D
D-n-A
Guest
Article is on the 4th Brigade Combat Team (Airborne) of the 25th Infantry Division(Light)
http://www.adn.com/news/alaska/story/7278255p-7189981c.html
Who would jump from a perfectly good airplane
Tense hours spent waiting pay off as paratroopers fill the night sky
By TATABOLINE BRANT
Anchorage Daily News
Published: December 11, 2005
Last Modified: December 11, 2005 at 06:06 AM
The Army commercials make parachuting out of a plane look like fun.
Leaping from a C-130 in Alaska at 5 below in reality looks a little different. Grueling is a good word to describe it.
Cold, dark and painful too.
The Malamute Drop Zone, a cleared swath of land on Fort Richardson near Eagle River, is getting a lot of use these days as the post's new airborne combat brigade builds up. About 70 percent of the unit's 3,500 paratroopers are here now, and each one is required to jump at least once every three months. Many do it more often than that.
Hundreds of troopers were slated to jump earlier this month, while Southcentral Alaska was in the grip of its deepest cold spell so far this winter. They showed up in a parking lot on the post around 1 p.m., dressed in bunny boots and camouflage Gortex suits, shuffling into line under the weight of their rucksacks as commanders barked at them to hurry up.
Many paratroopers have a love-hate relationship with jumping. Take Sgt. Johnie French. He likes the prestige of being in an airborne unit and the rush he gets from hurtling toward the ground at 18 feet per second with a bunch of his buddies. It's nothing like skydiving, he says. It's more intense. The sky is filled with paratroopers, everyone has all this gear, and once you hit the ground your mission has only just begun.
"Skydiving is like sticking your head out the car window," French said. "You can't even tell you're falling."
The downsides of jumping vary from person to person. Some guys hate the seconds before they step out the door. Others loathe the landing. Pretty much everyone hates the wait -- the hours they spend sitting in pounds of gear before they can get on the plane and then the hours they have to wait inside the aircraft sometimes to get dropped.
"I'm not going to lie to you," French said. "It sucks."
The only thing that sucks more than The Wait is The Scratch -- to go through all the physical and mental acrobatics it takes to make a jump, and then at the last second not be able to do it.
That possibility was clearly on the minds of 1st Sgt. Terry Easter's men when they showed up for roll call in the post parking lot.
"Can we have a priest bless this bird so we can fly?" one of them groused.
After about an hour of standing, checking one another's gear and praying for the clouds to go away, the 50 or so guys trudged through the snow and loaded onto a bus that drove them to a terminal on Elmendorf Air Force Base. Their group, part of the airborne brigade's 501st Parachute Infantry Regiment, would be on the first flight out, with a drop time of 8 p.m.
DETAILS, DETAILS
Easter, a 15-year Army veteran, said the complexity of this particular jump was the sheer number of jumpers involved -- 320 -- and that there were two organizations flying, Elmendorf and the Alaska Air National Guard.
That means there are a lot of details to work out. Days of planning have already gone into the jump. Easter's biggest responsibility now is making sure that everyone gets off the plane safely and that each paratrooper and piece of equipment are accounted for once they hit the ground.
Many of the guys have orders to march 12 miles back to barracks after they land.
"Without accountability of the parachutes, we don't leave," Easter tells his team during a briefing at the terminal. "We don't get out of the cold."
Medics are stationed at the assembly points on the drop zone, in case someone forgets to keep his knees and feet together on landing, crashes into a tree or runs into some other trouble.
"There's plenty of fresh snow out there, so you'll be able to see the ground coming," Easter says.
With that, Sgt. 1st Class Douglas Weiser cracks the whip.
"OK, let's get the chutes," he says. "And use the potty! I don't want to hear 'I have to go the bathroom' after I J-M-P-I you."
DRESSED FOR THE JOB
JMPI-ing means checking every bag, flap, buckle, cord, string, button and stitch on them after they are dressed to jump.
Dressing to jump is what the guys are doing now. Each person puts a 42-pound parachute on his back and a smaller, reserve chute on front. Next, they clip a 50-pound rucksack to hip buckles.
Most guys also carry a weapon, weighing seven to 21 pounds.
The heavy gear cuts into their shoulders when they stand. The rucksack, its 50 pounds hanging in front, makes it nearly impossible to walk, especially in bunny boots. Waddle is a better description. Most guys sit on the bench, looking miserable. They put their helmets on to let the jumpmasters know they are ready to be inspected.
