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

and over a sand dune, and down into the water. We rushed out of the waves and
back up the sand dune, rolled down the other side, then stood up like the lost
company from the U.S. Navy’s Sandcastle Platoon.
Then he told us to get our logs wet and sandy. So we heaved them up, waist
high, and hauled them up the sand dune. We ran down the other side, dumped
the goddamned log in the ocean, pulled it out, went back up the sand dune, and
rolled it down the other side.
The crew next to us somehow managed to drop their log on the downward
slope.
“You ever, ever drop one of my logs again,” the instructor bellowed, “I can’t
even describe what will happen to you. All of you!” He used the enraged,
vengeance-seeking tone of voice that might have been specially reserved for
“You guys ever, ever gang-rape my mother again . . .” Rather than just dropping
the stupid log.
We all stood there in a line, holding our logs straight-arm, above our heads.
They try to make the teams a uniform height, but my six foot five inches means
I’ll always be carrying at least my fair share of the burden.
More and more guys were accused of slacking, and more and more of them
were on the ground doing push-ups while me and a couple of other big guys on
the far end were bearing the weight. We must have looked like the three pillars
of Coronado, sandstone towers holding up the temple, eyes peering grittily out at
a sandscape full of weird, sandy, burrowing creatures fighting for breath.
Right after this they taught us all the physical training moves we would need:
squats, tossing the log overhead, and a whole lot of others. Then, still in
formation, we were told, “Fall in on your logs,” and we charged forward.
“Slow! Too slow! Get wet and sandy!”
Back down to the surf, into the waves, into the sand. By this time, guys
really were on their last legs, and the instructors knew it. They didn’t really want
anyone to collapse, and they spent a while teaching us the finer points of log
teamwork. To our total amazement, they concluded the morning by telling us
we’d done a damn nice job, made a great start, and to head off now for chow.
A lot of us thought this was encouraging. Seven of our number, however,
were not to be consoled by these sudden, calming words uttered by guys who
should have been riding with Satan’s cavalry in Lord of the Rings. They went
straight back to the grinder, rang the hanging bell outside the first phase office,
and handed in their helmets, placing them in a line outside the CO’s door. That’s
the way it’s done in first phase: the exit ritual. There were now a dozen helmets