Lucky 13

There I was (as all war stories must start) nearing the end of Army Ranger School. The term 'school' was a bit of a misnomer since the only thing they taught was how much the human body could endure and still manage to function. This nine-week endurance test was as tough as any the Army had to offer. The final test was in the swamps of Eglin AFB in the Florida panhandle. To pass this portion, all we had to do was successfully lead operations against the enemy while being deprived of food, sleep, shelter and warmth for 12 straight days in the first weeks of February. The steady harassment we received from the cadre, the frequent (wet) water crossings, and other unexpected challenges were just extras tossed in to set the tone.

Florida in the 'winter,' you say, 'How tough can that be? Why that's where my grandparents migrate to each 'winter.' Sure, they go to Southern Florida, but at Eglin, it was different. At daybreak, after the few nights we were allowed to get even some rest, we could sometimes peel inch-thick layers of frozen dirt from around our foxholes. Despite my growing up in New Hampshire, the cold and lack of any remaining calories in my body combined to make this the coldest I had ever been in my life. We actually resorted to huddling in our foxholes to share precious body heat. Yes, we hugged, but there was no kissing.

2 February 1972 started as many others while on long-range patrol ('LeRPs'). As I was assigned platoon medic duties, I went with the resupply team each morning to get our one C-ration meal (C-Rat) per soldier for the day and link up with our new cadre for the day. My purpose was to meet with the real Medics to replenish my medical supplies (mainly alcohol-based, cough syrup I'd pass around while on ambush) … and to finagle as much as I could in terms of unwanted C-Rats such as little packets of coffee, creamer or sugar. All such extras were contraband. I'd definitely be in trouble if I was found conniving, but every single calorie I could collect was a big bonus. I was the only one in the platoon with anything even resembling contact with the outside world while we were on patrol. 

The new cadre always brought with them our orders for the day, and on this day, it was good news; we were launching an airborne assault sometime after dark. Jumping was always a good thing. All we had to do was get to the airstrip some 20 clicks (kilometers) away.

The patrol to the airstrip was uneventful – by which I mean that we were not ambushed. Our only obstacle was the ubiquitous wait-a-minute vines that wrap around your neck and body as you advance through the swamp. But they are so much easier to negotiate in daylight. 

Due to an obvious breakdown within the Ranger Committee, my assigned Ranger buddy, 'Ranger Bob' Hensley and I, got along very well. You see, the Committee chooses 'buddies' on the basis of incompatibility. From their standpoint, the ideal team would be a tall, thin, Black, Southern, enlisted man with a short, stocky, White, Northern officer – any combination that might cause conflict between them. But both Bob and I were short, scrappy, and conniving. And we didn't hold it against the other that I was an officer, and he was enlisted. We chatted constantly through the bush to keep our minds off the hunger while ever alert to lurking danger and ambushes … and, more importantly, to anything that was remotely edible on the ground. 

We'd talk about the mission, our experiences, our next duty assignment, but mostly about food. We talked about that little pecan roll I had saved from my C-Rats for the time we wouldn't be able to go on without some morsel of food, or about what Bob might be able to get in exchange for the extra cigarettes he always brought along for just that purpose, or about everything we would eat once this test of endurance was over. We also talked about being Airborne. We kept track of each others jumps. I knew he was an old veteran of 28 jumps, and he knew I had completed only 12. 

At some point, before we reached the objective, he started in on me. "So Buddy, which jump is this going to be?" he said, knowing full well the answer.

Innocently, I answered, "Thirteenth."

"Thirteenth, as in … number 13? Oh, Buddy!" he moaned.

"What?! … Oh, don't try telling me thirteen is bad luck! It's going to be Lucky 13, as the other 12 were." I said confidently.

And so it went for the rest of the patrol, with Bob offering more and more hints of impending doom. The platoon arrived at our objective by late morning, and we quickly drew our parachutes and helmets for the jump and started to suit up. None of Bob's comments had fazed me in the least … that is, until I looked down at my reserve chute that I was hooking on to my harness. There in the middle, looking right up at me, was a big blotch of semi-dried blood. Obviously, the last person to use that chute had had a serious problem. 'Hmm, that can't be a good omen,' I thought.

We were then briefed on our mission. We would be conducting a night combat equipment jump on DZ (Drop Zone) Rohr. There would be six lifts. However, there would only be three aircraft to transport us, which meant that half of us would not be involved in the excitement of the initial assault. The first three planes would depart at 1700 hours. But bad news for us – we were designated to be Lift Six, meaning we would miss most of the fun. Hell, we'd be lucky if there was even any mop-up operations for us by the time we hit the ground.

