Stories

Gas, Gas, Gas!

Fishugh and I were deep in our fighting position, facing out. It was a dark and moonless night, deep in the woods on the west side of Fort Bragg, North Carolina, one of my first exercises with my 82nd Airborne unit.

My battalion jumped into Nijmegen Drop Zone, attacked a few "enemy" positions, and began setting up an Airborne Anti-Armor Defence.

Steve and I knew we'd have plenty of warning before any enemy attacked our position; we were the company commander's drivers and helped form a small perimeter around the command post.
Anyone attacking us would have to get through the platoons first, but we were still being vigilant little troopers.

Everyone around us began yelling Gas, Gas, Gas! From the direction of one of the platoons came the sound of someone banging on a Mess Kit.

Fishugh closed his eyes, held his breath, put his helmet between his legs, and donned his Protective Mask, a skill we practiced until we could do it in ten seconds or less.

Once his helmet was back on, he looked at me and said, "Neely, put on your mask!"

"I'm not putting that shit on until I smell CS; I hate that damn thing," I told him.

About five minutes later, we heard footsteps behind our position. Captain Bill McLaughlin, the company commander, asked, "Fishugh, Neely, have you got your masks on?"

I quickly cupped my hand over my mouth and said, in the best mechanical voice I could muster, "Yes, sir! We're Good."

Then I heard the unmistakable Ching, Pop, and Hiss of a CS Grenade. The CO dropped it right in our hole.

I'm sure he knew I didn't have my mask on, though he never said anything about it. I put the damn thing on in well under the ten-second standard.

Lesson: Learned!