The term “it’s a gas,” meaning it’s a great thing, is a fairly recent addition to the language.

We know it was first recorded in print in 1953, so it had already been spoken for a while, mostly among jazz musicians. What etymologists don’t know is its origin. But I can tell ’em where it did not come from — Great Lakes boot camp.

Last week I wrote about boot camp’s Damage Control class. It came the fourth week and was an all-day session. In the morning we were given cursory hands-on lessons fighting oil fires, and the afternoon had two parts. The first was the smokehouse, which I wrote about last week. Essentially, 88 of us lined up two abreast, locked arms with the poor slob next to us, grabbed a hold of the raincoat of the poor slob in front of us, and walked into a blockhouse that then filled with smoke. Then the doors were shut and in the pitch-black we were supposed to walk forward, cool and calm, till the front door opened. The key word in the previous sentence was “supposed.”

–

A new treat

–

The second part was what we less-than-affectionately called “The Gas Chamber.” This was in another blockhouse, one that was different from the first. First, there was no smoke. Second, it was brightly lit. Third, it had windows and speakers, so the instructors could observe us and give us instructions while we were in there.

Keep in mind, not all that long before this treat, we’d been through the smokehouse, where we’d had the rare pleasure of inhaling huge amounts of smoke and secreting equally huge amounts of adrenalin. So by the time we got to the Gas Chamber, while we weren’t in full freakout mode, we weren’t chillin’ like villains either: We may have had no idea what lay ahead, but by the looks on the instructors’ faces, we knew, whatever it was, we’d be paying some dues.

One of the instructors called “At Ease” while another instructor handed out canvas bags a bit smaller than a day pack.

“OK, men,” said the first guy, “we’ve been saving the best for last.”

Oh, crap, I said under my breath, as the guy next to me, a kid from Boston named O’Connell crossed himself — twice. We may have been young and naive, but at that point in boot camp we knew irony when we heard it.

Next he told us to open our bag and take out the goodies. It was an old-style gas mask, like WWII vintage, and a rag and a cleaning agent of some sort. Once we had them, he told us to put them on and tighten the straps, which we did.

As soon as we had them on, some of the guys started coughing and shaking their heads, obviously in distress of some sort. I had no idea what was going on with them, nor did I have time to consider it, because as soon as we had the masks on, he ordered us to line up in single file, which we did. Then he led us over to the Gas Chamber’s door.

“All right,” he said. “Now here’s what’s gonna happen. You’ll walk in the building and we’ll shut the door after the last man. Then, nice and slow, the first man is gonna walk in a circle, while the rest of you scroungy coyotes follow him. Once you make a complete circuit, we’re gonna pump a bunch of tear gas into the room. You’ll keep walking, still slow. Then we’ll give you some orders and you’ll follow them. Understood?”

We all gave a half-hearted “aye aye,” and walked up to the door. He opened the door and we filed in, walking in a circle, nice and slow, as he’d ordered. There were several windows in the walls and an instructor was behind each one. At first, I thought they were there to help us if anything went wrong, but by their lupine grins, I soon realized their role, whatever it was, was less to help us than to provide them with sadistic glee.

–

Nitty gritty

–

A tinny voice came over the speakers.

“Now the gas is coming in. Keep walking in the circle. and keep breathing regularly.”

We did as told.

I was doing fine, but those guys who’d been coughing before we came in, were still coughing, except now they sounded like they were hacking up monster hairballs.

Then the voice came on again.

“All right, playtime,” it said. “Take off your gas masks, hold them above your heads, and keep walking. And do not hold your breath, or you’ll keep walking till your enlistment’s up.”

We all took off our masks and held them above our heads.

Suddenly, my entire face felt like it caught fire. Everything burned and stung, as if my head had been dunked in a vat of acid.

H2SO4 flashed in my mind — probably the only thing I’d learned in chemistry, other than a hot beaker and a cold beaker look the same.

Then the burning got worse — in my eyes, nose, throat, and for all I knew, my teeth and fingernails. As it did, my body went into reaction mode, which consisted of uncontrolled coughing, gasping, tears pouring down my cheeks, snot pouring out my nose.

Still, we kept walking, breathing … and swearing uncontrollably.

“Lookin’ good,” the voice said. “Now how’s about a rousing chorus of ‘Anchors Aweigh.'”

At that point, we were in so much pain, all we wanted was for it to stop. So if singing “Anchors Aweigh” would end it, we’d do it.

Besides, it wasn’t a suggestion, it was a direct order. And we knew if we didn’t start singing, they’d keep us in there till the cows came home.

I think we got through the first verse when the door opened and we were told we could leave. We also were told to not, under any circumstances, rub our eyes, but just to sit on the grinder and wait till we were under control again.

We all stumbled out and sprawled on the asphalt, coughing, spitting, swearing, thinking of nothing but for the burn to go away, which of course it finally did. Then, once we’d all calmed down, the instructor told us to take out the cleaning stuff from the bag and clean the inside of our gas mask.

Suddenly, I understood why those guys had been coughing before we ever went into the Gas Chamber: The guy who’d previously worn their mask hadn’t cleaned it thoroughly, if at all, so there was tear gas residue in it. So either the previous guy’s mask hadn’t been cleaned, so he was gonna visit his misery on the next poor guy, or he was just a lazy schmuck. Luckily, whoever’d worn my mask had done a stellar job of cleaning it, and so, paying it forward, I did the same.

I never figured out the actual purpose of the gas house, other than testing our ability to keep what little cools we had. Certainly, at that time, chemical dispersal agents had made a helluva lot more “progress” than in previous years, so one of those old style gas masks would probably be as effective in a gas attack as a fishing net.

However, I’d enlisted in April 1969, when “civil disturbance” (to use the cliche of time) seemed to have replaced baseball as the national pastime. And along with banners, yelling, fists in the air in one power salute or another, tear gas was the order of the day. So if the gashouse’s purpose was to deter us from becoming future rioters, it succeeded.

And in my case, it succeeded beyond anyone’s wildest imaginings.