War Games

Dedicated to Brian and Karen Rakers…the best of Air Force couples. Thank you for your service. Without the Air Force our Army Airborne paratroopers would be jumping from mountaintops.

War Games are designed to take you to split second combat decision making. As a medic, I was attached to the action…meaning I was strictly medical coverage. Rarely did I know the specifics of the mission. However, I could size things up and roll with the flow.

This mission took place in mid-winter. We had about two feet of virgin Kentucky snow. Days were bearable; the nights were some tough hibernation. We were on search and destroy for ‘enemy’ troops when things got interesting.

“Enemy to our front left” split my ears. This reminded me so much of deer hunts in central Maine. We all tore after them through the snow. My adrenaline was pumping at this action. Although I wore the red cross band, all during our time at Ft. Campbell, this was just too good to be true. I was into it!

The moment of decision came quickly. Our prey entered an elbow of a frozen stream. Half the group jumped into the waist  high stream immediately, breaking ice to gain safety on the other side.  About nine troops resigned on this side of the stream. One young man bent over, snorting for breath; the rest collapsed to the ground. A friendly approached his slight resistance and said, “Bang, bang your dead!”

Sometimes a man just needs some inspiration. The ‘enemy’ snatched our man’s  muzzle and drove his butt through the snow with one blow. He turned and leaped into the water. He was like the big stag that got away, in our Maine winter hunts. These guys all wore wings; most of us were silently put out that they acted like woofs. Our ‘enemy’ regained some of our Airborne pride, as he broke ice at a different angle, than the others had taken.

Our ‘enemy’ turned on the bank toward us. His fatigues were dripping with ice. He provided a salvo of choice expletives; he gained a few in reply. However, you could hear the tone of respect in each man’s voice, on this side of the bank. We didn’t need any more prey. These prisoners were booty enough to complete the mission.

It was then that our buck sergeant said, “Take your damned boots off prisoners!” He was in command. You never openly question an order. But I had to approach him quietly. As the medic, it was my duty to discuss the possibilities of frostbite…these were in fact US troops. His reply, “Forget it Doc, these guys ain’t seen nothing yet. I take full responsibility.” Having heard that, I walked away. There are things you just don’t see in this man’s army. What I can tell you is, that the sergeant was absolutely right. Those boys would gladly cross that stream in a few minutes. However, the stream brought the quit out of them, they resigned to their unknown fate.

Within a few minutes time we arrived at a prisoner of war camp. I had not seen this operation before nor since. For some hours they were heavily interrogated. I am not into that kind of pain, so I stayed pretty much on the perimeter. I did see guys put into large drums that were beaten from without. (I am sure the VA has loss of hearing claims from that.) At one station, they used radio batteries to shock some prisoners. No one died. No one called for medical assistance. What I learned was, this week finalized  an escape and evasion training.  My takeaway was a personal decision. I’ll never be taken alive by enemy forces…it had to be so much worse.

Sometimes I am bothered by armchair warriors spouting off about freedom. There is always a heavy price to gain and maintain this thing called freedom. Wonder if the armchair boys would cross a frozen stream, much less get shot at. Get off the videos and enlist.

A strong salute to that last man crossing the stream. Days would come when split second decisions meant life or death. I would rather be with the toughest men possible. Training and teamwork sums it all up. I can personally vouch, you can go to hell and back with a band of paratroopers.

Maybe one more war game coming, on the Currahee Trail.

 

Everybody has a Jump Story

Dedicated to Mike and Donna Krawczyk…thank you for helping a fellow trooper slip out of a bad cloud.

Everybody has a jump story. Somebody makes a mistake… and you hope to tell about it. This particular plane  was referred to as the Flying Boxcar. The C-119 gets that name from its unique shape; it also remains a unique jumping experience. You will notice the bullet shaped rear in the fuselage. The rear exit doors are located in that narrow.

Paratroopers slip underneath the fuselage due to the wind dynamics and the chutes deploy on the opposite side of the plane. In my day, this plane was a common jump. It was just another day in the air.

Now it was my turn to exit. I awaited the jumpmaster tap me for the jump; its about impossible to hear clearly over the drone of the plane engines. Just as I leaped forward, I thought I could hear the jumpmaster say, “shit.” This was clearly not one of the typical jump commands.

Just then, my body felt the strange sensation of being caressed. My mind was preoccupied with reciting the typical one thousand, two thousand, three thousand four…but I was interrupted by a wild pendulum swing. Popping my head out of my chest, I looked up to see a pair of 14EEE sized boots over head. Some nut was above me playing with my canopy!

