Jumping from an airplane

As a young soldier I frequently found a number of people that were totally amazed by the concept of jumping out of an airplane.  After learning that I was Airborne qualified, I frequently got comments like, "How could you jump out of a perfectly good airplane?" and others would say, "You know, there are only two things that fall out of the sky, fools and bird droppings."

As amusing as that was (at times), I always felt that if only people like that could feel what it was like to be in a stick of paratroopers, start the shuffle toward the door, and feel the prop blast reach in, pull you out and deposit you in mid-air under a full canopy.  Wow, fantastic!!!  There is absolutely nothing like it.

When I was a kid, my father was an instructor at Phase 1 of the SFQC.  One night, the students made a drop at Camp Macall.  While everybody was turning their gear in, a soldier discovered that I was cold.  He pulled a main out of a gear bag and wrapped me in it.  I still remeber the warmth and the wonderful smell of the nylon.  Parachutes have been my best friends ever since.  And to be part of the family of the Airborne, as well as being the son of a former Green Beret, with which I had the opportunity to make a jump with.  There is, and will always be a secret bond between myself and anyone that I meet that is wearing a set of wings.

Over time, I've read many accounts of parachute drops made during WWII onward.  I've had the extreme pleasure to run across an excellent book written by SGM (ret) Eric L. Haney.  Mr. Haney was a member of SFOD-Delta, commonly known as "Delta Force".  Delta is the highly secret, anti-terrorist arm of the US Army's special operations community.  His book "Inside Delta Force" is a well written and action packed account of his experiences working in some very important and dangerous situations.  The following is an excellent quote from the beginning of his book that describes the process involved in executing a military static-line parachute jump.

Mr. Haney's book "Inside Delta Force" is available on-line and at your favorite bookstore.  A definate must for people interested in modern military history and America's War on Terrorism.  Be sure and check out the TV series, "The Unit", which is produced by Mr. Haney and is based on his experiences.  Our thanks to him and his companions for their service, their commitment, and their bravery.

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Early photo of US Army Parachute Test Platoon, circa 1938.

The C-130 transport plane bucked and shook side to side like a malevolent rodeo bull.  It's going to be a helluva ride till we can get out of this baby, I thought as the big iron bird desended to jump altitude.  Then the plane leveled out, and the bouncing and shivering, though still severe, took on a slightyly more predictable tempo.

Now it was time.  Barely able to move, encased in the weight of parachute, rucksack, equipment harness, and rifle, I lurched to my feet, hooked the parachute's static line to the overhead steel cable, and turned to face the forty other Rangers still seated on the red nylon benches that ran down the sides and center of the aircraft.

I looked at the Air Force loadmaster as he spoke into his microphone and watched for the red jump light to come on. Then, with a sudden whoosh followed by a deafening roar, he and his assistant slid the jump doors into the opened and ready position.  Wind howled throught the plane and whipped at my legs as I glanced across the plane to my assistant jump master, Sergeant Allie Jones.  He nodded that he was ready, and it began.

Reproduction of an early spec sheet for the design of the Parachutist's Badge.

I looked back down the line of expectant men seated in front of me, gave the fuselage floor a powerful stamp with my left foot, threw my hands and arms into the air with my palms facing the men, and yelled at the top of my lungs, "Get ready!"

The men unbuckled their seat belts, focused their attention on my assistant and me on the other side of the plane, and sat upright in their seats, ready for the next command.

"Outboard personnel. Stand up!"  I shouted, as I pointed to the men seated against the shin of the aircraft.  They struggled to their feet in spite of the plane's wild lurching, and when they were in line facing me, I continued the jump commands.

"Inboard personnel.  Stand up!"  I pointed with extended arms and hands to the men still seated on the centerline seats.  With help from their standing comrades, they got to their feet, and the two groups formed into a continuous line.

Airborne troopers rigged for a combat equipment jump.

The plane was bouncing and rattling now like an old truck hurtling over a washboarded dirt road, and it was all the men could do to keep their balance.  I hope no one starts throwing up.  If they do it'll spread like wildfire, and the floors will become slippery and dangerous.  But this was veteran buch of jumpers and on one became airsick, even thought the ride was getting worse now that we were on the jump run.

"Hook up!"  I called, extending my arms high overhead and making crooks of my index fingers.

Only the first few men in line could hear the commands and understand my voice over the roaring blast coming in the open doors, but everyone could see the hand and arm signals of the jump commands, and it was a code they knew by heart.  In unison the jumpers detached their static line clips from the top of their reserve parachutes, snapped them in place on the overhead steel cable running the lingth of the fuselage, and inserted the safety wire though the sliding lock.

I slid my figers back and forth over imaginary steel cables.  "Check static lines!"

Every man checked his own static line and then the line of the man in front of him.  This was the crucial check; a fouled static line could kill you.

With exaggerated movements I patted the front of my chest with both hands.  "Check equipment!" 

Each Ranger checked his helmet, his reserve parachute, his rucksack and lowering line, and his weapon, making sure everything was securely and properly fastened.

I placed cupped hands behind my ears and shouted, "Sound off for equiment check!"

Beginning with the last man in the rear of the plane, the response came up the line, each Ranger slapping the ass of the man in front of him and yelling into his ear,

"O kay!"  I heard the muffled reply faintly at first, but it gathered power and speed as the call rippled up the lin, until the man directly in front of me threw out his hand with the circled fingers of the "okay" signal, stamped his foot on the aluminum floor, and shouted, "All okay!"

The view of Airborne troopers making exits from the rear ramp of a C-130.

