Very slowly, some initial blue phase restrictions started to ease up. Although we were still sidestepping our way through the line at the defac, minor chit-chat was generally allowed or at least ignored by Drill Sergeant Hallman. Our daily schedule had morphed into a regular morning routine, and classroom activities almost felt like a typical day at school (with really mean and impatient teachers).

However, I was perpetually sore from constant PT. We all were. Most of it was “good” sore, but due to a fear of being yelled at and subsequently punished, I’d pushed myself harder than I should have on some of the group runs and ended up with a sprained ankle.

Thus, by the end of October, my muscles were shot, my ankle was swollen to twice it’s normal size, no one would let me go to the doctor to get it checked, and I found myself wondering if I would turn into one of those sorry recruits who gets washed out because I couldn’t hack it. I knew I could hack it; what I couldn’t do was run on a sprained ankle.

As I hobbled my way to formation one morning with Ellery, wondering how I was going to fudge my way through the day without doing too much additional damage, Ellery had a different problem on her mind.

“Schwabbie, that guy keeps trying to ask me out,” Ellery said as she not-too-discretely pointed at Beckett, one of the guys in our platoon. As luck would have it, he turned and cast a sorrowful glance in her direction at just that very moment. “What should I do?”

“Um… he does know you’re taken, right?” I asked as we lined up. Beckett was quite a smart guy and very nice to boot, but Ellery was engaged to her high school boyfriend Ryan.

“Yeah,” she said, “but it makes no difference. He’s not giving up.” She shrugged. “I’m trying to be nice, but it’s getting annoying.”

I wanted to feel bad, but there’s only so much bad one can feel for someone gorgeous and popular. “At least he’s cute and speaks in complete sentences,” I said. “It could be worse.”

She rolled her eyes but giggled. Ellery enjoyed the attention, like most girls would, but even if she’d been single, basic training was not the place to engage in such endeavors. We’d been warned that fraternization of any kind was forbidden in a training environment, and that the repercussions for ignoring this rule would be severe.

Just then our beloved Drill Sergeant Hallman strode to the front of our formation. I expected his usual stony expression of vague, haughty disinterest, but today he was … smiling.

I nudged Ellery. “He looks way too happy.”

She grimaced. “That can’t be good.”

“Today,” he started, looking away as if to mask his suspicious smile, “we’ve got a little something special planned.”

I frowned. First, Drill Sergeant Hallman never smiled. Second, it didn’t take a genius to realize that “something special” was military code for “enjoy living in the suck, privates.”

Ellery and I exchanged glances. It was going to be a long day.

“I’m sure you’ve all heard about the NBC chamber,” Drill Sergeant Hallman said casually. “Now you get to experience it for yourselves.”

The NBC chamber. Otherwise known as the infamous gas chamber.

We’d all heard the stories. This isn’t something you go into basic training knowing nothing about – oh, no. Not even me. Everyone knows that every new recruit must endure the painful fumes of the gas chamber, sans gas mask. 

We’d spent the last few days training with gas masks – putting them on, clearing them (removing any gas that got inside), and generally getting used to breathing with a giant stinky suffocating mask over our faces. Now we were about to find out how well we’d paid attention. 

To further exacerbate matters, it was a drizzly, gray day that promised buckets of rain and related nastiness. Once again, we piled onto waiting buses for the short but anxiety-ridden ride through the woods. After a quick briefing under a tent with bleachers, we huddled under the trees in a giant line to await our turn in the suck.

If you’ve ever read self help books, you know that visualization is constantly pushed as a way to change your life circumstances. You are what you think, or something like that. If you don’t like what or where you are, visualize what you want in your life.

So that’s what I did. I closed my eyes. Instantly I was alone on a giant, peaceful, sandy beach, enjoying the gentle breeze, sunshine, and blue-green surf. I was sitting under a giant white umbrella with a very blue and very alcoholic drink in my hand. I took a deep breath of refreshing, salty air. I felt the warm sun on my skin, listened to the sound of the tide lapping gently on the shore, and took a nice, cool sip of sparkling blue liquid.

“HEY SCHWAB.”

I popped an eye open.

“Are you OK?” Ellery peered at me and frowned.

I sighed. The drizzle had turned into a steady downpour. I was soaking wet and chilled to the bone, my uniform clinging in all the most uncomfortable places, and I was about to be blasted with CS gas. I’d seen better days.

“I’m fine,” I said, teeth chattering from cold and nerves. “Just thinking.”

“We’re almost up,” Ellery said, and I realized we were only a few people away from our turn. We quickly put on our masks.

I didn’t know this going in, of course, but there is a secret strategy for surviving the gas chamber that the drill sergeants neglect to tell you. It’s simply this: Remain calm.

