Para (II)
The first jump out of a flying aircraft is something of a frontier that must be crossed mentally several times before it can be attempted physically. Monday, February 6 2006, was too windy. The mild weather that had oppressed the wintery spirit of January had evaporated, allowing fierce winds to harrass the open sky and the now bare, re-frozen ground. Dropzone Hodgson, named after a former chief warrant officer of the now disbanded Canadian Airborne Regiment, was frozen solid. Deep puddles of water lay in wait of the unsuspecting paratroopers, crusted over with a layer of solid ice. The fiercer winds had retreated, and had left behind a fine, crystal clear Tuesday for jumping to commence.
The day began with a series of 5 chin-ups at the entrance to the Canadian Parachute Centre, which each candidate did in heavy winter clothing and some with large backpacks on their backs. We filed into the equipment lockers to get our helmets and do last minute preparations for the jump. The course was then called to form in two ranks with all of our equipment in front of us and ready to go. In keeping with the progressive spirit of instruction, the first jump would be "bareass", or without equipment. The term bareass should not be taken literally, but rather as a form of military jargon.
One by one, the senior jumpmaster called the names of the jumpers in his lift. He lined us up in two ranks, and ran us through the riggers’ locker to pick up our main parachutes and our reserve parachutes. Beginning methodically and sequentially, we dressed each other in the parachutes. Each man ensured that his partner was well fitted into his harness, that there were no straps loose or undone and that the reserve was well-fastened. Slowly, the student riggers, supervised by senior riggers, passed by to inspect individually every harness and parachute. This takes time even for senior riggers who know what they are doing. They literally check everything that could possibly go wrong on the whole system before giving you the thumbs up. Following this is the jumpmaster’s check. The jumpmaster checks virtually all the features of the harness to ensure that it is well fitted. He looks you in the eye and asks you how you are doing. If it is your first jump, you lie, and you say that you are doing great.
We are a lucky course. Most of the recent courses haven’t been able to jump out of the C-130 Hercules aircraft. Due to lack of availability, they have been forced to jump from the CASA 212, a small civilian aircraft which is rented by DND to replace the Hercules when it is unavailable.
In the Hercules, you can jump out of the side doors, starboard and port, or you can jump out the ramp. The door jump is more efficient, because both sides of the aircraft can jump all at once, so 2 jumpers are jumping at all times. During a ramp jump, only one side of the aircraft can jump at a given time, so it takes twice as long to jump everyone. Being the efficient animals we were, we did door jumps both times that we went up in the Hercules. Door jumps can be slightly dangerous, because there is always a chance that the two jumpers will fall under the aircraft and bump into each other mid-air. This happens on occasion, and calls for quick-wits on everyone’s part. Jumping out the door for the first time in my life, I was determined to get a good jab. The jab is the technique for leaving the aircraft. You kick with one foot out the door, curl your chin into your chest, keep your feet tight together, and put your hands on the side of your reserve chute. Well done, this technique prevents a whole host of problems. Poorly done, well, there is no limit to the bad things that can happen when this technique is poorly done. I had no idea how I was going to face the moment of truth. Bent over myself, suffering from an extremely tight harness, sweating from the internal heat of the aircraft, and nauseous from the sway of the aircraft, I underwent possibly some of the most uncomfortable moments of my life. This feeling had the fortuitous side-effect of producing in me a sincere desire to get off that plane as quickly as possible. In this case, the quickest way off the plane was to jump out the door behind all the rest of the gang who were in my exact predicament. As the jumpmasters walked up and down the line inspecting, they looked at our misery. And without a shred of sympathy, as men who had been there countless times before, the senior jumpmaster asked us "WHO ARE WE?". We shouted as best we could through the discomfort and subdued panic "AIRBORNE!". He repeated "WHO ARE WE?". In unison, and mostly convinced, the temporary passengers responded "AIRBORNE!" with a slight bit more of conviction. He seemed satisfied. "HOW FAR?" he shouted this time. "ALL THE WAY!" we responded. It was at times like this where I forcibly reminded me how badly I had wanted to go on this course over the past several years, and how hard I had worked to get on the course this time around. Competing in physical competitions, doing a pre-para selection course, and undergoing the 2 weeks of airborne training here in Trenton, these 5 real jumps were the culmination of a lot patience and effort.
