BrianH
02-09-2006, 18:36
Installment numero two in Brian's tales from 18X-Ray land. Enjoy.
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Above anyone in the Army, one solitary group controls the dissemination of information to new soldiers. This is not a group of clandestine officers, working in shifts under the illumination of simple green desk lamps. This group doesn't gather intelligence from foriegn contacts, confirming shadowy hits on high value targets. Hell, none of its members even hold a rank higher than E-4.
This group is known simply as "They."
I have yet to make They's acquaintance, but I'd like to kick They's ass. I'll give money to anyone who can produce They for me. Good money.
"Dude, They told me we're in big trouble."
"Guys, hurry up. They said we need to form up."
"While I was outside, They told me our new wakeup time is 0330."
They is a little bitch.
They's hottest topic, however, is what's coming next in Basic training. From what I've understood and seen, They is a liar too, and They lies about the most ridiculous shit. They will tell you desserts are allowed in the mess hall. Or that the day's uniform is sweats. Lies, lies, lies.
But what really irked me, what really got my goat, was when They told me the gas chamber was no big deal.
They, I've got your fucking number.
Every soldier is issued an MAO-series chemical protection mask, or Promask, for short. The Promask is a very standard affair, looking very similar to every other gas mask you've ever seen on the six o'clock news. Big, bulky, hot, sticky, and lacking anything that could be considered "ergonomic", it is supposedly the latest, greatest technology in chemical warfare safety; the absolute state of the art in protecting Uncle Sam's fighting men in green. In my experience it worked about, oh, 70% of the time. Go Army.
Every soldier is also required to enter the CS gas chamber at Britton Range, Fort Benning. If a soldier elects to refuse the chamber, not only is he immediately labeled a gigantic pussy, but he is also automatically restarted in basic training. It's not a day you call in sick.
After brief classes explaining how to operate the mask, our platoon was unceremoniously transported to Britton in vehicles lovingly referred to as "cattle cars." A cattle car isn't unlike your standard issue horse trailer, except there are "benches" inside on which to sit. The problem is, sitting down, across from another Joe with a 50 lb. rucksack on your chest, is wishful thinking at best. These benches are for standing only. Good thing the drivers were half-drunk, because otherwise it would be a dangerous way to travel.
The range itself is nondescript, consisting of a large, sandy open area, a few camo-netted shacks for classes, and an unprepossessing white cinderblock hut on the far end of the range. While its simple exterior seemed placid and mundane, the scent of chocolate and rubber in the breeze revealed its true intention. It was the chamber.
"Gentlemen, there are three rules on my range. #1, you will not puke in my chamber. #2, you will not cry out and ask to suckle your mama's teet. #3, and most important, do not with the Oscar for most dramatic performance while exiting the chamber. But I guarantee all my rules will be broken. They always are. Bitches."
The range director was stern faced. His words were funny, but his demeanor wasn't. He was all business. Or a really good liar. Maybe he's They. I should've kicked his ass.
"Put on your masks, ladies, and line up in front of Ol' Reliable. She's had her nipples played with all morning, so she's wet and purring for a group of Joes like you."
Of course, my group was the first to go, which is exactly the way I like it. I'm not a man normally crippled by fear, but there was an almost eerie lack of anxiety, panic, or nervousness. Hell, I was almost looking forward to it. Please note that I'm also an idiot.
Once inside the chamber, about 40 of us filed in and lined up around its inner walls. The chamber was probably only 15' x 15' in size, so we were stacked in tight. In the center of the room was a table, upon it resting an innocuous-looking Coleman camping stove. I expected that the gas would be administered via a grenade or some other device, and was curious whether or not the room was actually filled with gas. The screams of those whose masks were malfunctioning told me that it was.
A cadre member, dressed appropriately in a skin-tight lycra skeleton costume, began the briefing quickly.
"All right, Joes. Hold up your dick-beaters to your face, take your thumbs, pop your mask off your face, put it back on, then cover the canister. Blow out the gas, suck in to seal the mask, and pucker your face. You won't have to remember that last part, though. Just cover, blow, suck, and pucker."
So of course we did. Breaking the seal was no big deal. I made sure to close my eyes and hold my breath … barring what I said above, I'm not stupid. I resealed the mask, blew out the gas, and sucked in to seal it. And then I puckered, BIG TIME.
CS gas--known in scientific parlance as ortho-chlorobenzylidene malononitrile--works by inflaming the eyes and removing oxygen from the lungs. Physicians describe CS as causing a "mild respiratory convulsion". "Inhalation of fire" would be much closer to the truth. Every open pore sears. Every nick tingles. Tears pour out of your eyes. Your pulse quickens. Mucus and plasma flow from your nose and mouth. And my mask was "cleared"? What if that shit had been mustard gas?