The purpose of this exercise is to give you a taste of wearing (and not wearing) a gas mask in an environment wherein there is gas (in this case, orto-chlorobenzylidene-malononitrile gas, commonly known as CS gas or tear gas). That is all. There will be pain in the sinuses, you will flush out some boogers, and your throat will burn like a raging inferno, but it will not kill you.

The gas chamber is hard if you fall into uncontrolled panic. Lots of people do this. Blazing down the rabbit trail of terror is a guaranteed way to perform poorly. If you approach it step-by-step and calmly, you will do it and be done with it.

When it was my turn, I rechecked the seal on my gas mask for the hundredth time, even though I knew I’d be forced to remove it momentarily. I tried to brush off the vaguely claustrophobic sensation that came with sucking in sour air through a decades-old crappy mask worn by dozens before me … and followed the sergeant into the building.

I walked into a thick fog and immediately felt a burning sensation. The mask was leaking a bit. Not surprising, given its age and the fact that I may not have put it on entirely correctly. But I could manage. I kept my breathing even and slow. I could make out several masked drill sergeants standing around and directing people through the process, basically in several meandering lines from the front door to the back door. The first drill sergeant who’d led me inside motioned me forward, and I did as directed.

“LIFT UP THE MASK, SCHWAB. Give me your name, rank, and social security number.” The voice was muffled but very much a command.

I was sorely tempted to disobey. I didn’t give myself time to contemplate that. I took a deep breath as I reached up and unsealed the mask, then pulled it away from the lower part of my face as we’d been instructed to do. This time it didn’t need to come off completely – just enough to get the words out. 

I blurted out the required information in one breath, feeling the burning sensation rush up my neck and into my mouth, nose, and eyes. Once I was done, I didn’t wait for permission before putting my mask back on and clearing it so I could take a breath.

Unfortunately, clearing the mask wasn’t entirely effective. It’s supposed to go a long way to remove any gas inside the mask, but plenty remained. Breathing through the burn, on top of the claustrophobic feeling of the mask on my face, took some serious willpower. All I wanted to do was book it full speed out the door and rip it off.

I could see I was not the only one. Several people just ahead of me looked as if they were panicking and trying to leave, but the drill sergeants were forcing them to stay.

A little voice popped into my head. Stay calm. One step at a time.

“THAT WAY, SCHWAB,” the same drill sergeant barked, indicating another drill sergeant down the line. I stumbled through the cloudy haze of noxiousness and stood in front of drill sergeant #2, praying for a swift end to my misery.

“MASK OFF, SCHWAB,” he roared, with far less compassion than the first. “Give me the SOLDIER’S CREEEED.”

Soldier’s creed, I thought. I can do that.

This time I had to take the mask off completely, as had been demonstrated to us beforehand. I reached up, took as deep a breath as I could stand, shut my eyes tight, and pulled it off.

“I am an …” I coughed. Everything burned, especially my eyes, nose, and throat. This was not starting out well. “… American soldier. I am a …” I coughed again. I needed to take a breath but didn’t dare. The burn was overwhelming now. “… warrior and a …” I paused and leaned forward slightly, trying to figure out how to breathe without breathing.

“OUT, SCHWAB!” the drill sergeant shrieked, pointing to the door.

He did not need to tell me twice. I opened my eyes just enough to barrel my way out the door and into the blessed fresh air and drizzle. There I was joined by several others in various stages of recovery, which involved coughing, hacking, and the expulsion of many boogers, tears, and spit. Overall, a super pleasant end to a splendid afternoon.

Thankfully the CS gas dissipated quickly. Within a few minutes, I started to feel better, although a burning sensation remained around my neck, where the collar of my uniform touched my skin. I wondered if the gas had settled somewhat into my clothes.

“SCHWAB!”

It was Ellery, calling to me from the bleachers. I ran over and took a seat next to her.

“We survived!” she said with a grin, her face pink and her eyes still watery.

“Yeah, it wasn’t so bad,” I said. “I never want to do that again.”

“That’s the good news, Schwab,” said Bateman, sitting nearby. “You made it. One and done.”

I certainly hoped so. That night, I used a few minutes of my precious one hour of free time to write to Andy about my gas chamber experience.

               Dear Andy,

               I hate this place.

               Today I was marching toward the gas chamber in the freezing cold and pouring rain, and I thought of what you said about being wet and                 cold in uniform. I’d have to agree that there definitely aren’t any upsides to it.   

               There aren’t any upsides to breathing in CS gas, either. Boy that sucked. The drill sergeants were slamming people into walls and forcing                   them to stay if they tried to run. I came close. It’s sorely tempting to panic in a situation like that.

               No amount of money is worth this.

               Your miserable sister,

               Becky