The next morning the Chief declared that all the Y. personnel here must go to gas drill and have masks issued to them. Last night they rounded us up for a lesson. We stood in a big circle at the Gas School over on the hill while the gas instructors instructed us and the boys looked on and grinned. Gas drill consists of learning how to put on and take off your mask in the prescribed and formal manner. It is all done by count. If you can’t do it in six seconds you are a casualty. As we popped our masks on and pulled them off again the hair of all the ladies present proceeded to slowly but relentlessly fall down their backs. The English Lady stood next to me. “It’s all stuff and nonsense,” I could hear her muttering; “stuff and nonsense!” The noncom instructors walked around and informed each and all of us that if we didn’t change the style of our coiffures we certainly would get gassed. “And now,” said the instructor cheerfully, “I am going to send you through the gas-house.” I looked desperately for a chance to sneak away, but there wasn’t any; besides, several boys from my batteries were watching. “Oh this is nothing, nothing at all,” declared the instructor. “We’ve only got the tear gas on tonight. You will go through once with your masks on, and then a second time without them.” We put our masks on and marched in a long line into the gas-house. There was a table in the middle with candles burning on it, which gleamed golden through the thick yellowish clouds of gas. We marched around the table and out again. There was nothing to it; the masks were a perfect protection. “Now,” said the instructor,” you will go through without your masks. This is to give you confidence in them.” The idea being that discovering how very nasty it was without one, you would be taught to appreciate the blessing of a mask. I had an inspiration. I would shut my eyes and hang on to the man in front of me! But alas, for my pretty plan, the line was too long; as I was about to enter: “Break the line here!” shouted the instructor. I had to lead the second line into the gas house. I made double-quick time around that table. Just as I was about to dart out the door an English noncom instructor seized my arm and, halting me, started to explain something. “Yes, yes,” I choked. “It’s all very interesting, but I don’t feel like stopping now!” I pulled away and made a break out the door. I was weeping horribly. My eyes felt as if someone had rubbed onion juice on them. They stung and burned for hours afterward. “The next time,” said the instructor genially, “we’ll put you through the mustard gas.” Now in the mustard gas lesson a fellow must walk into the gas-house without his mask, and put it on after he has entered. If he fails to hold his breath long enough, or is nervous and clumsy and so doesn’t get his mask on quickly enough, why it means a trip to the hospital for him. The mustard gas test is an ordeal which causes the boys considerable apprehension.