Page 27 of Down and Dirty

At first it was difficult to sing and run, huffing and puffing, at the same time, but Britta along with the other women — those who had not yet “rung out” — were better able to perform various tasks at the same time after several days of brutal torture of their bodies, that torture taking the name of PE, or physical education.

The only one unaffected by the excessive running was the nimble-footed Donita, who ran like the wind, her long legs nigh flying over the sand. The rest of them staggered by the end of the ridiculously long runs. “For strength and endurance,” their instructors kept saying. Britta girded herself with resolve to persevere, but she was not sure how much longer she could endure the pain. Leastways, for now, she could run and sing at the same time, and that was no small thing.

“But Navy women are better than gold.”

“But Navy women are better than gold.”

“They can fight and they can flirt.”

“They can fight and they can flirt.”

“They can make a grown man hurt.”

“They can make a grown man hurt.”

“Men can grin and strut their stuff.”

“Men can grin and strut their stuff.”

“But women know they ain’t so tough.”

“But women know they ain’t so tough.”

“Boobs and butts, latex rubber… ”

“Boobs and butts, latex rubber… ”

“Turn bad ol’ SEALs to drooling blubber.”

“Turn bad ol’ SEALs to drooling blubber.”

“Sound off, one, two… ”

“Three, four.”

There was a small satisfaction in seeing the five men gape with astonishment at the lewd lyrics, then scowl their opinion. She especially liked making the pretty SEAL scowl.

Britta had been in this strange land only four days, and she was more tired, sore, bewildered, and angry than she’d ever been in all her twenty and seven years. It was so bad she half wished she could return to St. Anne’s Abbey.

But, nay, she would run and then run some more if that was what it took. Bad as this was, she had no wish to return to the life she had back at the nunnery. Which was no life at all.

Commander MacLean, the leader, was married to Madrene, though Britta could hardly credit a strong-willed woman such as Madrene tolerating this arrogant man. Right now, said arrogant man raised a halting hand for them to stop running and yelled, “Time to cool down before lunch. A little surf passage should do the trick.”

The women groaned, knowing that their being nigh drowned in the pounding waves of the cold ocean water would soon prove punishment, not relief. If that were not bad enough, when they all came staggering out of the water, it was to see the five brutes staring at their drenched bodies to which their scant clothing clung. Men! They were the same everywhere. Show them a bit of breast or arse, and they became like rutting beasts. Especially that one master chieftain called F.U. who’d taken a particular delight in tormenting her.

“How about some sugar cookies now, snuffie?” Chieftain F.U. said, standing practically toe to toe with her. “Snuffies are the lowest rank in a training compound, in case you didn’t know, and you ladies are the lowest of the low.”

In her weakened condition, Britta could barely take her usual pleasure in noting that he was a half head shorter than her. That was no doubt why he picked on her. “Petty Officer Asado, why don’t you show us how it’s done?” Petty officer was the rank given to all the women who had not come up through their regular military. They would have assigned her the same rank she had in the Norse navy, which she had learned was a type of military. Instead, she’d demurred and accepted the same as the others. Besides, being an officer in WEALS gave no special privileges. All of them were treated alike. Badly.

She flopped down to the beach for the exercise called “sugar cookies” and rolled over so that the sand clung to her skin, her clothing, her hair, and in fact some unmentionable places that sand should never be. The other women followed her example.

“No, no, no, sweetheart. Put your face in it.” Chieftain F.U. placed a boot on the back of her neck so that sand went into her mouth, her nose, and her eyes. Then he used the same boot to tip her over to her back. “Now wiggle your hips a little, like a worm. That’s it. Pretend you’re getting nailed, and you like it a lot. Oh, yeah, baby. Now you look just like a sugar cookie. Good enough to eat.”

Britta did not see the humor in his joke, but several of the men laughed.

“That’ll be enough for now,” she heard someone say behind her.

“Says who?” Chieftain F.U. asked.