My first jump went relatively well. My weak jab out of the aircraft forced me into a spin that caused twists in the suspension lines of my parachute. Also my head was trapped forward by the two risers leading up to the canopy. After my canopy opened, I recalled my twist drill that we had learned in ground training. I firmly grasped the two risers overhead and forced my head between the risers. I then pulled outwards and began kicking with my feet to gain momentum and undo the twist in my suspension lines. I quickly undid the twists and began preparing to land, looking around to make sure that I wasn’t heading into any other jumpers. I realized, far too late, that my harness was not tight enough. I resolved that next time, I would tighten my harness for all it was worth. The light wind was pushing me backwards, and the ground was approaching quickly at a rate of 15 feet per second. I turned my feet to the right, pointed my toes, and prepared to land using the side of the body, the ass and the back in a roll. I managed to land fairly well and not break anything, or even hit my head for that matter. But every landing hurts at least a little bit. Some jumpers may love the jump, but every newbie jumper hates the landing. However, landings were just about to become far more complicated when we started jumping with our rucksacks, weapons, and snowshoes. The Hollywood veneer of how cool airborne is was quickly wearing off.
One soldier, who had struggled with landings since the beginning of training, had assumed that the real landings might be easier. He had barely passed the landing tests in the controlled environment of the practice landings. After his first jump, he quickly realized that the real landings were in fact much more brutal than the practice landings. The only safe way to land was using the exact technique, which he had not yet mastered. Partly due to a twisted ankle, and partly due to a newfound realization that he was in over his head, he quickly declared that he was not jumping again and took himself out of the jumps. A hard decision to make, but probably very wise. He was definitely a broken bone, if not worse, waiting to happen.
By evening on the first day of jumping, everyone was moving slowly, moaning a lot, and applying ice. Many were taking pills, from Ibuprofen to Robaxacet, to relieve pain and swelling. One soldier went to hospital after failing to release his equipment in the air and taking a bad landing. A few others failed to release their equipment in the air yet managed to have "safe" yet painful landings.
My fifth and final jump was an experience of a lifetime. With full equipement, we were to do our first night jump. Jumping into the darkness is quite an experience, but landing in the darkness is anything but easy. With virtually no wind, I fell hard to the ground. Leaning hard to the side to brace for the percussion, I took the fall like a baby in a crib. Finally, a good landing. Finally done the course. We regrouped at the entrance to the Drop Zone, told some war stories, and congratulated each other. Getting my wings pinned to my chest was fun. The officer commanding the training company congratulated all of us and welcomed us to the Airborne family.
Too bad the airborne static line jump is no longer a cutting edge strategic capability. Did I do all of this just for a wicked maroon T-shirt and a shiny badge, or "bling" as Simone would call it? It is about the jump, the thrill.... But I'm afraid it might also be about the bling. They should create a wicked T-shirt and a shiny badge for people who don't want to jump out of airplanes. I think that would maybe lessen the bling factor in the airborne community.
The day began with a series of 5 chin-ups at the entrance to the Canadian Parachute Centre, which each candidate did in heavy winter clothing and some with large backpacks on their backs. We filed into the equipment lockers to get our helmets and do last minute preparations for the jump. The course was then called to form in two ranks with all of our equipment in front of us and ready to go. In keeping with the progressive spirit of instruction, the first jump would be "bareass", or without equipment. The term bareass should not be taken literally, but rather as a form of military jargon.
One by one, the senior jumpmaster called the names of the jumpers in his lift. He lined us up in two ranks, and ran us through the riggers’ locker to pick up our main parachutes and our reserve parachutes. Beginning methodically and sequentially, we dressed each other in the parachutes. Each man ensured that his partner was well fitted into his harness, that there were no straps loose or undone and that the reserve was well-fastened. Slowly, the student riggers, supervised by senior riggers, passed by to inspect individually every harness and parachute. This takes time even for senior riggers who know what they are doing. They literally check everything that could possibly go wrong on the whole system before giving you the thumbs up. Following this is the jumpmaster’s check. The jumpmaster checks virtually all the features of the harness to ensure that it is well fitted. He looks you in the eye and asks you how you are doing. If it is your first jump, you lie, and you say that you are doing great.
We are a lucky course. Most of the recent courses haven’t been able to jump out of the C-130 Hercules aircraft. Due to lack of availability, they have been forced to jump from the CASA 212, a small civilian aircraft which is rented by DND to replace the Hercules when it is unavailable.
