Trail after trail yielded nothing as they worked through the night. They collaborated in silence through the darkness until they could see the faint glimmer of sunrise on the horizon.
“Sun is coming up,” Johnny finally said. “Maybe we’ll have better luck in the daylight.”
Jake turned his head to one side, listening intently. “Hear that?” he asked.
Johnny perked up his ears. “No,” he confessed.
“It’s a cadence being called. Somebody is out there for a morning run and I’d bet they’re headed for the bell.”
“Shit,” Johnny complained.
“Let’s go, follow me,” Jake ordered and took off back down the paved road. Johnny followed. Jake ran with an ear toward the sound, which now became slightly audible to Johnny. Assessing the angle of the sound as best he could, Jake tried to figure the direction of the runners and their likely course and destination. After passing a few crossroads they had already explored, Jake stopped. He looked directly across the paved road down the trail from which he believed the troop of runners was coming from, and then headed down the trail in the opposite direction.
“We were already here, Jake,” Johnny observed.
“Yeah, we probably missed it.” He kept running, still listening to the sounds now behind them and getting slightly louder. He scanned the ground ahead. Suddenly he saw the wrench, lying off to the side of the trail partially covered by some leaves. Jake stooped and picked it up. “Got it,” he proclaimed.
Johnny slapped him on the back. “Well done, Jake.”
“No congratulations yet, we still got to put it back.” They quickly found the running path and clambered up the slope to the concrete post. Johnny quietly placed the bell stanchion back over the bolts while Jake dropped to his knees to find the nuts. He handed one to Johnny who spun it on a bolt and tightened it with the wrench. They repeated that twice more as the sounds became louder down below. They both scrambled on hands and knees as the first of the runners started up the path. Johnny found the last nut. He finished tightening it just as the first runner, head down and struggling up the incline came into view a few yards away. Both men slipped into the foliage as the runner came into the small clearing, ran around the concrete post, slapped the bell and started back down the incline. The ringing was sweet music to their ears as the two men edged their way back deeper into the woods.
The parade of runners continued in an unending stream. They wore white T-shirts with the AIRBORNE inscription on the front and back. Small groups of men would enter the clearing at the same time, each one slapping the bell, soon to be followed by single runners with gaps in between. Every so often a large gap would appear where no runners would be visible for a long period of time. Jake and Johnny remained concealed in the woods regaining their strength and contemplating their next move.
“Looks like the whole regiment is out this fine Saturday morning,” Johnny observed.
“Yeah, just a little run before reveille,” Jake added. “Now how do we get back before breakfast?”
“I got that figured if you got a three mile run left in you,” Johnny answered.
Jake realized what he meant and nodded. They both shed their green fatigue shirts to expose their white T-shirts underneath. Johnny stuffed the wrench into his pocket. They waited for a large break in the line of runners and slipped out of the woods, slapped the bell as hard as they could, ran down the incline and merged in with the long line of runners.
They hid in plain sight in the flow of paratroopers streaming back toward the barracks area. No one noticed them. A running formation was usually tight on the way out but loosened up considerably on the way back as runners slowed and straggled. Johnny’s calculation was right on target. Most morning runs were six miles and they joined at the halfway mark. They ran along the wide dirt trail at a six-minute mile pace, being careful to stay in a gap in the loose formation. When they came into the barracks area, they slipped out of the formation and made their way to their own barracks. The sun was up as they slipped through a back door and into their bunks.
At reveille they showered, shaved and joined their buddies for a jog down to the mess hall for breakfast. The weekend would be light duty as the men prepared for jump week. Most of the men had post privileges and could go to the Enlisted Man’s Club, the Post Exchange or to the movies. Some stayed in the barracks. Johnny and Jake stayed with Sky and Danny, both overjoyed that the Kilroys buried the hatchet. The four young men went to the mess hall together, checked their parachutes again and hung out for the weekend.
