Here they come,” muses Lieutenant Josh Bell. “We call it the walk of the living dead.” Dr. Bell and medical staff watch from the door of the BUD/S clinic.
The members of Class 228 slowly make their way down the access road from the Naval Special Warfare Barracks to the Center. It is 0800 on the Saturday after Hell Week. They are dressed in sweat clothes or shorts. Some wear sandals; others, shower shoes. Most walk like wranglers, slightly bowlegged to relieve the chafed skin on their inner thighs. Those who had trouble walking on Friday are only a little better on Saturday morning. One of the brown shirt rollbacks has a van and delivers the less ambulatory to the clinic. All of them are stiff and their faces are puffy. Most of them slept twelve to sixteen hours straight. Others were up gimping around the barracks at various times in the night, unable to sufficiently release enough tension to get any sustained sleep. At the Center clinic, they once again strip for a complete medical inspection. The medical officers look for any signs of flesh-eating bacteria, but if they haven't seen it by now, they probably won't. They also look for pneumonia or other respiratory problems. Those trainees who finished Hell Week strong are the ones who show the most immediate improvement. The trainees with cel-lulitis and iliotibial band tendinitis, or IBT, are in the worst shape. The most common cellulitis is an infection between the layers of skin in the legs and around the knees. When acute, it causes bloating and discoloration. IBT is an inflammation of the long tendon that runs the length of the femur to the knee, and is very painful. All of the trainees are hurting to a degree, some just more than others. All of them have healing to do if they are to resume training on Monday.
After the medical exams and another round of medications, the men set off for breakfast—their first sit-down, civilian meal as a class. Marie Callender's in Coronado offers a group discount for the survivors of Hell Week. Class 228's table is set up and ready when they arrive. Each finds a place at the table, some with the assistance from a buddy to get from a standing to a seated position. The ones who were able to eat during Hell Week are still in the best condition. They tear into their meal. After downing a large farm-style breakfast, including a side of pancakes, they order a second round of the same, inhaling everything on their plates. The class nibblers eat well, but not as much. It will be a few more days before their systems can tolerate large amounts of food at one sitting. Most have to improvise to hold a fork with clublike hands and swollen fingers that don't yet respond normally. After breakfast, they return to the barracks to begin a routine of sleep, food, more sleep, and more food. Those who have not yet called their families to let them know they made it, do so before crawling off to bed. Throughout the weekend they take long, hot showers, and the thought of ever going back into cold water causes them to shiver involuntarily.
Hell Week is a curious and unique event. I'm not sure I understand it much better now, having just watched it, than when I went through my Hell Week some thirty years ago. I do know that it changes a man forever. Future challenges and many of life's triumphs are now calibrated by this experience. For a few souls, Hell Week is their zenith, and they have a difficult time getting past it. For them, making it through Hell Week is the end goal. But for most BUD/S trainees, it is a learning experience and becomes a powerful engine for future physical and mental growth.
When Draper Kauffman first began to train the Naval Combat Demolition Units (NCDUs) in the summer of 1943, he visited the Naval Scouts and Raiders training camp that shared Fort Pierce with the NCDUs. He took their eight-week physical conditioning program and compressed it into a single week of training. This first week was called “Indoctrination Week,” but it quickly became known as Hell Week. The theory behind this grueling initial week was to weed out the weak candidates early on and train those who remained. Since then, Hell Week has been moved from the first week to several weeks into training.
This train-the-best, discard-the-rest philosophy was not the only legacy of Draper Kauffman. Kauffman and his officers went through the first Hell Week with their NCDU enlisted volunteers. The idea that officers have to train and suffer with their men, especially suffering on this scale, is unique in American military service. Today, officer trainees, like SEAL platoon officers, have to lead while under pressure, and have to suffer the same hardships as their men. SEAL work is a harsh, physically demanding business. If an officer is to lead from the front, he needs to be, at a minimum, as physically capable as the men he expects to follow him.
