The Perfect
Peach
It is known as
the Airborne Shuffle. A quick, robotic like stomp a paratrooper does as he
shuffles down the fuselage of an Air Force C-130 cargo plane. With a parachute
on his back, the soldier sits on the bench made of extra cargo netting. One
hand is covering the reserve handle - to ensure nothing snags it; - the other
is grasping his static line, a thirty-foot cord attached to the parachute, with
a hook fastened at the other end.
Waiting
on the inevitable, and hoping the parachute rigger did not make a mistake, he
hears those fateful words.
“Stand
up!” The soldier’s heart is not racing,
his heart is still.
“Hook
up!” the jumpmaster yells from the rear of the plane, wearing his signature
black baseball cap with blinding gold Airborne wings in the front, brassy gold
Staff Sergeant rank above. The hand holding his lifeline, clips his static line
hook to a steel cable running down the inside length of the plane. Suddenly,
the plane hits turbulence, which knocks another paratrooper to the ground. He
finally arises with the help of another trooper.
“Check
equipment!” The blackhat yelled. Assuring all buckles are buckled, knots are
tight, and straps secure, he eyes the soldier directly to his front
–intensively staring at the back of his fellow brother’s helmet. He does the
same to the other soldier’s gear on his back, and one by one a shoulder is
patted to ensure all’s okay. After checking each other’s equipment, they sound
off from the rear.
“One
okay” the trail soldier yells after he completes his equipment check,
simultaneously tapping the man to his front on the right shoulder. The shouts
of the soldiers are quickly getting louder over the roaring engines. The
soldier knows he is the thirtieth man, but the first out the door when the
small jump light turns from red to green, and the blackhat yells “Go! Go! Go!”
“Fifteen
okay!” The moment is getting closer. The young man thinks of when he was ten,
riding his bicycle to a friend‘s house, only a few blocks away. The sun seeks
its way through the leaves as he scales a tree to find the perfect peach. He
inspects each one for holes and other deformities. Narrowing the potential
harvests, he smells every peach, trying to find the sweetest fruit. After an
intense final selection process, often referred to as “innie, minnie, miney,
moe,” he selects his peach and slowly climbs down the towering tree. In no
hurry, he lies in the soft Oklahoma, freshly cut summer grass.
I might as well
enjoy it. He
thinks to himself, as he flops down able to admire the soft and soaring clouds.
One resembles a rabbit. Juices splatter across his hands, face, and clothes as
he indulges into his freshly picked crop. It is the perfect peach.
“Twenty-eight
okay!”
He
suddenly becomes sick as he snaps back to reality.
“Twenty-nine
okay!” The soldier behind him slams his hand on his right shoulder twice. He
knows the taps were very rapid, but at that moment, everything slowed down
immensely as he yells to the Jumpmaster.
“All okay
Jumpmaster!”
This is when the
soldier’s heart begins to race. He now realizes he is less than one minute away
from jumping out the door of a perfectly good airplane, relying on a parachute
he did not help assemble or pack, and with faith and hope, slowly descending
twelve-hundred, fifty feet to a nice, soft, and injury free landing.
“Thirty
seconds, stand in the door!” The Jumpmaster yells to the soldier. He squares
his body in front of the almost five-foot door. Human curiosity overcomes
training as he takes his stare from the horizon, to the close, fast moving
ground directly below him. He freezes shortly, seeing children waving at him
from the ground.
“Go! Go! Go!” and a smack on his ass is all he
receives as he jumps out the door without a second thought. In addition, each
soldier behind him lifts his left foot and moves it forward, replacing the spot
with his right, completely in sync. Step, slide, step, slide, is all a person
would hear as the platoon of soldiers marches their way out of the plane.
Before one is able to jump from the airplane, the soldier sees his comrades
being catapulted from the propeller blast.
After
a long count to four, the soldier’s parachute snaps open perfectly. Looking up
he visually inspects the olive drab canopy for holes or burns. After doing his
descending checks, the soldier attempts to fully acknowledge the view around
him. Hundreds of canopies are about him, each one securely harnessing a
soldier. A few hundred feet above the tree line of the Filipino jungle, the
sunset is in clear view. Orange and pinks fill the sky. Soldiers attached to
canopies add to the brilliance of the art. Sinking below the tree line, he
knows he is close to collision with the merciless ground. He ensures his feet
and knees are tight and together. He tucks his chin to his chest, keeping his
eyes fixed on the trees. He performs a slightly less than perfect parachute
landing fall, in correct order: feet, calves, outer thigh, back of shoulder.
He
lays there, unharmed and isolated from his comrades. He lights a cigarette and
slowly sinks into the soft grass of his new home for the next month.
I might as well
enjoy it.
The soldier
thinks to himself. He admires the clouds of this third world country. One
resembles a rabbit.
