“Now we’re going to learn how to rehydrate in a chemical environment,” said Powers. She lifted up an NBC-proof water canteen, pulled out a plastic drinking tube, and fitted it to a sealed attachment on her gas mask. It looked easy enough. In practice, however, I found it impossible to handle the canteen with my gloves, and I couldn’t find the sealed attachment on my mask. I ended up pulling off the mask in frustration, unscrewing the canteen, and taking a swig.
I gave Powers a defiant look.
“Tut, tut,” she said, waving a thick finger. “Dead again.”
After what seemed like hours, we were allowed to take off our suffocating MOPP suits. As I looked at my pale skin, trembling under my drenched T-shirt, I wondered how long I would survive once the invasion started.
The tutorial resumed.
“MOPP stands for Mission Oriented Protective Posture,” shouted Powers. “There are four MOPP levels. One, just the suit; two, the suit and boots; three, the suit, boots, and the gas mask; and four, the whole miserable ensemble, including the rubber gloves and the hood. Your suit has an activated charcoal lining and is good for forty-five days and six washes. Does everyone understand that?”
She looked at me while the group gave a collective grunt. I felt blood rush to my face, which was red anyway from the heat.
“Good,” said Powers. “When we cross the line of departure, we’ll be at MOPP-level two. If the Iraqis decide to attack Kuwait, the MOPP level will be higher. If we get slimed by Mr. Hussein, it’ll go up to four. Once contaminated, your suit is good for only twenty-four hours. After that, the suits will be bagged up and buried. As soon as we detect an attack, we’ll relieve your unit from duty.”
I imagined spending twenty-four hours in a soiled MOPP suit, in one-hundred-degree heat, with only one canteen of drinking water. And I wondered how much of the gas mask routine was simply for psychological reassurance. Still, I liked the sound of the “line of departure”—presumably the Kuwait-Iraq border—because it sounded like a sporting term: something, perhaps, from an American football game. Combat jargon, it seemed, was already having a sedative effect on me.
Powers continued: “Inside your gas mask carrier, you’ll find a decontamination kit, which includes these charcoal towelettes.” She held up what looked like a clump of dirty baby wipes. “If your skin is exposed to a chemical agent,” she said, “you can use the towelettes to remove the contaminant. Remember, pat the charcoal onto your skin, do not rub it in. Also remember that you have a selection of nerve gas antidotes in your auto-injectors: If you have been incapacitated, a buddy will inject you. Simply push the canister into a meaty part of the thigh or the buttock and wait for the needle to pop right out. Inside the auto-injector is a coiled spring that is powerful enough to push the needle through your MOPP suit, your thermal long johns, your skin, and straight into your deep tissue. I’m not going to demonstrate, because the last time I did it the goddamn needle activated and I ended up being medevacked.” I winced at the thought of one of Powers’s thighs being penetrated by an atropine injector. “After you’ve used the towelettes and auto-injectors,” she went on, “we should be able to get an operational decon unit out to you, which will remove any other liquid contamination and hose you down with water until you’re stripped to your mask and gloves. That’s when we’ll assess battlefield casualties, both ambulatory and nonambulatory.”
She gave me an accusatory look.
“After today’s performance,” she said, “this gentleman would definitely fall into the category of nonambulatory. Questions?”
The tennis court fell silent. I felt woozy in the sun. Wind tousled the palm trees. Then the blond photographer put up her hand.
“If we’re attacked, will we be able to see the chemical agent?” she asked.
Powers pursed her lips. “If there are large puddles of nerve agent around you,” she said, “that means the fucking thing went off right next to you, and you’re probably not going to be alive anyway.”
The photographer nodded studiously.
“So I wouldn’t worry about it,” said Powers. “Next.”
Now it was the Canadian’s turn. I braced for another scatological inquiry.
“How do we know if there’s been a chemical attack?” he asked.
“Well,” said Powers, “one way to know is if someone yells ‘GAS! GAS! GAS!’ Another is if someone shouts ‘Lightning!’—which means a Scud attack; or ‘Snowstorm!’ which means indirect fire. We’ll assume that all these attacks are chemical in nature. There’s also an NBC claxon, and there’s a visual signal, which is the touching of shoulders. Either that, or you’ll just start dancing the funky chicken.” Powers did a horrible, jerky dance to make her point. “That’s when you definitely know you’ve been hit.”
“Is there anything else we should know?” asked the photographer.
“Well, if it’s very windy, like it is today, that works in our favor,” she said. “The nerve agent will just blow away. If it’s cold, on the other hand, a blister agent will last longer, so that works against us…”
I raised my hand, feeling like a disgraced schoolboy.
“Yes?” snapped Powers.
“What’s the weather been like lately?” I asked.
“Pretty cold,” she replied.
Back inside the soothing chill of the press center, there was a commotion near one of the bulletin boards. I saw Mike from the New York Times standing nearby. “What’s going on?” I asked. He pointed to the jostling embeds. “They’ve assigned everyone’s places,” he said. “You should go and take a look.” After the ordeal of the chemical tutorial, I was expecting the worst. I pushed my way to the front of the crowd and scanned the board for my name. I soon found it.
2nd Battalion/11th Marines—Artillery
London Times, Int’l Newspaper: Ayres, Christopher R
Boston Globe, US Newspaper: Nelson, Scott
BBC, Int’l TV: Willis, David R
BBC, Int’l TV: Hiney, Mark A
BBC, Int’l TV: Beale, Mark
I was relieved: I wasn’t with the infantry. I was also glad to be with some fellow Brits from the BBC. Underneath the announcement was a note telling “2/11 embeds” to report to the outdoor terrace of the Blue Elephant, a Thai restaurant in the Hilton that had an extensive “mocktail” menu. My contact there was Capt. Jim Hotspur, the public affairs officer who had given the 2:00 P.M. lecture.
I was the first to arrive. The captain, who was at least six feet, two inches, with a flushed tan and high-laced desert boots, was waiting.
We nodded hello.
“Do you wear eyeglasses,” he asked, unexpectedly.
“Contacts,” I said.
“That’s a negative,” said Hotspur, shaking his head and aiming his eyes at me. “We strongly recommend against the use of contacts. They’re impossible to keep clean out in the field. Wear your eyeglasses.”
“Okay,” I said. I felt like a recalcitrant private at a court-martial.
“Did you order prescription lens inserts for your gas mask?” asked Hotspur.
Shit. I shook my head slowly, fearing the consequences.
Hotspur gave an exasperated snort.
“You’ll be blind in your gas mask,” he said, chewing his lower lip with frustration. Then he added: “But it’s better, I suppose, than you gouging your own eyes out when your contacts get slimed.”