You couldn’t ask for a clearer, more beautiful day. After a few hundred feet shy of 4,000, I looked around to make sure no one was nearby, then pulled my chute. It opened and jerked me to a gentle, controlled fall. All was good.
Then without warning something slammed into me from behind at 3,500. My first thought was I’m dead! But I remained conscious and became aware that someone was with me. I couldn’t tell who it was because all I could see was the back of his head. His chute had collapsed and his riser was twisting around my neck.
Also, two cells of my seven-cell chute had collapsed, so we were falling fast. I was certain I was a goner.
His riser tightened around my neck. My first impulse was to cut his chute away, but if I did, he would fall and die. No question.
We were falling like stones, so I had to think fast.
Suddenly the man attached to me shouted desperately, “Changiz, don’t cut away. Don’t cut away, please!”
I recognized the voice of my teammate John Murphy—a commo guy, who always seemed to have bad luck on jumps.
His chute was in my face now. I pushed it away, and saw that we were maybe 1,500 feet from the ground.
Murphy shouted, “Changiz, don’t do it!”
I opened my reserve instead. It wasn’t strong enough to handle the weight of two men, but it slowed us down. I grabbed the toggles and tried to control our descent.
A light wind pulled us past the grassy medium between the two runways where we were supposed to land. I heard guys shouting at me, but had no time to maneuver. We came in hard.
“Watch out!”
Murphy was hanging a few feet below me, so he hit the cement runway first. He groaned as his right leg shattered. I landed about a meter in front of him on both feet, fell back hard, and landed on my left side.
I was in serious pain, but at least I was alive. SF guys, both Thai and US, crowded around us. Neither Murphy nor I could get up.
The two medics on our team started to examine me. I said, “Get Murphy first.” He had taken the harder fall.
They placed us gingerly in the back of a truck and drove us over to the nearby medic’s shack.
Guys were giving us encouragement. “Good work, Changiz.”
“You’ll be okay, Murphy.”
“Changiz, you did good.”
“We’ll get you both patched up as good as before. Maybe even better.”
It hurt like hell to breathe. Beside me, Murphy’s face had turned white.
“Thanks, Changiz,” he moaned.
“No problem,” I whispered back. “You would have done the same for me.”
“Maybe not,” he replied.
I held back a laugh. Murphy hadn’t lost his sense of humor. The medics shot us up with morphine. Since there was no X-ray machine at the Thai SF base, there wasn’t much more they could do. We waited five hours for a C-130 to arrive and fly us to Clark Air Force Base in the Philippines. It was a miserable eight-hour flight.
Twin ambulances waited for us on the Clark tarmac and rushed us to the ER. The military doctors discovered I had three broken ribs. They couldn’t do anything for me and released me after three days. Pain shot through my chest every time I took a breath.
Still, Murphy had it worse. He remained in traction for three weeks, and then had to hobble around on a hard cast and crutches for three months. I cut back my PT to jogging and swimming for about a month, then hopped a military jet back to Okinawa.
When I returned to our team room, I was smiling.
“You had a good time, didn’t you?” Sergeant Kramer asked.
I was happy to be back at Torii Station, but my mother was miserable. She missed our family in California and wanted me to take her back, which I did.
* * *
Thankfully, both Murphy and I were alive and healthy when ODA 134 returned to Thailand six months later. That two-week training mission ended with a big celebration at the base hosted by a Thai two-star general. Included was an enormous feast with all the trimmings—mussels; blue crabs; grilled shrimp; blood cockles; grilled fish with lime juice, garlic, and chili; pad thai; and coconut rice.
The general kept my glass filled with Mekong whiskey and Coke. Then the lights dimmed and Thai singers and dancers in local costumes entertained us.
I was feeling no pain. The entertainment continued with nude dancing women. All of them were incredibly lovely. The Thai officers and soldiers clapped to the rhythm of the music.
