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grass would be better, he thought.
    Scott darted off to a great start, made the plant and dodged through the first set of hurdles smoothly, then jumped the ditch. He made a quick turn, dodged, jumped and went for the last dodge. His left foot planted to make the dodge, but as he pushed off, the gravel under his boot gave way and his foot slid. Not far, but far enough.
    Scott’s right leg was already swinging forward when his foot slipped. Instead of ending up between the hurdles, his right instep slammed hard into the hurdle and there was no give to it. Somehow, he made a quick recovery, running through the hurdles and finishing the last five yards. “That’s 29.7 seconds, Mitchell,” shouted Drill Sgt. Alexander, who was holding the stop watch. “Pretty damn fast for a motherfucking kicker.”
    Breathing heavily, the guys were congratulating him on breaking 30 seconds as he leaned over, hands on his knees.
    “You should consider quitting smoking there, superstar,” Andy said, teasing the defenseless Scott. “Couldn’t hurt.”
    “You should consider shutting the fuck up,” Scott said, grinning back at Andy and drawing the laughter of the guys around them. He flexed his right knee, grimaced, looked at Andy and added, “My foot hurts. As in really hurts.”
    “You’re fine, boy,” Alexander hollered from the starting line. “Suck it up and I’ll get you a Purple Heart.”
    Still recovering, the best comeback he had left was, “Thank you Drill Sergeant. That would be really fucking nice.”
    After a march back to the barracks and lunch, it was time for the most dreaded drill of basic training: the gas chamber.
    Somewhere along the line, the Army had decided every trainee should experience the torture of getting tear-gassed. While there was probably a practical use for it, Scott figured it was cheap comedy entertainment for the cadre.
    All of Delta 5-2 marched to the gas chamber, which amounted to a 10x10 garden shed, with long wooden walls extending from either side of it, probably 15 feet in each direction. Everyone had their masks on, but there was gas in the air. It irritated exposed skin, and everyone was feeling it.
    In groups of about 10, the trainees were led into the shed, where two NCOs in full chemical protection suits and masks were shouting at them to move their chicken asses.
    There was a deep fog in the shed as Scott’s group went in. Once they were all in and the door sealed, they were ordered to take off their masks. There were groans and gasps and choking as the NCOs went down the line and made each trainee give his name and Social Security number before the group could leave. No one could hold their breath.
    Scott had never experienced anything like it. His eyes and lungs were burning and his foot hurt. Finally, everyone in the group finished their identification. The back door flew open and one of the NCOs bellowed, “Get the fuck out of my gas chamber, pussies, get the fuck out!”
    Scott couldn’t see anything more than a swirl of colors as he ran out into the sunshine. He could hear people yelling at the group to run, hold your arms out, get out your canteens and get water on your face. Scott ran for about 15 seconds before he finally stopped, trying to get his bearings. Snot was streaming from his nose and he could hear guys puking all around him.
    He ripped his canteen out of its carrier on his hip and poured the cold water on his face. His vision started to clear. There were guys standing over huge barrels, returning their lunch to the Army. Some guys didn’t make it to the barrels and simply turned lunch over to Missouri’s natural beauty. This explains the walls on the shed, Scott thought. They didn’t want us to see this.
    Delta 5-2 marched back to the barracks, then later to dinner. As the afternoon wore on, Scott and the rest of the guys had recovered from their experience at the gas chamber; they were even joking about who puked the most and how they would scare the shit of