The Last Gas Chamber

This is what I know about CS gas now: It stands for chlorobenzylidene malononitrile. Police use it for crowd control. Studies have linked the chemical to pulmonary, heart, and liver damage, as well as increased risk of miscarriage. The U.S. Army Center for Health Promotion and Preventative Medicine reportedly advises anyone exposed to its “very toxic fumes” to seek medical attention immediately, even though exposure to CS in the gas chamber is a routine and required part of military training.

But at eighteen years of age, I knew none of this. Instead, before going into the gas chamber for the very first time, thinking I had it made with this “one weekend a month, two weeks a year” National Guard thing, I knew just one urban legend: CS was strong enough to instantly curdle the dairy in your stomach, so unless you wanted to upchuck into your mask, better pass on the milk and yogurt in the chow hall.

Gas Chamber #1: July 2001

Age: 18

I wake up with a swollen face. Again. In the cavernous bathroom at the end of our barracks, I wait for a chance to wedge myself in at one of the five sinks and stare at my puffy, squinty-eyed face as I brush my teeth. I’m reminded of the little girl in The Exorcist. Are the wool blankets responsible, or is it because I’m sick? I’ve had an excruciating sore throat for over a week now. All they gave me at sick bay was a bottle of aspirin with twelve pills, long gone by now.

I dress with dread and a little excitement. I have one extra item of equipment to strap on today: my gas mask. The mask is packed perfectly, the hood inside-out, straps inside-out, tucked into its little Army-green bag, so at the warning “Gas, gas, gas!” I can flip open the case, grab the mask, jam it onto my face, whip the straps over the top of my head and down the back, tighten, and jerk the hood down over the straps. I like how the bag’s belt hugs my hips. It makes me feel like a gunslinger in the Wild West, like I’m carrying a holstered pistol, like I should be spending the day threading my horse through sagebrush and cacti, a bandana around my neck, a cowboy hat pulled low. It makes my stomach twinge remembering the bag actually carries a defense against biological warfare . . . but then again, it will make for a genuine boot-camp horror story. Of course I won’t tell it like a horror story back home. I’ll wait for people to pry, then I’ll downplay the whole gas chamber experience, treating it like a bit of trivia on par with how the Army makes girls keep their hair above their collar line. I like to seem like a tough tomboy, even though I have the suspicion I’m only surface tough, not core tough.

In formation I stare at the back of Johnson’s head. Marching, and in line, I stare at the back of Blake’s head. Eggheads. All of the guys look like eggheads with their hair shaved so short—their sweaty, pimply skin uncomfortably visible underneath the tiny spikes of hair. I cannot wait for their hair to grow out. I don’t mind staring at the back of the other girls’ heads. But the eggheads make me think of cadavers and animals and prisoners and they make me want to squirm.

In the chow hall I get my tray and side-step down the serving line, pointing (we are not allowed to speak to the servers) at what I want. Grits. Powdered eggs. At the salad bar I find Jell-O and applesauce, all items easy on the throat. I slide into a space at one of the long, cafeteria-style tables and keep my head ducked, shoveling in as much food as I can in our allotted five minutes, wincing at every swallow. The drill sergeants prowl the mess hall, looking over our breakfast selections...