Then I heard a sturdy voice above those boots saying, “Do you want to cut loose and pull your reserve?” I had exited at the same exact time as the trooper in the other door and slipped through his suspension lines. My chute was tangled up in his gear. Now, the expletive from the jumpmaster made sense!

We really didn’t have enough air time left. I thought, for a millisecond,  that his main chute was supporting over three hundred pounds at this moment. My reply, “No thanks” got his reply of “good luck!” We were fast running out of conversation time.

God only knows my landing was tough, but in another second those 14EEEs were slamming about two feet from my head. I think he got the worst of that deal; if he would have landed on me…I would not be able to recount this story with any sense of clarity. Gee! That was close.

Whether the jumpmaster tapped me too quick, or I just got jumpy, I can now fully attest to the importance of a staggered jump out of a C-119. I was thankful that we did not jump with equipment that day. I also learned to steer clear of those 200 lb. plus paratroopers; heavy is NOT an advantage in the air.

When we can walk away from a mistake… it becomes a life lesson.

Tip of the Spear

Laws without enforcement are mere words, in the course of human history. International laws and treaties tend to be superseded by fickle national interests…we share this globe with many conflicting national interests. Some have promised to bury us.

I was born and grew up in the Cold War era 0f 1945-1990. I hid under a school desk, many a time, shielding myself from the impending atomic blast. Though that defensive posture lacked…the threat was real.

The only thing that keeps you safe at night is a uniformed American. Some wear badges and patrol our streets. Some patrol our waters on Coast Guard ships. You can sleep well because they never sleep. Uniformed Americans have pledged their life to stand between you and harms way.

One week in early 1967, the 2/501st Parachute Infantry Regiment served as the tip of the spear, so that every American could sleep safely. We were on highest alert, to protect Americans and American interests anywhere on the globe. All leaves were cancelled, there were no passes, all members of the unit were restricted to the area. We were the first unit out to enforce the peace…anywhere. The planes where fueled and on standby on the runway of Ft. Campbell. With Air Force refueling capabilities, there was no limit to our range.

Reality hits when you empty your foot locker and pack all personal belongings, tagged to your home of record. I never opened my foot locker; it was always ready for inspection. I lived out of my wall locker. We would all have to reorganize after this week. My duffle bag was packed with all nonessential government issue. What remained was the combat gear readied for immediate deployment.

The might of the American military would follow us. That particular  week, we were the tip of the spear. On that week…nothing happened. The saying goes, ‘Those that wait also serve.’ The following year, in an obscure town called Da Lat, I would serve again in similar capacity, and things did happen.

In this Thanksgiving season I would implore you to do two things. First, look up with a thankful heart to God. Second, please express thanks to an American in uniform. Although they may not be perfect, I can guarantee you that life would be your worst nightmare without them.

Every week in every year, there is a unit standing ready as the tip of the spear. Thank you men and women for being in harms way. I am safe because you wear the uniform. Where ever you are…you hold your place in the spear.

 

 

 

My First Street Rod

We constantly trained for future operations…yet being a medic was a present responsibility, in both peace and war. Injuries and sickness are common to all human experience. However, great military training often came with calculated risks.

Most injury experiences seemed to center around the airborne drops. The parachutes are designed to get the troop to the ground as soon as possible. Airborne operations count upon surprise; they are most vulnerable during the drop. Sprains were very common, and we would have the occasional broken leg or foot. We immobilized the injury and most often transported them by the pictured FLA, which I think stands for front line ambulance. We didn’t use these in Vietnam.

Though not issued a military license in my first unit, I was promptly given one in the 2/501st PIR. They issued a license for up to a two and a half ton truck, before I shifted my first gear.  That is the army way!  However, they did ride me around the motor pool a couple of times, to see if I could steer and shift at the same time. Within twenty minutes, I was told to drive around the post for the rest of the day. That was one of the best days I ever spent in the army!

Being a medic was a calling. We were soldiers with a mission to save life and limb. However, we marched, climbed and jumped,  looking every part of the infantry units we supported.  A medic must not impede the mission of the infantry; we were imbedded into the fighting units.

Winters were tough a Fort Campbell. Most nights we slept on the ground with the troops. One night in particular, three of us medics were trying to sleep in a field ambulance. Not only were we off the ground, but two of us could rest on litters; I smugly claimed the lower litter.

