Strange Military Rituals
I Choked in a Gas Chamber in Scotland
I was gonna write about cats today. But, then I remembered that bloody gas chamber in Scotland. You know the one.
I was in Scotland in 1993 doing British Army basic training.
There was a phase called NBC training.
It had nothing to do with American television but more to do with what happens if some wild child starts lobbing Nuclear, Biological, or Chemical shite around.
We had to get dressed up in these flappy green suits and gas masks.
Then we had to check each other’s masks and suits for gaps.
They made us play a football match with those god damn outfits on. I can tell yer it’s hard to breathe in those things standing still but breathing in them playing football is impossible.
It is like breathing through a fucking straw.
One of the lads told me after that his grandad had emphysema and he described it as like wearing a gas mask in battle. As a twenty-a-day smoker, it put the wind up me for five minutes but that was it.
I was sixteen years old— nothing could hurt me.
You could sneak a breath during football as long as the NCOs weren't watching but still, it made me wonder how those fuckers could do it in a battle situation.
You’d have to be fitter than Ronaldo.
The problem I seemed to have with my mask is that I couldn’t strap up my helmet correctly when I had it on. I have always had an unusually large head but there were guys with bigger melons than me. I just figured my strap must have been short. Anyway, I couldn't do it up so I had to run around like a twat holding onto my helmet the whole time.
At some point, I got tackled by a big bastard from Burnley (BBB).
As I went down, my helmet flew off my head, landed on the ground in front of me, and I headbutted it hard.
I was dizzy, and tears were running down my face. My nose was pissing blood.
I could smell my own head.
I stayed down because I was crying a bit and I didn't want the others to see.
In a moment of clarity, I wondered,
What the fuck am I doing here running around in flappy suits playing football and acting like a psycho?
That’s when my Section Commander dragged me to my feet and kicked me hard right in the arsehole.
Shortly after, came the confidence test.
This is where recruits get to sample the joys of CS gas—a type of strong tear gas.
They locked us in a claustrophobic gas chamber and ignited a few chemical tablets. It was like one of those films where there is a gas attack and all you hear is your breath like Darth Vader.
As long as you had a motherfucking tight seal on your mask and your outfit you would be fine.
Pete was from the Midlands.
Somehow, he failed to do up his respirator, and he started coughing and screaming like a twat.
Look for the problem! the section commander yelled.
But Pete couldn’t do shit. He was in agony. I grabbed the fucker by the headband and checked his mask. Then I spun his canister and realised it was loose as fuck. I tightened it, but it was too late.
Poor fucking Pete had a mask full of gas.
LET ME OUT, LET ME OUT!
He was screaming like a knob and making everyone uncomfortable but the section commander kept the door closed.
LET ME OUT!
First, calm down. FIRST, CALM DOWN.
Everyone was uncomfortable. Pete was being tortured and we were his mates, just standing by watching the bastard choke.
But fuck — this wasn’t Dead Poets Society.
There was no Oh Captain my Captain in this gas chamber.
We just wanted Pete to shut the fuck up. He was freaking everyone out.
Pete never calmed down. Eventually, he copped a punch to the guts, then the door swung open, and he was booted out on his arse.
The door slammed again, and by this point, we were all nervous.
The Section Commander lit up more chemical tablets, and we stood there watching, breathing heavily.
We went through our drills like good little soldiers. Then we stood up in a line facing the door. This was the moment.
In the confidence test, you take off your mask and experience CS gas for around twenty seconds.
We knew the SC (Section Commander) would quite enjoy watching us get fucked up by the gas — we saw what happened to Pete. The SC told us that we had to say our number, name and rank and answer one other question about training before he would let us out.
First up was Manning, a tall rough arsehole from Newcastle.
Sir, I am 256yu..oh….fuck…ARRRR….EKKKKK
He had gotten out the first three numbers and was now yelling, coughing his guts up and almost puking. That was a worry as Manning was one of the toughest guys there.
The SC was screaming at him, but the bastard couldn’t talk. I could practically see the SC laughing under his mask.
One by one, the pricks ripped off their masks and coughed, screamed, were tortured and eventually were let out.
I walked in front of the SC next.
He punched me in the side of the head and put his face up to mine.
Headbutt yer fuckin helmet did ya Bird? he said, laughing in a deranged way.
He made me angry but I knew I could never take him.
The SC wasn't the kind of man you wanted to fuck with. He was a veteran of several wars and the killer of many men. Also, he was embroiled in a court case for biting off a man's nose and crushing his testicles with a table leg — in a fish and chip shop.
Anyway, I had a plan.
I wasn’t gonna let this bastard beat me. I was gonna take a massive breath and get out all of the information before I breathed in the gas. I wondered why no other dumb weasel had thought about that to this point.
It turned out they had.
Now FUCKING MASK OFF, BIRD.
Sir, I am 25…Wa…What the NO AHHHH FUCKKKKK…
I had gotten out precisely one number less than Manning. I expected I would be okay if I didn’t breathe in, but I was wrong. The gas gets in through your eyes, your ears, your nose and the pores of the skin. It does not wait to ride the breath in.
It penetrates everywhere and fucks ya hard.
The SC started yelling questions at me, but I wasn’t listening. I was too busy wallowing in the torture.
It was like smoking the world’s hottest chilli through the worlds driest bong. I was truly fucked.
After torturing me for a while, he opened the door and booted me out.
I was surrounded by young soldiers coughing and throwing up everywhere.
I threw up several times and again questioned my presence at such insane rituals.
Peewee, a skinny, bantamweight champion Boxer from Hull came over and gave me a cigarette. I took it and he lit it with a gold zippo. I took two more coughs to get the rest of the CS gas out then took a long drag on the cigarette.
Fucking fun this shit innit? he said.
I felt my forehead and there was a massive lump on it. I considered quitting the army for the third time that week.
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