The jumpmasters are swift, serious and meticulous, like a pit crew at a racetrack. They break a sweat, and try to teach the younger guys lessons as they go.
"This your weapon?" one asks a paratrooper, hitting the side of a green fabric case.
"Yes sir."
"You got your weapon upside down," the jumpmaster says, without even needing to look inside.
One of the inspectors, Command Sgt. Maj. Bernie Knight, says every detail matters. Something as simple as a water bottle can have serious consequences if it comes loose on a jump and hits someone in the head.
"You would not have a good day," he says.
PREPARED FOR A WAIT
By 4 p.m., pretty much everyone is dressed, inspected and sitting in misery on the benches as their legs and butt go numb.
"Now comes the fun part," says Staff Sgt. Clayton Dale, 26, as he takes a seat next to four guys. "Only got four more hours of sitting here."
There's not a whole lot Dale likes about jumping. He's afraid of heights. He says he volunteered to go airborne -- there are no involuntary assignments to such teams -- because it paid $150 more a month. He says at least he's got interesting stories to write home about, unlike some of the people he knows in Alva, Okla., who are still driving the same strip and going to the same bars.
Some of the guys in the 501st are straight out of airborne school and have jumped only five times -- the number needed to graduate. Others have jumped so many times they've lost track.
"For us, it's just a means for getting somewhere," says Capt. Scott Nelson, 32, who has jumped about 20 times.
1st Lt. Jered Dacosta, 23, who has jumped six times, sees things a little differently.
"You get nervous before you jump," he says. "But once you exit, it's more of a rush than a roller coaster. Then you're nervous all the way down till you hit the ground in one piece."
Just after 6 p.m., the call finally comes to board the plane. Easter's Alpha Company waddles onto the dark runway. It's bitter cold outside, and the clouds are low.
"I don't see the star," one person says, after looking for the huge twinkling, mountainside decoration that usually lights up Arctic Valley this time of year. "That's not good."
Another soldier leans over and knocks three times on a wooden bench before walking out the door.
As the paratroopers lumber into the belly of the C-130, flopping down on red canvas seats that hang from the walls, an Elmendorf crew chief watches and shakes his head. "I am so glad I'm in the Air Force," he says.
The soldiers' gear and legs fill the only aisle to speak of, and airmen who have to get from one end of the plane to the other do so by walking on top of the soldiers. Literally.
Just before 7 p.m., the crew closes the doors and the engines roar to life. The paratroopers take deep breaths and crack their necks.
LONG, BUMPY RIDE
The cabin has only two temperatures, very hot and very cold, and offers a bumpy ride. It is not a place for people with weak stomachs. The paratroopers know this.
"Can someone start passing out the barf bags, please," one says, just before takeoff.
"C'mon, barf on your buddy," Weiser cracks as he passes around a satchel of the bags.
The inside of the cabin is loud and hot and draped in an eerie red light. The flight crew communicates through headsets with microphones, so the members of Alpha Company don't always know what's going on.
The flight doesn't start out well. The pilot buzzes the drop zone several times but can't make the drop because of the clouds.
At one point, the crew thought they could get in and notified the Army commanders that it was 10 minutes to the drop zone. The commanders used hand signals to stand their men up. The paratroopers hooked their lines to a cable that runs the length of the cabin and waited.
And then they waited some more.
Commanders do not like to leave paratroopers standing in a moving aircraft in so much gear, especially when it's crowded. People can get hurt. Things can get tangled. A misplaced static line -- the thing that pulls a paratroopers' chute once they exit -- can leave the soldier attached to the plane, flapping in the wind.
Tempers flare. An airman in the back of the plane complains to the pilot that an Army officer had yanked the microphone cord out of another airman's headset, saying he'd give it back only on the promise that his men would not be stood up again -- unless they could jump.
The men work things out and keep circling in the sky, biding time to see if another plane involved in the mission, from Kulis Air National Guard Base, can get its jumpers off.
Just after 9 p.m. word comes in that the first jumpers from another plane have made the leap.
It is good news for the boys of Alpha Company, who by this point have been sitting in their heavy gear, without being able to drink anything or go to the bathroom, for five hours.
But then, a snag: Air traffic controllers close the drop zone to clear the airspace for fighters returning home. And then, another delay: the Kulis plane can't get its door closed after making the drop, and has to make an emergency landing at Ted Stevens International airport.
