Sometimes I forget how alien military life is to most people. I told this story over dinner recently, and someone suggested I write it down. It’s an old memory—I attended Army basic training in 1992.
A couple of weeks after I enlisted, as I awaited the start of basic training at Ft. Wood, Missouri, the Gulf War broke out. We had no idea how long it would last and assumed we’d be deployed to the vicinity of Kuwait. As we received our first pair of ill-fitting combat boots, drill instructors shouted, “You’re going to war!”
One of those DIs was named Staff Sergeant Bullett. And yes, that was his real name.
SSG Bullett liked to toss CS grenades (tear gas) into a mass of recruits. It was 1991, and DIs had a bit more latitude in those days to do as they pleased. Bullett had a sadistic streak, even for a drill instructor. He knew just which buttons to press for every recruit.
One of us recruits—let's call him Private Lewis--suffered from claustrophobia, an affliction that might have disqualified him from enlistment if his recruiter had been honest. Consequently, Lewis couldn't wear a protective mask for more than a few seconds.
When someone yelled GAS, he'd often take off running rather than mask up. He ran from the gas several times in the field before SSG Bullett finally noticed. (A few of Smith's friends tended to bunch up between him and the DI to cover his sprint to safety.) Smith was going to have to mask up or fall out.
Since I was the only private first class in the platoon, Bullett put me in charge of squaring Lewis away. The gas chamber was coming up, and he'd have to pass it to graduate. So we practiced sitting on the gleaming barracks floor donning our masks for a few minutes each night. In a week, Lewis progressed from "No #@$%ing way" to keeping it on for a few minutes, sweating and hyperventilating, before tearing the thing off. He did his best.
Gas chamber day arrived, and Lewis masked up and marched inside with the rest of us. He seemed OK, and I was proud of him—the first time in my career I felt that for another Soldier. Lewis was fine donning the mask and even unmasking in the chamber. But with the order to re-mask, Lewis panicked. He dropped his mask and bolted for the exit, no-doubt believing he'd be sent home in disgrace.
SSG Bullett gave Lewis a verbal wire-brushing followed by an epic smoke session. The humiliation of this can’t be overstated. Everything that happens to a recruit in basic training is on display for the entire platoon.
"Do you want to go to war, Lewis, or back on the block?"
"I…want to…go to…war, Drill Sergeant!" Lewis screamed from the push-up position over a puddle of sweat.
"Then tomorrow you are going to wear your pro-mask during PT." (physical training)
I thought to myself, No #@$%ing way.
The next morning, we fell in for PT, each of us with a mask on our hip, ready for Bullett to throw CS. The Senior Drill Instructor appeared and pulled Lewis out of formation. They stood behind us as Bullett screamed "Gas-gas-gas!" We masked up, all within the nine-second standard, and dropped for push-ups, wondering what was going on behind us with Lewis.
It turns out, the Senior DI stood back there, masking up with Lewis over and over—nothing else—for over an hour while the rest of us did masked PT, oblivious to everything but our own pain.
Lewis got a CS chamber re-do some time later, and he made it. Lewis became a Soldier. I never saw him again after graduation, but I’ve thought of him hundreds of times since.