Another Paratrooper Jumps Into Combat

All, this seems a good weekend to share an experience of mine.

Soon after coming back to the US, I wrote this article and it first appeared in Soldier Of Fortune Magazine NOV 1990.

At the time I  was a Sergeant in a line infantry company with the 82^nd Airborne Division. More specifically 2^nd Platoon, Alpha Company, 4^th Battalion, 325^th Airborne Infantry Regiment, of the 2^nd Brigade in the 82^nd Airborne Division.

 

Around noon on December 17 (?) of 1989 we were alerted for full opsec deployment. Marshall'd into the same areas that Ft. Bragg utilized in WW2, we learned we were to be attached to the spearheading  Ranger Battalion assigned to jump into, and take down Omar Torrijos International Airport, Panama, Republic of Panama. This airport was also home to a Panamanian military Battalion expected to (and did) put up resistance.

Here's my story of the jump, and all true. The article begins here:

It is really going to happen, just as I’ve dreamed. Panama bound, to kill or die. We’re finally ready to do what we’ve been training for, albeit sometimes unwillingly. Slowly over the last few days of preparation, the true implications of what we’re facing has struck me. Death, when it is ponderous spectre squats closely beside you, is cold, very cold, and very lonely.

 

One hundred and twenty or so combat-equipped paratroopers are sandwiched into each C-141 Starlifter, Panama bound. Four parallel rows, the length of the fuselage are strapped into canvas-netting seats facing each other for the trip to capture Omar Torrijos International Airport.

 

I am about 5 jumpers from the nose of the bird, near the last of those to exit the left door on the inboard side-that is, the center aisle. I am facing outward on the left hand side of the bird as it flies. To my right is a stone silent Staff Sergeant. To my front an Air Force Master Sergeant and Special Forces Captain, both with CAR-15’s and 9mm pistols. On my left is Private First Class Murphy, my brand-new rifleman, fresh out of basic training and airborne school- the only other member of my squad besides me on that bird....

 

Freezing, drizzling, blowing rain is the order of the night at Fort Bragg on 19 December 1989. Everyone is wearing sweaters, gloves, long john tops…whatever to keep warm as the hours crazily spin on towards load time. Out-doors since noon, we’re cold, soaked and tired, operations planning and preparations stealing all but a few hours sleep in the last three days.

 

“Let’s just get this damn thing over with” is the consensus.

 

“That’s why we do well in war” says one. “The Army so thoroughly thrashes us before battle, the fighting part is easy.”

 

In line at the tail of the aircraft is each bird’s paratroop load, drawing parachutes and grunting and sweating into the harnesses. In the rain.

 

I look down the parking lane and see 141’s fading into the wet mist, a trail of troop-s behind each gaping, lighted ramp, and flight-line personnel desperately crawling over the airplanes, blasting wings with de-icer's trying to maintain air-worthiness. I have to urinate, so I do. Right there, along with others, I simply turn outwards from the parachute issue line and piss, already standing in an inch of ice cold rain water.

 

Once loaded and airborne, we begin to remember it will be hot in Panama. Slowly, our situation precluding much movement, we take turns discarding clothing.

 

Murphy, having to remove a sweater and overshirt, takes off his parachute harness. Once I help him do that and re-rig, he asks me to re-inspect his harness assembly. Why? I think to myself. At 500 feet there won’t be time to activate your reserve ‘chute anyway. I look at him and through a dry throat say “okay”, and proceed. Once done, his smile of relief says it all. He had counted on me as a jumpmaster and his leader to look out for him and I had. I return his smile and sit down. I hope I look confident; I sure don’t feel it.

 

We doze as best we can during alternate periods of cold and hot, combat aircraft systems being what they are.

 

“TWENTY MINUUUUUUTES!” the jumpmaster for this flight sounds off with the warning. Oh hell, here it goes.

 

Oh God, this is for real, I think. God, please don’t let me be bayoneted when I hit the ground. Anything but the bayonet.

 

We slowly put on our helmets and poke our buddies awake.

 

“TEN MINUUUUUUUTES!”

