Boiling Point and Battle Precision
Can the boiling point of a solvent in a Chemistry lab teach us about military strategy ? An account where science and accuracy coincide.
The academic season had just begun. It was the 29th of July, and my newly admitted MSc Chemistry students were seeing the inside of the laboratory for the first time that year. The benches were lined with students in crisp white lab coats, glassware sparkled under the lights, and in the air lingered that unmistakable smell of toluene — their first experiment, and with it, nervous excitement.
I had planned a very simple exercise — one that would test not the results they gave, but how they worked. The challenge was for them to set up the distillation apparatus on their own. I drew a neat diagram on the board and stepped back.
Before they began, I gave one clear instruction:
“The thermometer goes in last, and comes out first.”
I explained why. Mercury thermometers are not to be taken lightly — a spill would release toxic vapours, and mercury is almost impossible to collect. The message was clear: safety first.
They got to work. Heads bent over clamps, fingers tightened screws, and condensers were rotated this way and that. I reminded them to check the heating mantle before starting, to observe carefully as the solvent began to boil, and to note two things in their notebooks: The temperature when the first drop appeared in the receiving flask and the volume they had taken for the experiment.
In the middle of the activity, I casually asked,
“So, what’s the boiling point? At what temperature did the first drop come out?”
One student shot up instantly, his voice brimming with confidence:
“Sir, at 109°C!”
The answer came too quickly — too sharp. My eyebrows rose. Something wasn’t right.
I turned to the class. “What’s the least count of your thermometers?” I asked. A few voices said 1°C, others said 2°C. I knew for a fact that all the thermometers had been purchased together, and each had a least count of 2°C.
Now came my next question:
“If your thermometer’s least count is 2°C, how can you report the boiling point as exactly 109°C? You can’t. Your measurement accuracy only lies within that 2°C window.”
There were blank stares, puzzled faces.
And then, in that very moment, a perfect analogy struck me — from a completely different world.
“Do you know about the recent demonstration of our country’s military supremacy in a covert operation against our adversary?” I asked. Silence. Of course, they didn’t.
I went on: “During this mission, our indigenous technology enabled us to strike a major enemy air base by firing a missile through the air-conditioning duct that was just 45 cm by 45 cm . Imagine the precision required to hit such a small target ! Had the mission planners not known the exact dimensions of their objective and the the ‘least count’ of their weapon — the missile could never have hit with such an accuracy.”
Smiles began to spread across the room as the parallel clicked. Just as a military strike demands precise knowledge of a target’s dimensions, scientific observations demand respect for an instrument’s limitations. Without knowing the least count, any claim of pinpoint accuracy is simply fiction.
By the end of the class, I felt the message had landed. Yes, they had learned how to set up a distillation apparatus. But more importantly, they had learned that precision is not about quoting numbers — it is about understanding the boundaries of your measurement.
That day, I hoped it wasn’t just the boiling point of toluene that was distilled in the lab, but also the essence of accuracy itself.
————
The academic season had just begun. It was the 29th of July, and my newly admitted MSc Chemistry students were seeing the inside of the laboratory for the first time that year. The benches were lined with students in crisp white lab coats, glassware sparkled under the lights, and in the air lingered that unmistakable smell of toluene — their first experiment, and with it, nervous excitement.
I had planned a very simple exercise — one that would test not the results they gave, but how they worked. The challenge was for them to set up the distillation apparatus on their own. I drew a neat diagram on the board and stepped back.
Before they began, I gave one clear instruction:
“The thermometer goes in last, and comes out first.”
I explained why. Mercury thermometers are not to be taken lightly — a spill would release toxic vapours, and mercury is almost impossible to collect. The message was clear: safety first.
They got to work. Heads bent over clamps, fingers tightened screws, and condensers were rotated this way and that. I reminded them to check the heating mantle before starting, to observe carefully as the solvent began to boil, and to note two things in their notebooks: The temperature when the first drop appeared in the receiving flask and the volume they had taken for the experiment.
In the middle of the activity, I casually asked,
“So, what’s the boiling point? At what temperature did the first drop come out?”
One student shot up instantly, his voice brimming with confidence:
“Sir, at 109°C!”
The answer came too quickly — too sharp. My eyebrows rose. Something wasn’t right.
