Yet as highly qualified and motivated as the Polish legionnaire was, he was never able to overcome a painful fear of heights. No matter how hard he tried or how many hours of free fall he logged, Sergeant-Chef Stanislaus Dombrowski's stomach always became roiled whenever the prospect of a jump loomed before him. And as if this were not bad enough, every member of his team knew it. As men of this type tend to do, they never let him live it down. Even now, as the French Air Force Transall C-160 climbed to altitude, his compatriots were conspiring against him. Seated next to the open door, the jump master for the team, Adjutant Hector Allons, leaned over and yelled out above the roar of air rushing into the Transalclass="underline" "Franz, did you remember to bring plenty of barf bags for Stanislaus?"
Corporal Franz Ingelmann leaned forward and looked down the row of jumpers at the jump master. "Mon Dieu! I have forgotten them, again!'
"Damn you, man!" Allons thundered. "How could you? Have you already forgotten how slippery it can get when the good Sergeant-Chef Stanislaus Dombrowski deposits his breakfast on the deck?"
Feigning panic, Ingelmann tore the helmet from his head and offered it up to the adjutant. "Here, use this. I really don't mind."
Since he was seated between the two men yelling back and forth to each other, Dombrowski heard everything. He was, as he usually was at times like this, less than amused. Slowly turning his head, he mustered up the best killing stare he could manage under the circumstances and glared at Ingelmann. "Fuck you both," the Polish NCO groaned. "You can take that helmet of yours and shove it up your ass."
Sporting a puzzled look, Ingelmann came back at Dombrowski without missing a beat. "I do not see what good that would do either of us. Sergeant. I'm not having any problem keeping my bodily fluids contained, while it is obvious that you are on the verge of spewing."
In no mood to entertain his fellow team members by joining into the little play Allons and Ingelmann were staging, Dombrowski settled back in his seat, muttering a halfhearted, "Fuck you." Once he was as comfortable as his condition and his equipment permitted, he closed his eyes and began to pray that Allons would soon stand up and start issuing the commands that would bring his misery to an end.
How long it took before that moment came was hard for Dombrowski to judge. Forced to concentrate his entire attention on keeping himself together, he was unable to gauge the passing of time with any degree of accuracy. Rather than concern himself with what was going on about him, he was tightly focused on his struggle to preserve his dignity. So it wasn't until Ingelmann poked him in the side that Dombrowski opened his eyes. Towering over him, the Austrian legionnaire was grinning. "Do you plan on joining us, Sergeant Chef? Or would you prefer that we instruct the pilot to make another pass over the drop zone when you are feeling more yourself?"
Though he was still in considerable distress, Dombrowski managed a cutting glare in response to the young Austrian's snide comment. This only caused Ingelmann's devilish grin to broaden. "Just asking."
Having made the trip this far without losing his composure or the contents of his stomach, Dombrowski took his time as he pulled himself up off the nylon jump seat to take his position in the line of paratroopers, known as a "stick." As he did so, no one offered their suffering comrade a hand. While the Legion is a brotherhood that commands a loyalty among its members that makes most blood kinship pale in comparison, there are certain rules and limits. One of the rules that has been a part of the Legion since its inception trumps all. That code demands that each and every legionnaire pull his own weight. It was essential, especially among parachutists, that every member of the unit be able to keep up and execute his assigned duties without fail. Only by doing so could the survival and success of the unit, whether it be a battalion or a small ten-man team, be assured. While it has been noble in Western literature to extol the virtue of honoring the sacrifice of the many for the good of the one, in combat, both leaders and soldiers must be as analytical and dispassionate as a mathematician. For combat abides by its own cruel form of arithmetic. Whether it is expressed by the amount of explosives required to achieve a desired degree of destruction, or in computing how much firepower will be needed to destroy an enemy unit, hard logic rules.
Dombrowski understood this. While legionnaires are indoctrinated to never abandon a wounded or dead comrade, the Pole knew that two men, or even one, could not be subtracted from the small unit's remaining complement of nine to care for one who was in distress. Ingelmann was not being unkind by refusing to offer a hand to his ailing friend. Rather, he was doing Dombrowski a favor. A soldier in a highly specialized unit such as CRAP who cannot keep up after being inserted deep behind enemy lines can be a lethal liability to all, as well as to the mission. To these highly trained professionals, it is duly, and not the man, that is everything. For the same code of honor that commanded them never to turn their backs on a fallen legionnaire also bound them to accomplish their assigned mission to its conclusion, regardless of the cost.
Mustering all his strength, the Polish NCO managed to take his place in the slick. Once on his feet, he shifted his equipment about so that everything would be where it needed to be when the long nylon cords of his deploying parachute snapped taut and brought his two-hundred-kilometers-per-hour free-fall plunge to an abrupt end. Only at that moment, when his body was jerked upright by a blossoming canopy, would Sergeant-Chef Stanislaus Dombrowski be free from his misery and able to turn his mind to the mission at hand.
He was in the process of yanking a strap on his harness back onto his shoulder to where it should have been when the shrill sound of the buzzer alerted him that it was time to go. Even before he looked away from his harness, his feet were in motion, moving along the swaying aluminum floor of the transport in rhythm with the other nine members of his team. Dombrowski could feel Ingelmann behind him, pushing him toward the door, just as he was doing to the man in front of him.
Exiting an aircraft as the member of a stick of paratroopers was always a blur for Stanislaus Dombrowski. So much was happening in a very confined space, in such a short period of time, that it was hard to take notice of any single image or event. This frenzied and confusing burst of activity was compounded by a rush of sensations, from the shock of facing the cold, stiff blast of air that came howling through the open door, to the feeling of being shoved from behind by a comrade as he moved along the heaving deck under his feet. As Dombrowski approached the door, the shouts of the jump master repeating his command, "Go! Go! Go!" mingled with the steady drone of the aircraft's engines, the annoying blare of the buzzer, and the screeching wind. All this served to heighten the Polish legionnaire's excitement, already brought to a feverish pitch by the flow of adrenaline coursing through his veins.