Page 76 of Down and Dirty

Meanwhile, Petty Officer Evans, Britta’s swim partner, began to chant:

“Eeney meany miney mo.”

“Eeney meany miney mo.”

“Catch a jerk by the toe.”

“Catch a jerk by the toe.”

“If he hollers, grab his cock,”

“If he hollers, grab his cock,”

“Teeney-tiny on a know-nothing jock.”

“Teeney-tiny on a know-nothing jock.”

“Sound off, one, two,”

“Three, four.”

The grody jody was clearly aimed at F.U., which was undoubtedly going to merit Evans some sort of retaliation. She would probably say that his embarrassment was worth it. Zach and the commander would have to watch F.U. a little closer to make sure he didn’t cross any lines.

Zach’s eyes caught Britta’s just then as she passed. He smiled. She frowned.

He studied her from the back as she continued to jog back to the command center. She was sex in motion. The sinews of her long legs stretched with her stride. Her butt cheeks moved up and down. Her single braid swung side to side.

“Hey, buddy,” Cage said, loping up to him as he brought up the rear of the joggers, “your lust is showing.”

“Huh?” he gazed down to his shorts.

“Not there, you idiot.” Cage laughed. “I meant you have hungry eyes every time you look at Britta.”

Great! That is just great!

“Down boats! Down boats!” F.U. screamed into the faces of some of the trainees who were too numb to respond in the proper manner, which would be “Yes, Master Chief, sir.” Instead, they just let the boats drop wherever, their shoulders sagging with relief.

But only for a second.

“On your backs, sweetie pies,” F.U. continued with glee. “Give me twenty flutter kicks. Hurry, hurry, hurry. Start knockin’ ’em out.”

They were the most half-assed flutter kicks he’d ever seen, despite him and all the other instructors leaning over the trainees yelling encouragement or directions or mostly offers to help them DOR.

A couple of the women walked off to the side and hurled into the sand. Overexertion did that to a body.

“I have a good idea,” Zach yelled out then. “Let’s play volcano.”

The women were too exhausted to mutter aloud, but the glowers they shot his way spoke volumes, Britta’s more than any of them.

The class was gathered in several big, tight circles on the beach, backs to the center, and ordered to keep tossing sand up in the air and over themselves, like what else? Volcanoes.

“There’s a point to this exercise, snuffies,” Zach explained. “Out on an active op, with artillery, demolitions, and shells exploding all around you, sand and dirt are going to be tossed in your face and ears and other body cavities. You’re going to have to learn to work despite the discomfort and fuzzy vision and impaired hearing.”

No one was buying his logic.

“And now,” Commander MacLean said, “we’re going to show you whistle exercises. Over and over and over during the course of your program, no matter what evolution, you must adhere to the whistle directives. Come over here and demonstrate, Instructors Floyd, Uxley, and LeBlanc.” A loud blast came from the commander’s whistle. The three of them dropped to the ground, face-first. “This is the same position you would take if there were real artillery rounds coming at you or bombs being lobbed in your vicinity. Notice how they face away from the sound, hands behind their necks to keep their heads from bouncing on the ground, open mouths to keep their ears from blowing out, ankles and legs crossed to protect” — he grinned — “their private parts.”

The women for once seemed to understand the need for this battle replica drill and paid strict attention.