Those who dare, p.12
Those Who Dare, page 12
“How long, exactly, have you been packing parachutes?” Captain Stone asked as he slung his over one shoulder.
“The standard answer to that question, sir, is always, ‘This is my very first day of on-the-job training.’”
The handsome cavalryman looked as if he had suddenly developed a gallstone.
“However, Captain Stone, I am not going to tell you that today because Captain Seaborn explicitly ordered me to make sure you and Major Randal received the VIP treatment. The truth is, sir, I am the best rigger in the business. Periodically, we are required to jump a chute we pack, and the one we jump is always chosen at random. You have nothing to worry about, sir. I would jump this parachute. As a matter of fact, if it does not work to your complete satisfaction, bring it back and I will issue you another, sir.”
The men waiting in line to draw their parachutes all guffawed. Since they did not have reserve chutes, everyone knew a parachute failure was an automatic death sentence. Still, the WAAF rigger was a showstopper, and her confidence was infectious. The tension in the air ratcheted way down.
Whatever they’re paying her, thought Major Randal, ain’t enough.
He asked, “You mean Midshipman Seaborn, don’t you?”
“No, sir, Captain Lady Seaborn.”
“You know Lady Jane?”
“Yes, sir. Perhaps I should introduce myself, Major. My name is Karen Montgomery, soon to be Lieutenant Karen Montgomery, Royal Marines— the officer in charge of your parachute rigging detachment.”
“Well, congratulations, soon-to-be Lieutenant,” Major Randal said, reaching out and shaking her hand. “Welcome aboard, Karen. How’d you know who we were? There are a lot of officers in training, and Terry and I are not wearing name tags.”
“Lady Seaborn gave me a description of you, Major.”
“Must have been pretty good.”
“Actually, it was easy, sir. Particularly after she informed me you would be accompanied by a Life Guards captain who looked exactly like the cinema star Errol Flynn.”
Unfortunately for Captain Stone, a large contingent of Raiders and Commandos had gathered round the WAAF, panting like a pack of hungry Doberman pinschers eyeballing a piece of prime rib. To say the troops were bitterly disappointed to hear that she was destined to become a commissioned officer and therefore off-limits would be a major understatement.
To compensate, the men commenced ragging Captain Stone unmercifully. “Zorro!” someone called, and the damage was done. The men took up the chant: “Zorro, Zorro, Zorro . . . ” In the British Army, when the other ranks liked an officer—and sometimes when they did not—they tagged him with a nickname. Forever after in military circles, Captain Terry Stone would be known as Zorro, even though Errol Flynn never played that role.
Captain Terry “Zorro” Stone turned as red as a beet. It was the first time any of them had ever seen him blush.
“I can see we’re going to have a lot of fun with you, Lieutenant Montgomery,” Major Randal said with a grin. “Let’s go, Errol . . . I mean, Zorro. We’ve got a balloon to catch.”
Captain Stone glared at the WAAF. “It’s going to be a long war, Montgomery.”
“Not if I packed your parachute incorrectly. Have a nice day, sir.”
“Oooooooohhh!” chorused the Raiders and Commandos.
She was really good. The class received the day’s last lecture, the culmination of a mind-numbing series of presentations on parachute canopies, lines, risers, osculation, D-rings, quick-release switches, parachute landing falls, the five points of contact, and on and on and on.
Major Rock delivered the pre-jump briefing. “Men, today you will be jumping from a tethered balloon at an altitude of five hundred feet. The name of the balloon, for those of you who are interested, is Bessie. She was perfected for parachute jumping by the RAF Balloon Development Establishment at Cardington. You will be jumping an X-type parachute called a statichute. The canopy is twenty-eight feet in diameter and deploys canopy-last, activated by a static line . . . ”
Major Randal had heard this all so many times before that he faded off. To be perfectly honest, he really did not care if his canopy deployed first, last, or sideways—as long as it deployed.
The order was given to “chute up.” They were divided into jumping parties of four and numbered off one through four within each party; Major Randal was number one in his party. Rank had its responsibilities as well as its privileges; he was going to lead the way, as usual.
