Open Writing

Now, the time has come for my first jump. This is it! Lined up alongside the Dakota, sixteen butterflies are flapping wildly inside sixteen, apprehensive stomachs. Superstition is allowed for.

"From the right, NUMBER!"

"1..2 11..12..12A..14."

"EMPLANE!"

I enter and hook the static line on top of my parachute pack to the static line in the aircraft and then sit down with the others on the long canvas seats running down the length of each side of the cabin. The engines are starting up, vibrating the plane. As senior rank in my 'stick', I am first out this time; next, by rotation, I'll be the last. The instructor shouts above the noise of the engines,

"Now, remember your drill, fellahs — you'll be OK. But also, if you do not want to jump, then pass to the tail of the plane. Don't hold up the others behind you waiting to jump. Good luck."

Two officers and three other ranks refused on our course. They disappeared immediately, posted out of the Airborne Forces. But if a fully trained paratrooper refuses to jump it is a Court Martial offence.

After nine jumps, one a night jump, we graduated and were entitled to wear the coveted blue parachute wings emblem on our right arm just below the shoulder. We also had a legitimate right to wear the famous red beret of the paratroops.

But now, my first jump is on. Our pilot is John Garstin, who was with me in Manor House at Tonbridge, but it gives me small comfort, even though he encouraged me by saying, "Don't worry, they usually open; if not, then you can always take it back and exchange it."

Slowly we start to move, taxi along, turn and then with throttles wide open, we gather speed and roar along the runway. Through the exit I see the ground drop away below. My stomach is tensed, my mouth feels dry, my hands are cold and clammy and I am breathing quickly.

'Aw, come on, Shun, pull yourself together, hell, you're supposed to be an officer...some bloody officer! Cheer up, you'll be getting an extra two shillings and sixpence a day, jump pay, when you finish.' I smile mirthlessly to myself.

Furtively, I breathe deeply and relax a little. 'After all,' I muse, 'If the other buggers can do it, then as sure as hell I can'.

I am ready for it and look at the others. One stares at the ceiling, another at the floor, another at nothing as though in a trance. Two others are cracking jokes and laughing, laughing just a little too much by the looks of them.

"Right. Line up," the instructor shouts. We stand and line up; I move up to the exit.

Tell off for equipment check," he yells above the roar of the engines. We check our harness attachments and static lines, then each of us checks the man next in line. The instructor moves down the line giving a double check. The butterflies start up again. The engines throttle down...the plane skids slower as the flaps descend...the red light comes on over the exit.

"Red light on! Stand to the door!" the instructor yells to me. I move up to the exit and wait, left hand on the padded door jamb, the other gripping the front of my trouser leg as the drill demands. Standing in the exit, the wind from the slipstream flaps the flesh of my cheeks.

I look out at the wing...the noise of the engines is deafening...I look down at the ground, 800 feet below. I am conscious of the instructor standing close and talking to me reassuringly. For someone the excitement is too much as an offensive smell seeps through the aircraft and exhausts past me through the exit. 'There, but for the grace of God, go I.' I half smile to myself. Suddenly the green light goes on above the exit.

The instructor smacks my shoulder. "GO!" he yells.

l step out into nothing, left hand whipping across to grip my right wrist as in the drill. For a split second I seem to be travelling straight out. The noise of the engines is now an overwhelming roar. The slipstream hits me, turning me towards the tail and whipping me sideways and rearwards. A brief view of the tailplane passing above me in a flash.

A jerk, and I am floating but spinning wildly. Twists! The spinning stops but recommences as the rigging lines unwind and start spinning back the other way. Frantically I apply the drill, grabbing the straps and pulling them wide apart. The lines unwind and stop with a 'twang’.

Looking at the horizon I see that I am oscillating. Gentle pull on the front straps and I steady. The plane is miles away. I can no longer even hear it.

It is so quiet, so peaceful and serene, while the view is magnificent.

The second jumper hurtles past, incorrectly pulling on the front straps, a worried look on his face. I look up at my canopy and grin, then look back and see the others floating down at different heights. A feeling of elation comes over me, but a loudspeaker bellows from the ground,

"WAKE UP, NUMBER ONE! YOUR SEAT BELT!" I slip out of it. I had forgotten all about the damned thing. But now the ground is rushing up towards me, faster and faster.

Hell, coming in backwards, I cross-pull a front and a back strap. That's better, now it's a forward approach. Here it comes. Turn the feet sideways to the line of drift, elbows in, chin on chest.

Watch it! With a heavy smack I hit the ground and roll successfully. The canopy, still filled by the wind, is blown along, dragging me with it. I slither and bump along the ground on my stomach. Still grabbing the straps I manage to twist onto my back. Quickly I smack the release catch on my chest. The harness drops off and the canopy collapses.

I stand up, filled with elation, and say out loud, "My God! That was wonderful, bloody wonderful! Can't wait for the next one." I gather up the parachute and the harness and, slinging them over my shoulder, stride off to the distant canteen-wagon.

More jumps followed from Dakotas and Halifaxes, some more advanced, with a large kitbag attached to the leg. Pulling a release pin, the bag dropped away, attached to the harness by a long rope. Swaying below me it hit the ground first, which caused the canopy to 'breathe', giving me a softer landing.

In my second jump, by rotation it was my turn to be last. I was held up by the slowness of those in front and came in for my landing right at the end of the Dropping Zone. I could see that I was going to land in the middle of a flock of sheep and I started yelling as I came in to land. Somehow I missed them as they scattered in all directions, but I did not miss their droppings.

It was a long way back to the canteen-wagon, accompanied by the strong smell of sheeps' turd. The rest of the squad refused to believe my story and were convinced that I had suffered an appalling mishap, of calamitous proportions, in my denim trousers.

On another occasion an RAF officer, trying to make it with the girls in the WAAF, took them out to the Dropping Zone to see us jump. Once again, I headed in towards a flock, this time of WAAFs. Like the sheep, they scattered in panic. It was a miracle that I did not hit anybody. I tried hard enough to land on top of one for a soft landing, but without success.

On a few memorably successful occasions, a girl or two, maybe, had yelped because of me, but never before had I been the occasion to generate such screams from so many girls at once.
I was flattered. It ended happily, for there were no droppings to land in.

The course was a wonderful experience and the RAF parachute instructors were first class. My instructor had completed 365 jumps, after which he no longer bothered to count them. Our nine jumps looked pretty small in comparison, although more came later.

We had graduated, and on a parade were presented with a certificate and our blue parachute wings emblem. My paratrooper's red beret, however, carried the cap badge of the Welsh Guards, ‘The Leek', for I was seconded to the Airborne Forces and not a member of the Parachute Regiment.

Although our training jumps were from 800 feet, the usual operational jumps were from about 600 feet. The less time in the air the better, for one was very vulnerable. Once, from our jumps at 800 feet, I timed it: from jump to ground took just 35 seconds.