The briefing continued. Pathfinders on the ground would guide us jumpers to the assembly areas with a red laser beam aimed at the aircraft.  "Look for the red beam as soon as your chute deploys, and slip in that direction," we were told. Slipping, by the way, is the act of navigating the T-10 Army parachute in any desired direction. By pulling specific risers to your chest, you could generate up to two and a half miles per hour of forward momentum … assuming, of course, you weren't fighting a headwind of more than two and a half miles per hour.

We were then assigned teams (Assault, Search, Security, etc.), told the concept of the operation, and given our specific assignments for actions at the objective, but ours really didn't matter as we were showing up late for the party. Next, we got the first of several safety inspections. Then we waited … and waited on the tarmac. Though it was sunny, the temperature was in the forties, and with no excess calories to burn, it felt cold, and we were there for hours all dressed up with nowhere to go, just waiting for darkness and our transportation.

Fearing another contraband inspection like before our last jump, I devoted time to stuffing every packet I had collected from the Medics under the camouflage cover on my helmet. For some reason, they never inspected the helmets, and I was not taking any chance of losing what I had worked so hard to collect. All the while, Bob continued his harassment of how unlucky #13 was.

Finally, dusk arrived, and three C-123 Provider cargo planes landed at our desolate landing strip. After hugs and kisses, and many cheerful choruses of 'Bon voyage!', No, wait!, that was another story – No, actually the first three lifts just loaded their aircraft as the rest of us watched with envy. Moments later, they were off to attack some jungle compound, and we were back to waiting in the cold … and now darkness.

An hour or so later, we heard the aircraft returning, but … we only saw two of them. 'What the f…???' When they landed, we learned that the third aircraft had experienced some difficulty after disgorging their load of jumpers and had returned to base.  This meant we weren't even going in with the second wave and were only minimally reassured that one of the aircraft would eventually return for us. What's the point?! Oh well, we'll at least get a 'Hollywood-style' night jump to add to our count … and more important for me, I'll never again have to listen to any more talk about my thirteenth jump.

When that lone aircraft finally arrived somewhere around midnight, we climbed aboard and took our seats on canvas benches that faced inward and buckled in. This was my first jump from a C-123. The '123' was specifically chosen for this mission because it could take off on our short runway. I happened to miss the significance of that statement. What it meant was that this aircraft took off like a shot, and after revving up its engines to the point we thought they might explode, it lunged forward down the runway. Buckled in or not, we all slammed into the jumper next to us. Wow! What a jolt that was! BUT, before we could even straighten up, we were slammed in the other direction as the plane came to a screeching halt! We all looked at each other in total confusion as the plane turned around and brought us back to where we started. The bay doors opened, and we were ushered out on to the tarmac once again. Thanks for the ride, fellas, but what was that all about?

Unbeknownst to us at the time, the pilot had determined that he could not clear the trees at the end of the runway. He aborted the take-off at the very last instance and probably saved all our lives, but we were just too tired and numb to take it in. Our one thought seemed to be, 'So now how do we get to the party?' This being said, it's not at all surprising that within the Army, Rangers are known as the lowest form of intelligent life … but only slightly dumber than single-celled creatures.

Before long (in Ranger time), another C-123 came to get us. We boarded, took our seats, and, though better prepared, were once again slammed into each other upon take off, and we became airborne without incident. Shortly after we were aloft, the Jumpmaster called out to us over the drone of the engines and the air rushing by the open door, "GET READY!" Ah, sweet music to our ears, we were about to go Airborne.

After the standard series of commands, our stick (the jumpers who exit one door) was lined up by the door. We were at 1,250 feet doing 110 knots, waiting for the command to go. I was first in line behind the Ranger cadre who was standing in the door. I can't deny the temptation just to push him right out as there was no love lost between the cadre and ourselves, but my main thoughts were on, 'Get out the door, head for the red beam, and get the food from my helmet liner.'

The light in the door went from red to green, and the Jumpmaster yelled, "GO!" Hello, Lucky 13. We exited the aircraft with less than a second between each jumper. The Jumpmaster slapped each man hard on the butt to speed us along, and after a 'Whoosh' that lasted only a second, my chute was deployed, and all was relatively quiet. But I can't see! Something is not right. Oh, wait, my helmet is over my eyes. While I made the adjustment, I think, 'That's never happened before.' Then I make a quick search for the red beam. I can't spot it. 