Monday morning broke sunny and promised to be another hot, humid summer day. The trucks were lined up outside the packing shed. No more macho running and screaming nonsensical musical ditties. This was now serious business. Men would be jumping from airplanes, risking life and limb to prove they were worthy of their selection to train for and become United States Army Paratroopers. Sergeant Copping was unusually quiet and businesslike that morning. He knew some of the men would be injured, a few seriously and others might die. The injured would be recycled to a following class. The seriously injured would likely be assigned to a leg outfit, a non-paratrooper infantry unit, after they recovered. Those who died might have a road or a movie theatre on the base named after them. Those who made it through would be awarded their coveted jump wings the following Saturday at graduation.
The men formed up after breakfast and ran down to the packing shed in formation. It was a mild jog by airborne standards. There they retrieved their parachutes. Jake and Johnny joked around as Johnny smiled and pointed to the “P” between the first and last names on his pack. Whatever tension existed between them was entirely gone.
The troopers loaded onto the two-and-a-half-ton trucks for the short drive to Lawson Field where the Douglas C-47 Skytrain aircraft awaited. The C-47 was the military version of the Douglas DC-3 commercial airliner. It was always easy to pick out from a crowd of airplanes because of its distinctive nose and cockpit configuration. The GIs affectionately nicknamed it the “Gooney Bird”. It was powered by twin Pratt & Whitney Model R-1830-92 engines capable of generating 1,200 horsepower each. The C-47 could carry twenty fully loaded paratroopers over 3,600 miles at a top speed of 230 miles per hour. It was the mainstay of airborne transportation.
The training company was divided into twelve man sticks and assembled on the bleacher seats alongside the concrete runway. Johnny, Jake and Sky were in the same stick. A lone transport was sitting a hundred yards away, revving up its engines and belching out oily smoke.
There were some last minute instructions from Sergeant Copping. “Relax, men,” Copping began. “Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em.” Some troopers pulled out packs of Lucky Strike or Camel cigarettes. Copping continued. “Remember, if you stick in the door you’re done. Sergeant Bancroft is your jumpmaster.”
“Today you jump from fifteen hundred feet. Your T-4 parachute will deploy quickly but if you don’t feel the pop in four or five seconds, pull the damn reserve chute,” he demonstrated on a parachute resting on a small table. “You’ll be in the air about a minute and remember the landing techniques we’ve been practicing for weeks. Knees slightly bent, hit and roll, recover and collapse your chute.” The men nervously nodded their concurrence. “For the next three days we lower the height to six hundred feet and Friday we jump at night.” He paused for a moment and scanned the group. Everyone was paying strict attention. “Okay, first stick up.”
Twelve men jumped off the bleachers and marched to the waiting transport. The C-47 took off, circled the airfield and cruised over the drop zone. It only took a few minutes to reach the jump altitude before the troopers began counting the white parachutes out loud as they exited the plane. The first stick jumped all twelve men. They circled lazily above and came down to earth. The men collapsed their chutes and walked over to the trucks waiting to ferry them back to the packing sheds to repack their chutes for tomorrow.
This aerial dance was repeated over and over again as the plan
e dropped its anxious paratroopers and landed to pick up another load. By the fourth or fifth stick, a military ambulance, called a “meat wagon” by the troops, made its way out to the drop zone to pick up an injured paratrooper. A few sticks later the men counted only eleven chutes coming out of the plane. Someone had frozen in the door. Jake leaned over to Johnny, “After all we’ve gone through, how can anyone stick in the door? Not now! Not after all the shit we’ve put up with!”
“I don’t know,” Johnny replied. “I’m just hoping I don’t freeze in the door.”
“Don’t worry. I’m right behind you. I’ll get us both out,” Jake smiled with that look of confidence Johnny was beginning to admire. He knew Jake was dead serious.
“Next twelve,” shouted Copping. Jake, Johnny and Sky jumped off the bleachers with the rest of their stick, marched over to the C-47 and loaded up. Bancroft was at the rear of the plane directing the men in. After the boys had loaded, the plane taxied to the head of the runway. The pilots gunned the twin engines. As the transport plane picked up speed and raced down the runway, Jake began laughing.
