You Did Say Have Another Sausage

by John Meadows

  We were instructed to sit on the edge of the lino with legs dangling out into space and then gradually turn sideways and ease out of the plane, and then adopt the saucer position to begin the descent. So we spent some time practising this technique and landing on our feet just three feet below. The next part of our training involved us standing in a circle and chanting out loud the mantra, “One...one thousand, two...one thousand, three... one thousand, four... one thousand... look up... check canopy.”

  We were told that when we look up for this check we should see a perfectly circular parachute. If for any reason the circle is incomplete, due to an overlapping chord, or if the parachute is flapping around and has not opened, then we must immediately open the reserve emergency shoot on our chests.

  “Do not think that you can untangle chords manually as if you are flying a kite,” he emphasised. He stressed the point. I just stressed.

  So we had finished our training on the different aspects of a parachute jump. We spent the final hour asking questions, trying to encourage and reassure each other, and having a final practice of the various techniques. We were dismissed at about five o’clock and made our way across to the canteen for a cup of tea, which we drank outside since it was a beautiful May afternoon with blue skies and very little breeze. We returned to the dormitory hoping that the weather conditions would be similar for the big day tomorrow, and I lay on my bunk resting my aching muscles, looking forward to tea-time and relaxing over a couple of drinks. I had a strange mix of feelings: anticipation, apprehension, excitement and undoubted nervousness. At least we had Saturday night to psych ourselves up mentally and digest everything we had learned.

  “Here’s something appropriate and uplifting,” said Steve cheerily, breaking a silence which had descended over us. He flicked on his cassette player and Frank Sinatra livened up the dormitory with ‘Come Fly with me, let’s fly away...’

  “Very good Steve, put this tape on next,” said one of our colleagues. It was a compilation of rock ‘n’ roll hits, all the usual 1950s American stuff about drive-in movies, cars, juke boxes and high school shags. It was a good selection with songs like ‘All shook up’, ‘Summertime Blues’, and ‘Be Bop a Lula’. However when ‘Chantilly Lace’ was immediately followed by ‘Peggy Sue’ Steve sat bolt upright on his bunk.

  “Hey, should we be reading some kind of message here?”

  “How do you mean?” we chorused.

  “The last time Buddy Holly followed The Big Bopper was up the steps of the plane! Quick turn it off before Jim Reeves comes on.”

  Our nervous laughter was interrupted by the dormitory doors bursting open to reveal silhouettes of our instructors against the late afternoon sunlight.

  “Great news,” they announced enthusiastically. “We have had clearance to go straight away.”

  “What do you mean?” we all replied in unison.

  “Get ready, you are going to do your parachute jumps in half an hour.”

  This was met with an interminable silence as we looked at each other in open-mouthed astonishment.

  “Fantastic,” I exclaimed, jumping up quickly off my bunk, feigning enthusiasm. I don’t think my impromptu show of bravado fooled anyone. The moment of truth had finally arrived. As we changed into our skydiving outfits, or in my case sailing outfit, the atmosphere was quite subdued with each person lost in their own thoughts.

  As we emerged from the dormitory with hands shading our eyes from the bright sunlight, we each took a sideways glance to compare outfits. Steve seemed to be the only one sporting an authentic skydiving suit, while the rest of the group wore a variety of outfits and colours. Most wore track-suits, but I had rejected that option thinking that it would fill out with the wind during the drop (read into that what you will) and make me look like the Michelin Man.

  “John do you know you’ve got a big patch on your bum?” shouted a colleague.

  “Yes, I had noticed,” I replied sarcastically.

  We were directed towards a couple of tables which had been set up on the grass. The main parachute and emergency chute were strapped on to us and then double-checked by a second instructor. We then proceeded to the next table to be issued with crash helmets, which were like something from Wallace and Gromitt. Steve and I couldn’t help laughing at each other with jibes such as, “You look like ‘the Mighty Atom’ who is about to be fired from a circus cannon.”