On this particular evening, we could hear the sound of chopping. Apparently, somebody gave the OK for a fire. I heard the rhythmic chop, chop, chop, ahhhhh…. MEDIC!!! We tore out of the ambulance and took care of the situation. Two medics went to transport the injured. I was odd man out and remained in field support. So I said good bye to the litter and  slept on the ground for the rest of the night. Though you wish that no one would get hurt, they do.

The picture was taken at the 101st Airborne Association Reunion visit to Ft. Campbell this year. It was tempting to sit in the front seat and reminisce. These ambulances were in fact my first street rods, though we more commonly drove them down the miles of dirt roads and off through the fields.  The red crosses emblazed on our vehicles and arm patches alerted our units that we were with them and we were ready.

My Geronimo Pie

I have loved people who cook all my life. For this very reason, my own culinary skills have sorely lacked. The one exception to my general fondness was our Army cooks. Some could cook quite well. However, they seemed to relish the idea of busting privates (E1, E2,E3) in kitchen duties. We scrubbed the gigantic pots, washed hundreds of dirty dishes, and mopped the greasy floors. Seemed like I was always awakened before dawn to hear the good news, “Thompson, you got kitchen duty!”

One spring evening, as darkness firmly settled in, I entered the barracks nearest the kitchen door. I saw a pair of white pants springing up the stairwell. The night baker was making his way toward his quarters. General intelligence told me of the card games going on amongst the cooks. I saw him, but he paid no mind to me. By now, the whole kitchen/dining area had grown quite familiar.

Veering my head into the kitchen, I said, “Hey, is any body here?” The  silence drew me in. It was there, in the middle of the kitchen, that I spied an interesting bin hastily left by the night baker. Now firmly committed, I gingerly approached the bin to find a stack of freshly baked apple pies.

I felt the warm pie pan, reflecting for a millisecond of the consequences. It was then that the pan fell into my hands…I rushed out the door and headed swiftly to the third floor. Just my luck, about half a dozen guys were hanging at the bunks. Worse, everyone had the munchies. The general consensus was that I needed to share it. A pie does not look that great going seven ways, especially a stolen pie to boot!

In desperation, I said I knew where there’s a whole lot more pie, one for each of us. Offering to lead them to the bounty, we retraced my steps. Each man grabbed a pie. I brazenly looked in the frozen locker and spied the vanilla ice cream. Shouting hoarsely, “Hey guys, pie ala mode.” They all scooped up some for the road.  I picked up another pie, just in case that pie on my own bunk didn’t make it.

As our recon team ascended the third floor wing, we met more of our hungry bears. I was relieved when one of our recon team members offered to take this bunch down. The rest of us settled in to eat our fill. Within ten minutes tops, there was not a pie nor ice cream left in the battalion. The 2/501st Parachute Infantry was plumb out of desert!

We questioned the wisdom of returning the pie plates to the kitchen. After all, if we were caught, this entire wing would be naked of any signs of military rank. Somebody opened a window to say, “Let’s fling the damn plates. Maybe they’re airborne!” Dang, I thought…Geronimo pie! It was quite a sight to see those tin plates fly; it was also dangerous to show our faces long at the window. Lights out was unusually quick that night.

Formation was routine the next morning. By then, I knew that I had escaped the consequences of our night mission. We filed quickly into the chow line. The night baker was slinging the morning hash; he should normally be sleeping off his night shift. Making a bit of small talk, I said, “I heard something happened here last night.” He said, “If I ever catch who did it, I am going to bust his ass!” Moving ever so quickly round the corner, I couldn’t hold back the smirk.

It was then that I got to thinking…somebody always wants to kick my ass. Well, I had made my mark in this new outfit. Every now and then, somebody would ask me if the pies were ready. However, I am not sure if the cooks are still playing cards. I can tell you, that Geronimo pie was sure good!

My Name is Thompson

My name is rarely a problem in group settings. Thompson is not an overly common name and easy to pronounce. However, I experienced my only identity crisis in the first days with the 2/501st PIR. The unit had a Thompson and we were the same rank. No one in the army is on a first name basis. So I was problematic to the rank and file trooper. I remained the ‘other Thompson’ for quite some time.

The PFC Thompson was presently…indisposed. Within the hour, they told me the story of my missing counterpart. I would personally meet him after several months of recuperation.

