The Jump Blog

In honor of Veteran’s Day, I’ll relate a Jump Story…

So there I was, at 800ft. AGL (that’s Above Ground Level for all of you legs), I was stood up and hooked up, third man in the stick. Number 1 was the Battalion Commander LTC Steven Fondacarro (I’d charge hell for that guy, wearing a gasoline jock), number 2 was my buddy Angry Johnny
(despite the caption, he assures me that photo was snapped several hundred feet above Sicily DZ)

Now, Angry Johnny was packing the radio, and that’s a heavy bitch. I was packing a few drums of 249 ammo, and the BC was packing all of that responsibility, so we were in a bit of a hurry to get off that bird, nut crushing opening shock or no. In a perfect world, you’ll be standing up less than 10 minutes before you exit the aircraft, which is a relief when a light load is gonna tip the scales over 150lbs. The one thing you don’t want to do is “racetrack”. This involves overflying the drop zone, making a wide looping circle for 10 or 15 minutes to attempt the drop again, all the while being hooked up and stood up with your straps cutting grooves into your shoulders a Deuce-and-a-half couldn’t get out of.

A racetrack can happen for many reasons. Choppers on the DZ, high winds, aircraft out of formation, woodpecker habitat in danger, etc…
One thing remains constant, paratroopers hate racetracks. If the Jumpmaster called a racetrack because the DZ had turned into Dante’s inferno, paratroopers on the aircraft would want to jump in and investigate. This isn’t because we love jumping, it’s because we hate having to attempt to remain erect during a 15 degree bank wearing 200 lbs. of gear.

On the night in question a racetrack seemed unlikely, I was third man in the stick, two men behind the BC. Me and Angry Johnny had been on three jumps prior to this, all of which had been scratched. We were due. The doors pop open, the rush and roar of the North Carolina atmosphere filled the aircraft. I lean on my static line hand, letting it take some of my weight, waiting my turn to shuffle out the door.

The Jumpmaster leans back in the aircraft, some sort of discussion occurs between him and the Loadmaster. The BC is included. Fuck. Racetrack. The pilot banks starboard, causing all of the personnel on board to roll to port. Massive grumbling is heard and a few hands hook the static line cable. Hours pass. I think Angry Johnny is still upright, but it is difficult to tell, my pack tray has knocked my Kevlar down over my eyes, which are blurred by sweat. I am hanging on to the static line cable with both hands, knees sagging. I am sure my shoulders are bleeding.

We are lined up again, sweet relief is ahead, I don’t care if I am wearing the ACME anvil chute, I am going out that door. Only I am not. The jumpmaster calls another racetrack, and I know I can’t survive. It’s that same feeling that you get when you know the PL isn’t kidding when he says 2 more miles, or the Drill Sergeant really is gonna smoke you till it rains inside. I am no longer in my body I am just along for the ride.

I think about anything, everything. I hear screaming and cursing. I am on one knee, maintaining only a cursory hold on my static line, Angry Johnny is down too. More telling, so is the BC. Christ, if found-a-kevlar is down to a knee, I might as well lie down. Pain. Life is just pain. I already see the large black bruises the canopy releases are going to leave tomorrow, bruises the size of Coke cans… or a beer can, sweet beer, if I ever get out of this bird I am gonna drink enough beer to fill it. They gotta let us go this time, it’s been 45 minutes, they gotta let us go or unhook. Only the Jumpmasters are standing now. everyone else is on their knees, penitents begging for mercy.

The doors are open, no one can rise. Christ, there is the yellow, he said “Standby”. I can’t get up. I can’t feel my legs. My arms are some sort of frozen. The BC, the Big Man, is up –crouching. Angry Johnny is still on two knees, but there is the green light and we are going. The BC pitches forward out the door in that half-crouch, I gotta move, there goes Johnny moving up, I gotta stand up but I can’t. Johnny has moved to the door on his knees and tipped out the door sideways, Oh God, where am I, I should be gone already. Don’t let the light go red, I gotta get out of here. I’m looking up as I attempt to pass off my static line, am I on my knees? I’m not sure. I have to look him in the eye and pass of the static line. I look up at his eyes, I pass the static line and lean out the door.

I didn’t let go.

I am hanging ass backward out of a C-141 trying to let go of my static line, but my mind is screaming “this is not a good exit position Airborne!” so I want to hang on and reposition myself, maybe, I can’t seem to make myself let go. I am swinging, rocking, someone is leaning toward me, are they going to pull me back in? I feel hands just inside of the canopy release, then a slight bit of pressure and I am falling away.

There’s the familiar tail, stabilizer, flat black panel that must be earth, stars, nav lights, blur of the opening shock. I am descending to earth. It’s pitch black, I am sure it must be cold, it’s December, but I don’t feel it. I am out. My grin won’t stop. I focus on the blue/black line that is the horizon, pull my release and let the weight fall away. Feet and knees together, eyes on the horizon, the jarring impact. everything hurts, but I don’t feel it. I pull a canopy release, get out of the harness and snake my weapon over.

Still grinning. Guys are still hitting the earth all around me, occasionally I look up to watch them descend. My shit’s together, there’s a turn in point, marked by a chem light. I meet Angry Johnny there, we start hoofing it toward the assembly area. It’s just a training jump so we spark up a Marlboro and cup it in our hands, this has got to be the best night ever.

The pain and the agony of the previous 8 hours are gone, we are not thinking about the four more hours of accountability, weapons cleaning, and formations before bed. Right now it is just a perfect night in December on a drop zone in North Carolina. We made it, together, so we’ll smoke a cigarette, and half-walk, half-run back to the AA, and tomorrow we’ll get up and do it –or something like it– all over again.

Happy Veterans Day.

All the Way, Let’s Go.

Trackback URI | Comments RSS