Read The Diaries - 01 for Free Online Page B

klicks , hillier route, and this time you got ninety
minutes.   Anyone a second late is an
automatic bolo.”
    Three men dropped
out upon hearing the distance and speed required.   Physically, they stood no chance.
    Twenty-eight
remained.
    Hell ensued.
    Twenty made it to
the checkpoint.  
    Gage arrived
fourth, his right foot bothering him, making him worry he might be getting a
stress fracture: the dreaded curse of the marching soldier.
    It was fully dark
by that time.   The instructors, knowing
they had an iron-forged group of men remaining, upped the ante.   “This next one is thirty klicks ,
and you got two and a half hours.”   Most
soldiers can run a seven and a half minute mile with no problem, but to be able
to do so in bloodied boots, with a hundred and twenty pounds strapped to your
back, during the night, over uneven terrain, without nourishment, after months
of unrelenting torment is nearly inhuman.   And certainly inhumane to be made to do so, but the remaining twenty
didn’t think that way.
    It took Gage three
miles to get going and, although he could feel his foot swelling, he wouldn’t
quit unless the damned thing fell off.   The competitive spirit of the men, individually, was gone—they were now
pulling for one another—a kindred spirit that only months and months of
hellacious treatment could bring out in a group of such diverse people.   When Helms and Gilder dropped back, it was
Gage and another buddy who urged them on, even taking on bricks from their
packs and physically pulling the men.   But that type of help only lasts so long and, by the time the last man
reached the truck, there were only seventeen remaining.
    The soldiers were
delirious, so in need of food and water that they struggled to comprehend what was
happening.   They were like robots, moving
forward only because that was how they were programmed.   After reaching the truck, one of the
remaining soldiers mumbled something to the others that made him sound as if he
was speaking in tongues.   The lone
instructor allowed them to drink a canteen of water but insisted they remain
standing.   He stood perched on the
truck’s tailgate, holding a steaming canteen cup of coffee, toasting them with
it.   “You guys are tougher’n leather—I’ll give you that.   And you’ll
need to be because this next leg’ll take you to
daylight.   Fifty klicks ,
four and a half hours.   That’s more than
a marathon, gentlemen.   Then we’ll see
who’s left standing.”
    It was a
shame.   As soon as the words were out of
the instructor’s mouth (and comprehended) the seventeen men became eleven.   Six men, their uniform blouses stained with sweat-diluted
blood from the rubbing of their straps, dropped their packs, staggering to the
truck for more water and nourishment.
    The instructor,
lit by a ring of glow sticks on the tailgate, shook his head as he watched
them, asking the rest of the haggard group if they wanted to join them.   Wavering only from their physical battering,
each man’s boots stayed planted on the ground.
    He lifted his arm,
starting his stopwatch again and telling them they’d better haul ass.   Gage was feverish and dizzy, but he turned
left and began his stagger, feeling the broken metatarsal in his right foot as
it again began to rub against its other half, grating like two sharp rocks
being scraped together—it had finally given way midway through the last
segment, snapping like a dry twig.   And
while it was painful, Gage had come too far to stop.   He attempted to zone out the pain; he was going
to keep moving forward.   He had to.
    The soldiers, now too
tired to even encourage one another, plodded along as fast their weary bodies
would allow; the sharp straps of the packs and the friction of their boots were
lubricated by sweat and slick blood from their blisters, aiding them in a
hideous slice of Army irony.   After a
half kilometer, as the group was crossing a low bridge, floodlights flashed