The Jump

The Jump 

The soldier with the anchor tattoo on his hand hawked loudly and spit into a paper cup. He placed it on the table and said “You’re full of shit.”

Without diverting his gaze, Taylor picked up the cup, tilted his head back, and as the viscous saliva slid off the rim into his open mouth, the table erupted in cheers.

A big grin spread across his beard stubbled face, and he slapped a dirty palm on the wooden table top.  “After six weeks of smelling your feet, that was cake. I’d eat your finger if you’ll lop one off for me.”

He smirked at the small, muscular man across the table who laughed and shook his head. “You’re crazy, Taylor. A gen-yoo-wine nutjob.”

The wiry, hawk nosed man seated to his left unsnapped something at his belt, and a knife appeared in his fist. He buried it point first into the table.

“C’mon Dill,” he hollered. “Get busy.” Jeers bugled through the smoky mess hall air. 

“Listen Ay-UP!”  All eyes turned to the man standing near the head of our table. A hush settled over the hall as he scanned the room with blue eyes that peered out from under the brim of a dented green helmet. When Lieutenant Sparks yelled, everyone listened. He had led us through an unbelievable amount of crap over the past weeks and because of his leadership most of us were still breathing. A Colt 1911 in a leather flap holster hung off his narrow hips, but aside from that and a Ka-Bar, he wasn’t carrying any other weapons. His sweat-stained olive shirt lay fraying over his thin but powerful shoulders. 

“Y’all git yer shit together. One more practice jump tew-night ‘afore we set ‘aht tomorrow. I wanna see y’all up in staging in ten!” Lieutenant Sparks was the only man I ever knew who pronounced the word ‘staging’ with three syllables.

The room was filled with the sounds of men securing weapons and pushing back chairs.

“That offer stands, Dill. Lop one off and I’ll stir my coffee with it.” whispered Taylor loudly and slapped Dill on the back.   

“I’ll get one from a Kraut for you tomorrow.” A few chuckles from the men, but subdued now. 

I could almost hear the men thinking about what was coming. This was the last practice jump before we were to be dropped behind enemy lines, in some godforsaken place we hadn’t yet been briefed on. 

“Sarge, how you doin?”

I turned and saw Nicholson, one of the sappers from our squad. He was a young Canadian who had moved to New York with his family just in time to be drafted into the Army. His friendly face was marred by a wide nose that had obviously been broken too many times. Nicholson was the best boxer in our battalion, and we had spent many nights watching him take on all comers outside of the barracks. His eyes were bright and betrayed a level of intelligence that he wasn’t in the habit of revealing. 

“Honestly, I dunno. I’ve got no feeling about this jump” I said. “Tired is all, I guess. But who ain’t used to that?”

“I hear ya, Sarge. All be over in an hour. Up, out an’ down. We done it a hunnert times.”

We walked together in silence for a few moments. In the distance, the sodium lights on their stands illuminated mounds of chutes and other gear spread out on the ground. The men remained silent for the rest of the walk, aside from Dill noisily hawking and spitting which managed to raise a few snickers. 

Standing in the damp staging field, I went through the motions of donning my gear on autopilot. It was as if the exhaustion of the previous days had settled like a thick fog over my mind.

Before I knew it, I found myself sitting on the plane, deaf to anything but the noise of the propellers. 

The hard metal bench buzzed underneath my legs with the thrum propellers and my mind was drifted. Thoughts of my home in North Dakota; mowing the lawn. I always enjoyed cutting grass, and would often come to in a daze as the sound of the old motor faded away, with little or no memory of actually doing the job. It was as if the rattle of the mower, the smell of the grass and the hot sun on my back hypnotized me till the engine clattered to a standstill.  I jostled involuntarily into the men on my left and right with the sway of the plane. On the floor our boots had settled in two neat lines, a leather-footed centipede undulating with the pulse of the aircraft.

I stared straight across at Taylor, his face hidden behind oversized goggles. He grinned at me, and as I watched the curve of his lips, I had to remind myself to grin back. The red light on the ceiling was haloed in dust and damp and it cast a pink pallor over his face. It turned green and Taylor’s face suddenly looked like that of a corpse.

“Line em up!” The jumpmaster screamed above the noise. “Fifteen seconds!”

Shaking myself out of my macabre reverie, I struggled to my feet along with the other men in my row. My right hand death-gripped the bar on the ceiling. 

