it did help us to get tougher, and the program encouraged leadership. They rotated us as platoon leaders in the practical exercises. Everyone did well, because we helped one another plan and execute the assignments—and we knew that each of us would be taking a turn.
Even with the best of intentions, though, things can go wrong.
One day we conducted a simulated raid on an enemy camp. We had held two planning sessions to work out the timing, deployment, weapons and personnel for the operation.
We thought we had prepared for everything. We would hit the camp at noon while the enemy fighters were eating lunch. At 11 a.m., the instructors dropped us off about a half-mile from the target site. From there we approached, carefully. We had studied the coordinates and terrain on our maps that morning. Up and down a couple of ridgelines and we would be there.
We moved up and down a couple of ridgelines. Then up and down a couple more. Then we retraced our steps. Then we sent out small patrols.
We never did find that damned camp.
We couldn’t have missed it by much, but we missed it. In retrospect we had allowed the terrain to fool us. Everything looked the same, so in taking our bearings it was easy for us to veer off course little by little over each ridgeline. Whatever the reason we felt embarrassed as hell and the instructors wouldn’t let us forget it for the rest of the course.
We spent our next block in parachute training. The lecture period was short, because there isn’t much to say about throwing yourself out the door of an airplane at 2,500 feet.
Again the instructors were excellent. All had logged hundreds of jumps. They intensified our physical training, including more running along with sessions teaching us the PLF, the parachute-landing fall. We spent hours jumping into a sawdust pit from a 6-foot platform.
Next we jumped from a 60-foot tower, a standard exercise intended to instill confidence and condition us to obey the jumpmaster’s commands. It was no fun and few of us liked it, but we knew it was necessary.
We descended a cable attached to the tower just inside the jump door. Each man strapped on a parachute harness and latched it to the cable. Once out the door the jumper slid down to a soft landing about 50 yards from the tower.
It sounded simple, but it wasn’t.
The first tower jump was the worst. We jumped in sticks—the military term for parachuters in a line—just as we would from a plane. Four men to a stick, I was second, and I remember thinking that I’d rather have been first and gotten it over with. I climbed the tower unenthusiastically, resigned to the idea that it had to be done. At the top we waited in a small room with corrugated sheet-metal walls.
The jumpmaster stood there waiting for us, understanding our reluctance. He also knew the exercise previewed what we’d be doing on the plane, so he used the same commands. We strapped on the parachute harnesses and stood in line.
“Hook up,” the instructor called out.
We complied, hitching our chute-release lines onto the cable leading out the door.
“Get in the doorway,” he ordered, and the first man shifted to the opening, putting a hand on each side of the doorframe. Knees bent in ready position, the jumper waited for the next command. It always seemed as though minutes passed.
“Go!”
Out the door he went. I watched as he took the initial shock of the cable then slid down to the landing point without a problem. In a real jump the four-man stick would go in quick succession, but in the tower we went out one at a time.
Next it was my turn. Almost robot-like, I shifted to the doorway and grabbed each side of the frame. Then I did start thinking, because I could plainly see the ground 60 feet below and realized I did not want to do this. I tried looking at the horizon, as I had been instructed, but my gaze kept returning to the ground.
Stop it!
My self-coaching didn’t help. As if waiting for the pilot’s signal that we were over the drop zone, the jumpmaster hesitated for eight or 10 seconds, which seemed like forever. I crouched, frozen, in the doorway.
“Go!” he yelled in my ear, pretending to shout over the noise of airplane engines.
I guess I was startled, because I hesitated for a split second before I jumped. Then I went. The harness tightened as the cable caught my weight, and I slid down.
I landed without incident. That one and the two other tower jumps were no question the least-enjoyable experiences of my paramilitary training.
Soon, with the PLF technique mastered and the tower behind us, the day for our first real jump arrived, sunny and warm with few clouds in the sky. This prospect had weighed on us for months. We rode a truck to the airfield, where a two-engine, World War II-era, C-47 transport waited.
We strapped on our parachutes, military T-10 models. We assembled next to the plane, chatting nervously among ourselves. After a briefing we boarded. The cable to which we would fasten our static lines looked ominous along the ceiling. My stick was second this time. We sat on benches stretched along each side of the aisle. The main parachute and reserve chute felt bulky and uncomfortable, but no one complained. Each man held the hook attached to his static line in his right hand. Everyone tried to act casual, but the tension was readily apparent.
We took off and the pilot flew a large spiral around the field, gaining altitude with each pass. Then he leveled off and straightened out.
“We’re on final,” the copilot shouted back.
We all waited for the next command, the one we had practiced on the ground, first in the tower and then inside a mock-up plane. Everyone knew exactly what to do.
“Stand up!” the jumpmaster shouted, followed soon by, “Hook up!”
On command, the four men in the first stick shuffled forward. Mike Deuel, the lead jumper, swung into position at the door, his hands gripping each side of the frame. I could see he was gripping it hard as I sat waiting in anticipation. I wasn’t afraid, just intrigued by the prospect of leaping out of an airplane.
I could hear the assistant instructor speaking to the men in the first stick: “Your first jump will be the best one ever—enjoy it!”
The jumpmaster leaned out the door looking for the drop zone. When he stood up straight, and the jump light flashed on, we knew it was close.
“Go!” he shouted at Mike, swatting him on the butt.
Mike jumped. The rest of the stick quickly shuffled forward, swung into position, and at the jumpmaster’s command headed out the door, each receiving the standard butt swat. All four men jumped within about eight seconds.
The rest of us sat transfixed. With the first stick gone, all we saw was sky. The jumpmaster hauled in the four static lines.
The pilot circled for another run over the drop zone. When he straightened out we heard the cries again.
“We’re on final!”
“Stand up!”
Now my stick stood, hooks in hand, with me third in line. We wore serious, intent expressions—because we were serious and intent.
“First jump will be great,” the assistant repeated.
I barely heard him, as I strained to hear the next command.
“Hook up!”
We snapped onto the cable. I gave my hook a hard jerk to confirm it. We also checked one another. I stared at the door.
Soon I’m going to jump. Imagine that!
“Move to the door!”
We shuffled forward. The first jumper swung into position. I wasn’t even thinking at that point, just reacting.
“Go!”
The