  The laughter didn’t last long, but we did find, to our surprise, that gallows humour started to ease the tension. You know in the days of public executions at Tyburn in London when condemned men were allowed a few last words. Murderers and thieves would become stand-up comedians for the last thirty seconds of their lives while notorious highwaymen would have the crowd laughing uproariously prior to leaving the stage abruptly via the trapdoor. Incidentally, organising trips to witness these public executions was an early source of lucrative income for the newly-created company ‘Thomas Cook Tours’. In the film ‘Carry On, Don’t Lose Your Head’, set in the French Revolution, Kenneth Williams puts his head on the block of Madame Guillotine. Just as the blade was about to drop, the executioner announced that a message had just arrived for the condemned man.

  “Put it in the basket and I’II read it later.”

  Well now it was our turn to try gallows humour. As we boarded the plane, welcomed by our instructor, various quips started to lighten the mood.

  “I’ve booked a window seat.”

  “What time does the film start?”

  “Is there any duty free?”

  The humour was self-deprecating (or, if I am being strictly accurate, self-defecating). One man even tapped on his hard hat with his knuckles and turned to us and asked with a laugh, “Has anyone ever wondered why Kamikaze pilots wore crash helmets?”

  I couldn’t help thinking that he was taking gallows humour to new heights, or should I say depths? I felt a divine wind coming on. The engine fired up and all the jollity disappeared as if turning off a tap.

  “Welcome ladies and gentlemen, this is your pilot speaking. Are you looking forward to your parachute jump?”

  “No!” was the unanimous response. And he didn’t need an intercom to hear us.

  As we began to slowly taxi along the runway, our instructors gave us a final re-cap of the procedures we had trained for. After a slightly bumpy ride across the airport apron, the plane slowly turned at the head of the runway and came to a halt for a few seconds, as if waiting for the start of a race. The engines built to a high-pitched crescendo and, with tremendous thrust, we accelerated away. Due to our close proximity to the ground in a small aircraft, the sense of speed seemed far greater than that experienced in a holiday jet airliner. In no time at all we had lifted off and gained altitude at a breath-taking rate.

  In stressful situations one can be inclined to make very silly or obvious statements. Mine was to tap Steve on the shoulder and whisper, “Steve, when this plane lands we’re not going to be on it.”

  “I know,” he spluttered.

  There was a small porthole window to my right, but my eyes were transfixed by the open door and the incredible distance to be seen on a clear day over the Lake District.

  “We are just approaching the first drop-zone,” announced our instructor solemnly as the plane started to bank over, bringing into view the many shades of green in the countryside below.

  ‘So that’s what the ground looks like from 2,500 feet’ I thought, instinctively gripping my seat with white-knuckles.

  The young lady who had up to now been sitting quietly on the lino without comment seemed to panic as the plane continued to bank over. Even though she was strapped in she looked around with terror etched on her face looking for something, anything, to grab hold of.

  “Everything is okay,” said the instructor quietly and calmly. “You are strapped in and centrifugal force keep
s you firmly pressed against the fuselage until the plane levels out.”

  Quickly glancing around at my colleagues, I could see that her facial expression was contagious. The aeroplane was soon horizontal again, and the red light came on. The engine was cut as the first parachutist unbuckled her safety belt and started to slide slowly on her bottom towards the open door as the instructor was now beckoning her forward. She seemed pretty anxious to get going. I think the experience of the banking over had spooked her and made her feel that she would be better out than in. She reached the open door and sat with her legs dangling out of the plane. Stage one completed no problem, as in training. Then she seemed to freeze and was unable to turn sideways.

  “Go now!” the pilot instructed over the intercom.

  She remained frozen. The lasting image I have of this poor girl is her terrified face as she looked over towards us just before the instructor gently eased her out with a nudge under her parachute pack. I tapped Steve on the shoulder again for another of my idiotic profound statements.

  “Well, she’s gone.”

  “I know! ... I bloody know!”

