by Rick Chase
I sat inside the belly of the cold metal bird. My body shivered from a mixture of excitement and fear as I waited for the plane to start its journey down the frosted runway. The huge aircraft shook and vibrated furiously, and the tedious hum of the four engines was enough to drive me crazy. Curious, I looked about my peers to determine if I was the only one scared out of my mind. The jump master entered the plane and pulled the heavy iron door behind him sealing off what little light had been sneaking in. A strip of red lights came along the ceiling of the aircraft allowing us to see only the shadows which bounced off our neighbors' desperate faces. In the distance, I heard the jump master counting off the order of jumpers. They had explained earlier that there would be a group of ten jumping from each side of the aircraft. The plane would circle around the landing zone for one hundred jumpers in all. He had gotten five passes over the landing zone for one hundred jumpers in all. He got closer and closer, counting loudly. I thought to myself, please don't let me be the first to jump. I don't want to stand in the door--not me, please. The sergeant yelled at the soldier across from me, "Ten!" No, I screamed silently, as my heart dropped to my feet and my chin quickly followed. I sat in awe and thought of myself...I am going to have to stand in the door.
I began to wonder if this whole jumping-out-of-an-airplane thing was such a good idea. For the past five months people had been asking, "Why would you want to jump out of a perfectly good airplane?" Now here I was, asking the same question.
The clumsy, old plane began to roll down the bumpy runway. I closed my eyes and couldn't help but think back to the day I had arrived at Fort Benning, Georgia. We were assigned our rooms and everything was pretty laid back, that is until about an hour after all had shut their eyes, ridden with fatigue, and anxious to get a little sleep. We were awakened by a thunderous crash, followed by an air horn blaring into each room.
"Get up you stinking Legs! Get your cheery asses out in the hall!" What on earth is going on here? I thought to myself quietly. They just told us to go to bed; now they want us up? This isn't right.
About three hundred soldiers met in the hallway, standing in their skivees and rubbing eye boogers from the corners of their eyes. Some had socks, but most were barefoot. "All right, Legs," referring to all those who were not airborne qualified, "Down on your butts to do flutter kicks!" Without question, everyone got down and prepared to begin. "We're going to do these until two people quit. If you want to go home to Momma, now's the time to leave!" hollered the biggest, broadest man I had ever seen in my life. He wore an army uniform, all except for the hat. People I had talked to referred to the instructors as "Black Hats" and now I understand; he wore a black baseball cap with the esteemed parachute and wings pinned directly in the middle. "Ready . . . begin." He began to count and watched as all the participants fought for a place to kick their feet. We lay on our backs, head up, feet approximately six inches above the floor, and alternately kicked our toes straight up to the ceiling.
It seemed like hours before we discovered our first quitter, but not long after, a second jumped up and asked for directions to the front door. They were released, as were those who had completed the first test of determination. . . .
The bottom of the plane felt as though it had dropped out as the monstrous machine lifted off of the ground. I looked about those in my immediate area and found a lot of closed eyes and clenched fists. I knew I wasn't the only one thinking of backing out. I remember having the same thought in only the first week of training.
We had been in what they call Ground Week. This mostly consisted of physical training, more commonly called PT, parachute landing falls, PT, classes, and more PT. Later in the week, we had a class on our reserve parachute. As a visual aid they dropped a dummy with a parachute failure called a streamer or cigarette roll. This occurs when the chute comes out and doesn't open. The dummy fell fast, and it landed around three hundred feet to the front with a loud thump. It was at that point that I had my first second thought.
Through careful consideration I decided it was too late to back out. I figured, after all, I would look like a fool going through all this, then changing my mind at the last minute. Besides, I thought, Dad's been telling me for years I can succeed at whatever I choose to do with my life. The craft hit some turbulence or something, and it drew my attention to whether or not this rickety, old C-140 would even make it to the landing zone. One of the people a couple of seats over vomited. Luckily, I didn't see it, for that would have certainly pulled the trigger on something I had been desperately trying to choke back. We were told if we used our airsick bags we had to jump with them. I already had enough on my mind; I didn't need to be concerned with what to do with this morning's breakfast.
