Energy Waves
This was the turn off to the pack. Crane recognized the subtle bushcraft signs he had used to mark where to look for the pack. Since the signs weren't disturbed he figured the pack was still safe. He didn't want to pick it up yet. There was something else he had to do first. He continued on. It would add about eight extra kilometres but he had to know. He had to go back to the research station.
He bowed his head in grief and gently covered Lieutenant Jacobs' face. He was kneeling in the shambles of the research station. The place had been ransacked, torn apart. No one was here. At least no one alive. He had already found and covered two of the men they had shared cookies and brownies with. Lieutenant Jacobs was the last of the bodies. Lee regretted this outcome. Whatever was in that pack it was even more important now to get it to Seaview safely. These men had died for it. He couldn't let that sacrifice be in vain. He made a silent vow to Jacobs to get the pack to Seaview. One more burden on his already heavy-laden shoulders. He dropped his hand to rest briefly on Jacobs' chest then steeled his mind to get the job done. His legs wobbled as he stood up.
There was no spring in his legs. None. Every step was jerky as muscles worked for hours after they wanted to give up. Every step jolted, as those muscles couldn't spring to absorb the shock of walking.
The pack straps dug into the side of his chest. No matter how he adjusted them there had been too much friction and pressure from carrying Chip and now the pack to ease the discomfort.
His didn't understand why but even his skin hurt. He was simply putting in too much effort for too long. He was asking his body to do way more than its ability to compensate; too little water, too little fuel, too much demand, too little rest.
He arrived at a small rocky rise, just a couple of large steps up. He stopped. His legs didn't have that in them. He groaned slightly. He spoke aloud in a strained timbre, "You can do it, Lee." He looked at the rocks. Stood there unable to lift his feet.
Realizing that in this moment he couldn't take one step up he turned to a nearby tree. Leaned back against it letting it take some of the pressure of the pack off his strained hips and legs and just waited. He didn't want to take the pack off, it was too heavy and he might not have the mental energy to put it back on. He leaned back into the tree wedging the pack between the tree and his back to ease his shoulders, back, and hips and waited. Waited for the ebb of energy to pass. Waited for the flow that he knew would come. Eventually. He just had to wait. Wait just long enough for the weakness to pass but not so long that he seized up, lost focus, gave up completely.
He shifted his hands into his pockets to ease his shoulders some more for a moment. Felt something in the bottom of the pocket and wondering what it was pulled it out. Oh bliss! It was a cello-wrapped candy. Sweet energy in his hand. He unwrapped the treasure, better right now than gold. He tucked the nugget into his mouth and thought grateful thoughts of Chief Sharkey. His mouth was very dry but if he just held it in his cheek to let it dissolve slowly it might help in time. A sweet handout from the Chief, a sweet bit of sugar, a sweet hope.
With his thoughts now turned to his crew he wondered. Were Chip and Kowalski back aboard Seaview? How badly was Chip hurt? Would he recover? Would he still be able to serve? There were too many unknowns to contemplate. His mind raced over so many questions.
Whether it was the candy or the thoughts of his crewmates and Seaview after a few minutes he thought or imagined a meagre hint of renewed energy. He steeled his mind, determined to take back the full weight of the pack, to move to the rocky steps, to lift his feet, to contract muscles strained and drained. He found the fortitude, stepped up the rocks feeling as weak as a kitten and carried on. His feet were stumping against the ground dully in their weariness. Like broken springs clunking, thudding.
He had the pack. He was moving toward the beach. In this moment that was all that mattered. He could hardly even think of Chip right now the pain of moving was so all encompassing. "Keep going, Lee. You can do it." He hadn't realized he had spoken aloud until he did. He silently laughed at himself with wry mocking disbelief. Keep this up and you'll look like those guys did who did that ridiculously long triathlon some crazy folks put on back in February.
They had strung together the distances of the Waikiki Roughwater Swim, the Around-Oahu Bike Race and the Honolulu Marathon and did it one right after the other all in one day. Lee had been impressed and proud of the navy athletes who claimed first and second place but figured they were insane and knew it must have trashed them for a while. 2 Well he knew he was trashed now. "Just keep going, Lee," he whispered.
The pack was only forty kilos. Not nearly as heavy as Chip but right now it felt heavier. It was deadweight, dragging on his shoulders, the heaviness straining his legs. It was just … heavy.
Each plodding step really hurt now. No matter how well broken in or cushioned the boots, the endless unrelenting slog was punishing to the feet. He staggered a bit on some rough ground. He realized his body didn't quite want to turn when it should to avoid the rough spots. He had to consciously think about it. Turn aside at an obstacle. Lift each foot. At least he didn't have to think about putting them down. They dropped as soon as he stopped trying to lift them.
He started counting his steps; it helped to keep his legs moving. One. Two. Three. He got to forty but then he lost track. Started over, one, two, three. He didn't know how many times he counted to forty. His brain wouldn't track higher than forty. He was too low on energy, too low on glycogen. His head ached from dehydration. His muscles were seizing.
All of a sudden he just stopped. Couldn't force either foot forward. Damn he was so tired. He stood still. Told himself, just wait. The energy will come. Just wait a minute and they'll move again. He ran his tongue around his parched mouth thinking about candy. After a minute or so, during which he noticed his feet burning from the punishment and the pressure he could make them move again.
He walked.
Onward.