The history of Hell Week is a microcosm of the history of the teams. The Navy SEAL is quite young—just shy of his fortieth birthday. His evolutionary cousin, the Navy frogman, has yet to turn sixty. Both the frogmen and the SEALs were born out of necessity, as was Hell Week. The slaughter of young marines on the beaches of Tarawa in 1943 underscored the need for beach reconnaissance prior to amphibious landings. Volunteers for this dangerous work had to be recruited and trained quickly. Hell Week quickly became the crucible—a way to quickly find the right kind of men for this task. Those who went ashore the following year to clear the beaches at Normandy for the D-day invasion suffered terrible casualties. On Omaha Beach alone, 52 percent were killed or wounded. The NCDUs were consolidated into Underwater Demolition Teams, or UDTs, shortly before the end of the war. As UDTs, these first American frogmen saw action across the Pacific as U.S. forces fought their way to Japan. Later in Korea, they served with distinction, raiding coastal targets and performing critical hydrographic reconnaissance prior to the landings at Inchon in September 1950. Throughout the war in the Pacific and the Korean War, the Navy frogmen were defined by Hell Week.
January 1962 marked the commissioning of SEAL Team One in the Pacific Fleet and SEAL Team Two in the Atlantic Fleet. Training SEALs, like training frogmen, demanded a rigorous Hell Week. The new SEALs focused on duties that included unconventional warfare, operational deception, counterinsurgency, and direct-action missions in maritime and riverine environments. During the Vietnam War, SEAL direct-action platoons and adviser teams compiled an impressive record of combat success despite the fact that even at the height of the conflict, there were never more than 500 Navy SEALs on active duty. At any given time, there were seldom more than 120 SEALs deployed in the combat zone. Since Vietnam, changing missions and increased operational tempo prompted the UDTs to be redesignated as SEAL Teams and SEAL Delivery Vehicle (SDV) Teams. Today, Naval Special Warfare forces also include Special Boat Units and Squadrons. The combatant crewmen who serve in the Special Boat Units experience a demanding training regime, but only SEALs undergo BUD/S and Hell Week. Hell Week and the making of Navy SEALs have become more formal and more structured since my time with Class 45. Then, BUD/S training served a UDT/SEAL community of less than 1000. Today there are currently just under 2,000 Navy SEALs. But from what I saw with Class 228, neither the training nor Hell Week has become any easier.
There was a time at BUD/S in the early 1970s when Hell Week was discontinued. The Vietnam War demanded a higher output of young men for the SEAL teams, so, in a top-down move, the Navy canceled Hell Week. But the gatekeepers remained at BUD/S. Any slack previously afforded the students after Hell Week was quickly taken up by the instructor staff, especially in the Second and Third Phases. BUD/S graduation numbers changed little. According to some veteran instructors, after Hell Week was reinstated, the post-Hell Week pressure and physical demands remained, and BUD/S training became that much more difficult.
Hell Week, and all of BUD/S training, is a work in progress. If Hell Week has changed over the years, it's only been a refinement of the basic theme. In 1969, Class 45 went through its Hell Week in Little Creek, Virginia. Today, I remember the Sunday evening breakout as a shocking mix of noise, smoke, harassment, and confusion. There were fire hoses. We were made to crawl through water and mud after we were driven from our barracks. We were cold and wet all the time, but Chesapeake Bay was not so convenient to the training compound as the Pacific Ocean is to the current BUD/S training area. If I slept four hours during those terrible five days, I was lucky. Many of the evolutions were the same. As did Class 228, we carried the boats everywhere on our heads. One night we ran all night and another night we paddled from sundown to sunrise. Clearly, there is better medical supervision and treatment today, but this capability also allows current BUD/S instructors to safely take the trainees a little closer to the edge. Since each of the sixty-some evolutions in the current Hell Week are tightly scripted, they are continually adjusted in small ways to make them more challenging and effective.
I was often asked, “How did this Hell Week compare to yours?” It's not an easy question: it was a long time ago, a different coast, and, back then, I was in the arena—not a dry, warm observer. Having undergone a winter Hell Week on the East Coast, I enjoy a certain status among SEALs; during my Hell Week, the nighttime temperatures dipped well below freezing. The freshwater ponds and estuaries often had a crust of ice on them. “How did you deal with water as cold as that?” an instructor asked me. “It was different,” was my best answer. Water that cold is devastating; you go from miserable to numb very quickly. We were never in for more than a few minutes at a time; immersions were quick and very painful. I'm not so sure that twenty minutes at sixty degrees is any easier than two minutes at thirty-two degrees.