Finally, just before 10 p.m., a cold breeze fills the plane as two small side doors in the cabin slide open. The commanders signal the countdown with their hands and then a small green light near the door comes on. The men shuffle down the line in their boots and leap into the darkness.
http://www.adn.com/news/alaska/story/7278255p-7189981c.html
Who would jump from a perfectly good airplane
Tense hours spent waiting pay off as paratroopers fill the night sky
By TATABOLINE BRANT
Anchorage Daily News
Published: December 11, 2005
Last Modified: December 11, 2005 at 06:06 AM
The Army commercials make parachuting out of a plane look like fun.
Leaping from a C-130 in Alaska at 5 below in reality looks a little different. Grueling is a good word to describe it.
Cold, dark and painful too.
The Malamute Drop Zone, a cleared swath of land on Fort Richardson near Eagle River, is getting a lot of use these days as the post's new airborne combat brigade builds up. About 70 percent of the unit's 3,500 paratroopers are here now, and each one is required to jump at least once every three months. Many do it more often than that.
Hundreds of troopers were slated to jump earlier this month, while Southcentral Alaska was in the grip of its deepest cold spell so far this winter. They showed up in a parking lot on the post around 1 p.m., dressed in bunny boots and camouflage Gortex suits, shuffling into line under the weight of their rucksacks as commanders barked at them to hurry up.
Many paratroopers have a love-hate relationship with jumping. Take Sgt. Johnie French. He likes the prestige of being in an airborne unit and the rush he gets from hurtling toward the ground at 18 feet per second with a bunch of his buddies. It's nothing like skydiving, he says. It's more intense. The sky is filled with paratroopers, everyone has all this gear, and once you hit the ground your mission has only just begun.
"Skydiving is like sticking your head out the car window," French said. "You can't even tell you're falling."
The downsides of jumping vary from person to person. Some guys hate the seconds before they step out the door. Others loathe the landing. Pretty much everyone hates the wait -- the hours they spend sitting in pounds of gear before they can get on the plane and then the hours they have to wait inside the aircraft sometimes to get dropped.
"I'm not going to lie to you," French said. "It sucks."
The only thing that sucks more than The Wait is The Scratch -- to go through all the physical and mental acrobatics it takes to make a jump, and then at the last second not be able to do it.
That possibility was clearly on the minds of 1st Sgt. Terry Easter's men when they showed up for roll call in the post parking lot.
"Can we have a priest bless this bird so we can fly?" one of them groused.
After about an hour of standing, checking one another's gear and praying for the clouds to go away, the 50 or so guys trudged through the snow and loaded onto a bus that drove them to a terminal on Elmendorf Air Force Base. Their group, part of the airborne brigade's 501st Parachute Infantry Regiment, would be on the first flight out, with a drop time of 8 p.m.
DETAILS, DETAILS
Easter, a 15-year Army veteran, said the complexity of this particular jump was the sheer number of jumpers involved -- 320 -- and that there were two organizations flying, Elmendorf and the Alaska Air National Guard.
That means there are a lot of details to work out. Days of planning have already gone into the jump. Easter's biggest responsibility now is making sure that everyone gets off the plane safely and that each paratrooper and piece of equipment are accounted for once they hit the ground.
Many of the guys have orders to march 12 miles back to barracks after they land.
"Without accountability of the parachutes, we don't leave," Easter tells his team during a briefing at the terminal. "We don't get out of the cold."
Medics are stationed at the assembly points on the drop zone, in case someone forgets to keep his knees and feet together on landing, crashes into a tree or runs into some other trouble.
"There's plenty of fresh snow out there, so you'll be able to see the ground coming," Easter says.
With that, Sgt. 1st Class Douglas Weiser cracks the whip.
"OK, let's get the chutes," he says. "And use the potty! I don't want to hear 'I have to go the bathroom' after I J-M-P-I you."
DRESSED FOR THE JOB
JMPI-ing means checking every bag, flap, buckle, cord, string, button and stitch on them after they are dressed to jump.
Dressing to jump is what the guys are doing now. Each person puts a 42-pound parachute on his back and a smaller, reserve chute on front. Next, they clip a 50-pound rucksack to hip buckles.
Most guys also carry a weapon, weighing seven to 21 pounds.
The heavy gear cuts into their shoulders when they stand. The rucksack, its 50 pounds hanging in front, makes it nearly impossible to walk, especially in bunny boots. Waddle is a better description. Most guys sit on the bench, looking miserable. They put their helmets on to let the jumpmasters know they are ready to be inspected.
The jumpmasters are swift, serious and meticulous, like a pit crew at a racetrack. They break a sweat, and try to teach the younger guys lessons as they go.
