Battle Dress (21 page)

The truck jerked to a halt, and I awoke with a start. Cadet Black opened the tailgate and hustled us out of the truck and into a clearing of sun-fried grass surrounded by trees. Standing in the far corner of the clearing, a large tent waited.

The gas tent.
The grits in my stomach became one hard lump.

“Okay, H Company,” First Sergeant Stockel said, after we were all seated in a semicircle around him in the grass, “listen up. Today is the culmination of all that NBC training you’ve had this summer, and especially the skills you learned yesterday. Today you will understand
why
we had you out here yesterday running between stations in the woods, wearing your MOPP suits in ninety-nine-degree heat, looking like packs of camouflaged Darth Vaders.”

Laughter rippled around the semicircle.

But First Sergeant Stockel didn’t smile. “After today, Hardcore, NBC will mean more to you than some TV network that broadcasts sitcoms and soap operas. After today, Hardcore,
Nuclear
,
Biological
, and
Chemical
warfare will be permanently etched in your minds. Today, Hardcore, is a day that, I hope, you will file away in your hard drives as one of your worst”—he scanned the semicircle with narrowed eyes behind wire-framed glasses—“and your best. Worst because you will see what havoc relatively harmless gas can do to your body. And best because you will gain confidence in your equipment. Today your MOPP suit and protective mask will become something more to you than a bad Halloween costume.”

All was quiet around the semicircle.

I chewed on my thumbnail and glanced over at the tent at the far end of the site. Two upperclassmen in MOPP suits and gas masks emerged and walked toward one of the deuce-and-a-halfs. And then a humvee with a red cross painted on its sides pulled into the site. I looked at Ping.

He grinned at me and mouthed the word, “Medics.”

It sure boosted my confidence to see them here.

Before First Sergeant Stockel broke the company down into squads for the training, he told us what to expect. First, our squad leaders would test us on donning our MOPP suits and gas masks, and then the moment we’d all been dreading would come—we’d file through the gas tent and take one deep breath.

Cadet Daily collected us from the semicircle and led us to a copse of trees in a far corner of the training site, then remained standing while he had us sit on the ground around him.

“Eloquent speech out of Cadet Stockel,” Cadet Daily said. “Reminded me of myself. Hope you took it to heart.” He paced back and forth before us, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, Third Squad. Let’s get that blood pumping through your cerebral tissue. What does the acronym MOPP stand for?” He stopped in front of Kit. “Bogus?”

“Sir, MOPP stands for Mission-Oriented Protective Posture.”

“All right! You knuckleheads are more awake than you look. And what about MOPP levels—why do we have them? Zero, you’re up.”

Cero paused a moment before he spoke. “Sir, the MOPP levels determine what equipment soldiers must wear, depending on the chemical threat. Sir, there are five MOPP levels—Zero through Four. Sir, the MOPP equipment consists of—”

Cadet Daily put his hand up. “Cease work there, Motivated Trooper. You’re getting ahead of me.” He turned to Gabrielle and smirked. “Why don’t you finish where Zero left off, Miss Bryen?”

Gabrielle’s head shot up. She’d been nodding off. “Sir, I do not understand.”

“Zoning out there, Bryen?” Cadet Daily shook his head. “Stay alert, stay alive, soldier. Dig her out, Hickman.”

Hickman imitated Cadet Daily’s smirk. And with the voice of a bored state trooper from somewhere south of the Mason-Dixon Line, he said, “Sir, the MOPP equipment consists of an overgarment—jacket and trousers—overboots and gloves, and an M-40 series protective mask with hood.”

Cadet Daily crouched until he and Hickman locked eyes. “Smirk off, Hickman! I don’t know who you think you are, pal. But you are
not that person!
” He leaned closer and said through clenched teeth, “You got a problem coming to the aid of your squadmate here?” He pointed at Gabrielle.

“No, sir,” Hickman answered quickly.

Yes!
I knew Gabrielle
should’ve
been more alert, but Hickman’s attitude sucked. And now Cadet Daily let the whole squad know it.

Cadet Daily slowly rose to his feet. “I didn’t think so, Hickman. Moving right along.” He stepped past me. Phew. “Bonanno, let’s just cut to the chase. What’s MOPP Four? Because that’s what you’ll be wearing today.” He looked at his watch. “And don’t take all day.”

Bonanno nodded. “Yes, sir. Sir, MOPP Four is when you wear all your MOPP gear because you know you’ve been gassed.”