How did I handle it? I'd like to think I was like Adam Karaoguz, Pat Yost, Otter Obst, and Clint Burke—strong performers, able to rally their boat crews. Or that during those long, grim nights, I could always produce a grin like Jason Birch or John Owens. I do remember the training officer, a mustang like Joe Burns, saying, “You're secured,” and how sweet it was. Perhaps all I can be sure of at this point is that I didn't quit. I never considered quitting; it was somehow not an option for me. Better still, I was able to take what I learned in Hell Week and apply it to other challenges in my life.
As Hell Week has evolved over the years, so have the young men who come to BUD/S. It can be argued that the current raw product is less ready for this kind of punishment and discipline than previous generations. Today's BUD/S students are clearly stronger and more athletic than those in the past. It's obvious that many who arrive at BUD/S have logged more than a few hours in the weight room. But life in these United States is good—and often soft. On balance, the feel-good generation may be less prepared mentally for the crucible of BUD/S than their predecessors. And where do they come from, these young men who volunteer for such punishment? Adjusted for population density, most of them come from smaller, inland communities. It seems the calling of a maritime warrior is less attractive for those who live on the coasts or in a large city. Perhaps small towns in mid-America, because of lesser economic opportunity or a greater patriotic feeling, send more of their sons off to serve their country.
BUD/S training is lengthy, expensive, dangerous, and difficult. Far fewer trainees graduate than are reassigned back to the fleet. So just what makes a successful BUD/S trainee? And since Hell Week has the largest share of attrition in BUD/S, what does it take to get through it? Psychological profiling is now a part of the BUD/S process, but this screening is designed only to weed out those with pathological tendencies. Other tests have been developed that have a high degree of predictability for success at BUD/S. But since there are no absolutes in predicting who will or will not make it, they are used as guides to influence training rather than as screening tools. BUD/S instructors and curriculum specialists say that most classes break out something like this: Perhaps 10 or 15 percent of those who arrive simply do not have the physical tools to make it through the training or Hell Week; they cannot meet the performance standards or they break down physically. There is another 5 or 10 percent who, unless they break a leg or are otherwise seriously injured, will make it no matter how much they get beat. These are the trainees, like Adam Karaoguz and Lawrence Obst, whom you will have to kill or incapacitate if you want to remove them from the training. But the other 75 to 85 percent are up for grabs. If this large percentage of trainees can find it within themselves, or are properly motivated, they can make it; they have the physical tools. Why more of them don't is a question that Ed Bowen wrestles with daily.
One thing is clear: the instructors still have great power and influence. The skill with which they mete out punishment and approval, to individuals and to the class, has a tremendous bearing on the outcome. A large percentage of Class 228, like those classes before them, are led through or driven from training by their BUD/S instructors. It's a challenging time, both physically and emotionally, for trainees as well as staff. What's at stake for the individual trainee is the personal goal of a young life. For the instructors, it's the future composition of the SEAL teams and the character of this warrior culture.
DORs. What makes one man quit and another of similar physical ability go on? Is this elaborate, tradition-bound process the only way to find out who has grit and who does not? Does it tell us who will stand tall in a firefight in some developing nation and who will come up short?
“Do you ever take bets on who will make it and who will not?” I asked several BUD/S instructors. “Who will DOR and who will not?” None said they did.
“Let's just say we get surprised a lot,” said one veteran First Phase instructor. “We get surprised when someone we hardly knew was even in the class is there at the end of Hell Week. Other times, a strong, motivated trainee packs it in before midnight on Sunday. You were out there, Mister Couch; you saw it happen in Class Two twenty-eight.”
So I asked some trainees who DORed. Often it was difficult for me to ask, and even harder for them to answer truthfully. Usually, I found them at a quiet moment away from the BUD/S compound, a week to ten days after they left the class.
I would usually begin by asking, “How're you doing?” or, “What are your plans?”
“I'm going back to a ship for a while,” said many of the junior enlisted men. “I'll get myself in better shape and then I'll be back.” A few of them admitted that at that time they lacked the maturity and focus it takes to get through BUD/S. Most of these who vowed to return said they underestimated the program—that they were insufficiently prepared. Many of these men do come back. Perhaps they will be like John Owens and Zack Armstrong, and return in a few years to succeed and even excel during Hell Week. Naval duty, both aboard ship and on shore, has a way of growing boys into men—helping them to sort out what they really want in life. My guess is that a few of these men will be back, but not as many as say they will.
