American Sniper - Boekje Pienter

43/439
After that, everything ran together. My foot That was the least of
the pain. We swam, we did PT, we took the boats out. Mostly, we just
kept moving. One of the guys was so exhausted at one point, he
thought a kayak coming to check on us in the boats was a shark and
started yelling a warning. (It was actually our commander. I’m not
sure if he took that as a compliment or not.)
Before BUD/S began, someone told me the best way to deal with it
is to go meal-to-meal. Go as hard as you can until you get fed. They
feed you every six hours, like clockwork. So I focused on that. Salvation
was always no further than five hours and fifty-nine minutes
away.
Still, there were several times I thought I wouldn’t make it. I was
tempted to get up and run over to the bell that would end my torture—if
you ring this bell, you’re taken in for coffee and a doughnut.
And good-byes, since ringing the bell (or even standing up and saying
“I quit”) means the end of the program for you.
Believe it or not, my fractured foot gradually started to feel better
as the week went on. Maybe I just became so used to the feeling that it
became normal. What I couldn’t stand was being cold. Lying out on
the beach in the surf, stripped down, freezing my ass off—that was the
worst. I’d lock arms with the guys on either side of me and “jackhammer,”
my body vibrating crazily with the chills. I prayed for someone
to pee on me.
Everybody did, I’m sure. Urine was about the only warm thing
available at that point. If you happen to look out on the surf during a
BUD/S class and see a bunch of guys huddled together, it’s because
somebody out there is pissing and everybody is taking advantage of it.