Stories from Bob's Life

In 1975 Hell Week was the fourth (?) of 32 weeks of Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL (BUD/S) training required to become a Navy Frogman and SEAL.   Hell Week was also the primary rite-of-passage to get into the following phases of BUD/S training, and was notorious for its challenge, and as the primary obstacle to get through, where aspiring frogmen quit, were injured, or washed out. Hell Week was notable for giving tadpoles (aspiring frogmen) little to no sleep with challenging physical evolutions all day and all night, much of that time being spent wet, cold, tired, miserable.  Also, our Hell Week would be in March, when the water was still in the 50s, the nights were cold, still pretty long, and we knew we’d suffer    So all of us in BUD/S class 83 were nervous as we Hell Week approached, which would begin on a Sunday night, last until Friday, and be a key determinant as to whether we’d be able to fulfill our dream of becoming rootin’ tootin’, hairy chested Frogmen.

There were all kinds of rumors and lots of gouge circulating about tricks for how to improve one’s chances of surviving and completing Hell Week.  I remember that some of us cached bags of M&Ms and trail mix out on the mud flats that we could find during the so-called scavenger hunts that were always part of that event.  I also recall that many of us were hoping to find a way to wear “cheater tops” under our camis – 1/8 inch sleeveless wetsuit vests that would provide a hidden (and forbidden)  but very desirable extra layer of insulation against the cold water and cold night air.  Problem was that if we got caught by the instructors wearing a cheater top, we’d be pretty severely punished and would suffer more than if we had had no cheater.  Big risk for how much gain?  I don’t recall if anyone tried to or successfully got away with that -I know I didn’t. If they did they were pretty damn good at being sneaky.

And it was traditional for the class coming up behind us to help out by washing and drying our clothes between evolutions – between evolutions we’d have a couple of minutes to change clothes, throw our nasty, wet, sandy uniforms in Navy laundry bags, that we would find with clean dry clothes waiting for us in our barracks rooms when we were given 5-10 minutes after a future evolution – barely enough time to put on dry stuff and throw our wet nasty clothes back in the laundry bag, which our faithful shipmates in would wash for us again.

The night Hell Week was to start, we were told to be in our barracks at around 4 in the afternoon where all men, officers and enlisted, had rooms with beds and lockers. I recall that our proctor Chief Gary Gallagher met with us in the crew’s lounge and gave us some words of wisdom, at which point I believe we were sent back to our rooms to stand by  – we’d know when Hell Week had begun.

Hell Week starts. Probably around 9pm Hell Week started with a bang – or lots of bangs – literally.  The instructors like to start Hell Week with a simulated overwhelming assault on the barracks, lots of guns firing (blanks,) explosions, yelling and screaming, lockers overturned and hosed down  – the chaos of the battle field.  We had been sitting on pins and needles all evening, so our anxiety and fear were tempered by a bit of relief that it was finally getting started.

The instructors herded us out onto the grinder, yelling and screaming at us, dropping us for pushups, which were never done properly, giving us mutually contradictory orders, and screaming at us some more, and punishing us for whichever of their many mutually contradictory orders we either did not, or could not obey.  We were all in a survival mode – which was part of their intent.

Last Great Act of Defiance. One thing I recall from that initial onslaught of instructor venom and enthusiasm was that one of our classmates had apparently already decided to quit training, but before quitting, he wanted to experience the beginning of Hell Week, and he wanted to enjoy the experience.  I believe his name was Wachter.  Wachter apparently had spent the evening waiting for the kick off of Hell Week  by drinking in his room in the barracks. By the time the shooting and screaming started, he was roaring drunk.

When the instructors started yelling at him, as we were hustled out onto the grinder, he yelled back at them, telling them to go fuck themselves – and then he got increasingly bold and profane.  The instructors were initially a bit shocked – gobsmacked you might say  – at getting this kind of response from a student. But it didn’t take them long to figure out what was going on, and it didn’t take them long in their own deviously sadistic way, to dampen Wachter’s enthusiasm and convince him that his best course of action would be to succumb to the inevitable and go ring the bell. Which he did. And we never saw him again.