Everything started moving in slow motion. I could see the jumpmaster holler at Dill and push him out the door as Nicholson stepped forward. It seemed like it took a whole minute for his body to flit off into the darkness that gaped outside the open door. Bumped from behind, I took another step forward, and was seized by a stomach convulsion that squirted vomit into the back of my throat. I quickly swallowed, and took another step, my hand like a vice on the bar over my head. 

“Go! Go! Go!” Another man disappeared, jumping out the door. And another. 

I closed my eyes and visualized myself back in the mess hall, surrounded by these men I had grown to trust, with their stink and their loyalty and their garrulous friendship. I smelled gun oil and cigarettes and felt the slap of their hands on my shoulders, calling me ‘Sarge’.  That was it, I thought. That was the secret.

Just imagine yourself, where you will be in an hour. Imagine it and it will be so. Visualize. See it. 

Like the time behind the rotting cow carcasses in that damn pasture in Sutjeska. The Krauts hosing down our field with that hellish belt-fed.

Deep breath. Another deep breath. Eyes. Closed. 

The crystal clear auditory clank of the barrel change before it even happened. Picturing my last grenade landing between them. Seeing in my mind’s eye the German on the left reach down for his only chance at life. Visualizing the slam, feeling the thud of impact, breathing deeply the smoking shock of silence. 

I had visualized it all moments before it had happened. And so had it been. 

So I went there.

To the hour from now. To the eyes of my men, glittering through cigarette smoke. To the rough mess hall table under my hands, bitter coffee on my tongue, the ‘snick’ of a knife being honed on a whetstone. To the shouts and curses and sharp laughs and glances of relief and admiration and gratitude, a hand on my shoulder. 

A hand on my shoulder. A shout. I stepped out into the darkness. 

**** 

“Your fat ass, like a sack of rotten potatoes.” 

I snapped open my tired eyes to see Nicholson, a coffee in his hand, half grinning at Dill who was once again engaged in some inane shenanigans with the man on my right. He blew out a plume of blue cigarette smoke and absentmindedly picked at a splinter in the table top. 

“Reminded me of my grade 8 teacher hitting the floor after lil’ Jimmy Thompson pulled a chair out from under her. He got a week suspension, but all you got is ass over teakettle like some little French schoolgirl tripping over a croissant.” 

I looked over at Taylor as he shoved back his chair and stood up and pirouetted for the onlooking men. “What, you see any mud on my ass?” he snarled with mock indignation. “I was dancing like Clark Gable out there when that chute hit the ground. All you saw was what you wish you saw, Dilly-boy.” 

Taylor sat down and as the talk faded the table grew silent.

It seemed as if a shadow had settled over the group, and they gripped their coffee cups and cigarettes like drowning men holding life preservers. 

I heard Lieutenants Sparks’ familiar voice hollering something about a missing jumper and then shouting commands. I followed the lead of the other men as we stood up from our table. 

“Bloody hell.” I said to nobody in particular. “I thought we were done with this for the night.” 

We all trudged out the mess doors and back into the darkness.

In the distance, the airplane engines droned, and I could see pillowy forms still floating down towards the distant field beyond the lights. 

“I can’t believe this” Nicholsen said, quietly. Nobody answered him. Our boots sucked at the mud, and the damp air swirled around us. 

“They can’t find him? That ain’t right.” It was Taylor. “Its gotta be us. We gotta do this. We needa get the LT to call off the other squads.” 

“Forget that.” I mumbled back. “Way too damn cold out here. The sooner we get this over with, the better.” 

A search flare lit up the night as we neared the field, and I saw Nicholson’s face was etched with sadness. Dill noisily blew gunk from one snot-filled nostril into the mud at his feet, and I could see his eyes were wet with tears. I was suddenly much more awake. 

“What the hell, guys?” I asked. “Nicholson? Dill!” Nobody responded. 

I turned to the man trudging behind me. It was Taylor, his head down, chin strap flapping on his chest. “Hey, T…” I said. 

He didn’t even look up but just kept walking, walking at me and then he was on me, in innnnnn (oh god) through in front of me and walking, walking, boots squelching in the muck.

“T-taylor?” I turned, lunged forward, reached to grab his shoulder. My hand slipped through his body like breath through a silk scarf.

“They said he didn’t even open his chute.”  “I don’t believe that shit,” Marconi said. “Stupid thing must have jammed or something. No way Sarge would take that way out. No way.” 

I stopped, suddenly more tired than I ever remembered. My hands fell, slapping soundlessly against my pant legs.

I looked down at my hands to my bloody olive pants, to my brown leather boots standing in on the mud. 

When I looked back up, the last of my squad was passing into the darkness.