Vietnam Unplugged:Pictures Stolen - Memories Recovered. (eBook)

Chapter 3:

Jump School

With my leave from Advanced Infantry School at Fort Dix, New Jersey over, I reported to Fort Benning, Georgia to begin three weeks of Jump School. When completed, this would give me the designation of Paratrooper.

Jump school is focused on intense physical training during the first two weeks, with the final weeks being mostly jumping.

I was looking forward to this. In high school I had been a fair distance runner and could knock off miles all day long. Bring it on!

My first exposure to the whole Airborne (Paratrooper) thing was in basic training at Fort Campbell, Kentucky. It was home to the 101st Airborne Division, an elite division with a celebrated history—in particular in the Battle of the Bulge during World War II. Many books and movies have been made of their exploits of those times.

We would watch from a distance, viewing the jumps as the planes deployed strings of parachutes billowing as they exited the C-130 aircraft.

A neat feature of Jump School was the fact that it was attended by military from other branches of the service, not just the Army. Recon Marines, Navy Seals, even soldiers from other countries were included. Being all tossed in together allowed us to compares notes as to how these other branches of the service operated.

First Week

The first week was mostly intense physical training and constantly having to knock out push-ups (20-50) at a time for the slightest infractions.

Drill Instructors (DIs) had to be addressed as Sarge. Lots, of “Yes, Sarge!” and “No, Sarge!” to their requests.

In the Marines, they addressed their Sergeants as “Sir.” In the Army, “Sir” was used for Officers.

One Recon Marine in our group was always responding to the DI with “Recon Sir” and not the required “Airborne.” This aggravated the DIs and he paid with many push-ups. Gravity always won out.

While on the subject of DIs, midway through my tour in Vietnam our first Platoon Sergeant completed his tour, returning Stateside. To my surprise, who should appear as his replacement—none other than Sergeant H., one of my Jump School DIs. Though he outranked me, by then I was the veteran with more combat experience.

I recall a firefight we were in that had been going on for way too long, ammo running low, the outcome still undecided. Gunships were on their way—hurry up!

The firefight had started at first light and it was now around noon. Sergeant H. made the comment to me that he was losing patience with these NVA because they were cutting into his lunchtime. It was the perfect time for a bit of humor, as the intense stress of the battle was eased by those few words. He turned out to be a decent Platoon Sergeant, and could get the job done, the key requirement in that business.

Back to Jump School. That initial week was like a combination of “tough mudder obstacle race, crossfit gyms, and triathlons”—it was inevitable that some wouldn’t make the cut. Those who didn’t make the cut (it could be for any number of reasons) were made to do menial jobs around the Jump School while awaiting reassignment orders. Adding insult to injury and to make their status more visible, they were made to wear a yellow helmet while with us.

Yep, the yellow helmet of shame, signifying cowardice. I’m not sure if things have changed these days, but being politically correct wasn’t high on Uncle Sam’s agenda at the time.

Second Week

This week covered the fundamentals of jumping out of airplanes: aircraft exits and how to land.

Attempting to land standing up was prohibited. We were not skydivers jumping with performance canopies, for whom landing in a standing manner is the norm.

No, keep those knees bent and let the body absorb the impact by rolling to the side and onto your back. Known as a parachute landing fall (PLF). Two separate parachutes were carried. The main chute (T-10) on the back and the smaller reserve in the front around belt level should it be (gulp!) needed.

After some practice of exits at a ground level platform we advanced to the 34-foot tower to perfect our exits there. Picture a water tower with a door and a long zip line and you’ve got the idea.

Correct exits were needed to insure proper deployment of our parachutes. We would don a harness, and with the zip line secured to our back to simulate a parachute, off we would go. Lots of fun—it’s not too often I would use that word in the Army.

The 250-foot tower was the next training aid. It looked like a tower taken from an amusement park. It would hoist you in an already opened parachute to the top. Once released, we would descend to the nice sandy drop zone below. This provides a real life experience with the feel of an actual landing. What it leaves out, however, is the factor that wind can play, spacing between jumpers, and other considerations.

With week two out of the way, it’s time to do the real thing: Let’s go to week three.

Third Week

The third and final week of Jump School. Five jumps away from
graduating.

The first aircraft I jumped from was the C-119, known as the Flying Boxcar. Short and boxy-looking with a double tail, it made for an ideal jump plane. The C-119 was past its prime even then; few remain today.

The fact that it had plenty of clearance by the doors, making a clean exit easier, was a big plus. Nobody wants to have their ‘chute snag on the tail. The C-119 carried fewer jumpers, insuring that most would land on the drop zone, not in the trees. Check that concern off the list.

An aircraft held two “sticks” of jumpers, sticks being the row of jumpers exiting the door. One on each side of the plane. After a period of time in which we would be manifested, put on our parachutes, and the safety checks completed, we boarded the plane. Seated and facing each other, we climbed to altitude.

Located by the exit doors were the Jumpmasters. With many jumps and experience they were in command, and would orchestrate the jump once the time came.

That time is now.

“Get ready!” shouts the Jumpmaster. Made more alert, we face each other, awaiting the next commands. The basic web seating and uninsulated surroundings make for a noisy place and it’s about to get noisier. Colored lights by the door indicate we have reached jump altitude (approximately 1250 feet). The exit doors on each side at the rear are now opened. If it was loud before, it’s deafening now. The thin metal between us and the elements has been removed and the third dimension to the drop zone below is made more real.

“Stand up!” shouts the Jumpmaster, almost inaudible with the engines and rushing wind.

In unison we rise and face the rear of the aircraft.

“Hook up,” comes the next command.

We take the snap hook that is attached to one end of our static lines, with the other end draped over our shoulder and coiled on the main chute. We secure the snap hook to a long wire strung the length of each side of the plane.

“Check equipment!”

The final checks are to make sure everything is where it should be and secure, both for yourself and the jumper in front of you.

The Jumpmaster is leaning out, going through his final checks. Leaning out, he scans the aircraft and ground below. Wind speed, aircraft spacing, and approach to the Drop Zone, all have to click. His clothing and the skin on his face is distorted by the exposure to the rushing wind skirting the door.

The next to final command is screamed out: “Stand in the Door!”

The lead jumper in each “stick” takes position in the door, knees slightly bent, a hand on each side of the door.

“Go!” The final command.

Into the prop blast leaps the first jumper, and immediately is hurled back by the wind from the engine. Legs are together and elbows tucked to the side with the hands on the reserve chute.

Like a big centipede, the rest of the jumpers follow in an anxious shuffle and stream out. No turning back now.

The 15-foot static line unfurls and yanks the main chute open. It is four seconds max until the main chute is deployed.

One thousand....

Two thousand...

Three thousand...

Four thousand...

Should you not feel the tug of the deploying canopy, that’s the cue to pull the reserve handle on the reserve chute. Exiting at approximately 1250 feet doesn’t leave much distance between you and the ground.

Not to worry, the canopy snaps in the air and billows open. It gives a huge sense of relief and elation to have made it through that critical stage.

The noise of the engines, buffeting of the wind, vibration from the C-119, shouting of the Jumpmaster: All that is now replaced by a peaceful silence with the aircraft receding in the distance....