I’ve always admired Wachter’s decision to go out in style!

Dive Socks? They never gave us enough wool dive socks and every time someone quit, there was a scramble to get his dive socks which he did not have to turn in, like the rest of his uniform and gear. It reminded me of soldiers grabbing the weapons and ammo of their dead buddies on the battlefield. Because once someone quit, they were essentially “dead” to those of us who were still in the game.

Goodbye Mr Sun! One of the traditions of Hell Week which we participated in, was/is on Monday evening, after nearly 24 hours of harassment and being cold, wet and miserable, the instructors line us up on the beach facing west into the setting sun to watch the sun fall into the Pacific,  and as it slides into the ocean and night time begins, they have us yell, or sing (I forget which) “Goodbye Mr Sun,”  reminding us that we were now facing 12 hours of cold dark night, of being wet, cold, and constantly harassed by fresh instructors on 8 hour shifts.  This Monday night ritual normally inspires a good number of guys to quit.  I don’t recall how many quit in my class, but almost certainly, some did.

Drown Proofing. They had taught us drown proofing in the pool. That first or second night they put that training to the test – only this time in the cold bay, off the steel pier, at night.  The air was cold, we were cold (the instructors weren’t – they were wearing warm field jackets.)  They had us jump into the cold dark water of San Diego Bay and practice our drown proofing skills – which included taking our pants off, tying off the ends of the legs, throwing them over our head to fill the legs with air, and then use them as a “field expedient” life preserver.  I recall that in my case, my pants had holes in them, and wouldn’t hold air. So while my buddies were being held up by their field expedient life preservers, I had to tread water.  I recall thinking “this isn’t fair!” and feeling sorry for myself (that wasn’t the first nor last time I would feel that way.) They kept us in the water long enough to become very miserable and some guys quit. Many of us thought about it.  When they finally let us out, we were shivering, standing on a cold steel pier at night, and they told us to warm up by putting our boots on and running back to the BUD/S compound, about a mile away.  Or maybe we had our boots on during drown proofing – could be – I don’t remember.

Camp Swampy – the Mud Flats The second or third day of Hell Week,  we were told to paddle our rubber boats, referred to with the military acronym as IBS’s – Inflatable Boat, Small – the 8 miles down the coast to the mudflats that were part of the Tijuana River estuary emptying into the Pacific.  We had been training with IBS’s since we had arrived at BUD/S.  Our class was divided into boat crews of 7 men – each boat crew had their own IBS and paddled it with three men sitting and paddling on the inflated tubes on each side and a coxswain steering from the stern in the back.

BUT I was reminded by one of my classmates that the wind and surf were really rough that day, only one boat was able to get out past the surf zone,  and so we had to carry (moslly on our heads) the 8 miles south to the Tijuana estuary swamps just north of the Mexican border where the instructors met us on the beach and directed us inland.

I don’t recall much from Camp Swampy except that the instructors had us doing games that day in the deep thick mud of the Tijuana River estuary, completely submerging ourselves in it, flailing in it, and getting it in every crack and orifice of our bodies.  They told us that this was to get us used to being wet and muddy on ops in the hell-holes we’d be operating in. Note: All of our instructors had conducted SEAL oops in the swamps and rivers of Vietnam.  When it got dark, we got C-rats for dinner, which we ate in the cold, while the instructors sat around a warm campfire.  They had told us to create a poncho tent with our swim buddy to sleep in, but they kept us going on scavenger hunts (snipe hunts?) for much of the night, which we used to just hide from the instructors and recover our cached candy.  It was effing cold and we were all effing wet and miserable.  I vaguely recall shivering to get a few hours sleep in my tent. Some of the guys said they saw groups of Mexicans moving quickly in the dark as they were sneaking in to the US – this was before the border walls and fences were as formidable as they are today.

