Lone Survivor_ The Eyewitness Account of Operation Redwing and the Lost Heroes of SEAL Team 10 ( PDFDrive )

rowing, lifting, swimming, fighting, and running.
Back there in Indoc, we did not really get that. All we knew was the SEAL
instructors were putting us through hell on a daily basis. My personal hell was
the flutter kick: lie on your back, legs dead straight and six inches off the sand,
point your toes, and then kick as if you were doing the backstroke in the pool.
And don’t even consider putting your legs down, because there were instructors
walking past at all times, like they were members of a firing squad under the
orders of the Prince of Darkness.
One time early on, the pain in the nerves and tendons behind my thighs and
back was so intense, I let my feet drop. Actually, I dropped them three times, and
you’d have thought I’d committed murder. The first time, there was a roar of
anguish from an instructor; the second time, someone called me a faggot; and the
third time, there was a roar of anguish and someone else called me a faggot.
Each time, I was ordered to go straight into the ice-cold Pacific then come out
and roll in the sand.
It wasn’t until the third time I realized that nearly everyone was in the Pacific
and then rolling in the sand. We all looked like creatures from the Black Lagoon.
And still they drove us forward, making us complete those exercises. It was
funny really, but within four or five days, those flutter kicks were no problem at
all. And we were all a whole lot fitter for them. All? Well, most. Two or three
guys just could not take it and fluttered their way right out of there with smiles
on their faces.
Me? I hung in there, calling out the exercise count, doing the best I could,
cursing the hell out of Billy Shelton for getting me into this nuthouse in the first
place, even though it was plainly not his fault.
I completed the exercises with obvious motivation, not because I was trying
to make a favorable impression but because I would do nearly anything to avoid
running into the freezing ocean and then rolling in the sand. And that was the
consequence of not trying. Those instructors never missed a slacker. Every
couple of minutes some poor bastard was told, “Get wet and sandy.”
Wasn’t that bad, though. Right after we finished the PT class and staggered
to our feet, Instructor Reno, god of all the mercies, would send us on a four-mile
run through the soft sand, running alongside us at half speed (for him), exhorting
us to greater effort, barking instructions, harassing, cajoling. Those runs were
unbelievably hard, especially for me, and I labored in the second half of the field
trying to force my long legs to go faster.
Reno knew damn well I was trying my best, but in those early days he’d call