I turned to the class. “What’s the least count of your thermometers?” I asked. A few voices said 1°C, others said 2°C. I knew for a fact that all the thermometers had been purchased together, and each had a least count of 2°C.
Now came my next question:
“If your thermometer’s least count is 2°C, how can you report the boiling point as exactly 109°C? You can’t. Your measurement accuracy only lies within that 2°C window.”
There were blank stares, puzzled faces.
And then, in that very moment, a perfect analogy struck me — from a completely different world.
“Do you know about the recent demonstration of our country’s military supremacy in a covert operation against our adversary?” I asked. Silence. Of course, they didn’t.
I went on: “During this mission, our indigenous technology enabled us to strike a major enemy air base by firing a missile through the air-conditioning duct that was just 45 cm by 45 cm . Imagine the precision required to hit such a small target ! Had the mission planners not known the exact dimensions of their objective and the the ‘least count’ of their weapon — the missile could never have hit with such an accuracy.”
Smiles began to spread across the room as the parallel clicked. Just as a military strike demands precise knowledge of a target’s dimensions, scientific observations demand respect for an instrument’s limitations. Without knowing the least count, any claim of pinpoint accuracy is simply fiction.
By the end of the class, I felt the message had landed. Yes, they had learned how to set up a distillation apparatus. But more importantly, they had learned that precision is not about quoting numbers — it is about understanding the boundaries of your measurement.
That day, I hoped it wasn’t just the boiling point of toluene that was distilled in the lab, but also the essence of accuracy itself.
————
The academic season had just begun. It was the 29th of July, and my newly admitted MSc Chemistry students were seeing the inside of the laboratory for the first time that year. The benches were lined with students in crisp white lab coats, glassware sparkled under the lights, and in the air lingered that unmistakable smell of toluene — their first experiment, and with it, nervous excitement.
I had planned a very simple exercise — one that would test not the results they gave, but how they worked. The challenge was for them to set up the distillation apparatus on their own. I drew a neat diagram on the board and stepped back.
Before they began, I gave one clear instruction:
“The thermometer goes in last, and comes out first.”
I explained why. Mercury thermometers are not to be taken lightly — a spill would release toxic vapours, and mercury is almost impossible to collect. The message was clear: safety first.
They got to work. Heads bent over clamps, fingers tightened screws, and condensers were rotated this way and that. I reminded them to check the heating mantle before starting, to observe carefully as the solvent began to boil, and to note two things in their notebooks: The temperature when the first drop appeared in the receiving flask and the volume they had taken for the experiment.
In the middle of the activity, I casually asked,
“So, what’s the boiling point? At what temperature did the first drop come out?”
One student shot up instantly, his voice brimming with confidence:
“Sir, at 109°C!”
The answer came too quickly — too sharp. My eyebrows rose. Something wasn’t right.
I turned to the class. “What’s the least count of your thermometers?” I asked. A few voices said 1°C, others said 2°C. I knew for a fact that all the thermometers had been purchased together, and each had a least count of 2°C.
Now came my next question:
“If your thermometer’s least count is 2°C, how can you report the boiling point as exactly 109°C? You can’t. Your measurement accuracy only lies within that 2°C window.”
There were blank stares, puzzled faces.
And then, in that very moment, a perfect analogy struck me — from a completely different world.
“Do you know about the recent demonstration of our country’s military supremacy in a covert operation against our adversary?” I asked. Silence. Of course, they didn’t.
I went on: “During this mission, our indigenous technology enabled us to strike a major enemy air base by firing a missile through the air-conditioning duct that was just 45 cm by 45 cm . Imagine the precision required to hit such a small target ! Had the mission planners not known the exact dimensions of their objective and the the ‘least count’ of their weapon — the missile could never have hit with such an accuracy.”
Smiles began to spread across the room as the parallel clicked. Just as a military strike demands precise knowledge of a target’s dimensions, scientific observations demand respect for an instrument’s limitations. Without knowing the least count, any claim of pinpoint accuracy is simply fiction.
By the end of the class, I felt the message had landed. Yes, they had learned how to set up a distillation apparatus. But more importantly, they had learned that precision is not about quoting numbers — it is about understanding the boundaries of your measurement.
That day, I hoped it wasn’t just the boiling point of toluene that was distilled in the lab, but also the essence of accuracy itself.
————