Stroke, Stroke, Stroke your boat….  The next day the instructors told us to get in our boats and paddle the 8 miles  back to Coronado.  Every event was a competition and this was no exception.  The instructors made it clear that as always, it “pays to be a winner” and the first boat crew back would be rewarded with ….. I don’t recall – probably hot showers, dancing maidens – it didn’t matter.  And the corollary was that the last boat crew would definitely wish they weren’t last – and would suffer.

I recall that we were lucky again with the weather – not too cold, not too windy.  But we were tired.  I was tired.  As we paddled, my boat crew struggled to stay up with some of the other IBS’s but we were hanging in there.  As the officer, my job was to be the coxswain steering the boat while the men – the strong, fit enlisted swine – paddled their hearts out. Well, as the coxswain, my job was to keep the boat on course while the men moved it forward with their strong paddling – but I kept falling asleep at the wheel – and was regularly woken up by BM3 Joe Fuller the “stroke man” up in the front right position, yelling “GOD DAMMIT MR SCHOULTZ! WHERE ARE YOU TAKING US?!!” And I would wake up and see that I had fallen asleep, and was steering our IBS toward Japan, not Coronado!   Fuller wasn’t the only one who was angry – the others in my boat crew were (justifiably) angry as well, so I would apologize and get focused again, and with the rhythm of Fuller calling  “Stroke, Stroke, Stroke”  slowly my head would sink and I’d fall asleep again, only to wake up to Fuller’s angry screams, as the boat headed west into the deep Pacific.

Everyone including me was frustrated, angry and deflated as we watched the other boat crews pulling away from us.  Finally I said I can’t stay awake – someone else take coxswain and I’ll paddle, and I switched with someone.  I recall that it was easier to stay awake while paddling. but paddling for hours and hours was no picnic either.

It was a long day getting back to the base at Coronado, and I believe that indeed we were last.  I don’t recall the punishment.  But i know I was frustrated, embarrassed, angry, tired, near the end of my rope. AND the instructors had told us that when we got back, we’d have a 4 mile timed run on the beach. We  were exhausted and thought they had to be kidding- this was just a mind-fuck.  They weren’t kidding, and it was not just a mind-fuck.

Don’t Cry Schoultzie! So we were sent into the barracks to change clothes and get ready for the run. They did give us one concession – we could run in sneakers vice combat boots, which were required for all of our other runs. I recall going into the room,  sitting down on my bunk, and I broke down and cried – with anger, frustration, and exhaustion.  My roommate Bill Davis came in, saw me crying and said,”Don’t cry Schoultzie – we got that one behind us!”  Bill had probably been in the boat crew that came in first.  I replied something like, “Fuck you – BIll I need to cry,.  I HATED that and I want to kill Fuller!”  Anyway I guess I wiped my tears away, we put on our running shoes, still hoping that this run was just a joke and went out on to the beach, and the instructors sent us off on the 2 miles south to the turn around point.

Given that every event was a competition which rewarded the winners and punished the losers, and I was one of the better runners in the class, I was able to cruise comfortably to remain near the front of the pack  – no fear of getting in the goon squad.  Though I probably didn’t win the run, I recall actually enjoying the run –  the weather was great in the  late afernoon, we were in running shoes for a change. After everyone came in, the instructors sent us to the barracks to prepare for the next event.

My next memory was coming into our room and remarking to Bill -“hey Bill, that wasn’t so bad was it – a lot better than we thought, eh?…….Bill?”

I looked over at Bill and he was sitting on his bunk sobbing and crying, exclaiming, “God, that sucked, I hated that” I responded – “Bill it’s OK to cry -get it out!”  Bill had hit the point that I had been at an hour before.  By the way, Bill was no pushover – he’d been an officer in the USMC with a combat tour as an infantry officer in Vietnam, before he left the USMC, then decided to join the Navy to become a Frogman – and Bill was the oldest, most experienced guy in our class at 29 year old.