Some men DOR because they have minor injuries or are sick. Being cold, wet, and exhausted is an invitation to pneumonia, and many were in the early stages of it. But this can also be said of the ones who make it through. Many said, “I lost my motivation,” as if it were a pair of reading glasses they had simply misplaced for a moment. Others, even after the rigors of Indoc and First Phase, were still intimidated by the whole process. Hell Week turns the pain meter up several notches. The trainees think, “Another twenty weeks of this!” and they DOR. Quite a few of them, though they passed the screening test and read the BUD/S pretraining literature, learned about SEALs in the movies. They have given little thought to BUD/S or life in the SEAL teams. Certainly none of them have ever been made to hurt this much for this long. They thought of BUD/S training as fraternity hazing or boot-camp-like harassment; they simply didn't bargain for this much punishment. Very few trainees see this business for what it really is—a long and painful road to a warrior culture, one with ongoing physical demands and hardship as a way of life. They don't fully understand the SEAL saying “Training is never over” until they're in it. Some also questioned their suitability for this warrior calling, which entails the taking of human life, and they realized this profession was not for them. I once asked a highly successful attorney friend of mine why he was so good at his job. “Most guys with law degrees just want to be lawyers,” he told me. “They don't really, and I mean really, want to practice law.” I think it's the same with BUD/S trainees. A lot of them would like to call themselves SEALs, but perhaps not so many of them are prepared to do the work of Navy SEALs.
The most tragic of the DORs are those who somehow allowed themselves to be trapped by the expectations of others. These are good men who have a history of success and are not, by nature or practice, quitters. This is especially true of the officer trainees. Competition for billets at the Naval ROTC units and at the Naval Academy is intense. I've had more than one midshipman tell me that it's harder to get a billet at BUD/S than to get through BUD/S. In the case of Naval Academy midshipmen, Class 228 aside, the statistics bear this out. Their success at BUD/S is nearly the same as those going to flight school. It's a given: the grads with orders to Pensacola become Navy pilots, and the grads with orders to Coronado become Navy SEALs. “Hey, wow, you're going to be a SEAL,” their Annapolis classmates say. “That's really cool!”
This is an easy conclusion to reach; the BUD/S graduation rate for the Annapolis men is very high. There have been years when the Naval Academy sent sixteen new ensigns to BUD/S and all sixteen graduated. But too often, the respect is given before it is earned. This respect is very seductive for a motivated, success-orientated, and sometimes naive twenty-two-year-old. It completely drowns out the little voice inside that cries, “Do you really want to be a Navy SEAL?” When they get cold, wet, and sandy, the voice gets louder and harder to ignore. Finally, they have to confront themselves, and this often leads to a fierce inner struggle; are they quitting because it's hard, or are they quitting because this calling truly is not for them? Is this honest or dishonest? Are they, perhaps for the first time in their life, a failure—a quitter? This is a complex, emotional Rubicon for these young men to cross. For many, it becomes a serious personal crisis, and they leave BUD/S badly shaken and often bitter.
I talked with most of those who DORed from 228, yet I only heard one man say what all those who surrendered during Hell Week must have felt: “I just got so damned cold I couldn't take it anymore, so I quit.” But why one man quits and another will go on, no matter how hard it gets, is still a mystery. It was the same in 1969 with Class 45.
I think one of the strongest motivators for all of us who make it to the teams is the desire to belong. In the case of the young men fighting their way through BUD/S, it is the desire to belong to an elite group—to become a warrior. Those who succeed have high expectations of themselves, and they want to associate with others who share those expectations. They want to be the best, and they want to serve with the best. I also think success at BUD/S is based on intelligence, or at least the ability to think ahead and to clearly visualize one's personal goals. Hell Week is a mental gauntlet as well as a physical one. Those who have a clear goal of where they are going, and know why they're going there, are less likely to surrender mentally to the physical pain.
