talked to Dave and Rachel tonight about a new thing I'm going to start working on. below is a very small excerpt: the names are changed to protect the innocent (or, as Dave said, the guilty). thoughts?
We lost our first shipmate to D.O.R. Sunday night. Scott Dannon, the kid who was going to be a SEAL and had no bearing whatsoever was supposed to be standing across from me. Every time we would stand and look at each other with a thousand yard stare, his face would slowly contort and then screw up into a clownish smile. I knew he was going to be my undoing. But, suddenly he wasn't there, and his name wasn't scrawled on masking tape, sticking to the wall, either. Dudley stood alone next to the other side of the doorjam. A candio came by and asked him what his roommate's name was, and he stuttered for a moment and finally said, "Drawer."
After taps Monday night, before the subsequent PFA Tuesday morning, the wind was already howling. It came in off Narragansett Bay with a weird moan, scuffling along the screens just outside our latched windows. Amy and I had to use the head, and we decided to see if maybe Dawn or O’Shea might as well. There were six fifis in all. We crept out into the p-way, the door nearly slamming behind us with the draft. As we slunk along towards the nearby hatches, the floors illuminated in dim shafts of directional lighting, I turned to Amy, ready to ask about the loud gusts. Instead, in my near-sleep, I tossed out: "Hey, can you smell that wind?" Yikes.
I held out some kind of futile dream that they weren't going to roll us at first. We did the PFA first thing, before five, and then they just kept us with the rest of the class- breakfast chow, then all these briefs... the only one I really remember was the Chaplain. My chest felt heavy. This was ridiculous. I was ridiculous. I was tired. We whispered in between presentations, trying to figure out who made it and who hadn't. Almost everyone I'd personally made a connection with was rolling. Steel (my ride), Dawn, Amy, Post, Rolls, another girl Preston, Pete Ivers, and Tim. He'd failed pushups, too, and we'd kept a near-even pace on the run. My roommate Amy had collapsed at the end of the run after failing by one second. At least I'd have companions.
Late in the afternoon we were in the Killzone and prepped to meet Chief Drill Instructor Master Gunnery Sergeant Foster USMC for the first time. He came out, and though I topped him height wise, was immediately dwarfed as I have never been. When he announced that he was in charge of the PFA failures, and then called our names out, I honestly thought I was going to Hell. It's just shortened to H.