Bunched on the tailgate, eager to go, the lads kept a finger under their goggles to keep them clear. They were now bathed in green light, looking like aliens from outer space. Tony gave the thumbs up, and was gone.
He felt free; there was no more weight hanging from his shoulders, and his aching back was now supported on a cushion of air. Engine noise was replaced by a rush of cold air which lightly buffeted his body. He looked around, and above him he could see seven more bodies in formation like bulky frogs hurtling earthwards at 120 miles per hour. ‘What a way to make a living,’ he thought.
He could make out several lights below him from scattered farms, and could picture the cosy scenes within. Directly below him was a large pine forest which he recalled from the air photograph. Standing out was the silver thread of a river that ran alongside the wood, and a duller line of a road that ran across it.
They were a little deep, if anything, so he swept his arms back and straightened his legs, tracking towards the opening point. He was the low man and the others would follow him. His head-down position increased his speed, causing his cheeks, which were compressed by the oxygen mask, to flutter. He flared out again, checking his altimeter, which was unwinding fast, the luminous dials giving him a clear picture.
At 4,000 feet he brought in his right hand to grasp the handle of his ripcord, waving his left arm out in front of his head to warn the others of his intention. At 3,500 feet he pulled the ripcord, instantly feeling the retarding effect as the drogue came clear of his body and started extracting the main canopy. The rigging lines deployed first, allowing the sleeve which sheathed the canopy to peel off; this eliminated a lot of the opening shock. As the canopy caught air it inflated with a dull ‘crump’, breathing one or two times before remaining fully inflated and stabilised.
Tony looked up and checked his canopy before carrying out all-round observation. He had lots of time to do this today, as normally they open their chutes much lower, but at anything lower than 3,000 feet the opening noise of the canopy could be heard from the ground.
Pulling down on his left toggle, Tony turned to watch the others deploying. One after another, the chutes popped open, slowing rapidly, but the seventh shape was distorted, hurtling past the others. Instead of a symmetrical shape an untidy bundle of material streamed behind the tumbling figure, disappearing rapidly as it merged with the earth’s shadow.
Tony landed softly and ran round his chute to collapse it quickly. He ripped off his gloves before removing his helmet, goggles and mask, all in one rough movement. After a quick look around he exaggerated a yawn to help clear his ears so he could listen out for the others. He removed the sling from his weapon and laid it down while he took off his rig. After stripping the carrying straps from his bergan, he stowed the chutes and parachuting equipment inside a large para bag which they carried for this purpose as it helped speed up deployment from the drop zone.
With practised efficiency he was ready to move in under ninety seconds, loaded up with the para bag balanced on top of his bergan, heading off to the RV.
‘I wonder who was tumbling,’ he thought as he opened and closed his mouth, trying to get rid of the waxy film that blocked his ears. Finding the gap in the hedgerow he had been heading for, Tony waited impatiently for the others to arrive. ‘Hurry up, lads. I can’t go and look until someone comes.’
Chalky was the first to arrive, followed closely by Fred. Tony told him to hold the lads at the RV while he and Fred went to find the low man. He knew roughly where to look, recalling the tragic sight of the figure flailing directly over the opening point. He was dreading what he would find. The troop had suffered two fatalities and he had witnessed both of them.
Ron was a former Green Jacket. He had been shocked to find that he had passed selection to be posted to a free-fall troop. His first love was water, and a boat troop would have been his ideal choice. Being new, he couldn’t argue, and knuckled down to learn what he called this terrifying skill. He couldn’t understand the casual approach of the old sweats. It wasn’t bravado: they actually looked forward to the next drop. He fought hard to control his fears, thinking things would get better, but each descent was worse. Being young and enthusiastic he hid his fear well, covering it with a sense of humour that convinced other troop members that his apprehension was faked.
He was last man in the stick, which was where they placed the least experienced member. What little confidence he had was sucked out of him when the ramp was lowered. Looking at Tony hanging precariously around the side of the plane with the slipstream tearing at his face made him physically sick. Being bathed in the red light while he huddled on the ramp was his vision of hell. He couldn’t take his eyes from his altimeters; he didn’t want to see anything else. He was aware of the light turning to green, feeling the change in air pressure as the team dived into space. Then he was alone. His training took over, forcing him to stagger forward and tumble over the edge.
Hammered by the slipstream, his asymmetrical form was immediately sent spinning, toppling him end over end. Calling on his limited experience of thirty-nine descents, he corrected the tumbling once he relaxed and stopped flailing his limbs. But the tumble had shifted his load, making stability difficult and forcing him into a left turn that quickly built up speed. His equipment was hanging to the left, causing him to overcompensate, and before he realised it he span violently in the other direction. He reached terminal velocity in ten seconds, and the gyrations increased to blood-surging speeds. His eyes were riveted to his altimeters, forcing his head down, which added to his plight. Trying to terminate the descent he came in early for his handle, which flipped him onto his back, tearing off his goggles. Even with his eyes stinging and swimming in fluid he refused to close them, staring at the altimeter needles’ relentless progress towards the zero mark. The discarded goggles battered his helmet, threatening to crack it open. His head pounded as he hurtled earthwards out of control, with a mask full of saliva which bubbled and frothed as he screamed.
He should have spent more time sorting out the spin to ensure a clean deployment, but panic had taken over. Maintaining an arched back with head up would have restored stability. He ripped the handle from its housing and pulled. Instead of the familiar opening shock, a vicious pain shot across his chest and arms, but the pressure on his eyes eased immediately. The chute had deployed, slowing him down, but rigging lines had been thrown around his body and over the canopy, preventing full development. Falling feet first with a bundle of washing above him, Ron fought for air. The pressure across his chest was immense, and with his arms securely locked to his body breathing was difficult. For the first time he stopped looking at his instruments and focused on the red handle of his reserve, which seemed a million miles away.
Different thoughts flashed through his mind and everything now seemed to be in slow motion. ‘Nobody really cares for me. No one is going to miss me. Not many people know what I’m doing or where I am. Now I’ve let my mates down. I am a failure.’
Light years of falling took in reality only seconds. One part of him was saying ‘ relax’ and promised comfort, while the other screamed for him to make the effort to reach the reserve handle. Survival instincts are strong, and the screaming won. With a determined effort, aided by adrenalin, he went for the handle. But every time he moved, more pressure was put on his chest, threatening to asphyxiate him and increasing the pain in his arms. He desperately wanted to get back on terra firma, but not this fast.
He was still gyrating, but at a slower rate, the bundle above him retarding his fall. The danger now was that, even if he reached the handle and deployed the reserve, it might become wrapped around him. The normal drill was to cut anything above you away, but he was effectively a prisoner in his own harness.
Sheer determination, engrained in him by his army training, paid off. A Houdini-type effort allowed his right arm to slip around and hook a finger into the reserve handle. As the reserve deployed it took a lot of pressure off his body, enabling him to move his arms and rip off the mask that threatened to suffocate him, allowing him to suck in great breaths of air. The reserve lazily tried to inflate but was hampered by the tangle of lift webs and rigging lines that entwined him. It certainly