Perhaps as I watch Class 228 in the coming weeks, I'll learn more about those who chose not to quit. As Joe Burns so eloquently put it, Hell Week is only a speed bump in BUD/S training. There were two things I did notice as I watched Class 228 finish Hell Week. They were also true in Class 45 some thirty years ago. First, small men seem to get through the training easier and in larger numbers than big men. Clint Burke is an exception. The second has to do with tattoos. With Class 228, success in BUD/S and in Hell Week was inversely proportional to the number of tattoos on a trainee's body. Almost a third of the men who began with Class 228 had tattoos. Some were extensive. All but a very few of these trainees were gone by the end of Hell Week—and those who survived, such as Clint Burke, John Owens, and Pat Yost, have small ones. Perhaps this is not too surprising. Many young people get tattoos because they yield to peer pressure, or because they lack self-confidence or a strong personal identity. These are not traits I saw in the men who finished Hell Week.
For the nineteen survivors of Class 228, the Monday after Hell Week is like the first day of a new school year. They have new status; they're now brown shirts. They have new classmates with the addition of eleven new trainees from PTRR—one officer and ten enlisted men. Class 228 is now back up to thirty men. Most of the new additions are medical rollbacks from Classes 226 and 227. A few were rolled back from previous classes for not meeting performance standards.
The issue of phase rollbacks for medical and performance reasons has always been a contentious issue at BUD/S. At times, there have been more trainees assigned to PTRR than in any of the three regular training phases. At other times, a rollback for any reason was rare. Under the guidance of Ed Bowen, the phase officers have been directed to afford their students every opportunity to meet phase performance standards—the minimum swim, run, and O-course times and to meet the academic requirements. If they don't, there are no rollbacks. A trainee who fails a standard or graded evolution is sent back to the fleet or, in the case of a solid trainee with a single weakness, to the beginning—day one in Indoc. A student who is performing well and becomes sick or legitimately injured will be considered for a medical rollback.
The final three weeks of First Phase are devoted to hydrographic reconnaissance and the mechanics of cartography. The business of hydrographic reconnaissance goes back to the Navy frogmen of World War II. It's a lead-line-and-slate operation. Individual soundings are taken manually by a line of swimmers and recorded on Plexiglas slates. BUD/S trainees perform noncombat, administrative surveys during daylight and at night in a simulated tactical situation. These soundings, along with surf and beach observations, are used to generate nearshore hydrographic survey charts, complete with standard nautical chart references and symbols. The first week consists mostly of classroom work, then the men take to the water to get their soundings and draw their charts. This work is not just a chapter in history for the BUD/S trainees. Deployed SEAL platoons do this work routinely for amphibious force commanders. In 1993, SEALs made hydro-graphic surveys of the beaches and harbors in Somalia before U.S. military units moved ashore. More recently, beaches in the Adriatic were surveyed in support of contingency planning for military operations in Kosovo. Whenever there is a potential for the Marines to go ashore, or whenever the U.S. military feels there may be a need to secure a beachhead to move supplies inland, SEALs are called to perform a hydrographic survey.
During the first week of this training, the men have PT sessions on Monday and Wednesday. These are light sessions with a great deal of stretching, especially on Monday. The new additions to Class 228 are fresh, and the instructors send them out to get wet and sandy often. By the end of the week, everyone is getting wet and sandy, and there is a normal ration of push-ups salted in with the classroom evolutions. Now that the trainees are past Hell Week, whenever they drop for push-ups, they drop for sets of thirty.
On Monday of the second week, there is a four-mile timed beach run. Those who make the thirty-two-minute cut get to jog easy and cool down. Those who don't—and this includes about half the recent Hell Week class—head into the surf for remediation. It still pays to be a winner. For one of the rollbacks there is no remediation; he is sent to the Phase Board and dropped from training. He was rolled back from 227 because of poor run times, and for him, there is no next week to try for a better time. Also on Monday, one of the original members of Class 228 decides he has had enough; he DORs. He had struggled during Hell Week, yet he made it through to Friday. “Why don't you hang in there a few more days?” the First Phase instructors tell him. “The end of First Phase is only two weeks away.” But he's had enough; he wants no more cold water and punishment. He is also very weak from Hell Week and doubts that he will be able to meet the run and swim times. That leaves twenty-eight in Class 228— including eighteen of the originals.
The classroom evolutions are divided up among the First Phase staff, but the trainees see a lot of Instructor Mruk and Chief Nielson. And Instructor Terry Patstone. He's followed them into the classroom from Hell Week. Once the mechanics of the process are covered, the class takes to the water for practice hydrographic recons, first by day, then at night. In preparation for these outings, the class officers conduct the operational briefings and are responsible for the execution of the hydrographic survey.
