Our Survivor's Story Chapter 2: The orders I Couldn't Disobey

I wasn’t silent.

Not at first.

I raised my concern—privately, respectfully. I didn’t make a scene. But I made it clear to my command that something about the new uniform didn’t sit right. I had seen what it did to that spider. I knew what it would likely do to me, if not right away, years from then.   I was told to “Shut-it and wear them.”

They told me it was safe for human use.

Over and over, like a script. That line had been drilled into every cadre member, every supply NCO, every senior leader, all my peers. And to question it—to question them—was to make yourself a problem.  They made that very clear.

So, I did what Soldiers do.

I followed orders.

But inside, I knew I was being used. I hadn’t volunteered for this trial. I hadn’t signed anything. No informed consent. No waiver. No briefing. Just silence, and new uniforms, and the expectation that I’d wear them without question.

What followed were 52 days of sweat, friction, heat, and something worse—symptoms, injury, illness and excruciating pain.

Through it all, I kept showing up. To ranges. To marches. To all form of weapons training and close quarters combat training. No matter how sick I got, how disoriented I felt, how clear it became that my body was beginning to break down, I was expected to perform, and so I did. 

At one point, they gave me rest. But never a full day – just a few extra hours off before others when things got bad enough that even they couldn’t ignore it. But the reprieve? It didn’t last. The next morning, I was ordered back in—gear on, boots laced, uniform sticking to skin that hadn’t healed.

I wasn’t allowed to report to or be taken to an official sick call.

I wasn’t allowed to speak up without being seen as weak, or worse—not only defiant but to risk retaliation.

So, I trained. I endured. I broke but held myself together.

And I did it under the weight of knowing they knew—and that made them, in that moment, a greater threat than the toxin threaded through my uniform.

It wasn’t just my skin breaking down. It was trust. It was belief.

That’s the thing no one talks about. You can patch torn flesh. You might rehab a nerve. But when your command violates your body and calls it safe—something deeper rips.  When, decades later other vets say – the few for the many – it stings more – because that is not what happened – they erased record of me.  Then made these daily wear for millions.

I didn’t stop honoring my oath.

But I stopped believing others honored theirs.