"Platoon 11! I'm part of your instructing crew, and until you earn the right to know my name, you will address me as Instructor. We will address you by your numbers on your triceps." The instructor's voice was sharp and hoarse.
His eyes, covered by black shades so was his head with a black cap, but he scanned the assembled recruits and they could feel it. "Recruits, we are officially beginning our training course. Here, in the selection process, we evaluate and group you based on your physical and mental strengths. We are here to birth warriors. We'll put you through things I promise you've never gone through. You are going to be pressured, yelled at, wet, tired, hungry, hot, cold, and it's going to suck. There's no reward for your suffering. As you know, all sixty of you are training to be infantry, or at least *want* to be. But we are here to tell you: you might not have what it takes. The numbers on your arms are patches that can be removed should you wish no part in this anymore. You will remove them and say 'I quit' immediately after you visit the medical center. Are we clear?!"
"Yes, Instructor!" the recruits shouted in unison, their voices firm showing determination amd acceptance.
"Alright, make a column. There should be ten in each. You will be trained by the some of world's most seasoned veterans. From this point forward you will have no contact with the outside world. No phones. No malls. We need able-bodied men to deploy for combat, we need warriors. You will have no right to ask questions you will only accept without doub tor hesitation, and you can only speak if you ask for permission… meaning you will NEVER be able to ask for permission for anything. But you can speak only to say 'Yes, Instructor,' 'I understand, Instructor,' or 'I quit, Instructor.'"
Another instructor, standing slightly behind Neville, fixed his gaze on a recruit who was visibly shivering. "Thirty! Are you cold?"
"No!" the recruit stammered.
"No?! No 'WHAT'?" the instructor's voice boomed.
"No, Instructor!" the recruit corrected quickly.
"Then why are you shivering? Straighten your back and stand firm!"
"Yes, Instructor!"
The first instructor refocused the group. "From now on, you will be addressed and address each other by your numbers."
"Yes, Instructor!" they shouted in unison.
"You look motivated, Number 16," the instructor said, tapping a tall, broad-shouldered black man at the front of the formation. He had a close-cropped buzz cut, dark brown skin, and tattoos visible on his neck. Like everyone else, he wore the standard-issue cream long-sleeved shirt and green fatigue pants tucked into black combat boots. "You will be the class head."
"Yes, Instructor!" Number 16 replied.
"Now, lead your group down!"
"Yes, Instructor!" Number 16 dropped into a push-up position and yelled, "Down!" The rest of the platoon followed suit, hitting the sandy ground in unison.
"Down! Down!" Number 16 yelled, leading the push-ups.
"Do not bend your knees! Your pants should not be stained with sand at your knees!" an instructor barked, his voice echoing across the training grounds.
"Yes, Instructor!" the recruits yelled back, some voices strained with exertion. The instructors moved among them, individually assessing each recruit, pointing out every flaw and imperfection.
"Fifty-six, do not raise and wiggle your hips!" an instructor said, delivering a sharp pat to the recruit's back.
"Y-y…yess, Instructor!" Fifty-six stammered, his arms trembling under the strain as Number 16 called out another "Down!"
"Down! Down! Down!"
"Come on, Thirty-four, is THAT a push-up? Go lower! Your chest should NOT touch the floor!"
"Yes, Instructor!"
"Now, on your backs! Lay on them! Raise your legs and keep moving them! Do not let them touch the ground!" the instructor commanded.
"Faster!" he yelled.
"Slow down!" he then countered.
"Now faster!"
"Thirty-three! Stand up!"
"Yes, Instructor!"
"Why are you not doing it properly?"
"I wi—" the recruit began, but the instructor cut him off. "You are NOT allowed to speak if it is not a 'yes,' 'no,' 'thank you,' or 'I quit.' Am I clear?!" The instructor yelled directly into 33's face, some spit debris flying from his mouth and landing on the recruit's face, making him visibly uncomfortable.
"Yes, Instructor!"
"Duck walk around the other cadets until I tell you to stop!"
After what felt like ages, the instructors, having pushed the recruits to their limits with leg raises that grew progressively slower than their initial pace, exchanged glances and nodded. One of them yelled, "Line up!"
As the recruits scrambled to form lines, the same instructor continued, "The first person of each column will crawl on the sand to the other side of this sand course. Your chest will lay flat on the sand, so will the rest of your body. Use your arms and legs to quickly clear the course. After that, you move to the next course, where you will do the same, but on water!"
"Yes, Instructor!" the recruits responded, their voices hoarse and their bodies aching.
The first row moved forward, a mix of four men and two women interspersed amongst them. They dropped to the ground, their bodies hitting the damp sand. The sandbox, a long, rectangular expanse, stretched before them, narrowing considerably towards the far end. The sand, warmed by the sun, was damp from the instructors' earlier dousing. They had been ordered to roll up their sleeves, exposing their bare forearms and elbows to the sand.
As they began to crawl, the warm, damp sand clung to their skin, sticking to their forearms, some working their way into their rolled-up sleeves, and infiltrating the collars of their shirts to stick unto theirs backs. It even found its way into their hair, creating an outline around their scalp.
The narrowing of the course quickly became a challenge. As recruits jostled for position, trying to gain an edge, sand was kicked back into the faces of those behind, adding another layer of discomfort.
The instructors' shouts echoed across the training grounds, urging them to move faster, to push harder, keep lowand their hips and backs flat. While moving as fast as they could.
