The U.S. Spec Ops and some journalist imbedded in their squad had gathered around the field to watch us from a safe distance. Maybe they didn’t do iso push-ups where they came from, but whatever the reason, they were pointing their fat fingers at us and laughing. The breeze coming off the water picked up their voices and dumped them on us. Even at this distance, the commentary was loud and grating. Fingernails on a chalkboard grating. Oh, man. Is that a camera? Is he seriously taking pictures? All right, that’s it, motherfucker. You’re next on my KIA list.

Pain and fatigue racked my body. My blood pumped slow as lead.

This was getting old. Counting my dream, this was the second time I’d endured this particular session of PT. Not just PT, iso push-ups. In training they taught us that even when you’re in excruciating pain- especially when you’re in pain-the best thing to do was to find some sort of distraction, something else to focus on other than the burning in your muscles and the sweat streaking down your forehead. Careful not to move my head, I looked around out of the corner of one eye.

The American journalist was snapping pictures, a visitor’s pass dangling from his neck. Say cheese! He was a brawny fellow. You could line him up with any of those U.S. Special Forces guys and you’d never know the difference. He’d look more at home on a battlefield than I would, that’s for sure.

I got the same vibe from those Special Forces guys that I got from Sergeant Ferrell. Pain and suffering were old friends to men like them. They walked up to the face of danger, smiled, and asked what took him so long to get there. They were in a whole ’nother league from a recruit like me.

In the middle of the testosterone display, the lone woman stuck out like a sore pinky. She was a tiny little thing standing off by herself a short distance from the rest of the squad. Seeing her there beside the rest of her super-sized squad, something seemed out of whack.