Ugly Mae West

 

RU Airborne’s pic of a typical Mae West.

There is nothing like the practiced eyes of a paramedic (jump qualified medic) to cover the drop zone. We gazed intently for the first signs of trouble. Observation started while the men exited the aircraft. Routinely, the parachutes billowed into their rounded fullness in seconds… filling the sky with rows paratroopers. Anything other than the norm drew quick attention. I could spot and run toward a troubled situation, and be there about the time they touched the ground. Our medical assessment would be well on its way, as the ambulance traversed the cleared field.

The role is reversed on this day; someone else is covering the ground. This would be the closest call in my own jump experience. After the usual exit count (one thousand one…one thousand four) there was still a troubling breeze blowing in my ears. I looked up, with no time for denial. There wasn’t much silk slowing me down.

All Mae Wests are ugly. Especially since I was looking directly over my head. “It’s me oh Lord”…is all I could say to myself. One or two of my suspension lines sliced the normal diameter of my chute, by sliding over the top of the canopy. The parachute takes on a bra like shape…therefore the name Mae West. Military chutes are designed for rapid descent; the slightest malfunction destroys the chute’s capacity for a safe drop.

In my opinion, bad results stem from poor exits. So I will provide some poor excuses for almost killing myself. If my memory serves me right, we were on a Currahee jump at Fort Steward. This was a field exercise in the Georgia swamps.

We jumped with rations and water. Field gear is easy enough, until you add a main parachute on your back, a reserve on the front…with everything else you own below it. With the medical bag, my load dropped well past the knees! Things return to normal once you hit the ground. Overall, this was just good army training.

We lined up in front of the aircraft. I couldn’t pull my usual delay to gain a seat near the door. Our craft was huge, a C-124 transport. It was a double decker, that would make two passes at the drop zone. They would drop a pile of us. Organizing outside the plane lessened the confusion. I was glad to be on the lower level, but I would be half way down the right hand stick (line of jumpers).

Airtime abbreviates any distance. Before you know it, the exit started. I shuffled to the door. The doors were extra wide. I usually braced myself with the door edges for balance. Giving it my best shot, I exited almost head first. The bad exit allowed the chute to open improperly.

You could measure the remaining sequence in seconds. I should have technically released the main, and then pull the reserve. Thinking I had run short of descent time, I pulled the pin. The reserve deployed well into the may west. I yanked hard on the reserve risers, to no avail. It was then…my life flashed before my eyes on fast forward. My brain was thinking this is terminal.

Military discipline saves lives. With the second attempt, I pulled on those risers like my life depended on it. It did! It was so sweet when the reserve burst from my grip with a pop! Now that the pressure was off the main, the suspension lines slid to allow the main chute to deploy. I had the near full effect of two chutes, for the last hundred or so feet. It was the softest landing I had ever experienced!

I’m laying in a heap, thanking Jesus, when a straight leg Lt. Colonel runs up to me. He bends over to say, “How you doing soldier?” I say, “Airborne, Sir!” It was then I saw the look of deep disappointment, that he did not see a bloodied heap. Thoughts of Leavenworth (United States Military Barracks) hit my mind, but he was fast gone before I could consummate my response. Why are people fascinated with blood and guts?!?

The ground support medics arrived next. They said I was in the second plane and the first man to hit the ground. They didn’t know I was half way down the stick of that second plane. I had passed quite a few paratroopers to the ground.

I made two mistakes in about twenty jumps. Ironically, my mistakes were bookends, my very first and very last jumps. It was time to dust off and walk away. I gratefully rejoined the troops for some Georgia swamp training!