"Now, ladies, you will remove your masks. After removing your mask, a cadre member will ask for your name, rank, and SSN. You will then be led out of the chamber. Don't cry like bitches, faggots. Glamour Shots is right outside, waiting to record you performance."
Wait, now I've got to breathe this pain? Jesus H. Christ.
A cadre member tapped my shoulder, signifying go time. I removed my mask, only to discover the smell of terror.
"Sean Trembly."
"Private First Class."
"Four Five Seven Seven Oh Holy Fuck."
*breathe*
I'm dying; I must be. I can't see. I can't breathe. My face is on fire. No... it's melting off. Pain sweeps down in smoky ocean waves, filling my lungs with vaporous hate. My legs are rubbery. My heart is beating out of my chest. This is the shit they use on hippies?
A hand grasps my shoulder, and I am thrust out the door. At least that's what the iridescent shine through my eyelids is telling me. I try to open my eyes. Pain. I stumble to the ground, hacking and coughing like a 13-year-old puffing his first cigarette. More pain. And then I hear something. At first I couldn't make it out, but by the time my lungs were filling with their first sweet taste of fresh air, I began to make it out. Laughter.
Who could be laughing at a time like this?
"Private, stand up, walk up the hill, and flap your arms. It's the quickest way to dissipate the gas."
"Did you just suck off Peter North, or is the pollen count especially high today? Either way, I don't have a kleenex, faggot."
"Yeah, little birdie! Flap those wings!"
If a little flapping was going to end my torment, a little flapping I was going to do. I didn't walk up that hill; I flew majestically. I am going to tell myself that for the rest of my life, too.
The bastards, who--not surprisingly--turned out to be Drill Sergeants, were right. The gas quickly dissipated, and I was left with a snot-filled nose, bloodshot eyes, and drool-covered clothes. High-speed soldier shit this was not.
Back in formation, after the platoon had reassembled, we swapped war stories. Some masks had malfunctioned, causing CS to leak in unexpectedly. Others had puked. But interestingly, no one complained. Some even expressed desire to do it again. One sentiment was universal: it wasn't any big deal.
They, nice to meet you.
I'll see you in hell, with a fucking CS Riot Grenade.
----------------
Above anyone in the Army, one solitary group controls the dissemination of information to new soldiers. This is not a group of clandestine officers, working in shifts under the illumination of simple green desk lamps. This group doesn't gather intelligence from foriegn contacts, confirming shadowy hits on high value targets. Hell, none of its members even hold a rank higher than E-4.
This group is known simply as "They."
I have yet to make They's acquaintance, but I'd like to kick They's ass. I'll give money to anyone who can produce They for me. Good money.
"Dude, They told me we're in big trouble."
"Guys, hurry up. They said we need to form up."
"While I was outside, They told me our new wakeup time is 0330."
They is a little bitch.
They's hottest topic, however, is what's coming next in Basic training. From what I've understood and seen, They is a liar too, and They lies about the most ridiculous shit. They will tell you desserts are allowed in the mess hall. Or that the day's uniform is sweats. Lies, lies, lies.
But what really irked me, what really got my goat, was when They told me the gas chamber was no big deal.
They, I've got your fucking number.
Every soldier is issued an MAO-series chemical protection mask, or Promask, for short. The Promask is a very standard affair, looking very similar to every other gas mask you've ever seen on the six o'clock news. Big, bulky, hot, sticky, and lacking anything that could be considered "ergonomic", it is supposedly the latest, greatest technology in chemical warfare safety; the absolute state of the art in protecting Uncle Sam's fighting men in green. In my experience it worked about, oh, 70% of the time. Go Army.
Every soldier is also required to enter the CS gas chamber at Britton Range, Fort Benning. If a soldier elects to refuse the chamber, not only is he immediately labeled a gigantic pussy, but he is also automatically restarted in basic training. It's not a day you call in sick.
After brief classes explaining how to operate the mask, our platoon was unceremoniously transported to Britton in vehicles lovingly referred to as "cattle cars." A cattle car isn't unlike your standard issue horse trailer, except there are "benches" inside on which to sit. The problem is, sitting down, across from another Joe with a 50 lb. rucksack on your chest, is wishful thinking at best. These benches are for standing only. Good thing the drivers were half-drunk, because otherwise it would be a dangerous way to travel.
