my forehead burned slightly.
But the lecture and this small sampling paled in comparison to the main event of our chemical-agents education—the practical class. Again we boarded a bus, this time to a National Guard “military training range.” We were somewhat nervous as we walked a path alongside a stream, gas masks bouncing on our hips. We knew we were going to “get it” up there, but didn’t know exactly how or when; other sessions had been taken to a different spot. The streambed opened onto an expansive grassy firing range, with an observation tower and berms at the near end and hillocks at the far end. Some civilian observers, maybe bureaucrats from the Department, stood by as several of us fired grenades onto the range using the gas gun. As each one landed, it emitted a thick cloud of white smoke, which hung malevolently in the air. Part of our job was to memorize the different types of “delivery devices.” One of the most impressive was the Federal 515 Triple Chaser grenade, which exploded into three parts upon landing, each piece spewing smoke. Then there was the Defensive Technologies (“Def-Tec”)No. 2 Continuous Discharge grenade—“the Department’s workhorse,” an instructor called it. He explained that this one, like many others, gets hot as it combusts, which gave me new respect for the 1960s student activists I remembered from TV, who would run up and hurl smoking gas grenades back at the cops.
The instructors ushered us down to a small shack off to the side of the range, near the woods. We all went inside, whereupon the lead instructor asked for four volunteers. He got only two, Dimmie and Falcone. He “volunteered” Bella and Dobbins to stand with them in a row, facing us. Peering in from a window behind them were some of the civilians. This was it. The instructor produced a handheld aerosol. “Do you want me to tell you when I’m going to do it?” he asked. While they thought about that, he sprayed them, one at a time, in the face. Each in turn screwed shut his eyes, turned red, and started to tear and sputter and bend over. “Do you want to fight?” the instructor demanded. All of them tried to say no. “Will you come out of your cells?” A couple succeeded in nodding. The instructor assigned others to lead them outside, where they could recover. (Dimmie would later liken the burning sensation to “bobbing for french fries.”)
Next we were all told to don our gas masks. Half the class was ushered outside. The instructor shut the door and told the drill to those of us remaining: We were to lock elbows and move in two concentric circles around him, one clockwise, the other counterclockwise. When he dropped the grenade, our movement would churn the gas up into the air, and we would see how effective the masks were. And then we would remove them. We would attempt to say, “Correction-officer recruit,” and our name and Social Security number, during which time we would presumably learn how effective the gas was. After that we could leave the room. “But if one person leaves early,” he warned, “you’re all going to have to do it again.”
It was dim in the shack with the door closed and a gas mask on. I remember looking down toward the instructor’s feet as we circled him, seeing the white smoke as it began to swirl over the wooden floorboards. And then it rose. It seemed a miracle that it could obscure my vision but not cause me to choke: The gas mask worked. I remember glimpsing a big bureaucrat whose face filled one of the windowpanes and thinking, Maybe he ought to come in here and try it himself. We walked in our circles. And then, on the instructor’s order, I remember overcoming my every instinct for self-preservationand pulling off the mask. There were a couple of dreamlike seconds before anything happened, and in this space a cacophony of names was shouted, and I got to “Correction offic—” before my throat clamped shut and a wall of fire crossed my face.
But the lecture and this small sampling paled in comparison to the main event of our chemical-agents education—the practical class. Again we boarded a bus, this time to a National Guard “military training range.” We were somewhat nervous as we walked a path alongside a stream, gas masks bouncing on our hips. We knew we were going to “get it” up there, but didn’t know exactly how or when; other sessions had been taken to a different spot. The streambed opened onto an expansive grassy firing range, with an observation tower and berms at the near end and hillocks at the far end. Some civilian observers, maybe bureaucrats from the Department, stood by as several of us fired grenades onto the range using the gas gun. As each one landed, it emitted a thick cloud of white smoke, which hung malevolently in the air. Part of our job was to memorize the different types of “delivery devices.” One of the most impressive was the Federal 515 Triple Chaser grenade, which exploded into three parts upon landing, each piece spewing smoke. Then there was the Defensive Technologies (“Def-Tec”)No. 2 Continuous Discharge grenade—“the Department’s workhorse,” an instructor called it. He explained that this one, like many others, gets hot as it combusts, which gave me new respect for the 1960s student activists I remembered from TV, who would run up and hurl smoking gas grenades back at the cops.
The instructors ushered us down to a small shack off to the side of the range, near the woods. We all went inside, whereupon the lead instructor asked for four volunteers. He got only two, Dimmie and Falcone. He “volunteered” Bella and Dobbins to stand with them in a row, facing us. Peering in from a window behind them were some of the civilians. This was it. The instructor produced a handheld aerosol. “Do you want me to tell you when I’m going to do it?” he asked. While they thought about that, he sprayed them, one at a time, in the face. Each in turn screwed shut his eyes, turned red, and started to tear and sputter and bend over. “Do you want to fight?” the instructor demanded. All of them tried to say no. “Will you come out of your cells?” A couple succeeded in nodding. The instructor assigned others to lead them outside, where they could recover. (Dimmie would later liken the burning sensation to “bobbing for french fries.”)
Next we were all told to don our gas masks. Half the class was ushered outside. The instructor shut the door and told the drill to those of us remaining: We were to lock elbows and move in two concentric circles around him, one clockwise, the other counterclockwise. When he dropped the grenade, our movement would churn the gas up into the air, and we would see how effective the masks were. And then we would remove them. We would attempt to say, “Correction-officer recruit,” and our name and Social Security number, during which time we would presumably learn how effective the gas was. After that we could leave the room. “But if one person leaves early,” he warned, “you’re all going to have to do it again.”
It was dim in the shack with the door closed and a gas mask on. I remember looking down toward the instructor’s feet as we circled him, seeing the white smoke as it began to swirl over the wooden floorboards. And then it rose. It seemed a miracle that it could obscure my vision but not cause me to choke: The gas mask worked. I remember glimpsing a big bureaucrat whose face filled one of the windowpanes and thinking, Maybe he ought to come in here and try it himself. We walked in our circles. And then, on the instructor’s order, I remember overcoming my every instinct for self-preservationand pulling off the mask. There were a couple of dreamlike seconds before anything happened, and in this space a cacophony of names was shouted, and I got to “Correction offic—” before my throat clamped shut and a wall of fire crossed my face.
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