In the Hercules, you can jump out of the side doors, starboard and port, or you can jump out the ramp. The door jump is more efficient, because both sides of the aircraft can jump all at once, so 2 jumpers are jumping at all times. During a ramp jump, only one side of the aircraft can jump at a given time, so it takes twice as long to jump everyone. Being the efficient animals we were, we did door jumps both times that we went up in the Hercules. Door jumps can be slightly dangerous, because there is always a chance that the two jumpers will fall under the aircraft and bump into each other mid-air. This happens on occasion, and calls for quick-wits on everyone’s part. Jumping out the door for the first time in my life, I was determined to get a good jab. The jab is the technique for leaving the aircraft. You kick with one foot out the door, curl your chin into your chest, keep your feet tight together, and put your hands on the side of your reserve chute. Well done, this technique prevents a whole host of problems. Poorly done, well, there is no limit to the bad things that can happen when this technique is poorly done. I had no idea how I was going to face the moment of truth. Bent over myself, suffering from an extremely tight harness, sweating from the internal heat of the aircraft, and nauseous from the sway of the aircraft, I underwent possibly some of the most uncomfortable moments of my life. This feeling had the fortuitous side-effect of producing in me a sincere desire to get off that plane as quickly as possible. In this case, the quickest way off the plane was to jump out the door behind all the rest of the gang who were in my exact predicament. As the jumpmasters walked up and down the line inspecting, they looked at our misery. And without a shred of sympathy, as men who had been there countless times before, the senior jumpmaster asked us "WHO ARE WE?". We shouted as best we could through the discomfort and subdued panic "AIRBORNE!". He repeated "WHO ARE WE?". In unison, and mostly convinced, the temporary passengers responded "AIRBORNE!" with a slight bit more of conviction. He seemed satisfied. "HOW FAR?" he shouted this time. "ALL THE WAY!" we responded. It was at times like this where I forcibly reminded me how badly I had wanted to go on this course over the past several years, and how hard I had worked to get on the course this time around. Competing in physical competitions, doing a pre-para selection course, and undergoing the 2 weeks of airborne training here in Trenton, these 5 real jumps were the culmination of a lot patience and effort.
My first jump went relatively well. My weak jab out of the aircraft forced me into a spin that caused twists in the suspension lines of my parachute. Also my head was trapped forward by the two risers leading up to the canopy. After my canopy opened, I recalled my twist drill that we had learned in ground training. I firmly grasped the two risers overhead and forced my head between the risers. I then pulled outwards and began kicking with my feet to gain momentum and undo the twist in my suspension lines. I quickly undid the twists and began preparing to land, looking around to make sure that I wasn’t heading into any other jumpers. I realized, far too late, that my harness was not tight enough. I resolved that next time, I would tighten my harness for all it was worth. The light wind was pushing me backwards, and the ground was approaching quickly at a rate of 15 feet per second. I turned my feet to the right, pointed my toes, and prepared to land using the side of the body, the ass and the back in a roll. I managed to land fairly well and not break anything, or even hit my head for that matter. But every landing hurts at least a little bit. Some jumpers may love the jump, but every newbie jumper hates the landing. However, landings were just about to become far more complicated when we started jumping with our rucksacks, weapons, and snowshoes. The Hollywood veneer of how cool airborne is was quickly wearing off.
One soldier, who had struggled with landings since the beginning of training, had assumed that the real landings might be easier. He had barely passed the landing tests in the controlled environment of the practice landings. After his first jump, he quickly realized that the real landings were in fact much more brutal than the practice landings. The only safe way to land was using the exact technique, which he had not yet mastered. Partly due to a twisted ankle, and partly due to a newfound realization that he was in over his head, he quickly declared that he was not jumping again and took himself out of the jumps. A hard decision to make, but probably very wise. He was definitely a broken bone, if not worse, waiting to happen.
By evening on the first day of jumping, everyone was moving slowly, moaning a lot, and applying ice. Many were taking pills, from Ibuprofen to Robaxacet, to relieve pain and swelling. One soldier went to hospital after failing to release his equipment in the air and taking a bad landing. A few others failed to release their equipment in the air yet managed to have "safe" yet painful landings.
My fifth and final jump was an experience of a lifetime. With full equipement, we were to do our first night jump. Jumping into the darkness is quite an experience, but landing in the darkness is anything but easy. With virtually no wind, I fell hard to the ground. Leaning hard to the side to brace for the percussion, I took the fall like a baby in a crib. Finally, a good landing. Finally done the course. We regrouped at the entrance to the Drop Zone, told some war stories, and congratulated each other. Getting my wings pinned to my chest was fun. The officer commanding the training company congratulated all of us and welcomed us to the Airborne family.
Too bad the airborne static line jump is no longer a cutting edge strategic capability. Did I do all of this just for a wicked maroon T-shirt and a shiny badge, or "bling" as Simone would call it? It is about the jump, the thrill.... But I'm afraid it might also be about the bling. They should create a wicked T-shirt and a shiny badge for people who don't want to jump out of airplanes. I think that would maybe lessen the bling factor in the airborne community.
posted by Lt Smash at 6:24 PM
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