nervous eternity, the tailgate opened. The red light came on, then green, and I launched myself forward, twisting in the air to get into the right freefall position. But I immediately became unstable. Flipped over and over by the airstream, I tossed every which way as I tried to get stable.
Where the hell was John? He was supposed to be coming to get me. I couldn’t see him or anyone else. The ground and the sky whirled upside-down or right-way-up, and I was hurtling towards the earth like a rag doll slung from the roof of a tower block. Terrified? That’s a polite understatement for the way I felt. I had an altimeter on my wrist and the bloody thing was clocking off the decreasing height as the earth rushed towards me. Where the hell was John?
Seconds into the jump and I was all over the sky, desperately trying to get stable. It was hopeless, completely beyond my abilities. One second I was dropping head first, the next I was on my back looking towards Heaven. And, at that moment, metaphorically speaking, Heaven seemed far, far too close.
At 4,000 feet I pulled the handle. Bang! The chute opened, the harness slamming into me with a breath-stopping jerk. I’d got a canopy, thank God. I could survive this, I thought, if I didn’t try to do anything clever. I told myself just to leave everything alone. Not to touch a thing. To do nothing. Just land.
And I did.
At the debriefing afterwards, the guys said that as soon as I left the tailgate I went so badly unstable that they couldn’t get near me. Apparently the whole troop had tried to catch me, but I was dropping like a stone, faster than anyone could manage in controlled freefall. Eventually, however, they did manage to close up, and though I saw no one, one of the troop, Stan, who could ‘fly’ in freefall like a bird, actually zoomed in and managed to grab me. I didn’t see him or feel anything, but it was he who stabilized me. It was then that I pulled the handle, felt the shock as the chute opened and saw the canopy above me. By then Stan had whirled away, and I thought it was just good fortune that had ensured that my parachute had deployed safely. Hearing the others at the debriefing, and reflecting on what might have been, confirmed me in my view that I can do without freefalling. It is a view that I hold to this day.
Soon after being badged, a candidate knows which squadron he is going to, because those are the ones with vacancies. In the case of my intake, five of us had been assigned to D Squadron, which had two vacancies in Mobility Troop and three in Boat Troop. We had been told to sort out among ourselves which troop we wanted to go to. All of us wanted to go into Mobility Troop. Partly we fancied ourselves at the wheel of a heavily armed vehicle, belting across country, but mainly none of us liked the idea of working for most of the time in cold water.
On arrival at D Squadron, we were called, in alphabetical order, into the office of the then squadron commander, Major Bruce Niven. Since my surname begins with R, I was fourth down the list. And naturally, the first two in to see the Boss had expressed a preference for Mobility Troop. Looking up from his paperwork, the OC said, ‘Right, Ratcliffe. You’re going to Boat Troop.’ I’d known this was what he would say, but I thought I‘d have a stab at getting him to change his mind. Standing doggedly in front of his desk, I told him somewhat nervously that I’d rather go to Mobility Troop.
‘You’ll go where there is a vacancy, and the vacancy is in Boat Troop,’ was the predictable reply. I didn’t move. ‘No, sir,’ I said, ‘I can’t stand water.’ Major Niven looked at me quizzically and asked if I was scared of water. ‘I’m not scared of water, sir. It’s just that I’m not very confident in it.’
For some reason this must have struck a chord with the OC, with the result that Denis, one of the guys who had been in his office before me, was switched from Mobility and sent to
Where the hell was John? He was supposed to be coming to get me. I couldn’t see him or anyone else. The ground and the sky whirled upside-down or right-way-up, and I was hurtling towards the earth like a rag doll slung from the roof of a tower block. Terrified? That’s a polite understatement for the way I felt. I had an altimeter on my wrist and the bloody thing was clocking off the decreasing height as the earth rushed towards me. Where the hell was John?
Seconds into the jump and I was all over the sky, desperately trying to get stable. It was hopeless, completely beyond my abilities. One second I was dropping head first, the next I was on my back looking towards Heaven. And, at that moment, metaphorically speaking, Heaven seemed far, far too close.
At 4,000 feet I pulled the handle. Bang! The chute opened, the harness slamming into me with a breath-stopping jerk. I’d got a canopy, thank God. I could survive this, I thought, if I didn’t try to do anything clever. I told myself just to leave everything alone. Not to touch a thing. To do nothing. Just land.
And I did.
At the debriefing afterwards, the guys said that as soon as I left the tailgate I went so badly unstable that they couldn’t get near me. Apparently the whole troop had tried to catch me, but I was dropping like a stone, faster than anyone could manage in controlled freefall. Eventually, however, they did manage to close up, and though I saw no one, one of the troop, Stan, who could ‘fly’ in freefall like a bird, actually zoomed in and managed to grab me. I didn’t see him or feel anything, but it was he who stabilized me. It was then that I pulled the handle, felt the shock as the chute opened and saw the canopy above me. By then Stan had whirled away, and I thought it was just good fortune that had ensured that my parachute had deployed safely. Hearing the others at the debriefing, and reflecting on what might have been, confirmed me in my view that I can do without freefalling. It is a view that I hold to this day.
Soon after being badged, a candidate knows which squadron he is going to, because those are the ones with vacancies. In the case of my intake, five of us had been assigned to D Squadron, which had two vacancies in Mobility Troop and three in Boat Troop. We had been told to sort out among ourselves which troop we wanted to go to. All of us wanted to go into Mobility Troop. Partly we fancied ourselves at the wheel of a heavily armed vehicle, belting across country, but mainly none of us liked the idea of working for most of the time in cold water.
On arrival at D Squadron, we were called, in alphabetical order, into the office of the then squadron commander, Major Bruce Niven. Since my surname begins with R, I was fourth down the list. And naturally, the first two in to see the Boss had expressed a preference for Mobility Troop. Looking up from his paperwork, the OC said, ‘Right, Ratcliffe. You’re going to Boat Troop.’ I’d known this was what he would say, but I thought I‘d have a stab at getting him to change his mind. Standing doggedly in front of his desk, I told him somewhat nervously that I’d rather go to Mobility Troop.
‘You’ll go where there is a vacancy, and the vacancy is in Boat Troop,’ was the predictable reply. I didn’t move. ‘No, sir,’ I said, ‘I can’t stand water.’ Major Niven looked at me quizzically and asked if I was scared of water. ‘I’m not scared of water, sir. It’s just that I’m not very confident in it.’
For some reason this must have struck a chord with the OC, with the result that Denis, one of the guys who had been in his office before me, was switched from Mobility and sent to
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