies and spirits. Each trainee is given a careful medical examination, and this exam will yield the last pre-Hell Week attrition for Class 228.

Petty Officer Shawn Groves has an infected ingrown toenail that has responded to antibiotics slowly. During Hell Week, the trainees are wet and on their feet without rest for days at a time. The inability to properly monitor an infection under these conditions is too great a risk; even a seemingly minor infection like this could cause permanent damage before it was caught. Groves is removed from Class 228, and since it is his second medical drop, he will have to leave BUD/S. This is not easy on the medical staff or the First Phase instructors. Groves was a solid trainee with every prospect of becoming a Navy SEAL. He does not accept this decision with equanimity, as did Seaman MacLeod. He is angry and feels betrayed, but the decision stands. If he wants to be a Navy SEAL, he will have to come back and try again after a tour in the fleet.

After chow on Friday morning, the trainees get their phase motivational briefing on Hell Week by Chief Keith Lincke. Chief Lincke is new to BUD/S and First Phase, but a very experienced SEAL with operational time with Teams One and Three—he has seven operational deployments including the Gulf War. This tour at BUD/S will allow him enough time in one place to complete the final year of his degree in information technology. Chief Lincke's presentation is built around his six keys to getting through Hell Week: a positive attitude, teamwork, guts, a never-quit mentality, a belief in yourself, and focus.

“The teams are a fraternity,” Lincke tells them, “and everybody there has done what we're going to ask you to do. It's a given that you will be cold, wet, and tired. All the time. Your reputation in the teams will begin by how well you handle yourself when you're cold, wet, and tired. I can promise you that I've been colder and more tired in the teams than I ever was during Hell Week. True statement. Hell Week is to see if you can suck it up and keep going when you haven't slept in a few days and you're freezing your ass off. And remember, you have to do more than just survive; you have to perform.”

The new First Phase chief prowls the front of the classroom. This is his first classroom presentation; he's looking for the right words. “It's like this; you've done it all before. Everything we will ask you to do during Hell Week you have done during the last few weeks—run, swim, the O-course, surf passage, all of it. There's nothing new. But anybody can perform when they're warm and well rested. You have to show us you can perform when you're cold, wet, sandy, and you haven't slept for a few days.”

Late Friday morning of week four, right after a conditioning run in the soft sand, Class 228 is again addressed by Captain Bowen in the First Phase classroom. This time he doesn't sit, but simply stands in front of the class. He notes that in their four weeks at First Phase, their number has shrunk from sixty-nine to forty-two.

“Everyone here ready for Hell Week?”

“HOOYAH!”

“That's good, because you have a very challenging and difficult week ahead of you. What you are going to experience next week is a test—a very painful test. But it's also instructional. Each one of you is going to learn a great deal about yourself. You're going to find out what you're really made of. During every evolution, you will have a choice; do I give in to the pain and the cold or do I go on? It's up to you. I have no quotas or numbers that have to graduate or must be weeded out. That's for you to decide. But to continue in training and to join us in the teams, you have to do this. It won't be easy. Each one of you must decide for himself just how much you want this program.” He silently regards the anxious trainees for a moment. “I'll be there on Friday and I hope to shake each and every one of your hands when Hell Week is secured. Good luck to you.”

The class scrambles to their feet and Captain Bowen takes his leave. Instructor Mruk threads his way through the standing trainees to the front of the room.

“Okay, take your seats. I have some word to put out before you break for chow, so I want you to listen up. After lunch you will have time to go to supply and square away any equipment problems, and get back to medical if you need to. Hell Week is scheduled to begin sometime Sunday evening. You will all be back here at noon on Sunday, in this classroom. After that time, you will be restricted to this classroom until the festivities begin. Bring a book, bring some chow, games, whatever. We'll have some videos here for you, and pizza will be brought in late afternoon. It'll be a chance for you guys to rest up as a class and get your heads together.” He grins at them. “Time for a little class bonding, sing ‘Kumbaya,’ whatever. My advice is that you bring lots of chow and eat your brains out. Trust me; you can't eat enough.

“Equipment. This is what you will bring and only what you will bring with you in your seabag. Besides the fatigues you'll be wearing, bring one extra full set and two extra pairs of socks—the new ones you were issued. Bring your swim gear but no canteen belt, canteens, and no knives.” Another sly grin. “We don't want you armed for this evolution. Have your name stenciled on everything. Also, bring a set of comfortable clothes— sweatshirt, sweatpants, shorts, sandals. Place these clothes, along with soap and a towel, in a paper bag. Staple the bag shut and write your name on it. For those of you who are still here on Friday, you'll have something to wear when it's over. The same for you guys who are back here before Friday. The bags will remain here in the classroom, along with any of your personal effects. There will be a twenty-four-hour watch here at all times. No one will bother your gear.”

Mruk punches through a laundry list of what they need to do and not do between now and when they arrive at noon on Sunday. As Mruk briefs them, a few in Class 228 start to look around. They are beginning to wonder who among them will DOR and be back in the classroom before Hell Week secures, seven days from now.

“Any questions?” Mruk asks.

“Can we bring blankets or pillows so we can sleep Sunday afternoon?” a trainee asks.

“Bring whatever you like,” Murk tells them, “but you guys will be too keyed up to sleep. Just plan to come here with all your gear squared away. Then plan to relax, watch movies, and eat. If you remember nothing else, remember to eat.”

After Mruk gives Class 228 their last instructions, the remaining forty-two trainees form up on the grinder to run to chow. A half hour later the classroom is filled with almost as many instructors. Ensign Joe Burns briefs the BUD/S staff on Hell Week. This is an all-hands evolution for the First Phase staff as well as those instructors from Indoc, Second Phase, and Third Phase who are assigned to help. Hell Week is conducted by the BUD/S staff in three shifts. It will be five days of round-the-clock pressure. Every eight hours, a fresh set of BUD/S instructors will come on duty to greet the weary survivors of Class 228. Hell Week has a lot of moving parts. In addition to the twenty or so instructors who are involved, there are various support, logistic, and medical personnel who also play important roles.

Hell Week is a familiar and well-choreographed event, but safety considerations and operational details have to be reviewed and individual duties assigned. There are some sixty-four separate evolutions in Hell Week. Each evolution has a detailed lesson plan, and each has specific written instructions for safety, risk assessment, and supervisory criteria. Each one is designed to contribute to the overall goals of Class 228's Hell Week. Those official, stated goals are:

STUDENTS WILL DEMONSTRATE THE QUALITIES AND PER

SONAL CHARACTERISTICS OF DETERMINATION, COURAGE,

SELF-SACRIFICE, TEAMWORK, LEADERSHIP, AND A NEVER-

QUIT ATTITUDE UNDER ADVERSE ENVIRONMENTAL CON-

DITIONS, FATIGUE, AND STRESS THROUGHOUT HELL WEEK.

The reality is that away from the public eye and the formal U.S. Navy training conventions, these SEAL instructors will create a week of living hell for the members of Class 228 to see if they have what it takes to join this warrior culture.