“That was inelegant, Bonanno. But accurate. Now, Third Squad—ON YOUR FEET!”

We jumped to our feet.

I knew what was coming next.
Okay . . . get ready.
Like a gunslinger about to go for his six-shooter, I inched my left hand up my thigh and toward the gas mask pouch on my hip.

“You know the drill!” Cadet Daily yelled. “You have nine seconds to don and clear your protective masks. Gas! Gas! Gas!”

I took in a gulp of air, released my chin strap . . .

“CEASE WORK!” Cadet Daily roared. “HOLD IT RIGHT THERE, THIRD SQUAD!”

I froze, my hand still on my helmet’s chin strap.

“A number of you No-Go’d before you even got your masks out of your carriers! What did you do this morning, Third Squad? O.D. on stupid juice?” His eyes lingered on each of us as they traveled around the circle. “The
last
thing you want to do, Third Squad, is suck in a huge amount of air when someone signals ‘Gas!’ You stop breathing. Period. Do you hear me? Because if you don’t, you might
never
get your mask out of its carrier. And you’ll be nothing but a blue hunk of twitching human flesh, waiting to be crammed into a body bag.” He paused, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not being melodramatic, Third Squad. You are training for combat. And when the smoke from the battlefield has lifted and the carnage is revealed, you will find yourself in either one of two states: alive”—he looked up at us—“or dead. And a dead lieutenant isn’t much use to his troops.”

Dead.
I tried to picture myself dead on some faraway battlefield with other dead all around me. And surprisingly, the thought didn’t really scare me much. I only hoped that my death wouldn’t be caused by some stupid thing that I did. I’d want the minister at my funeral to say I’d been brave. I wondered how my family would feel when the military bugler played Taps. Would my mother cry?

“All right, Third Squad.” Cadet Daily clapped his hands together. “As you were.”

I noticed that my fingers were still clutching my chin strap. I slowly lowered my hand to my side.

“Let’s do it right this time. You’ve got nine seconds.” Cadet Daily yelled again, “Gas! Gas! Gas!”

This time I held my breath, released my chin strap, and dropped my Kevlar to the ground with the others. With my left hand I yanked open my gas mask pouch, pulled the mask out with my right . . .

“SEVEN SECONDS!”

I held the rubber facepiece with both hands, checked the hood and harness—
Okay, hood hanging down, harness up—
I opened the facepiece wide, jammed my chin into the chin pocket, pulled the harness up over my head . . .

“FIVE!”

What’s going on?
The mask wouldn’t fit. I struggled with the elastic harness, but the mask was too tight. Something pressed hard against my cheekbones. I yanked the mask off my face and looked inside.
Nothing.
My hands shook.
Oh—what’s wrong?

“THREE!”

I glanced at the others. Some were still clearing their masks, but everyone was wearing them—except me.

“TWO. . . . ONE. . . . CEASE WORK!”

We snapped our hands to our sides.

The hood from my mask, which was still in my hand, dangled in the dirt.

Cadet Daily slowly made his way around the circle, checking masks. “Go!” meant “pass,” and “No-Go!” meant “fail,” and so far, he was giving out all “Go’s.” Then he stopped in front of me.

“One of these smacks is not like the others,” he sang softly. “One of these smacks just doesn’t belong.” He leaned closer and whispered, “You forgot to remove your glasses, Davis.”

I winced.
I am such an idiot!
That’s
what was wrong.
I’d been so used to wearing contacts, I’d forgotten I was wearing TEDs.

“When I tested you on this yesterday, Davis, you got a ‘Go.’ Right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So I assume that the only reason that you failed to do something as elementary as removing your glasses today was because you had contacts in yesterday. Correct?”

“Yes, sir.” I stared at the place between his eyebrows.
Calm down! It’s just a stupid mistake. So you aren’t perfect. It’s not the end of the world.

“So, continuing with this line of reasoning, Davis, since you were not accustomed to removing your glasses when donning your mask today, you forgot. In other words, you had a major brain cramp, correct?”

“Y-yes, sir.” I bit the inside of my lip and braced myself for the coming explosion.

He stared at me for a long time. “Okay, Davis,” he finally said. “Put your mask back in the carrier. Let me check the rest of these guys, and then I’ll retest you. All right?”

“Yes, sir.” I almost smiled.