Only now do I look up to check my canopy and find that I've got three full twists in my lines reducing the size of my canopy. That's not good. So with a series of kicks, I spin myself around to untangle the twists. I kept my eyes open during each rotation, looking for the red beam, but nothing. Those bastards must have said, 'Screw it!' and gone home! Hey, there's a war going on, you know!

I'm thinking to myself, 'I've wasted enough time looking for the beam. I gotta find the ground. Boy, it's dark. That looks like a … Shit! I'm coming down on a tree! Slip away!' I picked up my feet to keep from hitting the top of a 70-foot Southern Pine. 'Now, if I can only slip fast enough to keep my canopy from being snagged, I'll hit the drop zone. I think I made it. I think I made it. I …' 

"Damn!" I yelled as the edge of my canopy caught the very peak of the tree, and I was forcefully pulled back to its embrace.  Slamming up against the tree and hanging some 40 feet above the ground, my one thought was: How do I get down? Noooo, that would be normal. A Ranger would think, 'Gotta get the food out of my helmet before they collect our equipment.' Remember what I said about Ranger intelligence?  

Before I could finish, someone from below yelled, "Hey, are you all right up there?"

Instinctively I replied, "Yeah, you got any food?" Again, our reputation was well-earned.

That answer obviously caused some confusion, and after a pause, one of two said, "We're with the Recovery Team. We're here to recover any chutes that land in the trees … and to help you get down."

Still not even thinking about my condition or situation, I yelled, "Great, now have you got any food?"

"Wait a minute," one of them said cautiously. "We were told that the cadre would try to trick us into giving them food, and then we'd be in trouble if we did."

'Cadre?' I thought. 'If I fell just short of the DZ, he must be way out in the woods. Hmm?.'

Just then we heard a cry from more than a hundred meters deeper in the woods yell, "Heelllp!"

"That would be the cadre you were referring to", I said. "I'll be right down and we can talk."

"But shouldn't we go help him?"

"Just hold on and I'll be right there." And as fast as I could say that, I had pulled out my reserve chute and dangled it down between the branches. Then I popped the quick-release to free myself from my harness, and slid down using the risers from my reserve. From there I was able to climb to the ground using the lower branches, and started negotiating in earnest with the two-man recovery team. 

I explained with deep emotion how the cadre only spent 24 hours at a time in the field, while we lowly Ranger students went without food, sleep and warmth for up to 12 days. We needed to scrounge for food for our very survival. OK, so I stretched it a little, but just a little.

I asked if they had any extra C-rations. They said they had none, as if C-rats were precious to them. I said we'd take anything, ANYTHING! – that old can of Lima Beans you got stuck with, or the coffee creamer you were going to throw out … Anything Man! I finally convinced them of the seriousness of our situation and walked away with a handful of various packets … and one real prize – a packet of cocoa mix. I'll use all this good stuff to spring some Ja-Mocca on the boys the next time we're allowed a fire, I thought. 

After thanking the Recovery Team profusely, and releasing them to go save our precious cadre, I went off to link up with my stick, and the others who had already completed the night assault. It wasn't until that point that I started feeling a bit dizzy and disoriented. I brushed that off. A new patrol leader was selected to lead the next phase of the operation, new orders were given, and off we went into the night to launch a dawn raid on some small outpost another 20 clicks away. We weren't going to get any sleep tonight either, but at least I wasn't chosen to lead this patrol considering my increased stupor.

Apparently, I really was messed up. On patrol, I zombied along blindly through the woods following Bob. I tripped every so often and stumbled into him every time he stopped. On one short break, I stepped to the side to throw up. On another, I missed the order to move out, and the guy behind me had to get me going. Fortunately, my senses returned to me about the time the sun came up and we launched our dawn raid. Yeah, this is what I was meant for. Check the captives for food.

Sometime later, I learned that we had jumped in strong crosswinds, causing the pilot to make frequent and sudden corrections. This results in the tail jerking to one side and sometimes banging into jumpers on the way out at 110 knots. I was told that that was called 'crabbing', and it explained the helmet over my eyes and the physical signs anyone else but a Ranger would have recognized as a concussion. But in Ranger School, that was just another day at the office. Drive on, Ranger!

I further learned that more than a dozen jumpers were hospitalized that night, many after bouncing off their aircraft as I did. 'More than a dozen, huh? … that's like 13, isn't it?'