I still remember the look on his face. He had pain and anger in his eyes…so much anger. It was to be expected, though. After all, I was taking his shared dream away and now I was telling him, “You can’t be here. Your dream is done. Go home.” I grabbed him from behind, pulled him from under the boat and threw him behind me. He tried to fight back, so I turned around to look at him; I shoved him while he grabbed my arms. He pushed at my face, and I think I went to punch him when he said, “No! FUCK YOU! Stop.” I do not remember if I punched him; I may have punched him in the face. I just do not remember. I only remember how hard he fought. It was like he was a dying animal fighting for its last breath. I took it from him.
I remember the instructors howling like wolves and cheering us on. They loved every minute of it. Two men were fighting to see who could stay and who could not. “Who will go to war and who will watch the gate?” “Who will become a part of history and who will be forgotten by it?” All the while, I felt nothing. When I took his last breath, and when I took his dream, I felt nothing; no sadness, no remorse, nothing. I turned around when the instructors pulled him aside and I got ready to eat. I was hungry and it was dinner time, or it may have been breakfast; we had been up for days so I do not know when exactly, but I think it was dusk.
The weird thing about feeling nothing is that he was my best friend. The only friend I had in my crew who had hung around until Thursday night. This might have been why I did not get rid of him sooner. I thought things would work out as long as he did not quit. To be fair, anyone could have done it, but maybe the Universe finds things to be more poetic if the pain comes from someone close. “If the instructors do not get rid of him, why should I? He must not be that bad.” This was the mentality I had at the time. I knew he was not cut out for the job and was not cutting it, plain and simple. He was a nice guy; maybe that is why he could not do it. He had a kind soul, and mentally, he was a fortress. We were friends, and I was his only friend. I am not being dramatic. I was his ONLY friend. He was bullied and harassed more than anyone I had ever seen. He dealt with more bullshit than I can put into words. His “teammates” were the worst to him, and he never once complained about any of them. I asked why he did not fight back, and he said, “Fuck ‘em. I’m not here for them.” He never brought it up, he just kept moving forward.
We were bunkmates. One morning we woke up and the name tape on his locker was replaced with the word “TURD.” These people despised him. I did not get it. I actually liked him as a person and did not understand why he was hated. I never have had an issue with telling someone I do not like them if I do not. I did not understand why people hated him; it still does not make sense. Sure, he was not the best student, but I believe anyone can improve so I did not hold that against him. I took some slack for being his “swim buddy,” but it was worth it. “Nobody gets left behind.” As ironic as that may be, I believed it then and still believe it now. When I make friends, I look out for them and get attached.
I tried my best to make him better, to keep him squared away, but it was always something with him. He always found a way to fuck something up. It was so weird. Maybe the stress was getting to him and I did not see it. That being said, I remember people trying to sabotage him, too. That pissed me off. “Have the balls to get rid of him yourself. Fight him if you want, but don’t be a bitch about it.” I said this when someone had hidden something of his before an inspection. It infuriated me and still does.
It was Thursday of Hell Week when I turned on him. By this point, he was my best friend, and I had been telling him to stop holding back. We needed to win, and we needed to work harder. I hate losing, and I hate weakness or laziness more than anything. He would not listen, or maybe he could not. The instructors could not get him to quit and I had told him not to listen to them. They were harassing our boat crew like a nest of hornets. It was insane. “Just quit, you piece of shit” was probably the nicest thing he had heard all week. “Only we make us quit,” I said. I did not understand what that actually meant. After I threw him out from under the boat and then I had gotten back under it, I heard the instructors surrounding him like wasps. “Even he doesn’t want you here. It’s time to go. Your teammate is telling you that you cannot cut it. You will get him killed.”
I am not sure what made him quit then. Whether it was that I had been the one to get rid of him, or that he realized his inability to learn and adapt would get me killed, or if he had finally had enough of being hated. I do not know for sure, but I think he realized his friends might die because of him. Like I said, he was a kind soul. He would not have thrown me out if I were in his shoes.
I saw him after we secured Hell Week. I told him it was not personal and that he should come back better prepared to succeed. I said, “You would have made it through Hell Week. You wouldn’t have quit.” His response was powerful and sad. “I didn’t come here to make it through Hell Week. I came here to be a SEAL.” This was the last time we spoke, and I never saw him again. That was 12 years ago