During the second week, the class is surveying a section of the beach on the San Diego Bay side of the Amphibious Base. The water temperature has dropped to fifty-seven degrees in the bay. The swimmers are cold, but they have wet-suit tops and hoods. Instructor Patstone is in charge of the evolution and watches them from the shore. They are doing a perpendicular combat recon, in which the swimmers make their way shoreward from deep water, take soundings along the way, then retire back to the boats waiting offshore. Patstone feels they are not moving fast enough. He calls them in to the shore, makes them strip off their wet suits, and has them redo the survey. An hour later, the class comes out of the water a second time—and they're chilled to the bone. Petty Officer Sean Morrison, the medical rollback from Class 226 who was so active in 228's Hell Week, is probed and sent to the clinic to be warmed up.
“Chief Lincke said we'd be colder in the teams than we ever were in Hell Week,” says Pat Yost, “but I didn't expect it to happen two weeks after Hell Week.”
During the critique of the evolution, there is a change in Patstone. The intensity is there, but now he's a teacher.
“Okay,” Patstone begins. “On balance, you guys did a good job. I hope you now understand that you have to pay attention and move quickly when you're on a combat recon.” A collective shiver runs through the class as they think of their afternoon in the bay. “Get in, get the job done, and get the hell out. The task unit commander needs that information. The longer you're in the water, the greater the risk to the mission. And for you officers, the sooner you get your men out of the water, the less they will be at risk. Let's start from the beginning. Mister McGraw, you gave a good hydro brief.” Ensign Matt McGraw is the new officer in the class, a medical rollback from Class 227. “But when you do your mission overview, give it to them in English and keep it short. Forget about all the big words in the Patrol Leader's Guide. You want your guys to see the big picture and understand the objectives of the mission. Then they will better understand their individual assignments when you get into the details of your briefing, okay? See what I'm getting at?”
McGraw does; they all do. Patstone can teach as well as he can torment. He walks them through the entire evolution, praising them and offering a list of “do betters”—ideas on how they may have approached an aspect of their survey differently or more effectively. Members of the class really want to hate Patstone, and he's given them good reason, but it's hard. Patstone is like a tough old Jesuit in a parochial school, roaming the isles of the classroom armed with a ruler. He can strike at any time, for any reason or no reason—highly unpredictable. But he cares and he knows his business. The trainees know this. They respect and even like Patstone, but they also still fear him.
It's the last week of hydro and of First Phase—another pivotal week. All the days at BUD/S are long; Tuesday of the last week in First Phase is one of the longest. Most nights, the trainees spend more time in the cold water than they do sleeping. On this Tuesday morning, they run the O-course for time after morning PT. They have a four-mile timed run on the beach in the afternoon. When not on these physical evolutions, the class prepares its charts from the previous night's survey and readies its equipment for the coming night's work. The men were up well past midnight on Monday conducting a parallel recon in the bay. This is a hydrographic reconnaissance in which the swimmers swim parallel to the beach to get their soundings—some men in deeper water, some along the shore. Tonight it's another parallel recon, only it's in the ocean. The surf is about eight feet, and the swimmers in the surf line get pounded. Ensign Joe Burns makes the swim with them. It's dangerous at night in that kind of surf, and he's worried about his students. He also loves big surf.
The last week of First Phase is also the last week of training for three of the original members of Class 228. Airman Alex Lopez never recovered from the cellulitis he developed in Hell Week. He has struggled on the O-course and never made a run time after Hell Week. If he wants to be a SEAL, he'll have to come back and try again. If he does, he knows he has what it takes; he made it through Hell Week.
Ensign Will Koella, like Lopez, never fully recovered from Hell Week. On the last timed four-mile run, he holds nothing back, but he cannot make the cutoff time. He, too, is dropped from 228. Unlike enlisted men, officers have only one shot; they are not allowed to return after time in the fleet. And under the current policy at BUD/S, there are no performance rollbacks, no time to heal and join up with the next class. Will Koella led his boat crew through Hell Week, but he will not go on to Second Phase with them. He's bitterly disappointed.
For four years at Annapolis he dreamed of becoming a Navy SEAL. He fought for and won one of the coveted billets at BUD/S. Now he's out. But Will Koella never quit. Some other branch of the Navy will get a good man, trained at Annapolis and tempered in a BUD/S Hell Week.
