Chapter 13 #3
She said something in Old Norse which he was pretty sure equated with “Get a life, bozo.”
After much clumsy scrambling they got the knack of holding the IBSes on their heads. Little did they know that quickly they would experience an almost unbearable pain in the neck and jaws, even the ankles and knees, just from the weight of the rubber boat as they ran.
He had to give them credit when they began calling out what had to be a quickly improvised series of jody calls.
Anyone who had ever seen the movie Stripes knew how ridiculous they could be.
These particular ones seemed to be prompted by a woman from Nashville who someone had told him was a country western singer. Her name was Alda Sue Perry.
“I don’t know but I been told,” Alda Sue sang out.
“I don’t know but I been told,” the rest of the women repeated.
“Navy SEALs aren’t all that hot.”
“Navy SEALs aren’t all that hot.”
“Of women, they know diddly squat.”
“Of women, they know diddly squat.”
“That’s the truth, we swear to that.”
“That’s the truth, we swear to that.”
“Now, WEALS may be hot to trot,”
“Now, WEALS may be hot to trot,”
“But not for a webfoot hotshot.”
“But not for a webfoot hotshot.”
“Keep it up, SEALs cannot.”
“Keep it up, SEALs cannot.”
“Sound off, one, two...”
“Three, four.”
“Very funny,” the commander said. “Enough sluffing off. Pick up speed here, ladies, or ring out. This isn’t a turtle race. We have something fun planned back on the grinder. Betcha that bell will be ringing then.”
A communal groan followed his words.
They ran five miles, which was a lot for some of these women.
Halfway back to the command center, they were really dragging, the weight of the boats and length of their run catching up with even the fittest of them.
He knew from experience that their muscles were screaming by now, especially the back of the neck.
Britta was in the middle of the line, struggling, but no more than the others. He tried to stay away, and let the other instructors pick on her, but he couldn’t help but glance her way every five minutes or so.
“Are you still mad at me, honey?” he inquired, jogging along beside her.
She stared straight ahead, panting like a woman in labor.
Was she still upset because he wouldn’t agree to her preposterous suggestion that he travel back in time with her? As if!
“You didn’t really expect me to time-travel with you, did you?”
She glanced his way for a brief second. “I’ll find someone else to help. Begone, lout! You will scare the other men away.”
“Huh? What men?” He slowed down his pace, dropping to the back of the pack. Now, she’d planted an uncomfortable idea in his head. She wouldn’t go out seeking some other man, would she? For orgasms or a friggin’ time-travel buddy? Not if he had any say in the matter, and he had plenty to say.
F.U. got in the faces of some of the women then. Jogging backward, he taunted Alda Sue, “Well, Mzzz. I-Am-A-Country-Singer, yer not singin’ now, are ya? Yer sweatin’ like a pig. It’s a wonder ya don’t jist fall down. Come on, baby, I’ll help ya to the bell. Ya kin be in Nashville before dark.”
“F.U.” the woman choked out.
F.U.’s eyes about bugged out. “Wh-what did you say?”
Alda Sue just widened her eyes innocently and replied, “I said, ‘Yes, Master Chief F.U., sir.’ What did you think I said?”
The commander jogged up then, and F.U. gave the woman a look which pretty much said to watch her back.
Meanwhile, Petty Officer Evans, Britta’s swim partner, began to chant:
“Eeney meany miney mo.”
“Eeney meany miney mo.”
“Catch a jerk by the toe.”
“Catch a jerk by the toe.”
“If he hollers, grab his cock,”
“If he hollers, grab his cock,”
“Teeney-tiny on a know-nothing jock.”
“Teeney-tiny on a know-nothing jock.”
“Sound off, one, two,”
“Three, four.”
The grody jody was clearly aimed at F.U. which was undoubtedly going to merit Evans some sort of retaliation. She would probably say that his embarrassment was worth it. Zach and the commander would have to watch F.U. a little closer to make sure he didn’t cross any lines.
Zach’s eyes caught Britta’s just then as she passed. He smiled. She frowned.
He studied her from the back as she continued to jog back to the command center. She was sex in motion. The sinews of her long legs stretched with her stride. Her butt cheeks moved up and down. Her single braid swung side to side.
“Hey, buddy,” Cage said, loping up to him as he brought up the rear of the joggers, “your lust is showing.”
“Huh?” he gazed down to his shorts.