Tell us your life’s story – “So, I just grabbed a glass ashtray…” I believe this was Thursday night of Hell Week after we’d come back from Camp Swampy and had had our infamous beach run.  We were told to put on clean dry clothes, bring a pillow ….and meet in the classroom.  We were very tired, but wary. When we mustered in the classroom, our two instructors that night, Lt Jerry Todd and PO1 Steve Frisk (bot retired as Commanders and are now good friends of mine, 50 years later) told us to get comfortable, as they dimmed the lights, and turned on soft elevator music.  Remember, by this time we’d been up for 5 days doing strenuous exercise, with maybe a total of 4 or 5 hours of sleep.

“Now,”  Jerry Todd told us, “you all are BUD/S classmates, and you should be an extremely close fraternity. You need to know each other better and we’re here to help. So each of you will tell your life’s story to your classmates – take as long as you like.  BUT-  if we catch any of you falling asleep, you’ll be running down and jumping in the surf, and then rolling around in the sand in those nice dry clothes you’re in, which we expect will help you stay awake. Now who’s first?”

That was brutal.  There were maybe 25 or 30 of us at that point.  Each story started out something like,  “Well I was born in….grew up in… my parents were… in elementary school I played…..” Brutally dull to a bunch of very tired young men – but young men who REALLY didn’t want to jump in the 56 degree ocean and roll in the sand.  I remember Jerry Todd walking around with a flashlight looking at guys eyes to see if they were open and I recall him sending a few poor souls to the ocean, just to give credibility to his threat.  I also recall him shining his flashlight on his fellow instructor Steve Frisk, and all of us saw that Frisk was sound asleep. Those of us who were awake and alert just smiled along wtih Jerry.

I don’t remember the stories, don’t even remember if I told mine.  But there was one story that I and most of my classmates remember well., Dave Bach told us how and why he joined the Navy.

Dave was from somewhere in the South – Kentucky?  Tennessee? Arkansas?  and related to us how he was sitting at the bar in some watering hole one night, chatting up some hot young lady he was sitting next to, when some guy came up to him, got in his face and started yelling at him and threatening about trying to pick up his wife.  “So,” Dave said, “I just reached over onto the bar, grabbed a big glass ashtray and smashed it across the guy’s face, and that shut him right up.  But it also apparently fucked him up right good.  The cops came and weren’t impressed with my story.  So I was charged with assault and battery.”  Dave went on to tell us that when he went to court, the Judge told him that he’d give him a choice between jail and joining the military, so Dave joined the Navy, and that’s how he got here.  It also told us to be wary – don’t fuck with Dave!

Postscript:  NOW, 50 years later, Dave is telling us that isn’t quite the way it actually happened, but his BUD/S classmates all remember what he said that night and that’s the story we’re sticking with.  Amongst Team guys, Dave has violated an unwritten law – never let the truth get in the way of a good story…..

PLEASE – don’t roll me back! At some point early in Hell Week – it might have been rock portage – I banged my knee hard on a rock – and by mid week, my knee had swelled to the size of a large grapefruit.  It was “water on the knee” – didn’t hurt but when I got up after sitting or resting, it was very stiff and I walked in a noticeably awkward way until it loosened up.  Once I got warmed up, I could run, walk etc – just fine, but I was noticeably struggling after getting up from a period of sitting or lying dow.

The BUD/S medical corpsman was HMC Salz – a Vietnam era veteran. When the instructors saw me limping they called me over and had Doc Salz look at my knee.  Doc Salz knew that my father was a senior Naval Officer so I assume he wanted to be especially careful to not make a bad call -his first impulse was to be conservative and pull me from BUD/S to let the knee heal.

