Two days ago I arrived at Quantico Marine base with 57 other journalists. The commandant promised us action, and he has not disappointed. We’re issued camouflage gear, assigned to platoons and woken up by bellowing officers at 5 a.m. The idea is to give us a taste of what we might experience should we ever deploy with the Marines to write about them. “Our men and women have a job to do,” a general tells us. “One of those jobs will probably not be to take care of you.”
One of my bunkmates, an overweight newspaper photographer, twists his knee crossing the field. A young wire-service reporter turns her ankle in a sinkhole as we follow a platoon through the woods. She misses the part where they fire live machine-gun bullets over our heads. On day six we enter a gas chamber wearing gas masks and full-body protection suits. It’s filled with tear gas and we’re told to close our eyes, hold our breath, take off our masks and then put them back on. The tear gas burns my freshly shaven face; several classmates run out gasping for air. The real thing would be much worse. If we go to war, the bullets will be real, and tear gas will be the least of our concerns.