“Not there, you idiot.” Cage laughed. “I meant you have hungry eyes every time you look at Britta.”
Great! That is just great!
“Down boats! Down boats!” F.U. screamed into the faces of some of the trainees who were too numb to respond in the proper manner, which would be “Yes, master chief, sir.” Instead, they just let the boats drop wherever, their shoulders sagging with relief.
But only for a second.
“On your backs, sweetie pies,” F.U. continued with glee. “Give me twenty flutter kicks. Hurry, hurry, hurry. Start knockin’ ’em out.”
They were the most half-assed flutter kicks he’d ever seen, despite him and all the other instructors leaning over the trainees yelling encouragement or directions or mostly offers to help them DOR.
A couple of the women walked off to the side and hurled into the sand. Overexertion did that to a body.
“I have a good idea,” Zach yelled out then. “Let’s play volcano.”
The women were too exhausted to mutter aloud, but the glowers they shot his way spoke volumes. Britta’s more than any of them.
The class was gathered in several big, tight circles on the beach, backs to the center and ordered to keep tossing sand up in the air and over themselves, like what else? Volcanos.
“There’s a point to this exercise, snuffies.
Out on an active op, with artillery, demolitions and shells exploding all around you, sand and dirt are going to be tossed in your face and ears and other body cavities.
You’re going to have to learn to work despite the discomfort and fuzzy vision and impaired hearing. ”
No one was buying his logic.
“And now,” Commander MacLean said, “we’re going to show you whistle exercises.
Over and over and over during the course of your program, no matter what evolution, you must adhere to the whistle directives.
Come over here and demonstrate, Instructors Floyd, Uxley and LeBlanc.
” A loud blast came from the commander’s whistle.
The three of them dropped to the ground, face first. “This is the same position you would take if there were real artillery rounds coming at you or bombs being lobbed in your vicinity. Notice how they face away from the sound, hands behind their necks to keep their heads from bouncing on the ground, open mouths to keep their ears from blowing out, ankles and legs crossed to protect...” he grinned, “...their private parts.”
The women seemed to understand the need for this battle replica drill for once and paid strict attention.
Two blasts from the whistle and the three of them crawled toward the sound. Three blasts and they recovered, getting to their feet and brushing the sand off their fronts.
“Now, let’s see you do it.” At least twenty times, the commander played the different whistle blasts till they seemed to get the routine.
Drop, crawl, recover, drop, crawl, recover.
Over and over and many different patterns.
It was a Pavlov exercise in the extreme.
“Remember, you’re going to hear this whistle at random times during all different exercises.
And always, always, the whistle routine takes precedence.
It might save your life someday. Understood? ”
Dozens of heads bobbed. Four women walked off to ring the bell.
“Remember, snuffies. No pain, no gain.”
“If a barrel of lutefisk were nearby, I vow I would stuff it into the commander’s mouth to prevent him from uttering another of his lackwit sayings.” Luckily, Britta’s remark wasn’t overheard by MacLean, or she would be in Gig Squad tonight.
As it was, Zach told her, “Asado, watch your mouth. It’s going to get you in big trouble.”
She glanced his way, checked to see that no one was looking, then stuck her tongue out at him.
The commander and half the instructors then herded the staggering women, carrying the IBSes again on extended arms toward the swimming pool for drownproofing exercises.
At least a dozen of the trainees would ring out in the midst of that horror by the end of the afternoon, guaranteed.
Their arms and legs would be tied and they would be tossed in the pool where they were expected to remain underwater and survive for a full five minutes.
If they attempted to rise to the top, an instructor was there to shove them back under.
Zach made his way into the command center to meet with his grandfather and his lawyer.
His grandfather, General Floyd, was standing at the window observing the progress of the WEALS.
Even though he was at ease, his backbone was straight as a board.
His high and tight showed not a gray hair out of place.
His face was rigid and unsmiling, as if he was ever at attention.
His uniform was immaculately pressed with five rows of ribbons to indicate combat tours, along with various medals and of course the stars.
His shoes were spit-shined. Army lifer to the max.
He extended a hand formally to Zach. It was a wonder he didn’t salute.
After shaking hands, the general asked, “Which one is she? The tall blonde?”
He shook his head at the hopelessness of his blabbermouth brother. “Which one what?” he pretended innocence.
“Don’t play games with me, Zachary Frank Floyd.”
“My personal life is my business.”
“Hardly,” he scoffed, motioning to the lawyer sitting at the conference table.