On a
particular jump in Utah, at a drop zone called the Turkey Farms, about forty
miles south of Salt Lake City, our unit, along with others from around the
state, were scheduled for an afternoon drop in clear weather. The
aircraft being used for this exercise were the C-119s – the Flying Boxcars.
Our
assembly point for this drop was an aircraft hangar at the old Salt Lake
Airport adjacent to the newer Salt Lake International Airport. At some
time in the past, the older facility had been the main airport for Salt Lake
City, but now was just an auxiliary airport for civilians and occasional
military aircraft.
With our
main chutes strapped onto our backs, much like one carries a backpack, and our
reserve chutes strapped to our chests, forty-eight of us waddled out to our
waiting aircraft sitting on the tarmac. There were four aircraft making
the flight to the drop zone today, and each plane had a full allotment of
forty-eight troopers.
We
climbed up a series of steps to enter the aircraft and took our seats on either
side of the plane – twenty-four troopers to a side. Each side of
twenty-four was further separated into two halves, each half being called a
stick, with a total of twelve troopers to a stick. When it came time to
stand in the door preparing to jump, one stick, from either side of the
aircraft, would stand up, attach their static line to an overhead cable and
shuffle to the door, waiting for the green light, which was the signal to go.
After the first drop, the plane would make another pass over the drop
zone and the remaining two sticks will repeat the maneuvers of the first two
sticks and leap from the airplane.
After
taking my seat in the aircraft, which was nothing more than interwoven nylon
webbing strung between two aluminum bars, I glanced around at the men who are
jumping with me. Some were staring into space, others had their hands
folded across their reserve chutes, fingers interlaced, and several had their
eyes closed. I looked to see if any were nervous; if they were, they didn’t show it, or at least
I didn’t recognize the signs. In the stick of twelve troopers facing me,
on the other side of the aircraft, were several newly minted 2nd
Lieutenants.
The
engines of the C-119 came to life; they sputtered, popped, and backfired, and
all the while black smoke belched from underneath their metal cowlings.
With the engines throbbing, the pilot feathered the angle of the props
for maximum speed and taxied to the runway.
Flying is
an interesting phenomenon. When air moves over a curved surface, such as
a wing, it causes a difference in air pressure that virtually sucks the wing
upwards. Air has to move over the wing surface at just the right speed to
cause the lift, but once that speed is reached, there’s no holding the plane on
the ground; it has to fly.
With the
engines roaring, the plane taxied down the runway, gained speed, then ever so
gently lifted off the tarmac and we were airborne. The flight to the drop
zone was no more than a half hour. With the noise of the engines
reverberating within the hollow shell of the fuselage, there was no way to
communicate with a neighbor, and nobody wanted to anyway; we were all absorbed
in our own thoughts.
I was in
the first stick, right side of the plane looking towards the rear of the
aircraft. As the plane approached the drop zone, the jumpmaster opened
the two side doors of the aircraft. Now with the doors opened, the engine noise
inside the belly of the plane intensified, making all verbal communication
impossible.
The C-119, affectionately known as the Flying Boxcar
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