| OK,
this led me to meet another old school friend in the Drill-hall,
Ian Mackay, and he introduced me to the platoon sergeant who
arranged for me to be “Signed up”, (I forget the formal army
jargon for enlisting).
I
had the great pleasure to find myself in the company of such
great chaps as Wee Corporal “Ned” McGurk, from Glasgow. A
Londoner, Charley Hackney who hated the guts for reasons never
clearly explained, of Sergeant Major “Bunny” Marshall, MM.
Something to do with an experience in Italy during WWII, when I
THINK they were both with the SAS. I really wish that I had
spent more time listening and paying attention because some of
these characters were real “Gems”, and tough as they come,
but real matey and friendly with it.
Well
the next major excitement, after learning to plough real neat
drills in fields with a Bren gun, was the parachute course at
Abingdon in late November ’56, (in the meantime of course, had
been the capture of Port Said Airfield by 3 Para during the Suez
Crisis).
Well,
I’m sure that you have all been through all the “B******T”
about the course before YOU went on YOURS. In fact, it all went
swimmingly under a wee RAF Jump Instructor called Flight
Sergeant “Tiny” McCardle, a great wee instructor, (as they
ALL were at the school), until we went up in the balloon for our
first jump; “Up 800, five men jumping” was the order of the
day, rather late on an overcast, misty, bluish, afternoon at
Weston-on the Green. You have all had the same warning, “When
you look down, all you will see is the “Blood-Wagon” on the
deck”.
There
were two RAF Pilot Flight Lieutenants in my stick of five, they
jumped first, then I was the first of the troopers to jump. Wee
“Tiny” called me forward and it was, ”Are you OK son?”,
Alright!
“Stand
in the Door”
“GOOO”
Nothing
happened, I was frozen, I honestly do not remember registering
any fear, (Who are YOU kidding?”), but I WAS paralyzed.
Anyway,
I was given another two chances where I also froze, and then, as
wee “Tiny” put his hand on my arm to pull me aside, I
realized that I must have scared the bejeesuz out of the other
two chaps so I said, OK, I’m going,. And, without a “Go”
or a tap, I was out the door to the most exhilarating, (and
terrifying) experience of my life. I was still on my knees
trying to sort out my chute when wee “Tiny” walked up,
clapped me on the shoulder and said, “You’ll never have a
problem again”.
I
thought he would have “Boll***ed” me.
At
that time a Trainee was supposed to do TWO Balloon jumps then
six aircraft jumps including one night jump, I cannot remember
how many were to be equipment jumps.
Some
plans do get changed. Our second jump was from a Blackburn
Beverley. We were the first “Troops in Training” to jump
from the Beverley I understand. I remember that I had one jump
from the “Boom” but cannot remember if I did a side jump
from the lower deck. We did at least one jump from
an old Vickers Valetta, which was a bit of a pig because
if you were well down the stick order, (although we only jumped
in sticks of five or six initially, you had to clamber over the
great beam that ran across inside the fuselage from wing to
wing.
We
then jumped from the Handley Page Hastings, which was the “Big
Boys” aircraft and the sticks jumped from both port and
starboard. We were held up due to weather problems and the
course was two weeks, so by the second Friday, we still had four
jumps to do. Needless to say we had all taken our Battle Dress
blouses, (does anyone remember those?) to the Tailor on camp to
have our wings sewn on, (half-a-crown, does anyone remember
THOSE?). Normally the course rapped up on a Friday evening and
Saturday was “Travel home”.
Well,
on the Friday the weather cleared and we actually did THREE
jumps that day, the last being a night jump with full equipment.
If I remember rightly troops were not allowed to do any more
that THREE jumps in one day, so we were pretty chuffed about
that.. We were “KNACKERED: and VERY disappointed because we
would be heading back to Battalion without wings, and have to
wait until the next jump season started so that we could get one
jump in to qualify.
At
four o’clock in the morning, the RAF instructors came storming
into the barrack room, rousting us out. “We are going to
Weston to balloon jump, the weather will be OK!”.
We
were in seventh heaven. We got out to Weston at daybreak and one
could not see a hand in front, the fog was so thick, so we were
warned, “You will jump and you will be above the fog, listen
to the loud hailer, we cannot see you but we will talk you down,
just show some common sense and LISTEN”.
I
was in the last stick with an instructor called Jones. Up the
balloon rose, through the white mist, and suddenly broke through
into this cloudless blue sky with the sun blinding on the top of
the fog.
I
was number FIVE to jump, so the other chaps went, One, Two,
Three, Four… then Jonesy said to me, “Would you like to see
me do a Swallow Dive?”. “Oh! Yes sir”, I said, well, what
would YOU have said?
“OK”,
He said, “You know to pull in my static line and bag and stow
them before you jump, are you sure you can dispatch yourself
OK?”. “Hey, mister, this is ME you are talking to!”
OK,
so off he goes with this beautiful swallow dive until his static
line pulled his chute, then, dropping against this brilliant
white background until he disappeared.
There
I was, in my absolute element, dispatching myself, off I went,
and a great jump, suddenly disappearing into this fog, and
watching like a hawk before landing, with no problem.
I
know that Flight Jones received a dreadful “balling out” and
I hope that it was no worse than that because he was a good guy
as they all were. The third Instructor was a Fight with
Brilliant white hair, but, for the world, I cannot recall his
name.
Anyway,
I think that is enough to bore the pants off most of you. The
other eight and a half years were just as much fun.
Safe
landings to all!
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