When one of the young women stopped in front of me and shook her breasts in my face, I couldn’t resist pulling her into my lap and kissing her breasts and neck. She giggled and the Thai soldiers laughed and chanted my name, “Changiz! Changiz! Changiz!”
If part of our mission was to build goodwill with the Thais, we had succeeded. A great time was had by all!
* * *
The late 1980s were a time of relative peace. Aside from some horrible terrorist airplane bombings, continued violence in Israel and the Palestinian territories, and several regional conflicts, there wasn’t much need for Special Forces to deploy in a combat role. I spent most of my time with 1st Group assigned to Okinawa and traveling to other Asian countries on rotational training.
The pace and physical toll of A-teams were incredible—nonstop traveling, jumping, and training. I loved it. According to customary practice, most guys were transferred from A-teams to support jobs after three or four years of service. Whenever it became time for me to be reassigned to a less physically challenging job, I’d go to the company sergeant major and say, “Cut me a break, man. You know my English isn’t good. Besides I love being on A-teams, and that’s what I signed up to do.”
“Come on, Changiz,” he’d say, “you know the drill.”
Every time it came up, I managed to get my wish, in part because of my unique qualifications. I also tried to make myself as valuable as possible. As an operations sergeant, I did the scheduling for the sergeant major, which meant that I had to keep track of what every member of the five A-teams in the company was doing at all time.
We deployed constantly. One of my favorite places to go on assignment was the Philippines, which turned out to be a good thing because we went at least three times a year. While training Filipino rangers we’d do three jumps a day for two weeks. We spent most of our time at Clark AFB—a huge 156,204-acre facility fifty miles north of Manila on the main and largest Philippine island, Luzon, one of the more than 7,000 islands that make up the country.
Clark sat on a lush plateau framed by the Zambales Mountains and Mount Pinatubo volcano. The base was originally built by the US Army Cavalry in 1902 and called Fort Stotsenburg and selected for its abundant grass, which was used to feed the horses. Eventually the cavalry left and the Air Force took over.
Within the twenty-six-mile perimeter sat approximately 3,500 buildings and military structures, 1,600 houses, dormitories, barracks, restaurants, schools, stores, playgrounds, a golf course, cinemas, riding stables, a zoo, and other facilities. The base had a turbulent history—overrun by the Japanese in 1942, witness to the famed Bataan Death March a month later, when 70,000 Allied prisoners were force-marched past the main gate, recaptured by the US after fierce combat in 1945, and a key logistics hub during the Vietnam War. At its peak in the late 1980s, it had a permanent population of 15,000 and was our largest military base overseas.
Immediately adjacent to the base was a barrio called Angeles City with a population of something like 200,000. Among its major industries were the barmaids, hostesses, and g-string-clad dancers who kept US servicemen entertained. It was also the site of a San Miguel brewery distribution center that supplied the base and hundreds of go-go bars with good beer.
Other products of Angeles consisted of wood carvings, wicker furniture, and the capiz shell lamps that decorated many officers’ homes. It was a slum by US standards with narrow dirt streets clogged with human-powered pedicabs, bicycles, the occasional water buffalo, and colorful, chrome-splayed vehicles of all sizes known as
jeepneys. But fascinating to me. I spent my downtime there.
It wasn’t like we had a lot to do otherwise. During our assignments to Clark, our twelve-man team did daily HAHO jumps from as high as 36,500 feet. We’d open at 31,000 and try to land within five feet of one another—which we often did. When the wind was blowing north we’d jump at 26,000 feet over Manila, and our lead man would use a compass to guide us all the way to Clark. Our chosen impact point was a huge circular antenna that rose from the center of the base. We’d follow in at staggered distances and hit the target within a few feet.
Nights at Clark, we’d parachute from 18,500 with chem-lite sticks and full gear, then go to the bars in Angeles to party. Favorite haunts included the Crow’s Nest, Honey Ko’s, and the Golden Nile, where you could get a cold glass of San Miguel for 50 cents. The same beer purchased for one of the bar girls or hostesses cost eight times that.