Now I turned to the open jump door.  I checked to make sure my rucksack was securely tied to my upwind leg.  Then I took a firm hold of the door frame with my right hand and ran my left hand down the other edge of the door, making sure there was no sharp edge that might cut a tatic line.  Next I kicked the side locks of the jump platform and gave it a stomp with one foot to make sure it was secure.

Satisfied that all was well with the door, I slid my legs forward, hooked my toes over the outer edge of the platform, and with a white-knuckled grip on the frame of the door, arched my back and shoved my entire body outside the plane to perform the first air safety check.

The 120-mile-per-hour wind tore at my clothes and equipment and tried to wrest the plane from my tenuous grasp, but I hing on with determination.  I still had a job to perform, and we were miles short of the drop zone.

First I looked forward to orient myself and then I checked for the position of the other planes.  Then I looked up to make sure no one was above us, and toward the rear to make certain no one was back there.  We were the last plane in the flight, and I was glad to see the other birds all in their proper position.  I tilted my head down just a bit so the brim of my helmet helped cut the wid from my eyes and then concentrated on the ground ahead as I looked for the checkpoints that told me we were approaching Fort Stewart, Georgia, and Taylor's Creek Drop Zone.

In the distance ahead, I caught sight of the huge DZ, showing as a retangular slab of white sand and scrub brush in an endless green forest.  I watched its steady approach, and when it was just in front ot the plane's nose, I wrenched myself back inside, pointed to the open doorwary, and shouted to the first man in line the phrase that thrills every paratrooper, "Stand in the door!"

The human energy in the plane crackled as the soldier threw his static line into my waiting hand, put his feet on the jump platform, and grasped the outside of the shuddering door frame.  Knees cocked like levers, arms tensed, he looked with steady eyes straight out the wind-blasted and howling door, waiting for the ultimate command.  An eighten-year-old private first class, Ricky Magee was the youngest jumper in the plane, but he was showing the steady courage of an old hand.

I held him by his parachute harness and looked around the front of his chest as the drop zone slid under the belly of the plane, then I looked back inside just in time to see the red light extinguished and the green light cone on in its place.

It was as if a switch had been thrown.  My right arm felt electric as I swung it sharply forward, gave the jumper a stinging slap low on the back of his thigh, and yelled into his ear, "Go!"

Reverse angle view of a C-17 unloading a stick of parachutists.

He sprang out the door like he'd been shot from an automatic cannon, while behind him a human conveyor belt of fresh ammo rushed for the breach of the exit door.

Slap, "Go!"  Slap, "Go!"  Slap, "Go!"  

The rapidly shortening line of men disappeared from sight as the wildly lunging plane, a thousand feet above the ground, disgorged its himan cargo into the ether.  Like Jonahs from the belly of the whale.  As the last man hurled himself into space, I looked out the plane and back down at the descendig jumpers to make sure no one was hung up on the plane and being dragged to his death.

Satisfied that all was okay, I looked to my assistant in the other doorway who had been doing the same thing.  He shouted across to me, "Clear to the rear!"

I gave him a thumbs-up and answered "Clear!" then pointed a finger at him and yelled, "Go!"

The view from below, every Airborne troopers dream.  A big, fat, round canopy.

He turned to the door, hesitated the split second he needed to take a good door position, and then laundhed himself from view.  I quickly checked outside and below to see that he had a chute over his head, glanced at the still-green jump light, and rocketed myself out the door into the full blast of the air.

Tight body poistion.  Feet and knees pressed together, hands grasping the ends of the reserve chute, head down with my chin tucked into my chest, I counted.

One thousand! Two thousand!   A hard tug at my back as the parachute was jerked from its pack.  Three thousand!   The drag of the elongated but still unopened chute acted as an air brake, immediately slowing my forward movement, tilting my back toward the earth, and I watched as the tail of the plane sailed past over the tips of my boots.

Four thousand!   A full parachute.  Feet once again pointed toward the ground, I checked the canopy.  It looked good.  No tears in the green fabric and no lines out of place.  And after the overwhelming noise inside the airplane, the world is suddenly silent.

I grabbed th handles of the control lines and pulled them down to the level of my helmet as I quickly looked all around for other jumpers. Ah, plenty of clear air.  I checked for the direction of smoke on the drop zone and then let the parachute fly so that I could also gauge the direction of the wind up here.  I let the canopy run with the wind; I was a long way from the assembly point and I wanted the parachute to take me as close as it possibly could.

Two hundred feet above the ground I bent my knees so my rucksack would have a ramp to slide off.  I reached down and pulled the quick-release tabs to the rucksack and felt it drop free until it hit the end of the twenty-foot lowering line with a yank.  The tall Georgia pines at the side of the drop zone drifted lazily upward, and when I was level with their tops, I faced the canopy into the wind and prepared to land.

Shove the rifle over so that it's not under my armpit or it'll bend the barrel and dislocate my shoulder when I hit the ground.  Legs slightly bent, feet and nees together, elbows in front of the face, hands even with the top of the helmet...and relax.  now the ground came hurtling upward with amazing speed and the rucksack hit with a solid thunk.  Relax, relax, relax...

At a speed of twenty-two feet per second, I made jolting impact with the earth.  Balls of the feet, calves, sides of the thighs, ass, and backs of the shoulders making contact in a practiced rolling sequence that spread the energy of the controlled crash across the length of my body.  I heard, as from a distance, the thump and jangle of equipment as my load and I completed our short flight and sudden landing.  And then it was over.

Inside Delta Force, The story of America's elite counterterrorist unit,

Eric L. Haney, Command Sergeant Major, USA (ret.), pages 7--12

Delecorte Press, copyright 2002 by Eric L. Haney.