Carol’s Column

Masked humour of people at war

Dammit. This gas mask doesn't match my colour scheme, I thought to myself as I gazed at the black rubber with the muddy beige air filter.

The Israeli soldier who'd despatched it to me read my thoughts.

"Next time, perhaps you'll be able to choose your colour combination," he grinned.

"Just make sure your mask is free from hair so that it seals properly," he added.

Dammit. I should have waxed my moustache. It's little things like this that can make the difference between life and death.

What was I doing in Israel on January 15? Touring, what else? And why not.

"This is your atropine auto-injector," the young man said. "If you think that you might have inhaled nerve gas, use it immediately.

"The symptoms of nerve gas are blurred vision, teary eyes, a tightening of your chest and a feeling of nausea."

"I think I've inhaled some nerve gas," gasped the man on my right. "My chest is tight."

"Your jacket's caught on the chair," said the guy behind him. "It's strangling you."

"Now," continued our demonstrator, "take this cylinder, hold it with the yellow end away from your leg and inject it into your thigh muscle immediately. Do it through your clothes because time is of the essence.

"Remove the yellow cap and a needle will automatically plunge into your leg. You'll immediately feel relief."

"Good heavens, look how long that needle is," said someone else. "What happens if you have thin legs? You could be nailed to the chair."

"It won't be the first time that's happened in this country," muttered the intrepid traveller on my left.

Such is the humour of people under stress.

There is nothing like danger and a spurt of adrenalin to enhance the scenery. Jerusalem had never looked so beautiful. The thought that it might not be there the following day made the domes sharper, the ancient limestone buildings more picturesque.

"So you have a stomach ache?" asked the chamber maid as I peered from the window and sighed.

"No, I'm wondering what will happen if Saddam drops his missiles on this city," I answered.

"Don't worry. Jerusalem will survive," she said. "Saddam is a pimple in an acne patch."

"Let's get ready for the masked ball," people giggled as they donned gas masks during alerts.

Gas masks went everywhere. At a fashion show, the models walked down the ramp clad in bikinis and gas masks.

And, according to reports, a sexologist recommended sex as a relief for reducing tensions. Masked or unmasked was the question.

Meanwhile, life went on as normal. Well, almost.

A hairdresser advertised cuts to enhance a gas mask.

We entered into the spirit of things. We dropped to the floor at the sound of a siren only to discover it was an errant car alarm.

Warned that poison gas might smell of mustard, garlic or rotten fish, we panicked when beef in garlic was served, and then again when someone in our bus removed his shoes.

The Israelis were calm. "No problem" they said.

The finale came as we boarded our flight. Only El Al was still flying to and from Israel.

"Because of slight air space problems, we have to re-route," said Zvi Pomagrin, manager for Southern Africa. "Instead of flying direct, (a short seven-and-a-half hour flight), we'll fly the long way."

"Good heavens," said someone in horror. "We'll be flying for 17 hours."

Retorted a steward. "It took us 40 years of wandering through the desert to get to the land of milk and honey and you're worried about a short 17-hour flight. What's the rush?

"Seventeen hours? No problem."

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