The Perfect Peach

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.