Thompson went to Hopkinsville KY one night, in search of true love. Paratroopers were deemed high risk and low return by most families within proximity to Ft. Campbell. Although I had the one girl friend at Ft. Sam Houston (Respite of Innocence), my luck ran totally out at Ft. Campbell.

After spending the night in unrequited love, The Thompson decided to end his boredom. He stood up on a table, in the middle of a night club. Thompson pulled out a revolver and emptied it. Bodies flew out of the club for their lives. However, the gentlemen of the club were hardcore civilians, used to the occasional antics of military personnel.  Once determining that no one was hit, they reentered the club. Thompson had run out of blanks and completely out of bluff!

From this point on, the details remain sketchy. Thompson stood alone against a formidable force. Every man punched and kicked Thompson until they were exhausted and confident that it would take awhile for this paratrooper to bother them again.

In the aftermath, several bones were broken and Thompson suffered multiple contusions. In other words, he hurt all over. Surviving within an inch of his life, Thompson became the living legend of the 501st. I had some big boots to fill.  I lived in the shadow of…The Legendary PFC Thompson.

There is no question that paratroopers are crazy. The question is to what degree. Moving along a  continuum of craziness, they can be as insane as the situation calls for. History easily proves that airborne troops create havoc, disruption, and destruction. Where two or three are gathered together, there will be trouble. It’s hard for the military to curb this culture toward appropriate outlets in peaceful times. Perhaps this is why we spent so much time out in the field.

Thompson’s fame created quite a challenge for me. I had to gain my own place in the unit. Over time I managed to find my way. The Airborne Way is the pursuit of excellence, with a twist of crazy. I soon realized that one paratrooper may or may not be much of a threat. However, I learned that a unit of paratroopers was a formidable world class force for whatever stood in the way of its mission.

Eventually, when people talked about Thompson…it was me!

 

Borrowed Valor

What falls out of the sky? Some would tell you fools and bird droppings. I would say a whole lot more. Besides some ornery well armed paratroopers, there are 3/4 ton vehicles, jeeps, and 105mm howitzers! My first assigned unit was the 1/321st Airborne Field Artillery.

For most, the idea of jumping with equipment is an abstract idea. For the intelligent paratrooper, it means looking above, below and side-to-side. Parachute drops are well planned; not everything goes as planned. While descending, its possible to see moving vehicles, as well as natural obstacles below, guaranteed to hurt the inattentive. When you land, its still a good idea to spot those men and equipment coming down behind you!

It’s amazing to see how vehicles and howitzers are prepared for drop. Everything an airborne unit owns can and will be dropped out of an airplane. The wonderful thing about artillery was the fact that, once on the ground, we rode!  We had to have vehicles to pull the equipment, carry the ammo and artillerymen.

I would wear the Screaming Eagle patch from 1966-1968. Never wanted to wear anything but that 101st patch on my shoulder. Going to war with the 101st meant I would end up with a Screaming Eagle on both shoulders. We wore a parachute glider cap and jump boots with our dress greens.

Those who actively served with the 1/321st also wore the unit’s history. They bore the Presidential Unit Citation and the French Croix de Guerre cord. All the above and Private First Class stripes helped to make an impression for my first Christmas leave. My dad spent much of his career in artillery. I remember doing a direct site on a state police barracks with a 105mm from the ROTC building, at Sienna College NY. My dad and crew laughed at a 12 year old, who wanted one round to prove his point.

Although the howitzers were old hat, the vehicle mounted 106mm recoilless rifles (guns), were a brand new item of interest. As an artillery medic, I was duly warned not to take a nap behind a 106.  These weapons were dangerous on both ends of the barrel. I saw one touched off in Vietnam, a mite too close to the wall behind them. Debris flew everywhere!

Writers have the privilege of making good light of themselves. In reflection, I left some opportunity to grow as a soldier in this unit. Some dispensary duty broadened my medical skills. However, I needed to be in a larger team of medics to prepare for the Currahee Trail.

I often think of Airborne Row. The street ran the length of the base, down to the airstrip. In reflection, it was more like death row. We never watched the evening news of Vietnam. However, we diligently trained for the inevitable. Men often dyed their tee shirts green at the laundry mat, as a sure sign of their individual orders. They often heard the news first at morning formation. I had a free pass the first year, because I was seventeen. A year passes mighty fast.

At the beginning of 1967, I listened up attentively at morning formation. The sergeant called my name. I had orders! I was reassigned to the 2/501st PIR! Clearing my throat, I asked as bravely as I could. “Where’s the 501st.” Sarge said, “You lucked out trooper, its just down the street.” I would celebrate my 19th birthday in Vietnam, but I would receive some excellent training before fulfilling my own commitment. I don’t know of any paratrooper, whether enlisted or drafted, who escaped a tour in Vietnam.