"This your weapon?" one asks a paratrooper, hitting the side of a green fabric case.
"Yes sir."
"You got your weapon upside down," the jumpmaster says, without even needing to look inside.
One of the inspectors, Command Sgt. Maj. Bernie Knight, says every detail matters. Something as simple as a water bottle can have serious consequences if it comes loose on a jump and hits someone in the head.
"You would not have a good day," he says.
PREPARED FOR A WAIT
By 4 p.m., pretty much everyone is dressed, inspected and sitting in misery on the benches as their legs and butt go numb.
"Now comes the fun part," says Staff Sgt. Clayton Dale, 26, as he takes a seat next to four guys. "Only got four more hours of sitting here."
There's not a whole lot Dale likes about jumping. He's afraid of heights. He says he volunteered to go airborne -- there are no involuntary assignments to such teams -- because it paid $150 more a month. He says at least he's got interesting stories to write home about, unlike some of the people he knows in Alva, Okla., who are still driving the same strip and going to the same bars.
Some of the guys in the 501st are straight out of airborne school and have jumped only five times -- the number needed to graduate. Others have jumped so many times they've lost track.
"For us, it's just a means for getting somewhere," says Capt. Scott Nelson, 32, who has jumped about 20 times.
1st Lt. Jered Dacosta, 23, who has jumped six times, sees things a little differently.
"You get nervous before you jump," he says. "But once you exit, it's more of a rush than a roller coaster. Then you're nervous all the way down till you hit the ground in one piece."
Just after 6 p.m., the call finally comes to board the plane. Easter's Alpha Company waddles onto the dark runway. It's bitter cold outside, and the clouds are low.
"I don't see the star," one person says, after looking for the huge twinkling, mountainside decoration that usually lights up Arctic Valley this time of year. "That's not good."
Another soldier leans over and knocks three times on a wooden bench before walking out the door.
As the paratroopers lumber into the belly of the C-130, flopping down on red canvas seats that hang from the walls, an Elmendorf crew chief watches and shakes his head. "I am so glad I'm in the Air Force," he says.
The soldiers' gear and legs fill the only aisle to speak of, and airmen who have to get from one end of the plane to the other do so by walking on top of the soldiers. Literally.
Just before 7 p.m., the crew closes the doors and the engines roar to life. The paratroopers take deep breaths and crack their necks.
LONG, BUMPY RIDE
The cabin has only two temperatures, very hot and very cold, and offers a bumpy ride. It is not a place for people with weak stomachs. The paratroopers know this.
"Can someone start passing out the barf bags, please," one says, just before takeoff.
"C'mon, barf on your buddy," Weiser cracks as he passes around a satchel of the bags.
The inside of the cabin is loud and hot and draped in an eerie red light. The flight crew communicates through headsets with microphones, so the members of Alpha Company don't always know what's going on.
The flight doesn't start out well. The pilot buzzes the drop zone several times but can't make the drop because of the clouds.
At one point, the crew thought they could get in and notified the Army commanders that it was 10 minutes to the drop zone. The commanders used hand signals to stand their men up. The paratroopers hooked their lines to a cable that runs the length of the cabin and waited.
And then they waited some more.
Commanders do not like to leave paratroopers standing in a moving aircraft in so much gear, especially when it's crowded. People can get hurt. Things can get tangled. A misplaced static line -- the thing that pulls a paratroopers' chute once they exit -- can leave the soldier attached to the plane, flapping in the wind.
Tempers flare. An airman in the back of the plane complains to the pilot that an Army officer had yanked the microphone cord out of another airman's headset, saying he'd give it back only on the promise that his men would not be stood up again -- unless they could jump.
The men work things out and keep circling in the sky, biding time to see if another plane involved in the mission, from Kulis Air National Guard Base, can get its jumpers off.
Just after 9 p.m. word comes in that the first jumpers from another plane have made the leap.
It is good news for the boys of Alpha Company, who by this point have been sitting in their heavy gear, without being able to drink anything or go to the bathroom, for five hours.
But then, a snag: Air traffic controllers close the drop zone to clear the airspace for fighters returning home. And then, another delay: the Kulis plane can't get its door closed after making the drop, and has to make an emergency landing at Ted Stevens International airport.
Finally, just before 10 p.m., a cold breeze fills the plane as two small side doors in the cabin slide open. The commanders signal the countdown with their hands and then a small green light near the door comes on. The men shuffle down the line in their boots and leap into the darkness.
