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2:52 AM - Sober, Drunk, and Stupid (excerpt)
Current mood:  contemplative
Category: Writing and Poetry
This is an excerpt from Chapter Six of my forthcoming novel, Sober, Drunk, and Stupid. I hope you enjoy.
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One part of training that I absolutely hated and pray to God I never, ever, have to experience again for as long as I live, is CS gas. Just a few days after we were issued our gas masks and MOP gear (chemical protective clothing) we were taken to the gas chamber. This was a flat structure constructed of cinder blocks, with only two doors and no windows. Outside we were given instructions on how to properly don and use the gas mask. We were made to run through this exercise multiple times.
After that we were told that we would be taken into the gas chamber, in groups of five. Once inside several CS gas canisters would be released, filling the chamber with gas. We would then have to remove our masks, and recite our name, rank, and last four of our social before being allowed to exit the chamber. It didn't seem that bad just hearing about it, but going through it was an entirely different story.
The entire point behind this exercise was to prove to us that the gas masks really did work, thus building our trust in our equipment. It made sense, kind of. I still wish they could have found another way to make this point, but, alas, no. I had to go into that damn gas chamber.
We donned our masks before being led in. It was dark, as there were only two or three low wattage bulbs hanging from the ceiling, and a thick fog hung in the air. I could make out the silhouettes of four canisters, each still issuing a bit of gas, in each corner of the room. We were lined up close to the back wall, and Drill Sergeant Hardy walked in front of us. His voice sounded odd coming through his mask; that and the fact that our masks affected our hearing as well.
My neck, along with my hands and other areas of exposed skin started to burn from the gas. I was sweating profusely inside the mask, and it smelled funny, but I could breath and my face wasn't burning like my neck was. Obviously the mask worked.
The thought came to me that if this exercise was to prove to us that our masks worked so we would develop trust in them, then I should be allowed to leave. I knew it worked, and I trusted it, so why should I have to take it off?
Before I could voice this question the private beside me was ordered to remove his mask. When he did he immediately gagged, and his eyes began to tear heavily as well as turn beet red. Snot started dripping from his nose, almost like he had a bad nosebleed, but without the color red.
"Name, rank, and last four, soldier!" Drill Sergeant Hardy exclaimed in that muffled tone caused by the masks.
The soldier quite literally spit out the information. As he tried to speak he kept opening and closing his eyes, shaking his head and bobbing it up and down, and spit flew from his mouth in whichever direction his head happened to be pointed. His words were choked and forced, like he was gagging on them; like they were trying to crawl back in as he was trying to spit them out. I felt a very real apprehension grow in the pit of my stomach.
I was next.
SSG Driver took the first soldier by the arm and led him to the back door of the chamber where he was ushered out. He would be met, as I would when my turn came, by another sergeant who would make us go through another ritual and recitation to insure we were physically alright, as CS gas can cause severe reactions in some people.
Drill Sergeant Hardy stepped in front of me.
"Do you know what you have to do, soldier?"
"Yes, Drill Sergeant!" I answered.
"Once you get outside, what is the proper procedure?"
"I will hold my arms out and flap them like wings to shake the gas loose from my clothing, Drill Sergeant!"
"Very good. Then what?"
"I will keep my eyes open to prevent any residue from being trapped, and I will tell the sergeant that 'My eyes are open and my arms are flapping', Drill Sergeant!"
"Excellent! Prepare to remove your mask!"
I reached up and placed my hands where I would be able to break the seal and remove the mask in one swift motion; theoretically, at least.
"Are you ready, Private Sands?"
Was he kidding? Of course I wasn't ready. I'd just seen what it did to the other soldier. None-the-less I replied, "Yes, Drill Sergeant!"
"Remove your mask!"
I did, in one swift motion.
Immediately I wished there was one swift motion to put the damn thing back on!
Holy Jesus Christ!
My eyes felt like someone had just stuck a hot, iron poker covered in salt and sand directly into them, and I teared-up like someone had just told me that I'd died. I couldn't see. It was like my eyes, and only my eyes, were underwater, while the rest of me was in hell. I fought back the urge to puke right where I stood. My lungs instantly caught on fire, and the gag reflex was completely uncontrollable. Mucus came up from places unknown, and my nose, also on fire, began to ooze like someone had just turned the knob on a snot faucet. I opened and closed my eyes trying desperately to force this feeling out of them, and kept bobbing and turning my head in an attempt to get away from the stench, and the heat, and the odor, and the feeling, but it was everywhere, on everything, and there was no escape.
Then, from somewhere immediate, yet at the same time distant, came a voice; respected, hated, and welcome. It was blurry, if a voice can be blurry, but it was there, and it was calling me, and it wanted me to respond.
"Name, rank, and last four, soldier!"
I was in pain. I was close to panic. My body and mind were cursing at me. Every instinct told me to fall down and curl up, like an infant seeking solace and comfort, yet I knew that there was none.
The voice. I knew the voice. I pushed my conscious back to the forefront of my being and concentrated on the voice that could make me stay or let me leave. I had to respond.
Then I heard another voice; my voice, only foreign and choked, as if it too knew that it must respond, while the rest of me didn't want to communicate. I didn't even feel like I was the one talking, it just came out and I heard it more than anything else.
"Sands! Private! 1 2 3 4, Drill Sergeant!"
A hand grasped my arm firmly and led me away. SSG Driver ushered me out the back door where there was air.
Fresh air!
I started to breath again, although I still couldn't see straight. Snot and phlegm hung from my nose and mouth like long ropes waiting for children to swing on them. I coughed and gagged as I tried to force the fresh air into my lungs and that toxic feeling out.
"Open your eyes, soldier! Flap your arms!"
I opened my eyes. I had to consciously think about it, force them to stay open. They acted as if they had a mind of their own and it wanted them closed, but I had to make them stay open. I looked up to see an unfamiliar man standing in front of me. My mind began to return to where it was supposed to be. This man was supposed to be here. I was supposed to do what he said.
I extended my arms and began to flap them up and down, like I was trying to fly. I got snot all over my hands, but I didn't really care.
"Are you alright, Soldier? Let me know that you're alright!"
My mind was taking back control. My eyes stayed open and I continued to pretend I was flying.
"My eyes are open and my arms are flapping, Sergeant!"
"Excellent, soldier! Good job! Keep your eyes open and keep shaking it out for a couple of minutes. Then go on over to that tent there, sit down and get yourself some water."
"Yes, Sergeant," I said. My voice was weak, I knew that, but I really didn't care. I'd made it through the gas chamber. I still hadn't decided if it was something I could proud of or not.
It didn't take long to realize that it was something I could be proud of. Especially after seeing two different soldiers rush out of the chamber only to be escorted right back in. If you didn't do it properly the first time, you had to go back in and do it again. And again, and again, until you got it right.
I'd done it right the first time.
One of the soldiers that had been led back in figured this out and made it through on his second shot. There was no way he wanted to go in there a third time.
The other soldier, however, just didn't seem to comprehend, and was led through the chamber a total of five times. He never did get it right. The medic on duty finally told the Sergeants that he couldn't allow them to take him back in a sixth time. What he would allow, and recommend, was that the soldier be brought back the next week with a different training unit to go through the entire process again.
That was apparently something this soldier couldn't do, as he went AWOL (absent without leave) two days later. I guess he figured that a felony was better than going through the gas chamber a second, excuse me, a sixth time.
Copyright © 2006 Brian T. Jackson
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