There was a saying going around the parachute school to the effect that the brave men were actually the ones who were afraid, admitted their fear, fought it, and overcame it. Fearless men were not actually brave; they were merely fearless, and possibly stupid. There would be a lot of brave men on the ground and in the air at Tatton Park that day—and a few who would prove to be fearless.
Flight Sergeant Bill Beaverton, was to be the dispatcher. He gave each jumper a quick but extremely thorough inspection. Then the party climbed aboard the rickety canvas cage, one man to each side of the square, and crouched there, clinging desperately to the handles to avoid falling through the gaping hole in the floor. The jumpers were crammed like sardines into the surprisingly tiny and fragile basket. The canvas contraption was flimsy beyond belief; the idea that men would be sent aloft in it seemed criminal. Major Randal was momentarily outraged.
Flight Sergeant Beaverton was that rare individual who was a legend in his own time. He had made hundreds—some claimed thousands—of descents by parachute. A steely-eyed glance from him could send a chill down the spine of the toughest trainee. He stood at the end of the basket and hooked each man’s static line up to the strap that hung down from a steel bar in the cage. After he connected the static line, he showed it to the jumper.
The student jumpers in the basket had the look of cornered rabbits. Major Randal hoped he did not look like a cornered rabbit. He felt as though he had been strapped into an electric chair, waiting for the executioner to throw the switch. Major Rock’s description was dead-on: It was a horrible experience, and the balloon had not even left the ground yet.
Up, up, up went the skittish balloon, dancing like a kite to the harsh, monotonous grind of the winch playing out. The feeling of insecurity increased when the huge, ungainly airbag yawed from time to time, staggering about the sky like a drunken whale, causing the floor of the unstable canvas cage to assume a terrifying tilt that made the student jumpers feel as if the flimsy basket might collapse at any moment.
The ascent was totally demoralizing. No one on board except the dispatcher had ever ridden in a balloon before. None of the passengers would dare to even so much as glance at the hole in the floor, which took a tremendous amount of willpower on their part, considering that the hole took up virtually all the floor space and their legs were dangling out of it. Major Randal remembered one of the remarks that Major Rock had flippantly tossed out during the ride over: “Jumping from a balloon is exactly like committing suicide, with the strong possibility—which you sincerely doubt—that your attempt might fail.”
He leaned over and whispered to Sergeant Major Maxwell Hicks, “I haven’t heard a single man admit to being afraid yet. My guess is, ninety-eight percent of ’em are faking it and the other two percent are crazy. At the end of the training day, if you think any of our people fall into the two percent crazy category, RTU them before the sun goes down.”
“My pleasure, sir!”
Abruptly, the moaning, grinding sound of the winch ceased. There was a tense moment of silence, broken only by the sighing of the wind through the balloon’s rigging. From below came the grating blast of the horn from Major Rock’s Humber staff car: once, twice, three times—the prearranged signal. It was the last nail in Major Randal’s emotional coffin.
“Bessie” was at five hundred feet and had settled into a suitable position. The ground staff was satisfied that the cable was at a sufficient angle to ensure that the jumpers would not collide with it and become entangled on the descent—which implied that this must have happened sometime in the past. Real, primal fear set in. It was time.
All things considered, this was the worst experience Major Randal had ever suffered through—including Calais. The wind whistled through the overhead wires, the unstable canvas basket yawed in the breeze and danced sideways, and Major Randal’s knuckles whitened as he gripped its sides.
Trying to ignore the hole in the basket’s floor, he gazed out over the green expanse of Tatton Park. In the distance he could see the town of Altrincham and several tiny hamlets scattered across the horizon. Tatton and Rostherne meres and several smaller lakes sparkled in the distance like highly polished mirrors.
He shivered, unsure if it was from the cold or pure, raw terror. Even under fire he had never felt this type of electrifying, nonstop fear.
Flight Sergeant Beaverton was leaning over the side of the wobbly, unstable contraption, watching for the last and final signal from down below. Finally, the Aldis lamp blinked. It was showtime.
