The Gas Mask
by Michelle Pauk
After they retired from farming, my grandparents moved to a small ranch-style house in a rural Iowa town. When we would visit, my sisters and I would spend hours exploring the bizarre odds-and-ends tucked in all corners of the house. Among them: a toy riding horse with rusted springs, old games we’d never heard of (“Hüsker Dü?”), an antique wall-mounted hand-crank telephone, and a set of ancient, dust-covered pink toothbrushes in the guest bathroom that I hope no one ever dared to use.
The most fascinating item was tucked away in the closet of the powder-blue guest room and required special permission to view. It was my great-grandfather’s gas mask from World War I. Like all the other curiosities in the house, the gas mask seemed as if it too had been stranded here after a grueling journey through space-time.
But more than the others, the mask had an other-worldly quality. I recall how carefully my father opened the near-crumbling vinyl case and how the material's grayish-green color resembled pallid skin. I’d never seen anything like it. I remember being told briefly about the mask’s origins. My great-grandfather had fought in World War I, and the soldiers needed these masks to protect themselves from mustard gas poisoning. With that simple explanation, the mask was packed away, out of the reach of curious hands.
I’d nearly forgotten about the mask until a few years ago when my father shared a story about our family history I’d never heard before. My great-grandfather had been on patrol in enemy territory with his platoon when night began to fall. The commanding officer instructed the troops to make camp for the night in a low-lying area to stay out of view of the enemy soldiers. My great-grandfather objected. Because mustard gas sinks, they’d be at risk of dying in their sleep if the enemy detected their location and deployed the gas at night. The safer choice, he reasoned, would be to camp in the woods on a nearby hill.
Unfortunately, the commanding officer did not heed my great-grandfather’s warning and insisted on making camp in the valley. All who had followed his orders died that night as mustard gas settled around them.
My great-grandfather, however, was not among them. He had resisted orders, and he survived. I’m grateful for his choice. I wouldn’t be here without it.
My acts of resistance have never been as consequential as my great-grandfather’s. Yet I find it strangely comforting to discover that perhaps my fascination with quiet rebellion may be inherited from an ancestor I never met.
Resistance is never the easy path. It always requires more effort and can be riskier than simply going along. My great-grandfather’s story illustrates in stark terms why someone would bother to push back.
They’re pointing out the danger that others refuse to see.
