skin-blistering agents) and seven autoinjector syringes, each about half the size of a turkey baster. Three of these contain nerve antidotes, three more contain antidotes to the antidotes (since they are themselves toxic) and the seventh contains Valium. Marines are trained to use the antidotes on themselves. The Valium is there to be used on a buddy, in case he's already too far gone from a nerve-agent attack—it will prevent him from twitching and flopping around as badly while he dies. It won't save him, but it will probably improve the morale of everyone else nearby.
The problem with gas-mask kits is that when you reach in and grab the mask—in a panic, not breathing and with your eyes squeezed shut—all the autoinjectors tend to fly out. In my spare time over the past two weeks I've been practicing putting my mask on and have gotten reasonably good at it.
Now, in this alert, I throw it on in under nine seconds. The first breath is scary. When I open my eyes, I imagine that I might see spastic Marines suffering from nerve-agent exposure, that my hands and ears and other parts of my body still exposed will start burning and my skin will start popping off. But it's all good. I see the other Marines by Fick's vehicle, with their masks on, now calmly sealing up their MOPPs, closing everything up with snaps, Velcro and drawstrings. Then everyone puts on giant rubber kitchen gloves.
I manage to get it all put together about as quickly as the Marines nearby. We stand around looking at each other through the warping, fish-eye lenses of our gas masks. I can't conceal my feeling of triumph. Not only am I glad that I don't seem to be showing any symptoms of exposure to gas, but I'm also not a little proud that I've gotten fully MOPPed up without panicking. Unlike these Marines, I haven't spent the last few years of my life in wars or training exercises with bombs going off, jumping out of airplanes and helicopters. In my civilian world at home in Los Angeles, half the people I know are on antidepressants or anti-panic attack drugs because they can't handle the stress of a mean boss or a crowd at the 7-Eleven when buying a Slurpee. That's my world, and it wouldn't have surprised me if, thrust into this one, in the first moments of what we all believe to be a real gas attack, I'd just flipped out and started autoinjecting myself with Valium.
No doubt, some of the Marines expected this of me as well. Ever since the platoon showed its hospitality by putting me in the walkway of their tent the first night I arrived, some have let it be known that they regard reporters as "pussy faggot lefties," wimps who can't hold up to the rigors of combat. But I've passed this test with flying colors.
Only when we're trudging back to Colbert's vehicle, everyone in full MOPP, do I realize I made a critical error while donning my mask.
One of the bad habits I picked up covering the military is "dipping"— chewing tobacco. Smokeless tobacco is the universal drug of American fighting men (and women, too, in integrated units). You don't actually chew dip. Instead, you pinch a wad about half the size of a golf ball and shove it under your front lower lip. In the process of destroying your gums and teeth, it also wallops you with a nicotine buzz that makes filterless Camels seem like candy cigarettes.
Dip's only side effect is that it causes you to salivate like a rabid dog. You constantly expectorate thick streams of brown goo. And this is my problem now. Right before the gas alert I had put a fat dip in my lip. It always makes you a little bit nauseated. Now I have this reservoir of spittle building in my mouth. There's a drain tube in my mask, but I fear the slimy mass of spit and tobacco will clog it.
I drop into the sand by Colbert's vehicle. Other Marines are sitting around nearby. I lie back and swallow the plug of tobacco, hoping nobody notices in case I become really sick or start acting strangely.
According to military chemical-weapons
The problem with gas-mask kits is that when you reach in and grab the mask—in a panic, not breathing and with your eyes squeezed shut—all the autoinjectors tend to fly out. In my spare time over the past two weeks I've been practicing putting my mask on and have gotten reasonably good at it.
Now, in this alert, I throw it on in under nine seconds. The first breath is scary. When I open my eyes, I imagine that I might see spastic Marines suffering from nerve-agent exposure, that my hands and ears and other parts of my body still exposed will start burning and my skin will start popping off. But it's all good. I see the other Marines by Fick's vehicle, with their masks on, now calmly sealing up their MOPPs, closing everything up with snaps, Velcro and drawstrings. Then everyone puts on giant rubber kitchen gloves.
I manage to get it all put together about as quickly as the Marines nearby. We stand around looking at each other through the warping, fish-eye lenses of our gas masks. I can't conceal my feeling of triumph. Not only am I glad that I don't seem to be showing any symptoms of exposure to gas, but I'm also not a little proud that I've gotten fully MOPPed up without panicking. Unlike these Marines, I haven't spent the last few years of my life in wars or training exercises with bombs going off, jumping out of airplanes and helicopters. In my civilian world at home in Los Angeles, half the people I know are on antidepressants or anti-panic attack drugs because they can't handle the stress of a mean boss or a crowd at the 7-Eleven when buying a Slurpee. That's my world, and it wouldn't have surprised me if, thrust into this one, in the first moments of what we all believe to be a real gas attack, I'd just flipped out and started autoinjecting myself with Valium.
No doubt, some of the Marines expected this of me as well. Ever since the platoon showed its hospitality by putting me in the walkway of their tent the first night I arrived, some have let it be known that they regard reporters as "pussy faggot lefties," wimps who can't hold up to the rigors of combat. But I've passed this test with flying colors.
Only when we're trudging back to Colbert's vehicle, everyone in full MOPP, do I realize I made a critical error while donning my mask.
One of the bad habits I picked up covering the military is "dipping"— chewing tobacco. Smokeless tobacco is the universal drug of American fighting men (and women, too, in integrated units). You don't actually chew dip. Instead, you pinch a wad about half the size of a golf ball and shove it under your front lower lip. In the process of destroying your gums and teeth, it also wallops you with a nicotine buzz that makes filterless Camels seem like candy cigarettes.
Dip's only side effect is that it causes you to salivate like a rabid dog. You constantly expectorate thick streams of brown goo. And this is my problem now. Right before the gas alert I had put a fat dip in my lip. It always makes you a little bit nauseated. Now I have this reservoir of spittle building in my mouth. There's a drain tube in my mask, but I fear the slimy mass of spit and tobacco will clog it.
I drop into the sand by Colbert's vehicle. Other Marines are sitting around nearby. I lie back and swallow the plug of tobacco, hoping nobody notices in case I become really sick or start acting strangely.
According to military chemical-weapons
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