There was nothing to do but walk, suffer, and think.
He thought back to about a year ago. He had nearly left NIMR. He had undergone two especially horrific missions. He had been wounded close to death and mentally wasted. Broken inside. Hollowed out. His body had healed much more quickly than his mind had. He had been cleared for restricted duty but then bolted in despair when he felt he couldn't serve effectively. Couldn't face Seaview. Couldn't be the leader his men needed him to be.
He had run. Fortunately he had run to the right haven. If he hadn't trusted the right people he didn't know where he would be now, maybe flipping burgers somewhere. Instead he had found a way to heal his mind. To return to the service he loved as the Captain of the Seaview.
He was forever grateful the Admiral had waited. Waited for him. Not ditched him as finished and unfit. As he had so often done the past few months Crane shook his head in gratitude and amazement that Nelson had waited. He could so easily be jetsam now instead of the Captain of Seaview.
He was so very grateful to all his friends, old and new, those who helped him by listening; those who helped him find new ways to cope. Those little ones who listened to the stories he wrote.
He was grateful to again have a solid niche of trust in his heart for the Admiral. That had taken time and conscious effort. At the beginning when the lingering pain of the bullet wound had bothered him, fear and doubt about the Admiral at times overwhelmed him. But he made the decision to trust. He had to choose to trust day-by-day, doubt-by-doubt but he had done it. His mind knew he could trust Nelson and gradually his heart had followed. The tribulations in that relationship had been severe, not welcome, but the two of them with maturity, intelligence, and communication made their bond of brotherhood better, stronger than before.
It was only occasionally now when some sudden spiking twinge of pain in his belly or a chance word about bullets or ghosts came unexpectedly to his ears that he was once again overwhelmed by that fear, that doubt, the reaction couldn't be helped but each time he forced it down. He chose to trust.
He had been especially thankful for Chip. Chip had been an anchor in the tempest. He was terrified right now for Chip. Needing to know how Chip was now lent strength to his faltering legs.
He kept going. Putting one foot in front of the other. Knees almost buckling with each step. The grateful thinking faded away as pain overtook him. He was trembling now from overexertion.
His thoughts floated away. He couldn't follow along any more. He tried but the only thought he could hold on to was 'keep going'.
Keep going.
He silently laughed at himself, scoffed at his inability to think. Here he was stumbling along trying to think. He couldn't think.
Keep going.
He could hear the ocean now. When had that happened? When had he got close enough to hear the waves? He looked at his watch trying to figure the time. To remember the tide tables, to correlate them to the time on his watch, but he couldn't make his mind focus. He couldn't remember. The numbers jumbled in his head. He realized it didn't matter. Once he got there he simply had to wait.
No. Wait a moment. Catch that niggling thought. There was something else. A signal. He had to put up his flag. Remember that, Lee. Not long now. Don't forget that.
He kept going.
Suddenly without realizing it, maybe he had dozed off while walking, he was there at the shore, by the trees.
He knew if he took off the pack to fish out something to tie to the tree he wouldn't get it up again and he wouldn't come back here to the trees once he got the pack to the chosen sheltered spot. He stood frozen, leaning against a tree trunk, weighed down by far too much expended effort, trying to think. He laid his forehead against the bark of the tree trunk exhausted, mind drifting. Energy ebbed.
After a bit he remembered what he was doing here. He had a handkerchief in his pocket. Not very big but he could lay his hands on it without taking off the pack. He twisted to reach his pocket. Everything hurt. The pack straps were in the way. He griped the edge of the fabric scissoring it between his fingers. He couldn't get it out of his pocket. He groaned in frustration. Take a breath, Lee. Just breathe. In. Hold and calm your mind. Out. Pause and relax. Now try again. He hooked the handkerchief up to the top edge of his pocket where his fingers could grasp it. Pulled it out and shook out the folds. He almost dropped it. He groaned in exasperation. No, careful, Lee. You can do it.
The handkerchief was so very small. Could it even be seen by periscope? He stood trying to think through the brain fog of extreme fatigue. He couldn't think of anything else. It would have to do. He tied the handkerchief to the twigs of the tree with fumbling fingers, tried to spread the small square out over the leaves, and hoped it would be seen. He gave the trunk of the tree a little pat as if encouraging it to be the best possible signal it could be and turned away.
Just a couple of hundred metres now. Keep going. One. Two. Three …
Once he got to the place he had left Chip and Kowalski he sank to his knees, buttocks resting on his heels and slid the pack from his shoulders to drop and topple back onto the pebbles and sand behind him. He sagged forward too tired to think. He rested on his hands and knees a moment or two. He didn't have anything left.
Still on hands and knees he turned to grab the pack to pull it deeper into cover but now that he was here, had achieved the goal, strength was gone. No mental stamina to draw from anymore. Nothing left to haul it toward himself, not even a few more inches, nothing left.
He simply wrapped one of the pack straps around his arm, slid that hand under one of the webbing loops sewn to the pack and closed his fist over the webbing; forty kilos anchoring him fast. He would feel if someone tried to take it. He collapsed in a crumpled heap his fist holding onto the pack, shifted onto his side to rest his head on that outstretched arm, and closed his eyes. Done. He was done. All he had to do now was wait. Someone from his wonderful boat would come. Take him home.
2 The first Ironman triathlon was held Feb 18, 1978. A navy communications specialist won and the runner up was a navy SEAL.