all sung to the tune of the Battle Hymn of the Republic.
The song continues through an endless series of verses with what happens to this hapless young trooper. It isn’t pretty. His static line fails, his chute fails, his reserve chute fails, the risers (the ropes he’s hanging from) strangle him, he breaks every bone in his body, blood gushes everywhere — “And he ain’t gonna jump no more!” You learn this song very early in jump training. It is a harbinger of things to come.
Jump school is deceptively easy, but before you can earn the coveted jump wings and get to die for God and country, you have to make it through. It’s only three weeks long, and for all the students who figure they just made it through eight weeks of basic and another eleven of advanced training, so what the hell is the problem with another three, they have another think coming. Jumping out of an airplane is a brutally Darwinian process. Jump school is very, very tough.
Your first week is all about physical fitness. You run and work out and do pushups and pull ups and take all sorts of physical tests. If you don’t pass by the end of the week, you are history. They don’t hold you back until you get it right. They send you home, and you have to apply a second time.
The second week they teach you how to actually jump out of an airplane and how to put on a parachute. It’s Tower Week and there are all sorts of interesting ways to bust your ass while wearing a rig to simulate jumping. They actually have a bunch of jump towers they bought from the ’39 World’s Fair and transported to the ass end of Georgia to train guys before World War II.
The third week is when you actually jump out of airplanes. The requirement is to do four daylight jumps and one nighttime jump. The first two jumps are what they call ‘Hollywood’ jumps, where you jump with nothing but your two chutes. The next two jumps are combat jumps, loaded with everything the well armed killing machine needs to inflict mayhem and destruction on others. The final jump we do in the middle of the night, and it’s a combat jump as well.
You flunk any single part of this and you are history. You break an ankle on the fourth jump, they send you home and you have to do it all over again someday, from the start. There are stories of guys who do their final jumps with sprained joints and broken bones, just to get through. I guess that’s a good idea. If I had to do this for real, with real bad guys at the other end of the jump, maybe I’d want to be surrounded by guys that crazy!
This was why I had been working out so hard all year. I had to pass the various tests. It takes a phenomenal amount of strength, both upper body and leg, to do this. You’re wearing a set of chutes that weighs maybe 50 pounds, and you’ve probably got a combat load of another 75 pounds, or more. It is not unheard of for troopers to jump carrying their own weight in gear. Doing this and not killing yourself in the process takes strength!
Going through as an officer candidate gets you no special treatment. Real officers have their own quarters; officer candidates bunk with the enlisted guys in the barracks. It was just like being back in basic, with drill instructors telling you to “DROP AND GIVE ME TWENTY!” at the drop of a hat. I understand that officers are ‘counseled’ ahead of time to keep their mouths shut when a sergeant starts giving them orders. The sergeants know who the officers are, of course, and they make their orders polite — “IS THE CAPTAIN AWARE THAT HE MOVES LIKE A RUPTURED DUCK? PERHAPS HE WOULD UNDERSTAND BETTER IF HE WOULD DROP AND GIVE ME TWENTY!”
Looking like a ruptured duck, whatever the fuck that is, is a cardinal sin, and damn near got my ass kicked out. It would seem that I am singularly graceless in my movements out of the airplane, floating to earth, and landing safely. I was allowed to pass because I didn’t actually break anything or die. My night combat drop I sprained my right knee, but one of the guys in the barracks wrapped it tight and I just gritted my teeth and moved through it. There were a lot of us looking battered and bruised by the end of the class. We all smelled like we worked at a Bengay factory.
We had a final parade on the last day, and you could get pictures of yourself looking heroic with your new jump wings. You actually get your jump wings the night before, during the ‘Punch’ ceremony. The wings are held to your uniform by a pair of pins. During the punch ceremony, they take the caps off the pins and ‘punch’ them into your chest. Ouch! I ordered two sets of pictures, one for my mother and one for me. Now I simply had to go visit Marilyn and get my life back.
I called Harriet again and discovered Marilyn had already moved out. She had gone to Plattsburgh early, and moved into an apartment with her Aunt Lynette. I would have to track her down there. She gave me the address and wished me luck, telling me that Marilyn was miserable. I apologized and promised to make things right.
I flew back to Albany, by way of Chicago, and then picked up my car. I wasn’t even in civvies, but had flown back wearing my dress uniform. I didn’t bother heading over to Kegs to dump my crap off, but got on the Northway and headed north.
Lynette lived in a one bedroom apartment that was the second floor of a Cape Cod home. Marilyn used a hide-a-bed in the living room. Lynette was actually Big Bob’s baby sister, and was only about ten years older than Marilyn. They were known to go out together on Saint Patrick’s Day and close out the bars, just one of the reasons I had disputed her rating of Plattsburgh’s academic standards. I climbed the stairs and knocked on the door.
The door opened and Lynette looked out at me. “Is she here?” I asked. I was prepared to go back downstairs and sleep in the car until she came home.
Lynette smiled at me. “Come on in.” She stepped back and as I entered the apartment, she turned and called out, “Look, Marilyn, you have a guest.”
Marilyn came out of the kitchen and turned white as a ghost. She looked like she had lost a few pounds. She came to a dead stop and stared at me.
I came closer. It was time for the big dramatic gesture. I was going to need one. She had been ducking me for over a month already. Previously I had to wait six whole fucking months for her to get over her mad at me. No way was I going to wait that long. What if she never got over her mad? I got the overall impression she was a lot more pissed at me now than before.
I dropped to my knees in front of her. “I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I’m sorry.”
Marilyn simply stared at me. My original plan had been that she would drop to her knees in front of me, instantly proclaim how sorry she was for overreacting, and we would embrace and kiss and hug and make wild monkey love on the floor of the apartment. Marilyn didn’t drop to her knees however. She stared some more and then asked, “What are you doing?”
Wasn’t it obvious? No, I didn’t say that. I thought it, but I didn’t say it. I was already in enough trouble. “I am begging forgiveness. Please, I’m sorry.”
“Well, get up, for God’s sake! You look ridiculous down there!”
Oh, shit, but this wasn’t working out. If she had a secret plan to make me look like an idiot, it was working to perfection. At least she hadn’t thrown me out. I got to my feet and glanced over at Lynette to see if she had any hints for me. She had a smile on her face, but was covering it with a hand. I looked back at Marilyn. “Uh, can we talk?”
“You’re such an asshole!” she yelled at me.
I nodded. “Yeah, I know. That’s why I’m here.”
She just muttered, “You asshole!” She threw up her hands and tossed the dishtowel she was holding back in the kitchen. Then she went to the closet and reached in to grab her jacket. “Come on, asshole, let’s take a walk.” She stormed out of the apartment, and I quickly jumped after her.