Jumps usually ended at 2100 and started up again 1000 the next morning. I loved them, and the scenery, and the Filipino people, who were mostly warm, and friendly, and trying to make a life for themselves under very difficult circumstances.
Every night I went out, I’d always stop and buy orchids, gardenias, and paper daisies from the preteen girl vendors on the streets outside the bars. As soon as they’d spot me, they’d run over and shout, “Changiz. Changiz! You buy beautiful flower. One dollar. Make your girlfriend smile.”
“Yeah. Yeah. Of course.”
One time, late into the night after my teammates had gone off in search of carnal pleasure, I staggered out of the Crow’s Nest alone and inebriated to the point that I passed out on the street. Usually that meant you were relieved of your wallet and valuables by one of the toughs or billy boys (transvestites) who frequented the neighborhood. In my drunken state, I heard the street girls screaming at several of the billy boys to stay away from me. One of the girls said, “Leave him alone. He’s my cousin!”
Four of the girls managed to pull me to my feet and walk me several blocks to Gate Four of the base. Under a sign that warned, SLOW DOWN AND LIVE, I heard them arguing with the Filipino guards to let me in. One of the guards demanded to see my military ID. One of the girls fished my wallet out of my pocket. The guards not only granted me access, they also hailed a cab that drove me the half mile into the base to my barracks.
I thanked the guards later and took them out for drinks. Next time I saw the flower girls, I handed each of them a twenty. From then on whenever I went barhopping, the girls would escort me from place to place.
Another late night on the town some weeks later, I was somewhat tipsy again and in need of change for a hundred-dollar bill. I went over to a money exchange window and kept my eyes on the rough-looking dudes behind me as the money changer counted out what I thought were five twenties.
Later that night when I went to pay the cab driver who returned me to the barracks, I noticed that what I really had been given were one twenty and four dollar bills. Stupid me, I thought. No more going out at night and getting wasted. Out of curiosity, I reported the incident the next day at the Filipino police station on base.
I didn’t expect any follow-up. To my surprise a young police officer I had become friendly with went with me into town that night and asked me to point out the money changer. The officer grabbed the guy by the neck and took him to Gate One.
At Gate One he was confronted by other local security guards I knew. One of them got in the money changer’s face and shouted, “What the fuck are you doing robbing this guy? This man is our friend.”
The money changer removed a wad of money from his wallet, counted out five twenties, and handed them to me.
Another night, I invited three of the Filipino security men to go out with me for drinks. As we walked along Perimeter Road, some guy reached into my pocket and tried to steal my wallet. I reacted by grabbing his wrist and throwing him to the ground. Within seconds, three dozen angry local toughs surrounded me. I expected to be pummeled.
But before the first punch was thrown, one of the guards I was with drew his pistol and fired in the air. The toughs scattered. A distress call was made and more armed guards arrived from Gate One. Their message was clear: Don’t fuck with this guy. From then on, I was left alone.
It helps to make friends.
* * *
I love jumping from planes almost as much as sex, and tried to do both as often as possible. A-teams certainly satisfied my appetite for the former. But with anything that’s so much fun as jumping from high altitudes comes danger and possible complications.
Once, while at Clark, my A-team and another traveled to a CQC compound to train Philippine Army Special Forces. The Filipino commandos weren’t yet jump-qualified, so we arranged to do a demonstration with full combat gear. The plan was to jump from 18,500, land near their shooting range, and start firing and hitting targets.
We carried large MC-5 chutes with rucksacks underneath, Kevlar helmets with parachutist foam impact pads and retention straps that wrapped forward and back around the chinstrap and under the buckles, and black jungle boots. The chute system alone weighed around forty pounds. Our rucksacks, first-aid kits, radios, weapons, and mags added another eighty or ninety.