There was absolute, total, dead silence. Everything became perfectly still.
“Action stations, Number One!”
Major Randal sat rigidly, dangling both legs out of the hole and staring straight ahead to avoid looking at the ground. He was also being extremely careful not to accidentally slide out when Bessie skittered.
Before he had time to think, the dispatcher barked the staccato command: “Go!”
Major Randal went.
It never occurred to Major Randal as he fell that his parachute would open. He considered himself a dead man. He had his eyes clenched shut, in violation of everything he had been taught to the contrary, though he did not actually realize it at the time.
So, he was not surprised to feel himself falling, falling, falling, falling for a long time. It was what he had expected to happen. He fleetingly wondered if it would hurt much when he hit the ground. His life did not pass in front of his eyes, but he did flash to the night he had first met Lady Jane Seaborn, and he experienced a feeling of serene disappointment.
There came a gentle fluttering sound; he felt a mild jerk, then a heavier tug, and suddenly he found himself sitting easy in the saddle, floating down exactly as he had been briefed he would.
Wow, they told the truth!
A voice in his brain that sounded like his own screamed, Check canopy! an instant before a voice on the megaphone below barked, “Check your canopy, Number One!”
Major Randal opened his eyes, looked up, and saw the magnificent silk parachute fully deployed. There were no twists in the lines; he was not osculating. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen—ever! To the paratrooper dangling down beneath it, nothing beats the sight of a fully deployed parachute.
He felt an intoxicating thrill. The sky was the bluest blue it had ever been, and life was sweet. He had never felt so good. The experience was sensational.
“Lovely exit, Major!” he heard Flight Sergeant Beaverton shout down over the side of the basket.
But Major Randal had no time to attend to mere dispatchers; he was the Emperor of the Universe! This was the most outstanding single triumph he had ever achieved. Time stood still—for all of about ten seconds.
“Let’s get those feet and knees together, number one!” Major Rock bellowed over the megaphone. “Prepare to land!”
Unlocking his knees so that they swung loosely; rocking back and forth; touching his legs together from his knees down to the soles of his boots; pulling his elbows in tight against his chest so they actually touched together; pulling his head down tightly, with his chin pressed hard down on his chest, Major Randal mentally prepared to land.
The ground suddenly blazed sideways beneath him. He felt a rushing sensation, the trees blurred out of the corner of his peripheral vision, and he felt a vague tinge of uneasiness as he remembered that landing was the really dangerous part.
WHAM! He was down and rolling, executing a textbook-perfect parachute landing fall better than any he had done in training. Everything came together—he was still alive. Unbelievable!
Major Randal could not restrain himself. He jumped to his feet and threw back his head.
“YEEEEEEHAAAAAA!”
“All right, Major, let’s not have any more of those Comanche yells,” Major Rock boomed over the megaphone. “This is not the Alamo! Roll up your parachute, turn it in at the assembly point, and draw another one. You have one more jump to make today.”
Bring it on, Major Randal thought. Airborne!
13
GRADUATION
THE SECOND BALLOON JUMP WAS MUCH MORE FRIGHTENING THAN the first. Major John Randal would never have believed such a thing possible, but it was primarily because he knew what to expect. The ride up in the balloon was particularly terrifying because of the ground-induced vertigo. He must have been so scared the first trip, he did not notice it to the same extent.
It was a long ascent, and it seemed as though they were a mile high, or maybe two. The wait for “Go!” took forever. And it gave him time to think, which is really not a good thing for a novice, one-jump paratrooper to be doing.
On his second jump he managed to keep his eyes open. Well . . . almost.
Over the next three days, men of the Small-Scale Raiding Company completed a total of five jumps from ancient and decrepit Whitley Mark IIIs.
Jumping from a Whitley was a nightmare. Maybe not as big a nightmare as the balloon jumps had been, but a very real nightmare nonetheless. The Whitley converted bomber-troop transports, as advertised, flapped their wings like a pterodactyl. Actually, the flapping was an intentionally engineered design feature, but on every flight it seemed as if the wings were going to break and fall off.