 

Shit, we’re really at war. Deep breath. The air inside the plane is hot.

 

“GET READYYYYYYYYYYY!”

 

We unfasten our seatbelts. I look at Murphy; he’s wide-eyed. I jab him in the ribs and say “Lets go crazy,” sneering. He smiles a bit, and I hope I’ve made him feel a bit easier. I feel coldly neutral at this point.

 

“OUTBOARD PERSONELL, STAAAAAAAAAND UUUP!”

 

The Captain, Master Sergeant, and the rest of their aisle bobble onto their seats, grabbing our wrists and hauling themselves up.

 

“INBOARD PERSONELL, STAAAAAAAAAAAND UUUP!”

 

They help us onto our feet. We put up our seats, rotating them up into the brackets and fastening them with Velcro, allowing more aisle room. The outboard personnel get off their seats and do the same.

 

“HOOOOOOOK UUUUUP!”

 

We hook our parachute lines to the cables running lengthwise along the aircraft ceiling. Our rucksacks are so laden with ammo and equipment, we have to attempt a sort of hop to reach the cable and pull it down so we can hook up.

 

God, I feel like throwing up. My rucksack is so heavy I sink to my knees, along with most others. Sweat drips steadily from my brow onto my nose. It tickles but that feeling is so alien to the present situation that I ignore it. I struggle back up.

 

“CHECK STATIC LIIIIIIIIINES!

 

We check our hook-up line to make sure it’s not misrouted around arms or equipment.

 

“CHECK EQUIPMEEEEEEEEENT!”

 

We ensure our equipment is all secure, weapon and ruck ready to go.

 

Oh Christ, please let’s get outta this plane! The bird has been rocking and jinking and people have been getting airsick very fast. The smell of vomit floats by. I’ve never been airsick before, but this time I feel the stuff welling up in my throat. All I want is out of this plane at this point. Combat or no, I’ll take my chances on the ground rather than this adrenaline-pumped, bile-tasting, roller-coaster hellishness.

 

“SOUND OFF FOR EQUIPMENT CHECK!”

 

This is the last command until GO, when we exit. They can be the longest or shortest minutes of your life.

 

Thank goodness, about three minutes till jump. Let’s get out! Murphy turns to look- as if I’d left. I grin at him and he grins back. Everything seems in slow motion at this point. Murphy continually turns to look at me; I just look back with this crazy-ugly grin, growling, grunting, cursing. I don’t feel dangerous, I just want to erase his fear, thereby ending mine.

 

“THIRTY SECONDS!”

 

My anger wells up inside. I’ve gone this far, let me out. I want out! I want to fight, I want to jump, I want to stop the whine of jet-turbines in my ears! My pack weighs me down to my knees, hard upon the aluminum deck of the aircraft.

 

“GO-OOOOOOOOO!”

 

I heard the command from far off toward the tail of the plane. Murphy and I struggle off our knees; we all penguin-hobble toward the door as the plane empties. Over the shoulders of the troops ahead of me I can see the jump-caution light turn from green to red.

 

There is no way in hell I have come this far without jumping, I think to myself. I yell “GO, GO, GO, GOOOOOOOOO…………!”

 

The Staff Sergeant behind me must feel the same way, for he echoes my guttural yells. Pushing up against the troops ahead of me, I wade towards the door that will release me from the airborne hell of this combat flight.

 

Eight troops, seven, six, five, four, three two, one…Shit, I’m at the door!…

 

WHOOSH!

 

Another paratrooper jumps into combat.


Edited by rivet

Holy crap Rivit! I could picture it all in my mind. You have a hell of a way with words!

I have to look and see if I can find my internet friends unkles account of the raid on Tokyo and the crash landing in China. He was one of Doolittles raiders. He died some years latter in a Texas crash of a USAF plane, but his nephew published is diary for us on Accurate Reloading some years ago. It was a hell of a read! 

MM

rivet, Impressive writing indeed! You actually can picture this in your mind even though you've never been there. This is a rare talent. The key, I've been told, is writing about what you know. The subject and it's emotion are obviously familiar here. RD