Green Light

GREEN LIGHT

“SIX MINUTES!” I shout over the whine of the C-27 aircraft, holding up six fingers to the jumpers in seats on either side of the aircraft interior. Faces illuminated by dim green lights stare back at me, echoing the command.

“GET READY” I shout, signaling the jumpers in the aircraft by hand and arm signals. The muffled response comes out as seatbelts are undone. I look over to the assistant jumpmaster, or AJ, and we nod to each other – a silent agreement to continue.

“STARBOARD PERSONNEL, STAND UP!” The jumpers groan and shift, leaning forward on their combat equipment and standing up with the average combined weight of 130 pounds between equipment and parachute. They shuffle and nudge into a general semblance of a line facing me and I nod to the AJ as we call for the port side personnel to stand. The process is repeated, yielding two dozen men and women facing us, prepared to jump out of an ostensibly functioning aircraft.

“HOOK. UP.” I shout as I pantomime the action of hooking up the static lines to the anchor-line cable in the aircraft. I hear clicks and clacks, the occasional cursing. I wait five seconds and then, in unison with the AJ, call for jumpers to check static lines. I see the forward safety scurrying between jumpers, adjusting hands below the double-stitched portion or rerouting static lines over shoulders. I never liked being the forward safety and the occasional slap on the helmet and muttered curse tells me he doesn’t either.

“CHECK EQUIPMENT” I shout as the AJ and I sweep ours in and out in a flapping motion. I hear “Ok” coming from each jumper in turn until it reaches the front jumper.

“ALL OK, JUMPMASTER!” the first jumper, a young Sergeant, shouts. He holds out his left hand at me. I slap it away and I turn to my rear safety. He hands me my own static line and I double check my chin strap and my own equipment.

“ARMY, YOUR DOOR” shouts the loadmaster in the rear of the aircraft, holding one hand to his radio headset as the pilots speak to him. I return my static line to the safety and move towards the door. I see my AJ doing the same on the other side of the aircraft. I reach up and trace the metal edge of the door, feeling for burrs or sharp edges. Feeling none, I grasp both sides and press down on the plate outside the aircraft before leaning my body forward outside the aircraft. The wind rushes back at above 100 miles an hour and I understand why dogs love to stick their heads out car windows. I look forward and rear, out and down. With no visible obstacles or aircraft below us, I look back towards my AJ, nod, and shout “ONE MINUTE” to the standing jumpers who each in turn hold up one finger in response.

              I lean out again, observing and scanning for hazards in the dark, though unless the hazard was illuminated it would be hard to catch in seconds in the moonlight. I see the lake that indicates we are 30 seconds out slip past the wing and lean back in. Holding up my hand as if I am holding an invisible object about one inch in size, I shout “30 SECONDS”. I lean back inside the aircraft and shout “STAND BY”. That one phrase brings 30 sets of eyes onto the glowing red aircraft caution light. The first jumper shuffles forward, the rear safety secures his static line and pulls it back where it will be safe. I maneuver the jumper to be in front of the door, my eyes never leaving the aircraft light. I see the loadmaster hold up five fingers.

Four. I’m about to jump out of an aircraft.

Three. Why?

Two. Is the $150 a month really worth this?

One. He points to me. Shit. Here we go.

The light turns green.

“GREEN LIGHT, GO!” I shout and the young man takes one step then leaps into the blackness. The man behind is right there passing his static line in front of me to the rear safety who rakes it behind him with ease. He exits, followed by another and another until finally a jumper is coming up shouting that he is the last man. He exits and I lean forward and clear to the rear to ensure that none of the jumpers have become towed by the aircraft and look back at the AJ who is already exiting jumpers from his door. His last jumper exits and he also clears his door. We give each other a thumbs-up and he exits followed by myself.

I feel myself falling into darkness and away from the aircraft. The sounds of the aircraft pass me by in seconds, plunging me into a silence that sharply contrasted the rest of the night. The sharp opening shock alerts me to the parachute deployment and I look around in the moonlight. With my parachute open, I slowly descend. I breathe a sigh of relief and pull my left toggle until I am facing into the wind. The descent takes seconds though it seems to take forever. I am finally near the level of the trees and I lower my pack, feeling it gently tug on my parachute harness. I fiddle with my parachute toggles to be facing just the right direction to make the landing as soft as possible. The ground nears and I squeeze my feet and knees tightly together and prepare to land. After years of doing this and dozens of jumps, one would assume I am good at this landing part. That assumption would be wrong.

My feet touch the ground and I pull my elbows to my side, lest I injure my shoulders or arms, and mentally plan to curve my body and smoothly land. In reality, after tucking my elbows in, I feel my body and legs crumple to the ground. Breathing hard, I release one of my parachute risers and watch it deflate and check my appendages for broken things. Thankfully I seem uninjured. I lie there, thankful that I’ll be fine and equally thankful this was just a training jump and that nobody will hear me as I groan and say “Owwwwww.”