Ah, the Smell of Tear Gas in the Morning...

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EDITOR'S NOTE: TIME Daily writer Frank Pellegrini, at a ripe 27 years, has taken a leave of absence to join the Army Reserve. He is undergoing basic training — boot camp — and then will spend several months in an Army journalism school. Given the difficulty the forces are experiencing in recruiting young people these days, we think his experiences and impressions are worth sharing. Here is the ninth missive; others will be posted as they arrive.

The stated aim of the gas chamber is "mass confidence, not mass punishment." Confidence in yourself. In your drill sergeants and in these M40-series gas masks the Army issues you. In case of Saddam.

And of course lessons get learned only one way around here, and it's not the easy way. First, you march to a dingy compound in the woods called NBC -— nuclear, biological, chemical — and you get to spend about 20 minutes flopping around in a sand pit to practice shielding your genitals from a nuclear blast.

But that's just the warmup for the main feature — to be led into a dark room, 25 privates at a time, and get tear-gassed.

Lesson 1: The masks work. You find out how well when you lift it up for the few seconds it takes to blurt your name, rank and Social Security number, and choke on the whiff you get when you do. Clear your mask — a puff out through the one-way mouth hole — and you're back in the pink, congratulating yourself on your fortitude and staring quizzically at the masked-and-gloved drill sergeants burning the CS sticks, wondering if the drama of this boot camp ordeal, like so many others, had been oversold.

Then comes the next command: Take the mask off all the way.

Lesson 2: The gas works, too. So much here comes with extra padding, like the "pugil sticks" (think of those Q-Tip-like things on "American Gladiators"), or dull edges, like our bayonets — that our guard was somewhat lowered. If you've never been forcefully dispersed by the authorities with this stuff, here's a rundown: It's a lungful of bleach and a faceful of Tabasco.

Within seconds, I could see nothing but that heavenly-bright doorway and the flashing forms of several panickers as they threw themselves at drill sergeants and generally mucked up our line to get out. (They would try to make light of it later.) Some held their breath and closed their eyes, and got off easy. My plan was to breathe deep — take their best shot — and moan, moan, moan until it all went away, and not do anything to dislodge the big lunch the drill sergeants had gleefully served us just minutes before. It worked — that night I had less to be embarrassed about than most — and I was proud of myself.

Lesson 3: In a crisis, dignity can be a powerful motivator. Never let 'em see you retch.

More dispatches to come


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