Visibility was good, and with a light SW wind I jumped from the C-130, did a quick skill roll, and fell chest-first, arms out for almost a minute. I checked the gauge on the altimeter on my wrist and opened at 4,000 feet. My canopy then opened without a problem. At 500, I pulled the tab to lower my rucksack, then pulled my knees up into prepare-to-land position. But I brought my toggle down and let it up too fast, and at 100 feet saw that I was heading straight for a big boulder and had no room to maneuver.
I hit it and the pain from my legs was so massive that I immediately went into shock. Our team medic, Bernie O’Rourke, rushed over to me, saw a piece of my right femur poking through my uniform above the opening of my boot, and undid my chute.
He administered two shots of morphine and wrapped a bandage over the top of my uniform. Our team sergeant summoned a truck to drive me to Clark.
Bernie said to him, “Are you crazy? It’s a five-hour drive.”
Bernie called for medevac instead, which arrived forty-five minutes later. As he and another team member were carrying me on a stretcher to the back of the Chinook helicopter, Bernie slipped and dropped his end of the stretcher, which hit the tailgate.
“Changiz, I’m so sorry,” he said.
“What the fuck, Bernie,” I replied smiling, totally numb from the morphine.
Waiting on the Clark AFB tarmac was an ambulance that rushed me to the hospital. I spent five and a half hours in surgery and didn’t feel a thing.
I woke up the next day with my leg in traction and my ankle held on with plates fixed to either side with a dozen screws. A month later, I was medevaced to Okinawa, where I spent another three months hobbling around with a hard cast and crutches.
Six months after the accident, I went to the naval hospital in Okinawa to finally get the screws removed. The doctor said, “This is only a minor surgical procedure. You want anesthesia to put you out?”
“No thanks, Doc,” I answered. “I’ll be okay.”
The nurses placed a wad of gauze in my mouth, and the doctor made a small incision to access the screws. As I lay on the table bleeding, he realized he didn’t have the right screwdriver.
He yelled to the nurse, “Run downstairs and get a smaller screwdriver.”
I said, “Please hurry, Doc, I’m losing all my blood.”
By the time she returned, the sheet under my leg was soaked red. The doc patched me up and put me in a walking cast that I wore for another three months. From accident to full healing lasted a frustrating fifteen months.
* * *
December 1989, I was in Guam as a member of ODA 136 practicing CQC and hostage rescue as an E7 (Sergeant First Class) when we got an urgent message to report back to Okinawa for immediate deployment. Back at our SF base at Torii Station, the twelve of us packed our black d
eployment bags with radios, goggles, knee pads, extra mags, etc. Then we reported to the team room for a briefing.
An SF colonel told us we were flying that night to Clark to help put down a military coup against democratically elected President Corazon Aquino. I knew little about President Aquino at the time, except what I had heard on the news. During a briefing I learned that she had been a quiet housewife raising five children while her husband was elected senator and rose to political prominence as a leading critic of the government of longtime strongman President Ferdinand Marcos. When Marcos declared martial law and abolished the constitution in September 1972, because it forbade him from running for a third term, her husband was arrested and sentenced to death. Corazon Aquino thrust herself into Filipino politics to campaign on her husband’s behalf.
And when he was assassinated in 1983 upon his return to the Philippines after receiving medical treatment in the US, she assumed her husband’s mantle as figurehead of the anti-Marcos political opposition. When Marcos made a surprise announcement that he would hold presidential elections in 1986, his opposition clamored for Corazon to run against him and she reluctantly agreed.
The presidential election of February 1986 was marred by massive fraud, violence, and intimidation. Marcos’s ruling political party declared him the winner. But millions of Filipinos took to the streets in support of Aquino, the US and other countries condemned the election, and military officers led by defense ministers announced their defection from the Marcos government and declared Aquino the real winner.
After three days of peaceful protests throughout the Philippines, in what became known as the People Power Revolution, Aquino was sworn in as president. She immediately enacted a series of reforms and proposed a new constitution that put strong emphasis on civil liberties, human rights, and social justice. She also ordered that our military vacate our naval base at Subic Bay, as well as Clark Air Base.
Full Battle Rattle Page 9