In closing, I owe my own personal survival to the extensive combat training we endured at Ft. Campbell. The Navy trains their medics as hospital corpsman or Marine field medics; the Army has a tendency to blur these two distinct functions. To survive, a combat medic has to have a good feel for how his unit operates. At times, you have to think and respond like an infantryman. Did I say the 2/501st was PIR? That stands for Parachute Infantry Regiment! My riding days were largely over.

 

 

 

 

 

Influence

My dad, Al Thompson Sr., taught me that all men in the Army were one color…olive drab…that is to say army green. After the short ceremony to receive our blood wings, we were given orders. Had the good news of assignment to Ft. Campbell. This was the home of the 101st.

We road a bus from Georgia to Kentucky, arriving in late evening. The bunk at the holding company sure felt good. The next morning we ate our chow and stood outside the mess hall to await our unit assignments. At that moment a tall black soldier came up to me and said, “You wait right here, my friends and I have something to say to you.” Lots of things run through my mind. What did I say or do to somehow offend, or what ever? First day at Campbell and I was in a heck of a fix.

Yes, there were three soldiers. The other two were just as tall as the first. I decided to suck it up and take my whopping like a man. I braced for the punch. That’s when the first man got in my face to say, “Thompson (the name on my fatigues), we all wanted to say this to you. We wanted to quit jump school. But we couldn’t quit until you did. You were the smallest man in our unit. You kept returning to put your toes on that line. We just knew you were going ring that bell and quit. We were going to ring that bell behind you. So, when you put on your wings, you put on four sets of wings. We are here today because of you.”

Orders came and we all went our separate ways. Wish I could tell you their names. I was at first too scared and then too relieved to remember much more than what they said. No one had ever remotely stated I had influence upon their lives. On the one hand, they were saying that I didn’t look like much. On the other hand, I had somehow made a difference. I did have the presence of mind to thank them. No one wore the wings without going to Vietnam. I pray they all made it home. Thought about what my Dad said about olive drab. But our drab was silver lined.

Patriotism is better caught than taught. Not all patriots wear military uniforms. However, most patriotic families have given many of their sons and daughters. My Dad was a veteran of WWII and Korea. He received clusters for the Purple Heart and Bronze Star with V device for valor. As the years rolled by, there were many a Saturday morning shared over coffee; a good morning was a two pot day.  Now as two vets, I would question him on some point of the Aleutian Islands campaign.  Once rolling, we would go Island hopping to the shadows of the Island of Japan. He knew when and why I had my bad days. Dad knew that I loved his stories. Military service was our greatest shared bond.

Reflecting on my first leave from jump school. I think it was about Christmas, because I was quite settled in Airborne ways. In the course of conversation I inadvertently called my Dad a straight leg. This is a derogatory term for non-airborne personnel. Pausing  momentarily, my Dad began to speak. He said, “Son, I am so very proud of you.I will accept this one time. If you ever call me a straight leg again, I am going to kick your ass.” From that day on, Dad had altered my vocabulary around his house!

On this 2015 Veteran’s day, I would like to honor my greatest influence and hero.

Slow salute…Dad.

Airborne Prayers & Matters of Faith

A good story is like a good picture. They are all around us, waiting for a serious look. My remaining four training jumps were largely the same. For the most part, I can’t remember them. However, I did see a comforting sight, while dropping into that web seat for our second jump.

We had a chaplain in our training cycle. He was down on the deck with both knees.  It did my heart good to see his head bowed low in serious prayer. As always, those doors were wide open and you could barely hear yourself think. Nudging the man to my right, I hollered, “Ain’t it nice to have the Chaplain talking to God for us!” He replied, “Hell no! Listen to him. He is praying for his sorry self!”

Well I bent over as far as my reserve parachute would let. Sure enough, he was praying for me, myself and I. Tried to give him opportunity for redemption; I listened to the Amen! He said not a word for the rest of us. What a wonderful opportunity was missed that day. The only redeeming factor, that I can tell you, is that I never forgot his singular references. Have served  as a chaplain a time or two. In times of stress, I am particular to use words like…we, us, and ours. I try so very hard NOT to use… me, myself, and I.