One recruit, Number 27, a tall, skim dude, found himself lagging behind. He struggled to keep pace, his movements becoming sluggish. The instructor nearest him yelled, "Move it, Twenty-seven! You're moving like slugs on salt! Faster"
Finally, the first row reached the end of the sand course, finally getting to their feet, covered in sand from head to toe as they began to shake it off.
Without a moment's rest, they were directed to the water course.
Rows of small thin wooden planks placed evenly, supported by sturdy sand bags, formed a low tunnel over a shallow trench. The space between the planks and the ground was a mere 14 inches, and 9 of those inches were filled with flowing, brown water. The recruits were instructed to crawl beneath these planks, submerging themselves in the shit brown water.
The sand that had already stuck on their bodies now mixed with the water, creating a thick, clinging and scrapping mud that added discomfort. They crawled on their bellies, their faces just inches above the water's surface, pushing themselves forward with their arms and legs. The muddy water seeped into their clothing, further adding to their discomfort.
The sand that had been irritating on dry skin now became a grinding paste against their soaked uniforms. The sensation was unpleasant, but they had no choice but to push through, driven by the nonstop shouts of the instructors.
The recruits had tucked in their shirts, the waterlogged sand had accumulated at the hems, creating a heavy, shifting mass that rubbed against their skin with every movement. Like the sand course before it, this watery crawl spanned 100 meters.(300 feet or so)
"Do not let your fat asses touch the plank! And crawl faster! Like cockroaches!" an instructor bellowed, his voice echoing across the water.
"Yes… Yes, Instructor!" responded Number 49, momentarily dipping his head under the mud water to avoid scraping against the wooden planks as he crawled beneath them.
[8:20 am]
Upon completing the water course, the recruits were immediately ordered to run. Their task: to sprint up a steep hill and back down, twice.
"Do not be the last person!" the instructors warned.
"Yes, Instructor!" the recruits responded, their breath already coming in ragged gasps.
Some instructors trailed behind the running recruits while others led ahead, their eyes scanning the formation. One spotted Number 59, who had fallen behind, now slumped on the ground, his chest heaving.
"Recruit, run!" an instructor barked.
"Hah… Hah… hah… I can't anymore… I can't," 59 gasped, his voice strained.
"Just say the magic words, and it'll be over. You'll get reassigned. At this point, the contract hasn't been fully processed yet…" the instructor said, his voice surprisingly calm.
"Hah… I quit," 59 finally managed, ripping the number patch from his shirt.
"My back and knees can't handle it anymore… Hah… hah…" he continued, his breathing still ragged.
"Go to the medical center," the instructor directed. By now, the other platoon members had begun to run back down the hill.
"Yes, sir!" 59 replied, slowly pushing himself to his feet and wanting to catch his breath before moving.
[9:50 am]
The recruits were now performing duck walks around the sand course, back and forth, their thighs burning.
Number 48 kept rising to a stand-bending position, unable to maintain the low squat for long. An instructor approached him, his face inches from 48's.
"Do you think it's going to get harder or easier?" the instructor asked, his voice low and menacing.
"No, Instructor!" 48 stammered.
"You CAN speak. Do you think it's going to be harder or easier?" the instructor repeated, emphasizing each word.
"It's going to be hell, Instructor," 48 replied, his voice barely above a whisper.
"No, it won't be hell, because what would 'I' be doing there?" the instructor retorted. "It's going to be WORSE, because unlike hell, where you know you are getting punished for something, here you'll go through it 'voluntarily'. No one is making you do this! You don't have to! But here you are, and you aren't even doing it right! So squat and walk like a good duck!"
"Yes, Instructor!" 48 replied, dropping back into a squat, but he quickly straightened up again.
"That's not a duck walk, Forty-eight! Stand up… Follow me!" The instructor grabbed 48 by the arm and led him back to the water course for some "special attention," forcing him to repeat the crawl through the muddy water.
What followed was a relentless cycle of exercises: belly crawls, back crawls, push-ups, and timed runs up and down the hill. "Faster! Move it! Don't stop!" the instructors' voices echoed across the training grounds. Number 7, a young woman, finally broke down in tears, overwhelmed by the physical and mental strain. She couldn't take it anymore and quit.
[11:20 am]
"You'll arrange yourselves in groups of six, where your heights are similar!" an instructor yelled.
"Yes, Instructor!" The recruits scrambled to comply, shuffling and regrouping until they formed relatively even teams. Neville and Jarvis found themselves in a group of the taller recruits, a "monster group" they were performing well.
A smooth, heavy log was brought out, and the groups spaced themselves along its length, hoisting it up to their chests. They were then instructed to perform various exercises while carrying the log: lifting it to their chests, carrying it on their left shoulders, then their right, and even performing "kangaroo pouches," where they had to bend at the knees while holding the log between their legs and walking.
At first, the log exercises weren't too problematic, but with their already mounting fatigue and the smooth surface of the log, which kept slipping in their sweaty hands, it became increasingly difficult. Their arm muscles burned and so did their palms from the friction with the slipping log, and they were never allowed to set the log down for even a second.
For the groups with significant height disparities, the task was even more challenging. The tallest recruit's shoulder might be well above the head of the shortest, making it difficult for the smaller recruit to contribute to his team. At one point, an instructor, seeing the struggle of Number 37, the shortest guy in one of these mismatched groups, simply told him to "help out however he could," a rare display of leniency.