and falling water, waves slapping at their faces.
Then Carmichael shouted that he was moving up, and Moore raced back to help him guide the boat up and over the rocks, as the others finally came out of the surf to assist.
When they were finished, they all stood there up on the outcropping, gasping for breath, the wind whipping the seawater from their faces as their instructor shook his head and shouted, “Way too slow!”
Fourth-week assessment was a painful time for both the men and the instructors. Guys who’d stuck it out, tried their best, would not drop, ever, had to be cut from the class because they simply lacked some of the physical qualifications necessary: the stamina, endurance, times on the O-course, and so on. These were men who truly had the hearts and souls of Navy SEALs, but their bodies could not carry the burdens of the position.
Moore and his swim buddy Carmichael survived those fourth-week tests and were preparing themselves for the notorious, the legendary, the dreaded Hell Week, five and one-half days of continuous training evolutions, during which time they were allowed a total of only four hours sleep. Not four hours of sleep per day but four hours of sleep over the entire five days. Moore wasn’t even sure that the human body could remain awake for that long, but he’d been assured by his proctor and instructors that “most” of them would manage.
Moore was chosen as a team leader for his continued and exemplary prowess in the water and during the runs. He’d already proven he could hold his breath longer than anyone else in his class, could swim harder and run faster. On the Sunday afternoon before Hell Week was to begin, they all waited inside one of the classrooms, locked down. They were fed pizza and pasta, hamburgers and hot dogs, Cokes. They watched some old Steven Seagal films on videotape and tried to relax.
At about 2300 someone kicked in the classroom door, the lights went off, and gunfire popped and banged everywhere. The “breakout” had begun — simulated combat chaos. Moore hit the deck, trying to convince himself that despite the racket, those men were firing blanks. One instructor had a fifty-caliber machine gun, and the weapon was thundering so loudly that Moore could barely hear a second instructor yelling, “Hear the whistle? Hear the whistle? Crawl toward the whistle!” He and Carmichael did, making it out of the room and out onto the grinder, where they were hit with fire hoses for fifteen minutes and given no orders. All they could do was raise their hands to shield their eyes and try to run out of the blast. Finally they were ordered down to the surf. Instructors continued firing guns, and Moore saw that there must have been more than two dozen instructors brought in to help challenge them for Hell Week.
The evolutions came fast and furious: workouts in the surf followed by log PT, and they were even tasked with carrying their boat as a team across the O-course. They faced repeated drills of rock portage, followed by carrying their boats to chow after nearly ten hours of hard work on the very first day.
Because they were too excited to sleep the day before, and they had trained throughout the night, by morning of the first day sleep deprivation was already taking its toll. Moore’s brain had become fuzzy. He’d call out for Instructor Killian, and Carmichael would remind him that they weren’t in INDOC anymore, that this was the real deal, it’s Hell Week. They were all heavy-eyed, saying things that made no sense, having weird conversations with ghosts in their heads.
This was a major problem, especially for team leaders who had to pay close attention to their instructors — because the instructors would deliberately leave out directions for a task to see if team leaders were still on the ball. If team leaders caught the error and brought it to the attention of their instructors, their team’s task could become much easier — or they might even be allowed to skip the task altogether.
But Moore had been too exhausted, ready to pass out, and certainly not ready to carry a heavy log with the rest of his team.
“Grab your logs and get ready!” came the order.
Most of the men rushed back to their logs, but several team leaders remained behind. Moore was not one of them. Over his shoulder, he heard one of the other team leaders say, “Instructor, don’t you mean you want us to grab our logs and get them wet and sandy?”
“Yes, I do! Your team sits this one out.”
Moore’s shoulders sank. He’d screwed up, and the entire team would pay for his mistake.
That evening, during a rare one hour and forty-five minutes of rest, Moore draped an arm over his eyes. Carmichael had been right. Moore couldn’t stop thinking about all the pain and suffering to come and the pressure of being responsible for the others. They’d given him a leadership position, and he’d failed.
“Hey, bro,” came a voice from the darkness.
He removed his arm and saw Carmichael leaning over him. “You fucked up. So what.”
“You were right. I’m ready to quit.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I failed. Let me quit now so I don’t drag down the rest of the team. I’m making it harder for all of us.”
“Maybe we needed to carry the log.”
“Yeah, right.”
Carmichael’s eyes grew wider. “Here’s the deal. Our training will be even harder than everyone else’s. When we get through this, we got bragging rights to say we took on every challenge, and we did ’em the hardest way possible. We weren’t looking for the easy way out. We’re the best team.”
“They haven’t said it, but I know the other guys are blaming me for this.”
“I talked to them. They’re not. They’re as strung-out as you are. We’re all zombies, man, so get over it.”
Moore lay there, just breathing a moment, then said, “I don’t know.”
“Listen to me. You keep paying attention — but even if the instructor leaves out an order, don’t say anything.”
Moore shivered. “You’re crazy, man. We won’t survive.”
And Moore wasn’t kidding. It was the end of the first day of training, and more than half the guys were gone.
Carmichael’s voice grew more stern. “We’ll make a bold statement. A few weeks ago they asked us to commit to the warrior’s life. You remember that?”
“Yeah.”
“We came to fight. And we’re going to show them how hard we can fight. Are you with me?”
Moore bit his lip.
“Don’t you remember the quote they told us? We can only be beaten in two ways: We either die or we give up. And we’re not giving up.”
“Okay.”
“Then let’s do this!”
Moore balled his hands into fists and sat up in his bunk. He looked at Carmichael, whose bloodshot eyes, battered and sunburned face, blistered hands, and scab-covered head mirrored his own. However, Carmichael still had a fire in those eyes, and Moore decided right then and there that his swim buddy was right, had always been right. One evolution at a time. No easy way out. No easy day.
Moore took a long breath. “I screwed up. It doesn’t matter. We’re not taking the breaks. We’re kicking ass and taking names. Let’s rock-and-roll.”
And by God they did, crawling under barbed wire on the O-course with simulated charges going off and smoke pouring in from everywhere.
Covered in mud, his heart filled with sheer terror, Moore talked himself through it. He would not give up.
Then the time came when the instructor left out a command prior to one of their four-mile runs. The other team leaders caught it.
“Missed it again, Moore?” cried the instructor.
“No, I did not!”
“Then why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because this team is not looking for a free pass! This team came here to fight harder than any other team! This team has the heart to do so!”
“Dear God, son, that’s impressive. That takes courage. You’ve just doomed your entire team.”
