I’m told the food was good, but I didn’t have time to eat it. About the time we sat down the Black Hats were screaming at us to leave. One Friday was seafood night. I got five chilled shrimp and a gigantic orange crab leg. I had the shrimp down before I got to the table. I’m from Mississippi. I had never even seen a crab leg like that before. It looked like some kind of monster.
I beat on that thing for my allotted three minutes or so and couldn’t get anything edible out of it. I later learned there’s a technique to it. The Black Hats started screaming, so I just had to throw it away.
I typically make a point to eschew profanity. I feel that profligate cursing is a sign of poor discipline and weak character. I made an exception my first time out of the airplane.
Of my five training jumps I got to stand in the door twice. I’ve always been kind of lucky that way. The first was out the side of a C130. The light turned green, and the Jumpmaster slapped me hard. They told us not to close our eyes for some reason. I recall seeing those big engines momentarily silhouetted behind my jump boots. I admit that I did then involuntarily let slip something I’d not say in front of my grandmother.
Perfectly Good Airplanes
It is indeed extraordinary the lengths a young man will go to earn a funny hat.
Mine is shown here draped over a Civil War cannonball.
I was such a child. Why does the military let children do such grownup things? It’s likely because adults have too much sense. With experience comes wisdom, and with wisdom comes restraint. Young men are not renowned for their restraint.
We didn’t have names. My roster number was C174. C173 was a nice kid from Puerto Rico.
I just wanted the funny hat. It is amazing what young men will do for a funny hat. One guy had a heat stroke and died. Fort Benning, Georgia in August has got to be the hottest place on earth. In retrospect he clearly should have quit. However, it was an undeniably cool hat.
The Army dealt with the heat by making us drink lots of really warm water. They also periodically ran us underneath a long line of shower heads that got us all thoroughly soaked. We then immediately went back to the sawdust pit to roll around. The Airborne instructors, Black Hats in the vernacular, called us granola bars. It’s been 36 years, and I still think I have a little sawdust lingering in the crevices.
The runs were bad, though I have had worse. It was, however, all for a purpose. A group of disparate strangers is just a mob. That same group subjected to a great deal of collective misery becomes a tribe. The Army is really good at making tribes.
Parachuting from the heavens in the days of assault helicopters is a bit anachronistic.
However, training to do so is arguably the ultimate Army team-building exercise. US DOD photo.
C173’s second jump was not awesome. There are two Jumpmasters in training. It only takes one in the Real World. The jump light inexplicably went red to green and then back to red. One Jumpmaster pushed and the other pulled. C173 hesitated for a moment. One half went out the door, while the other half clawed to get back in. The two Jumpmasters looked at each other wordlessly, pried his hand loose, and threw him out of the airplane. I could swear I heard C173 bouncing off the side of the fuselage. When we got on the ground he was disquieted but otherwise intact.
The average jumper descends at about 23 feet per second. We jumped from 1,450 feet. It took about 67 seconds to get from the plane to the ground. Combat jumps are much lower.
Once you get clear of the plane it is otherworldly quiet. You can easily have conversations with your fellow paratroopers while under canopy. The Black Hats shout at you through bullhorns from the ground if you’re doing something stupid.
We jumped in groups of ten called sticks. Our old MC1-1B parachutes flew forward at around ten miles per hour. Turn into a 10 mph headwind and you land stationary. I was gathering up my chute and stopped to watch the next stick jump. Nine guys turned into the wind while the tenth, a young West Point cadet, got confused and turned the opposite direction. He hit the ground at around twenty miles per hour give or take. When last I saw him his jump boots were resting on his thighs. It’s amazing what a young man will do for a funny hat.
