You see, the devil haunts a hungry man. If you don’t wanna join him, you got to beat him. I ain’t sayin’ I beat the devil, but I drank his beer for nothin’. Then I stole his song.” –Kris Kristofferson, “To Beat the Devil”

‘Say goodbye to the sun, gents.’

We all lined up like good little school boys and waved goodbye to the Earth’s sole source of warmth. The mythical and terrible figure known as the BUD/S instructor had commanded it. So it was done.

Thus commenced the first night of Hell Week. We had survived the daylight hours. The darkness was falling over us like a creeping horror that brought nothing but fear and the promise of goddamned cold. A few had already quit. The shock of the opening hours of Hell Week had beaten them. That was by design. You see, they wanted you to quit. They demanded it of you over and over again. They enticed you with the promise of hot coffee. They reminded you that you could be back in the barracks fast asleep. They teased and tormented you with the Devil’s temptation of warm, dry comfort.