Back at the hut, one bed without any kit on it… Oh, God! Not a casualty? He had been RTUd (returned to unit) – the instant fate of a jibber: one who could not bring himself to go out of the door. A collective silence was broken by a relieving snort from his former near neighbour. “Well! I’m glad it was that loud-mouthed bugger!” We endorsed that view. But not without sympathy, and perhaps even admiration at the courage required of such a tormenting decision – after all that arduous training. We marvelled incredulously too, at the extraordinary sensitivity of the Army in ensuring that he was off the premises before we returned: a very deliberate policy which we were to encounter again.
The cynicism which service life bred, however, alternatively suggested that the Army had the jibber’s feelings less in mind than the need to avoid contaminating the rest of us. Take your choice. Whatever one’s feelings in that minor drama, they could not compare with one’s attitude to a mass-jib of 18 volunteers (including three sergeants) who applied for and received their Return to Units from Nahariya before even transferring to the airfield at Ramat David! Something wrong with recruiting, or a persuasive barrack-room lawyer at work?
Free from duty, we went into Haifa for the rest of the day. Strangely enough there is no record of celebration but there are two probable reasons for that. With only one of seven jumps completed, it might have been tempting providence to congratulate ourselves too soon – after all they don’t bring out the champagne on the completion of the first lap of a Grand Prix. I think it likely that the risk of a hangover was not considered an ideal approach to our second jump next morning. There was also the more prosaic explanation – we were skint after our Christmas indulgence. Whatever the reason, the film The Man who Came to Dinner received our attention and it was a first rate show.
Tuesday 28 December dawned windier than the day before and with no hope of parachuting. We were, if you’ll pardon the expression, left in suspense. Wednesday morning was just as grim as the weather forecast, but with the promise of better things in the afternoon. This kept us in camp on standby with fruitful consequences in the afternoon – our second jump. Fast pairs from 1000 feet. I knew much more about this one. More aware of my exit; more certain that I did do things correctly on my first jump from instinctive execution of thoroughly instilled training practices. Arms tight by my sides, legs pressed together and a really forceful thrust away from the Hudson, that astonishing second of recumbrance in the slipstream, then again the uncanny, contrasting, library silence. Where did the noise go? I looked around and could neither see nor hear any trace of the plane. Very strange, but each of us experienced it. There was much more sensibility about coming down this time too. I was soon aware of a backward approach to the DZ, and had executed a complete reverse turn smiling the while in self-congratulation before my megaphone mentor could issue the instruction. I had another uneventful landing. That evening I finished the diary entry with “I’m really happy about this – enjoyed it immensely.”
The rain was belting down the next morning but apparently this, by itself, is no barrier to parachuting, so our early dismay at the likelihood of further postponement rapidly changed to unrestrained glee at the arrival of the trucks. We did two jumps that day – one immediately after the other – slow and fast fives from little under 1000 feet. The first was an appalling effort. Apart from a thunderclap wallop of a landing, on the a backward swing of an oscillation I had failed to correct (having missed the ground by a foot or two on the forward swing), I had already earned black marks for an earlier misdemeanour. Whilst in the plane, after Flight Sgt. Kent’s thorough inspection, I had surreptitiously released the press-stud fastening of my protective headgear to ease the tightness and the sweating. In the excitement of the collective venture of going out in a five-stick, I forgot to refasten it, with the consequence that it disappeared in an instant. I rightly incurred the wrath of the ground controller, who noticed it immediately and made no bones about telling me through the megaphone. The reprimand was continued on the ground and he was not amused by my replying that I was relieved to find that I had lost only my hat – at the time I felt sure it was my head which had been wrenched off! My stupidity, I recognised, could have had serious consequences – particularly with regard to my atrocious landing, with an unprotected head. With another set of parachutes we were in the air again for our fourth jump. Suitably chastised and subdued, I ensured that my behaviour was impeccable this time, but as luck would have it number four was the perfect jump anyway and totally incident free. Soaking wet, I experienced the carefree joy of a victorious Boat Race crew’s cox emerging from his ritual ducking.
Four done, three to come, the last of them to be a night jump. And tomorrow was New Year’s Eve… I didn’t sleep very well – not a noteworthy fact in itself – but I learned only later that statistics show that most jibbers make their momentous decision after their third or fourth jump, once the reality of what they have been doing had impressed itself more forcefully up on their minds and the time for a final decision was at hand. Jibbing had never entered my mind, yet I cannot explain that restless night unless it was excitement at the possibility of having the final jump on my birthday. New Year’s Day had fired my imagination and was driving my mind in rehearsing the composition of my proud letters home.
The morning’s conditions were not very favourable but it was decided to try, with eventual successful consequences. Jumps numbered five and six were completed in quick succession after much puzzling circling of the DZ without explanation from the crew or dispatcher. In the fifth, drifting took me a long, anxious way off target, landing me heavily on unyielding rocks – well outside the huge, more comfortable DZ field. Being in the middle of a ‘fast tens’ stick, it can be imagined that most of us were thus off course. Maybe, when one considered the odd antics of the oft-circling plane, the pilot had something to do with it. Whatever the explanation for my fifth jump’s traumas, number six was uneventful. Speculation about the night jump buzzed around when, on returning to the huts, we were confined to billets. It was a dreadful afternoon of waiting. We asked ourselves, wouldn’t it be extraordinary for anyone to make three descents in a single day? Apparently it would. Most extraordinary. Tenterhooks was putting it mildly. We could be in an elitist minority. We could be celebrating the New Year as it should be celebrated.
It really was a spontaneous cheer which erupted when, just before darkness fell, Flight Sgt. Kent burst in with “OK lads, it’s on!” We were in the truck almost before he had finished the sentence. It was pitch dark when the Hudson took off, after Kenty had explained that this was to be the jump which would most likely resemble the conditions of a night-time drop in enemy occupied territory. A fast stick of ten, keeping as closely together as possible and dropping from a mere 500 feet, demanded an immediate assessment of our descent progress from observation of the solitary flare on the DZ. We were to assemble together as soon as possible after landing by calling the number of our next mate in the stick, then report together to the ground controller. Whether it was from feelings of satisfaction at the imminent completion of the course (which would put another inch on my chest), or perhaps the total obscurity of danger in leaping into the darkness, I knew not – but I ejected myself from the doorway of the Hudson with extra physical vigour and zealous optimism.
It was a strange, lonely experience to be suspended above the earth, knowing that I could neither see a living soul nor be seen. I pondered that, if this had been my first jump, there would have been more justification for believing I was Heaven-bound. Where was the damned flare? It must be behind me… Yes, at the right rear… a turn’s necessary… got to feel for the webbing straps… got one, got two, now... Before I could apply any pressure at all I was down harmlessly. Five hundred feet does not allow for any dithering. Whether I landed forwards, backwards or sideways, I know not. I was safe for the reason that night jumps are invariably safer – because one’s tried and tested landing position is sustained throughout the descent. Daytime’s reaching for the earth tempts supple, bent legs towards vulnerable rigidity.
I collapsed my chute, calling at the same time at not much more than a whisper for No. 8. He acknowledged almost at the same