“What’s so funny?” Johnny asked above the roar of the straining engines.
Jake pointed his thumb at his chest. “Nothing. Just my first time in an airplane.”
Johnny laughed. “Me too!”
The plane reached altitude quickly and approached the drop zone. The red light over the door blinked on. Bancroft went through the pre-jump drill with orders and hand signals. The hand signals were essential, as the men could not always hear the jumpmaster over the engines.
Bancroft put out two fists, raised his thumbs and jerked them upward. “Stand up!” The men stood erect on mostly trembling legs, their faces sweating and white with fear. The jumpmaster raised his right hand, crooked his index finger and made an up and down motion. “Hook up!” The men hooked their static line on to the wire cable strung down the centerline of the plane. The men stared down the cabin at Bancroft eagerly anticipating his next command.
Bancroft touched the reserve chute strapped to his chest with spread fingers on both hands. “Sound off for equipment check!” Each man checked the equipment of the soldier next to him, especially the gear that was strapped behind, to make sure there were no loose or missing straps.
Bancroft raised two fingers on his right hand, wagged them and yelled, “Count off!”
“Twelve Okay,” came the barely audible shout from the end of the stick closest to the pilots.
“Eleven Okay,” came next until each man in turn had counted down to one. Bancroft nodded, pulled his wind goggles over his eyes, took his position on his stomach and waited for the red light to turn green.
At this point in a combat jump the men would have closed the line and tightened the stick against the door. When the green light went on, the jumpmaster would have been the first out the door. A combat load of twenty fully laden paratroopers was expected to clear the door in less than twelve seconds. But speed was not the purpose of the qualifying jumps. Bancroft would control and monitor each man’s exit for later critique.
“Stand in the door,” Bancroft barked. The first man took his position in the door, facing outward with both hands on the outside of the door and feet on the threshold.
Both engines of the C-47 went nearly quiet as the pilot cut the throttles to reduce airspeed to ninety knots, the maximum jump speed decreed by airborne doctrine. Paratroopers learned quickly to anticipate the green light by the sound of the engines. Suddenly, the jump light turned green. Bancroft, lying on his stomach with his head out of the open door, tapped the first trooper on the leg and out he went. The next trooper stood in the door. “Hands outside!” Bancroft barked and the trooper quickly remedied the position of his hands. A tap on the leg and he too was gone.
Johnny was before Jake but after Sky. The line was moving toward the door at a slow but steady pace. No one had yet refused. Sky went out smoothly and Johnny stood in the door and observed the scene unfolding in front of him. The ground below didn’t appear far away. Cars and trucks appeared rather large and the people on the ground looked bigger than the ants they were supposed to look like. Before Johnny could fully digest the notion that there may not be enough height for his chute to open, he felt the tap. Gritting his teeth, he closed his eyes tightly and stepped out of the plane, right leg first, into empty space. Johnny immediately swiveled to the left facing the tail of the plane. He was bent slightly at the waist in a semi-pike position. His knees were bent with his legs locked tightly together at the knees and feet. He tucked his chin, brought his elbows tight to his sides with his hands, fingers widespread, gripping his reserve chute. His position was textbook perfect. He was quickly caught by the slipstream and was propelled toward the tail of the plane. Before he could count or even focus his eyes, he felt the opening shock of the parachute deploying. It was gentler than he expected but it still jarred his teeth and he bit his lip. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. He opened his eyes revealing the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. The twenty-eight foot diameter parachute was fully deployed above his head and he swung gently beneath it.
The roar of the twin engines faded into the distance and he was struck by the peaceful silence. He looked around for Jake but could not tell who was in which chute as they all drifted leisurely toward the ground. He marveled at the sensation of floating in air, particularly after the anxiety preceding the jump. After a minute or so the ground came up fast and he assumed his landing crouch. He hit the ground, rolled once, bounced up and walked into his parachute to collapse it. He pulled in the shroud lines at the same time he was walking until he reached the silk chute. The ground wind was light so it was not difficult to gather his chute. Standing with both arms full of silk and a huge smile on his face, he turned to search for Jake and Sky.