The plane banked left and the jump master yelled out, "six minutes!"
"Six minutes, six minutes, six minutes!" The inside of the plane echoed as everyone yelled just as he was taught.
I began trying to ignore the churning of my stomach and concentrate on exactly what I was supposed to do when I got outside the door of this thing, 1250 feet up in the air, drifting down, and attached to only a piece of nylon.
The black hat at the rear opened the door and my ears popped as the freezing air filled the inside of the plane. "Two minutes!" He screamed and once again everyone returned with, "Two minutes, two minutes, two minutes!"
"Stand up!" he yelled, and the first group of jumpers replied. His next command was to hook up, and those standing snapped their static lines in place, realizing that the small yellow cord was their lifeline. Its purpose? To pull the chute from the pack, allowing it to fill with air. My mind drifted as this was happening, and I thought of the last couple of hours before entering the huge cargo plane.
We had sat in the hanger waiting patiently for the maintenance crew to de-ice the wing of the plane. The black hats had gone around checking the equipment strapped solidly to our backs as we sat on tables that ran the length of the hanger. Graciously they had a radio to try and clam our nerves. Unfortunately Queen's "Another One Bites the Dust" was playing. It began to echo over and over in my head. No matter how hard I tried to ignore them, the words lingered stalely in the back of my mind.
"Go!" My attention was drawn to the first twenty soldiers shuffling to the door and jumping into the strong wind. Those people were gone, and I silently wished them luck as the jump master instructed the second group to stand up. We hooked our static lines up and shuffled up in front of the strong demanding black hat. "Check equipment," the sergeant yelled, and I felt the man behind me run his hands over my pack. "Sound off with equipment check," he hollered and I faintly heard the word O.K. get louder as it made its way up to me. The fellow behind me screamed "O.K." and slapped me unsparingly on the leg. He hit me hard, but I felt nothing as my legs were numb from the frigid air and sheer terror. "All equipment is O.K., jump master," I yelled pointing to him just as we were instructed.
"Stand in the door," he told me grabbing the back of my chute making sure to avoid a premature deployment. My stomach rolled away and did flips as the plane banked left over the landing zone, giving me an almost vertical view of the ground. "Another One Bites the Dust" rang unnervingly over and over in my head. Everything was so small down there. I didn't realize now high up 1250 feet was. "And another one's gone and another one's gone and another one bites the dust." Over and over. Suddenly without warning, the light above my head turned green and the black hat said, "Go." I took a giant leap for the nearest cloud and closed my eyes as tight as they could go. Feet together, I tried to tell myself to start counting to five. "One . . . two . . . another one bites the dust. Oh, God please! What the hell comes after two." I just couldn't recall. It doesn't matter, I thought desperately. It's more than five seconds. What do I do now? "My reserve chute!" I said aloud with astonishing brilliance. I started reaching for the rip cord. Just then, I felt as though I was grabbed in the crotch. The harness, which rapped firmly across my chest, between my legs, and back over my shoulders, violently tightened. The force drove every major organ in my upper body down into my combat boots. I opened my eyes and looked up to the most beautiful thing I had seen since I arrived in Georgia--an open canopy.
A blanket of relief covered my nerves, and I looked over the awesome horizon. It was so peaceful; I felt as though I were a bird, soaring high into the heavens above. The only sound I could hear was another black hat on the ground instructing us through a blow horn to check the canopy.
It only took about thirty seconds to reach the ground. I didn't make a textbook landing; in fact, I went from my feet to my knees to my face. I was happy though, and a sudden surge of adrenaline ran through my bloodstream.
I gathered my chute and stuffed it into the bag that was sent with me. I hiked the bag on my shoulders and began to run off the huge landing zone. The ground was muddy and sparsely populated with tall weeds. Trucks and ambulances were scattered about the large field, making it difficult to minimize my trip and run in a straight line. The C-130 made a third trip overhead and spit out the next twenty soldiers. As I maneuvered around jumpers picking up their own chutes, I found myself thinking back once again. All my life my father had told me I could do anything I wanted as long as I set my heart and mind to it. I always listened but never paid attention. That day I realized how very wise those words were and will never forget the day I briefly danced on a cloud.