I Don't Know Snot!

**This is the ongoing story of becoming a police officer in my forties and then becoming The Bad Luck Detective. It’s best to start with the first post.

I had called my chiropractor’s office when leaving the academy on Friday. They made a special appointment for me the next day. My body was readjusted and I was told I needed more fluids. I was given a water additive to replenish my body from all the sweating. It tasted terrible but I was willing to do anything to feel better.

Donna arrived for Sunday night study session. I was relieved to see her. This was the beginning of week five and on Monday morning Sgt. Dickens failed to show up for inspection and we stood around scratching our heads until it was time for class.

Tuesday morning we were presented with our Guidon. This is a flag representing our academy and class. Sgt. Dickens made quite a production and we all took pride in the presentation. The flag was yellow with PAFRA and class number 95 in large black letters. A cadet was chosen to be our flag bearer and it was quite an honor. He would carry it at all times including PT and DT. Our flag was to be the symbol of our pride. Nothing was to happen to it or we would be punished like no punishment we had yet seen. We were told we needed a class slogan by the end of the week.

Our first slogan was rejected by the Sergeant as being inadequate. We spent every available minute trying to come up with something suitable. Friday morning when called to attention for morning inspection, we belted it out.

“Class ninety five is the best by far. We smoke all the rest like a cheap cigar. Uh”

Sgt. Dickens approved and the slogan was officially added to our drills.

Our academy polo shirts and workout clothing had arrived and were passed out. We were told to wear the workout and academy shirts on Monday morning. Class ninety six would be starting on Sunday, and would be moving into available dorms, and using the classroom beside ours. We were told to stay away from them. We had our new polo’s and the new cadets would be in white shirts and ties. It was nice to be us for a change.

The day wasn’t over it was time for OC gas (o-chlorobenzylidene malononitrile) better known as tear gas. The “red shirts” came in directly after lunch. There were three of them. We learned to identify red shirts with pain beginning that day. It started as a lot of fun. They blew things up and taught us about making bombs. We were able to play with plastic explosive. One of the cadets made a penis and it became a contest to see who could make the best one (academy humor at it’s best). We were also shown videos of crowd control and actual mob scenes with police intervention.

We were then marched outside and taken about a mile out into the desert. We were issued side-handle batons and learned “hands on” crowd control. We split into two groups with one side being the “out of control” crowd, and the other being the officers. It was a great learning experience, and the psychology behind crowd control is fascinating.

The time had arrived. We were run in a slow jog for a mile, to open our pores (this made the gas burn more on our bodies). We were then lined up in our squads, but instead of being spread out, we were told to stand shoulder to shoulder. It had been explained the cans of tear gas would reach over 1400 degrees in temperature and we were not to touch them. We were also told we had to keep formation until a whistle was blown or we would start over.

The cans were tossed around us. We tried holding our breath but it was impossible. Water was poring from our eyes and breathing was unbearable. I felt someone at my feet and I grabbed their shoulders and held on. We could not break our formation. I thought we would all die before that whistle was finally blown.

The shrill noise sounded and we all ran away from the gas. We were coughing, choking, and throwing up. Everyone had snot and saliva running down their face. This was not a pretty site but we had done it. It took about ten minutes for our breathing to return to normal. The amount of mucus we expelled was amazing. Our skin was on fire. We were marched back to the classroom.

Sgt. Dickens came in.

“I am so fucking proud of you! This is what I’ve been waiting for. You are a team. You are Class 95. You are my Class and you should be proud of yourselves.”

It was great; we were all smiling and laughing. We were proud. In that moment I felt I could take on the world. We’d had a day of learning about crown mentality and here we were, our skin burning, our lungs scorched, with noses running with snot, and we felt as if we had achieved great success. On that day our Sergeant could have led us anywhere, and told us to do anything, and we would have followed.

I didn’t drive back to Small Town that weekend. My husband was away on a business trip and it was easier to stay on campus and relax. I ate dinner in the cafeteria Sunday evening with a few fellow cadets. Class 96 was marched in, and we saw the same looks on their faces that we’d had on ours, that first day. It sucked to be them.