Our first week was called Ground Week. Our second was called Tower Week. Besides giving us purgatory to cleanse the quit out of us, they provided much exposure to our equipment. Ultimately a person has to trust their equipment. Bluntly, you have to have faith in that equipment. You stake life on it every time you jump out that door.

We didn’t have time in Respite of Innocence to tell you what Jill’s father shared. I have a habit of not confessing tough things, like jump school, until after I know it’s a sure deal. Just before mustering out of Ft. Sam, I sat at the table and looked him in the eye. He nodded for a moment as I declared my intentions. Staring back, he replied that he had been a paratrooper also. Then casually he dropped the bomb that he had broken his back in three places, on his final jump. With that thought in mind, I needed an extra dosage of whatever brought faith. Glad he didn’t tell me earlier!

From my earliest recollections, I always had a Gideon’s pocket New Testament for Soldiers. Dad gave me one early on. I would hold that pocket testament closely, on those many times Dad deployed.  We were not church people. Our family never darkened the door of a church. However, we assumed a belief in God. Dad believed in God: I believed in God.

In the left front pocket was placed the final piece of equipment. I always gently patted it on all equipment checks. To this day, I can honestly say that I never jumped out of a plane without my Gideon New Testament Bible. We went out that door together. Always!

Matters of faith are personal. I am thankful for all military chaplains, of all faith traditions. They do a stand up job in some awfully stressful situations. An amazing thing happened as I rolled up my chute. That sprain from jump one was gone! It had kept me awake part of the night throbbing. That very morning, I had to tighten my boot for all the support I could get. To this day, I think that chaplain’s prayer had somehow spilled on my sore foot. Somehow, God could take those…me, myself and ‘I’s and convert them to we, us and ours. God is my witness, from that second jump on, my feet were Airborne qualified!

Finally, we had to have faith in each other. All of us had moments, when the man beside us was all we had. If you ever have to go to combat, it sure helps to be with the best.

Together…we stand alone. Currahee, my friends!

First Jump

For most young people, training and reality are two distinct worlds. They spend twelve to sixteen years in education before they ever see how it all plays out in real life. In the military, that gap is often shortened to days. After two weeks (in my case three) of purgatory, the planes were warming up.

Military parachuting is a far cry from sport parachuting. It looks simpler, as the vast majority are static line jumps. However, the Air Force cargo planes are huge with respect to private planes. The proper exit is most critical for the chutes to open properly. The most common cause of chute malfunction was not due to poor parachute rigging; malfunctions most often stemmed for poor exits.

Our training emphasized exits and landings. We learned to do them in our sleep. They trained us hard enough so that in fact, we were half asleep, when we drilled by the numbers. Yet harnessed in our parachutes that first morning, most of us were second guessing the details of our training.

Typically, we checked our own equipment before loading. However, the jump masters were all over us. We were going out their plane with: a parachute strapped to our back, a reserve to the front, and a helmet firmly attached to our heads . The C-130 took off for a very short flight. Have you ever flown in a big plane with the doors open? Did I say this was a short flight? That was my first impression of the real deal.

We were up and hooking to the static lines before you knew it. On these first jumps, they settled each of us in the door. I heard the command to go…and that’s the last I saw of that plane. There was no crawling back in.

I heard the full roar of the engines, and felt the blast of their power…then things became strangely quiet. The drop zone below was so large you could hit it with your eyes closed; we needed one that large because my eyes WERE closed at exit and landing! Most would admit their first jump was multisensory overload.

Well, surviving the exit left just one primary chore…the landing. That issue was fast approaching. By my drift it was easy to surmise wind direction. However, I zigged when I should have zagged. I slipped with the wind, creating increased horizontal motion.

Once airborne, you will hit the ground. In Latin it is called terra firma, which in reality is terror firm ah! My landing was a perfect two point landing…balls of my feet and my head. The jump masters had secured our helmets with the hard headed students in mind, those who didn’t follow all the directions.

Trained to rise quickly to ensure a proper chute collapse, I felt the sprained ankle. Remembering the cost of my eye patch, I was left with one choice. I sucked it up and hid the pain. In four more jumps, I was getting out of here.

The night came quickly. I made my way to the pay phone. Two back-to-back calls to my dad made for a great week. I would not call him again until firmly in my first duty station.

One jump does not a paratrooper make. You become a paratrooper by climbing in the door again and again…and again. Those next four jumps will be grouped into one final post. I can say that my eyes stayed open longer with each additional jump. This was the path we all took toward the Currahee Trail.