Sky waddled over with his arms also full of parachute. “That was freakin’ amazing.”
“Unbelievable,” Johnny replied.
“Everybody jump?” he asked Johnny.
“I’m not sure. You see Jake?”
They both turned to scan the drop zone. Most of the men were already heading for the trucks. The ambulance was speeding to the far side of the drop zone. One trooper was still down close by, his chute not yet collapsed and tugging at him.
“That’s Jake,” Sky declared. Both men ran over. Johnny reached him first. Sky ran to collapse Jake’s chute.
“You okay?” Johnny asked.
Jake grimaced. “Got turned around. Landed backwards. Sprained my ankle pretty bad.”
“Let’s get you to the meat wagon,” Sky offered, referring to the ambulance.
“No!” Jake demanded. “I’m not going to wash out now. Not after all this. No way.”
Johnny looked into the determined face of his newfound friend. If you want to have a friend, you need to be a friend. The words called out to him. He lifted Jake up and threw his arm over his shoulder. “Don’t worry buddy, we’ve got your back. We’ll get you over to the trucks.”
“Oh, shit,” moaned Sky. “If we get caught…” He let the words hang in the air. “What about tomorrow’s jump?”
“We’ll worry about that tomorrow,” Johnny replied. He looked at Jake. “Are you sure you’re up for this?”
“Fucking A,” Jake answered.
Sky grabbed Jake’s chute and the other arm. They scurried back to the waiting truck, limping and hopping together, their ugly ballet hidden only by the fluttering loose folds of the silk parachutes they carried.
They all knew what they were about to do was against the rules. They would help Jake hide the injury, pack his chutes and do whatever else they could to get him through his jumps.
Back in the packing shed Jake tightened the laces on his boots. They fit him like a glove ever since they were issued and he, along with everyone else, stood in a tub of water to wet them down. Then they walked and ran in the wet boots to form-fit them. When the boots dried they conformed perfectly to each man’s feet and ankles. With his pe
rfectly fitted jump boots laced as tightly as he could stand it, he limped around the packing table as well as he could. In spite of the throbbing pain, he found if he could put his weight only on his heel, without flexing his ankle, he could shuffle around. With his limited mobility, Sky and Johnny did most of the work packing Jake’s chute for the next day.
Back in the barracks Johnny secured some ice and Jake soaked his foot in a valiant effort to reduce the swelling. In the morning Jake taped his ankle, laced up his boot tightly and limped to the mess hall. Most of the men had aches and pains and many of them had bumps and bruises as well. A lame trooper drew no special notice and even less sympathy. Jake faked his way onto the trucks for the trip down to the packing shed. The instructors were too busy with other injured troopers and watching the sticks spill out of the planes to notice that Johnny was helping Jake move along to their C-47. Once in, Jake was able to sit again. The short trip to the door would be no problem. The rocking aircraft and the paratroopers would camouflage his limp. The problem would be the landing. Jake had to do it virtually on one foot. His injured ankle would not be able to withstand the stress of another hard landing.
Out they went, this time from 1,200 feet. The entire stick jumped again. It was rare to see a refusal after the first day.
Jake’s jump went smoothly. He attained a good position in the air and his chute deployed quickly and gently. He immediately oriented himself and concentrated on the landing. He would have to take the brunt of the landing on his good leg and quickly roll over to take the rest of the stress on his side and shoulders. It wouldn’t be easy but he was determined to pull it off, multiple times, in order to earn his jump wings.
The ground directly below him looked like a soft patch of high grass. He raised his injured foot to keep it from contacting the ground, bounced off his good foot and landed flush on his side before rolling over. He absorbed the hurt through the rest of his body but his injured foot remained protected.
The Last Jump: A Novel of World War II Page 18