Gas Chamber: No Mask, No Mercy

There are certain memories from Marine Corps boot camp that stay with you forever. The first time your drill instructor screamed in your face, the pride of qualifying on the rifle range, and then there’s the gas chamber, that special place where the Corps teaches you exactly how much you’ve been taking oxygen for granted your whole life.

It was a scorching summer day at MCRD San Diego in 1981, the kind of day where your boots practically melt into the pavement. Our platoon was scheduled for the gas chamber, and being pre-Internet days, all we had to go on was recruit scuttlebutt. You know how accurate that usually is, somewhere between “it’s just spicy air” and “it’ll melt your face off.”

We lined up outside this innocent-looking concrete block building, masked up like we were about to storm Darth Vader’s summer home. Inside, it was like walking into Satan’s personal hotbox, dark, smoky, and about as organized as a monkey knife fight. The air was thick with CS gas, though at this point, safely behind our masks, we were feeling pretty confident. That confidence, as it turns out, was severely misplaced.

The drill instructors had a simple game plan: approach each recruit, have them unmask, and recite their name, social security number, and probably the entire Marine Corps hymn backwards (though honestly, by that point, you could’ve asked me to recite my ABC’s and I would’ve failed miserably). One by one, my fellow recruits removed their masks, and that’s when the show really started.

Ever wonder what it looks like when a grown man suddenly forgets how to function as a human being? Picture this: eyes watering like Niagara Falls, snot rockets that would make a fighter jet jealous, and the kind of coughing that makes you question if your lungs are trying to escape through your mouth. And there I was, still masked, watching this horror show unfold like the world’s worst preview of coming attractions.

Because the Marine Corps has a sick sense of humor (or perhaps because my lucky stars were all on leave that day), I ended up being the last recruit to go. Remember that confidence I mentioned earlier? Gone. Vanished. Replaced by the kind of dread usually reserved for when you hear “volunteer needed” at formation.

There I was, surrounded by not one, not two, but THREE drill instructors, all screaming at me to remove my mask and recite… well, something. The moment that mask came off, my body decided to revolt. Ever tried to speak while your throat is attempting to crawl out of your mouth? In my panic, I grabbed one of the DI’s collars. Yes, you read that right. In the history of bad ideas at boot camp, this ranks right up there with asking “why?” or volunteering for anything.

The next few moments are a blur of regret, tears, and various bodily fluids making their grand escape. I eventually made it outside, walking around like a zombie with my arms outstretched, while my armpits and other unmentionable areas felt like they’d been seasoned with ghost peppers and lit on fire.

The Marine Corps’ official reason for this lovely experience is to ensure we take chemical warfare seriously. Mission accomplished, Marines. Mission absolutely accomplished. I can honestly say that from that day forward, I’ve had nothing but the utmost respect for any substance that can turn a wannabe tough guy into a crying, snotting mess in under five seconds flat.

Now, a quick note: Every Marine’s gas chamber experience is different, and the intensity can vary depending on various factors, including the concentration of gas, time spent inside, and even the particular brand of sadism your DIs were sporting that day. If you’re reading this thinking, “Pfft, the gas chamber was nothing, I barely felt it”, well, good for you, Devil Dog. You’re either incredibly lucky or incredibly numb to pain. Either way, save some motivation for the rest of us.

To all my fellow Marines who’ve done the gas chamber dance, Semper Fi, you beautiful, snot-covered disasters. And to those who haven’t had the pleasure yet: don’t worry, it’s just spicy air… right?

They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Well, the gas chamber didn’t kill me, but it sure made me question my life choices for about 15 solid minutes. Share your own moment of CS-induced clarity in the comments.

Semper Fi!