  The instructor looked down from the open door then turned to tell us that her parachute had opened perfectly. There was a slight ripple of relieved nervous applause.

  “Okay you are next,” he said pointing to Steve, who started to move forward to take up his position on the lino floor.

  “We are just going to go up and bank over again for the next two jumps,” the instructor informed us, prompting further gallows humour.

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re gonna be even higher,” I quipped to muted laughter.

  “I don’t like your altitude,” Steve joked, rising to the occasion in more ways than one.

  “I will be glad to get rid of you two,” said the instructor with a smile, I am pleased to add.

  We banked over before levelling out. The red light came on and the engines cut. Steve unbuckled his safety belt when instructed and slid forward smoothly across the lino. He sat with his legs out of the plane, turned to the right and eased himself off with a push of his right hand and outside of his right thigh. And of course Steve, being Steve, couldn’t resist at the moment of exit smiling and giving me a thumbs-up. It was a text-book exit. It gave us much-needed confidence after witnessing the terrified first jump. The man who had been sitting next to Steve was next to go. Another textbook departure, and now it was my turn. This was it. After all those weeks, my time had come. What was that Mel Brook’s spoof film of Hitchcock movies called? Oh yes, ‘High Anxiety’. That describes my mental state. Ever since I had agreed to take part in this parachute jump, I had been through every emotion such as abject terror, dread, excitement and exhilaration.

  But as the instructor directed me to take up my position on the floor, my feelings were not what I had been expecting. I felt absolutely calm. To my surprise I had no feeling of fear at all, and I think it must be the result of a certain amount of resigned inevitability. I unbuckled my seat belt, moved forward, sat down on the lino, and strapped myself in. The plane started to climb again and bank over. ‘Wow!’ what an amazing feeling to be looking towards my feet and seeing the ground between them 2,500 feet below. I felt as though I was going to slide across the lino and straight out into oblivion. I looked away and kept whispering to myself ‘centrifugal, centrifugal’.

  The red light came on and I unbuckled my belt. I was ready to go. During training I had mastered the technique of moving forward by rocking from buttock to buttock as I slowly slid across the floor, while propelling myself with the palms of my hands. I was just like a baby not yet able to walk, but able to move around in a sitting position with a combination of legs and hand movements.

  The instructor then gestured me forward as the engine cut. Here goes. I attempted to move, but absolutely nothing happened. Was I paralyzed with fear? I tried again, and this time I tried to lift myself up slightly, hopefully to ease any friction. There was a Velcro-like ripping sound, but still I could not move. To my horror I found that the rubberised patch on my bottom had adhered itself to the lino, and I was well and truly stuck. I quickly realized the reason for the patch, something I wish I had known weeks before. It was a sailing suit, and obviously the patch was designed for sitting on a wet seat in a sailing dinghy. This was to allow the sailor to have a certain amount of adhesion, balanced with manoeuvrability. The suit was obviously not designed for sitting on dry linoleum. You know when you walk across a lino floor, or cushion flooring, wearing trainers or shoes with soft rubber soles there is a suction sound as if the floor is sticky? Well, the rubber patch was in contact with the lino compressed by my fourteen stone; two dry surfaces stuck together (at least my bottom was dry to start with). Unaware of my predicament, the instructor calmly beckoned me forward for a second time.

  “Come on, you can do it,” he cajoled patiently but firmly.

  “I can’t!”

  “Yes you can, come on just concentrate and focus on me,”

  “I can’t.”

  My God, we were beginning to sound like Keith Harris and Orville.

  “What’s happening,” demanded the pilot over the intercom.

  “We are okay,” replied the instructor reassuringly. It was clear that he thought that I had ‘bottled it’ and was rooted to the spot. Well he was right about the second part. I glanced to my right to see the final two parachutists looking at me wide-eyed and open mouthed. They had become un-nerved watching the drama unfold in front of them. I finally managed to blurt out,

  “I am stuck to the lino, I cannot move!”