The range itself is nondescript, consisting of a large, sandy open area, a few camo-netted shacks for classes, and an unprepossessing white cinderblock hut on the far end of the range. While its simple exterior seemed placid and mundane, the scent of chocolate and rubber in the breeze revealed its true intention. It was the chamber.
"Gentlemen, there are three rules on my range. #1, you will not puke in my chamber. #2, you will not cry out and ask to suckle your mama's teet. #3, and most important, do not with the Oscar for most dramatic performance while exiting the chamber. But I guarantee all my rules will be broken. They always are. Bitches."
The range director was stern faced. His words were funny, but his demeanor wasn't. He was all business. Or a really good liar. Maybe he's They. I should've kicked his ass.
"Put on your masks, ladies, and line up in front of Ol' Reliable. She's had her nipples played with all morning, so she's wet and purring for a group of Joes like you."
Of course, my group was the first to go, which is exactly the way I like it. I'm not a man normally crippled by fear, but there was an almost eerie lack of anxiety, panic, or nervousness. Hell, I was almost looking forward to it. Please note that I'm also an idiot.
Once inside the chamber, about 40 of us filed in and lined up around its inner walls. The chamber was probably only 15' x 15' in size, so we were stacked in tight. In the center of the room was a table, upon it resting an innocuous-looking Coleman camping stove. I expected that the gas would be administered via a grenade or some other device, and was curious whether or not the room was actually filled with gas. The screams of those whose masks were malfunctioning told me that it was.
A cadre member, dressed appropriately in a skin-tight lycra skeleton costume, began the briefing quickly.
"All right, Joes. Hold up your dick-beaters to your face, take your thumbs, pop your mask off your face, put it back on, then cover the canister. Blow out the gas, suck in to seal the mask, and pucker your face. You won't have to remember that last part, though. Just cover, blow, suck, and pucker."
So of course we did. Breaking the seal was no big deal. I made sure to close my eyes and hold my breath … barring what I said above, I'm not stupid. I resealed the mask, blew out the gas, and sucked in to seal it. And then I puckered, BIG TIME.
CS gas--known in scientific parlance as ortho-chlorobenzylidene malononitrile--works by inflaming the eyes and removing oxygen from the lungs. Physicians describe CS as causing a "mild respiratory convulsion". "Inhalation of fire" would be much closer to the truth. Every open pore sears. Every nick tingles. Tears pour out of your eyes. Your pulse quickens. Mucus and plasma flow from your nose and mouth. And my mask was "cleared"? What if that shit had been mustard gas?
"Now, ladies, you will remove your masks. After removing your mask, a cadre member will ask for your name, rank, and SSN. You will then be led out of the chamber. Don't cry like bitches, faggots. Glamour Shots is right outside, waiting to record you performance."
Wait, now I've got to breathe this pain? Jesus H. Christ.
A cadre member tapped my shoulder, signifying go time. I removed my mask, only to discover the smell of terror.
"Sean Trembly."
"Private First Class."
"Four Five Seven Seven Oh Holy Fuck."
*breathe*
I'm dying; I must be. I can't see. I can't breathe. My face is on fire. No... it's melting off. Pain sweeps down in smoky ocean waves, filling my lungs with vaporous hate. My legs are rubbery. My heart is beating out of my chest. This is the shit they use on hippies?
A hand grasps my shoulder, and I am thrust out the door. At least that's what the iridescent shine through my eyelids is telling me. I try to open my eyes. Pain. I stumble to the ground, hacking and coughing like a 13-year-old puffing his first cigarette. More pain. And then I hear something. At first I couldn't make it out, but by the time my lungs were filling with their first sweet taste of fresh air, I began to make it out. Laughter.
Who could be laughing at a time like this?
"Private, stand up, walk up the hill, and flap your arms. It's the quickest way to dissipate the gas."
"Did you just suck off Peter North, or is the pollen count especially high today? Either way, I don't have a kleenex, faggot."
"Yeah, little birdie! Flap those wings!"
If a little flapping was going to end my torment, a little flapping I was going to do. I didn't walk up that hill; I flew majestically. I am going to tell myself that for the rest of my life, too.
The bastards, who--not surprisingly--turned out to be Drill Sergeants, were right. The gas quickly dissipated, and I was left with a snot-filled nose, bloodshot eyes, and drool-covered clothes. High-speed soldier shit this was not.
Back in formation, after the platoon had reassembled, we swapped war stories. Some masks had malfunctioned, causing CS to leak in unexpectedly. Others had puked. But interestingly, no one complained. Some even expressed desire to do it again. One sentiment was universal: it wasn't any big deal.
They, nice to meet you.
I'll see you in hell, with a fucking CS Riot Grenade.