As he walked away, he said, “Just make sure you put your inserts in right, or you won’t get a good seal. And you’ll be a ‘No-Go’ again.”

Inserts?
“Yes, sir,” I squeaked, my brain working double time.
What in the world are inserts? Think!

“All clear!” Cadet Daily yelled. Everyone, except me, tore off their masks and wiped their sweaty faces on their sleeves. “Return your masks to your carriers and your Kevlars to your heads. In a few minutes I’ll give the signal for gas again. This time you’re gonna don
all
your MOPP gear. This is the standard, Third Squad: You must go from MOPP Zero to Four in eight minutes. You will don your masks first, then the rest of your gear, in this order: trousers, jacket, boots, gloves. Got it?”

“YES, SIR!”

I folded the hood around the mask and stuffed it inside my carrier.
MOPP Four, eight minutes. Mask. Trousers. Jacket. Boots. Gloves. Got it.

“Make sure everything is snapped, zipped, and tied, or you’ll ‘No-Go.’ I know putting your mask on first will make life difficult, Third Squad. But hey, that’s the way it’ll be when the balloon goes up, so get used to it.” He checked his watch. “I highly suggest you organize your gear on the ground in front of you. You’ve got three minutes—WORK!”

I emptied my barracks bag and worked on arranging my MOPP gear on the ground—gloves under boots, under jacket, under trousers.

Cadet Daily stood over me. “Davis,” he said quietly. “Listen. I’m just gonna retest you on your mask at the same time I test these other guys on MOPP Four. After you don your mask—if you pass—continue on with the rest of your MOPP gear. With everybody else. Understand?”

I looked up at him, relieved. “Yes, sir.”

He nodded and walked away.

Cadet Daily can be pretty cool. Sometimes. Maybe nobody even noticed that I No-Go’d.
It
was
pretty hard to see out of the masks. I chewed on the inside of my lip, watching the others stack their gear in neat piles.
But I’ve
got
to find out about those inserts.
I just couldn’t No-Go again. Not after Cadet Daily had cut me that break. I glanced at Hickman on my right, then at Bonanno on my left. Between the two of them, I figured Hickman would be more likely to know.
Oh, why couldn’t Kit be next to me? Or Ping?
I closed my eyes.
Oh, well. You gotta do what you gotta do.
I turned to Hickman and whispered, “Hey, Tommy?”

“Yeah?”

“Hey, do you have any idea what ‘inserts’ are? Do they have something to do with the filters?”

Hickman stopped stacking his MOPP gear and stared at me. “So you ‘No-Go’d.’ ” It was a statement, not a question.

I made my pile neater. “Well . . . yeah. I, um, sort of forgot to take off my glasses when I donned my mask.”
You didn’t have to tell him that!

Hickman sighed. “Look, Davis. If you got issued TEDs, you got issued inserts. People that need glasses put prescription inserts into their masks so when they take off their glasses and put
on
their masks, they can see.” He shook his head. “They went over all this yesterday.”

“Oh.” I managed a fake laugh. “Well, I guess I really didn’t pay attention since I normally wear contacts—”

Hickman did not look interested.

“So . . . inserts are those weird-looking glasses things with the wires on the ends that came with my TEDs, huh?”

Before my lips had finished forming the words, I had already figured out the answer to my question. And I cringed inside. I’d packed away those weird-looking glasses things with the wires on the ends in MacArthur Barracks’ basement with the rest of my stuff.
What an idiot!
I had thought they were a replacement set of lenses for my TEDs in case the originals ever broke.

Hickman shrugged. “I have no idea what they look like, Andi. I don’t need glasses.”

I smiled, trying to play the whole thing off as if it were no big deal. “Well, thanks for the info.” I turned away from him and gnawed on my fingernails, one after the other.
What am I going to do? I can’t see without glasses . . . or inserts! Oh—Gabrielle was right! I should’ve worn my contacts ! Cadet Daily’s going to kill me. . . .

“Gas! Gas! Gas!” Cadet Daily suddenly yelled. He was moving toward me.

Oh, well. It’s a good morning to die.

“Eight minutes, Third Squad.” Cadet Daily nodded at me. “Starting . . . now.”

Here goes.
I held my breath and dropped my Kevlar to the ground.
Glasses
. . . I pulled off my TEDs and shoved them into the cargo pocket of my pants. The world was now a blur of browns and greens. I reached for my gas mask . . .