I begged him “Please don’t roll me back!” as that would have meant doing all of 1st phase again as well as Hell Week. That would’ve been a hard one for me to take. He shook his head, sucked his teeth, and said,  “I don’t know…”  I begged him again, and insisted that he defer this decision, and see if I could handle training with the knee as it was.  He reluctantly agreed, and I guess I showed him it wasn’t too debilitating, so I continued to the final day.  At BUD/S today, they definitely would’ve pulled me.

 An inauspicious conclusion.  Back then, Hell Week was indeed a full week, and lasted from Sunday to Saturday.  Friday was referred to as “So Solly Day” – not sure why.  By Friday, the instructors knew that those trainees who were still around were not going to quit and were going to make it thru Hell Week.   Their job was simply to keep us busy, and keep punishing us, so that we got FULL benefit, but it was already clear that we were motivated.  I believe we had an IBS boat race scheduled around the island that night and the next morning Hell Week would be secured. We were all pretty numb by then, semi-catatonic walking dead, just going thru the motions, and trying to perform just well enough to not get the instructors’ attention.

So that Friday morning the instructors had us doing some kind of drill where we’d race crab walking up a sand dune, then roll back down, and then do it again.  This may have been ridiculous, but it was not easy – it’s a lot of work racing up a soft sand dune on all fours – with instructors yelling at you all the way.   Well, after a couple of times, some of the guys couldn’t do it any more, and were rolling over and couldn’t move. The instructors were yelling at them and getting no response.  And then more and more guys were keeling over, and pretty soon the instructors realized that these guys were not shirkers or quitters -something was wrong. I recall that in my case, I was feeling Ok, but was a bit confused at seeing some of the toughest guys in my class lying in the sand incapacitated.

As I recall, the instructors called a halt to the evolution, got together to decide what to do, and somehow we were all put into a van or bus, and taken across the street to the clinic on the Amphib base.  I recall all of us sitting on the floor in the hallway at the clinic, wet, sandy, a pretty sorry looking bunch, while the instructors and the medics tried to figure out what was going on. Some guys were really sick; others like me, were just doing what were told, and glad to get the break.

I don’t recall much after that, except that at some point they told us that Hell Week was secured, and some of the guys were being sent to Balboa Naval Hospital.  I went back to my room in the BOQ but realized that my foot hurt pretty badly, and so I called the number they gave us in case of a problem. It’s all fuzzy to me now, but I remember two things:

1. The Doc  came to my room, looked at my swollen and bright red foot, and told me it was a serious infection so he’d be giving me the infamous gamma gobulin shot, which I’d heard was “no fun.”  I remember seeing the doc pull out a needle that was about 6 inches long and about the diameter of a 10 penny nail, then him telling me to bend over.  He then jammed that thing into my buttock  and it hurt like no other shot I’d ever had.  I think I may have bent the frame of the bunk I was holding on to.
2. I guess at some point soon after that, I was feeling sick and must’ve called the number again, and somehow was transported to Balboa.  I do recall being led into the hospital, people staring at me, still in my Hell Week greens, covered in sand, shaved head walking with that bow-legged Hell Week walk with the sand-chafed groin.  And then somehow I was led into a dark room in Balboa where I saw all my classmates lying passed out in hospital beds all around the room, each with an IV hooked up to them.  I wasn’t sure what to think – I was still pretty numb. I may have been one of the last guys they checked in.  They put me in a bed where I went fast asleep and I do reacall having Hell Week nightmares all night long.  I believe I was released the next day (I don’t remember leaving.)

That is my last memory of my Hell Week.

Epilogue: There was a lot of speculation that the sickness came from the mud flats, which were/are notoriously polluted and unsanitary.  But as I recall, the final analysis determined that the food we’d been served at teh chow hall for midrats Thursday night had been bad and we’d gotten food poisoning.  Whatever the tainted food was, those who’d eaten more of it got sicker.  In the end all the guys recovered – but in our very exhausted and weakened state, a number of the guys spent several days in the hospital.