  The pilot came back on again to announce that we had overshot the drop zone and he would have to bank over and circle round again. This time I just grabbed hold of the now unbuckled belt, but the repeat experience of circling was now the least of my concerns as I pushed as hard as I could with hands and feet to release myself. As the plane started to level out and approach the drop zone I managed to extricate myself accompanied by the loudest ripping sound imaginable. At one stage the linoleum actually lifted, but at last I was clear and all I could do was to slide forward while lying on my side. Despite all my practising, these final few feet could only be achieved with a combination of determination and improvisation.

  “Nearly there,” encouraged the instructor.

  “Keep pushing John, you’re doing great,” shouted my colleagues.

  “It sounds like I’m having a baby,” I croaked as I struggled towards the door. Gallows humour again.

  “Everything okay this time?” asked the pilot, unaware of what was happening behind him. “You’ve got ten seconds left, maximum.”

  By now I was at the open door, lying on my side, but there was no way I could risk adopting a sitting position, anything to prevent my bottom coming into contact with the lino. I had visions of the plane banking over again with me slipping under the fuselage stuck by my bottom like a limpet mine to a ship, kicking and screaming. I made sure that my rubberised arse protruded clearly through the door and I managed to propel myself clear with my right hand and the outside of my right thigh. Not the most stylish or elegant of exits from an aircraft, but my only thought was to get out of there before getting stuck again.

  I assumed the saucer-like position, and shouted out, “One, one thousand, two, one thousand...,” up to four.

  To my sheer relief, I felt the force of the opening parachute jolt me into an upright position.

  “Check canopy!” I shouted out loud and looked up to see a perfect circle above me. It is probably the best and most welcome sight I have ever seen in my entire life. No need for me to deploy the emergency chute. The first thing that I noticed was how eerily quiet it was as I looked around. Looking up again the plane seemed very, very small and I could only faintly hear the sound of the engine. What a feeling of exhilaration.
All I could do was let out a primeval scream, “Aaarrggh!!!” like the title of a ‘Pop Art’ painting by Roy Lichtenstein. I now had time to appreciate what I was achieving and marvel at the surrounding view. To the west was Morecambe Bay illuminated by the orange glow of the late afternoon setting sun, a scene to inspire the painter J. M. W. Turner. Inland was the incomparable view of the Lake District stretching as far as the eye could see, with colours receding and changing gradually from greens to distant blues and purples. This was more Constable than Turner. My main concern now was that I didn’t turn into a Jackson Pollock when I hit the ground.

  During a parachute jump it is very difficult to judge the rate of descent because there is no fixed point-of-reference for comparison. Base jumpers who take off from mountain tops or skyscrapers seem to be falling at an alarming rate due to the proximity of solid, permanent features. This is why during our training we were warned about ‘ground rush’ and to be aware of the speed at which the ground seems to accelerate towards you. Consequently, I could not spend too long simply admiring the view and marvelling at the scene below, framed by my dangling feet. Guiding the parachute was a simple procedure of pulling on two chords, left and right. So, after a couple of practise manoeuvres, I started to concentrate on landing in the correct area, and especially not on top of my colleagues whom I could see below like figures on a model railway.

  The ground was beginning to come into sharp focus so it was time to prepare for landing, with feet together and knees bent. I hit the ground with a surprisingly greater force than we had experienced jumping off the training bench. I landed safely and managed the correct order of impact: feet together, side of knees, thigh and hip, and finally a flip over. Terra Firma! As the parachute gently cascaded down to cover me, I lay for a second, lost in my thoughts; the main one being that ‘It’s great to be alive’. As I peered out from under the chute, I saw my colleagues running over towards me and they greeted me exuberantly with hugs of congratulation and high-fives. Steve was first to give me a bear hug, followed immediately by the others. It was particularly gratifying to see the quiet girl who had been the first to jump; or should I say to be pushed? My last image of her was a mortified, beyond-terror expression as she disappeared into the abyss. What a transformation. She was now laughing, shrieking and jumping about with the rest. What a feeling of exhilaration.