The jumpers had to crawl down a long, dark, narrow tunnel inside the fuselage to reach the exit hole cut in the bottom of the aircraft. Five men sat on each side of the hole, leaning back against the skin of the airplane. It was cramped in the tight, claustrophobic space—the Whitley had been designed to drop bombs, not parachutists—and the close quarters were made worse by the fact that they were strapped in their parachutes and wearing their odd padded jump helmets. The jump helmet came in handy, though, when they bumped their way, headfirst, along the narrow tunnel in the dim light.
On Major Randal’s first jump from a Whitley, Flight Sergeant Bill Beaverton crawled past, took the lid off, and straddled the hole. The dispatcher was wearing an intercom headset and listening to it intently.
“Running in!” he shouted to the student jumpers.
“About time,” Corporal Jack Merritt of the Life Guards muttered anxiously.
“Action stations!”
Major Randal swung his legs into the exit hole and assumed the exit position.
The jump light turned green. The flight sergeant shouted, “Number One!” Then he slashed his arm down and barked, “Go!” Major Randal was more than happy to comply; jumping out of a Whitley seemed a lot safer than riding in it.
The next four jumps tended to blend together. To Major Randal’s surprise, he got a strange kick out of being tumbled around by the blast of prop-wash turbulence created by the churning of the giant propellers during the exit before the parachute opened. He kept that piece of information to himself; no sense sounding like one of the fake tough or crazy brave.
Conquering fear was a rewarding intellectual challenge, he concluded. Jumping out of an aircraft in flight seemed to be ninety-five percent mental state and five percent technique. He reflected that most people simply would not be able to understand the mind-set of those who volunteered, and those who did jump found it virtually impossible to explain to non-jumpers why they did it. Major Randal knew he would never be able to explain his true feelings about the experience in any terms that did not sound totally insane.
Further, he was embarrassed to admit to himself that he had experienced a brief “jumping out of airplanes is what real men do” moment until it had occurred to him that Jane and Karen Montgomery did not fall into the beat-your-chest, he-man category. Furthermore, both of them acted a lot more casual about parachuting than he felt. Nonetheless, Major Randal was secretly pleased with himself for overcoming his fear of heights. It had not been easy. He would be proud to wear parachute wings.
A small ceremony was scheduled for after the last qualifying jump. Since everything done at the British No. 1 Parachute Training School was cloaked in secrecy, only a few outsiders would be in attendance. The officer commanding No. 2 Commando, Lieutenant Colonel CIA Jackson, Captain the Lady Jane Seaborn, Royal Marine Pamela Plum-Martin, and Captain “Geronimo Joe” McKoy constituted virtually the entire official guest list. Vice Admiral Sir Randolph “Razor” Ransom turned up at the last minute to watch his grandson parachute and to be there to pin on his wings.
Squadron Leader Louis Strange, the commanding officer of No. 1 Parachute Training School, sitting at the wheel of his Humber staff car, screeched up as Major John Randal was walking toward the assembly point to turn in his parachute after making his final qualifying jump.
“Climb in, Major!” he shouted. “We have a little surprise in store for you.”
Feeling flushed with success at having just completed parachute school, Major Randal pitched his parachute into the boot of the Humber and climbed in, appreciating the ride. It was, he decided later, one of the larger mistakes he had made.
The squadron leader roared off the drop zone and headed back to the airfield at Ringway, traveling at breakneck speed.
“Have a nice jump?” he inquired.
“Perfect,” Major Randal answered truthfully, beginning to let go and relax for the first time since beginning training three weeks before. “It went just fine.”
“Outstanding!” Squadron Leader Strange actually reached over and slapped him on the shoulder. “Good to hear it. Then you won’t mind making one more, a special demonstration jump for the class and the guests!”
“What?”
“Major, you have been selected to make a demo turret jump. When you land, we will pin your wings on right there. Should make a nice show for the crowd.”