Ensign Chad Steinbrecher also can't make the run. But he now has fullblown pneumonia and is declared medically unfit to continue training. The fluid in Chad's lungs buys him a medical rollback to Class 229. And that's often the harsh reality at BUD/S. Two good men, both Annapolis graduates: one of them has the chance to keep his dream alive; the other will have to find another dream.
The lines have to be drawn somewhere. This means the medical officers and the phase boards must make some very difficult calls. These lines, within a narrow range, shift from year to year and commanding officer to commanding officer. For the most part, a young man's fate at BUD/S is in his own hands. For those very close to the line, it can seem arbitrary, unfair, and even cruel. But then so is the business of special operations and combat.
On Thursday, when the class musters for training at the dive tower, the men are treated to something novel—warm water. The dive tower is a fifty-foot vertical steel cylinder filled with clear, heated, eighty-two-degree freshwater. This is a training evolution, not a graded one; the instructors joke with the trainees as they prepare for the tower evolution. First the trainees dive to thirty feet and tie three of their knots on a jackstay. Then they make a fifty-foot dive and tie a single knot. Many in the class have never been this deep, and the fifty-footer is a real confidence builder. Patstone is there checking each man as he breaks the surface.
“I feel fine!”
He checks their eyes to make sure they can focus on him. If there is any doubt, he tells them to say it again.
“I feel fine, Instructor Patstone.”
On Thursday afternoon there is another tradition—the Monster Mash. It's a race of sorts, and the last physical evolution of First Phase. And it still pays to be a winner.
The trainees line up on the beach behind the Center compound by the climbing ropes. They're in T-shirts, fatigue trousers, and boots. The race has a staggered start with a thirty-second interval between each contestant. First they all have to eat one of the jalapefio peppers that Joe Burns brought especially for the occasion. The officers also have to take a swallow of jalapefio juice. Then they're on the course. First they run down the beach and negotiate half of the O-course. Then they head back up the shoreline to Gator Beach, where they strip to their swim trunks. They toss their clothes in the back of Great White and keep running north, around the rocks, past the Hotel del to where Big Blue is waiting for them. Their swim gear is in the back of the pickup. They quickly jock-up in wet-suit tops and fins, and swim south around the rocks to Great White. Then it's out of the water, swap the swim gear for boots and fatigues, and run down the beach to finish the O-course. At the Slide for Life tower, there is a pail of eggs on the top platform and a bucket on the sand below. If they can drop an egg into the bucket, they get to subtract two minutes from their time. After the O-course, it's back to the starting point, up the climbing ropes, do four sets of thirty push-ups, get wet and sandy, and it's over.
There are instructors scattered over the course, and if they catch a trainee cheating, they drop him for push-ups. Sometimes they drop him even if he isn't cheating. The trainees cut corners where they can, and not all of them get caught. It pays to be a winner, or at least not the loser. When it's over, the wily John Owens is declared the Monster Mash champion. The loser, the man with the slowest time, is Jason Birch. He has to drink the Monster Mash grog—the last of the jalapefio juice, which has been laced with pepper and hot sauce. Ensign Birch chugs the grog and manages one of his broad, easy smiles before he deposits the libation back onto the beach.
Friday, the last day, features course critiques and individual trainee evaluations. The trainees are asked to rank their classmates one through twenty-five; the instructor staff does the same. Then each man is called in before an informal gathering of instructors in the First Phase office. For the most part, these are positive and upbeat performance reviews.
“Where do you think you excelled?”
“What are your weaknesses; what do you think you need to work on?”
“Good job … Stay focused.”
“You know you have to work on your run times, or you won't make the Second Phase cutoff, understand?”
“You're done with First Phase, but don't let up.”
“Congratulations. Keep up the good work.”
“Don't forget to give us a thorough critique of the phase,” Joe Burns tells them. “We can't hurt you anymore, so if you have a bitch, I want to know about it. Your opinion counts.”
Petty Officer Pat Yost is rated first among his peers and at the top by the instructor staff. Mid-afternoon on this Friday, the twenty-five weary trainees, including fifteen of the originals who began Indoc together, gather up their gear and head across the grinder to the Second Phase classroom. It is December 10. Class 228 is still three weeks away from the halfway point in their twenty-seven-week Basic UDT/SEAL course.