by Sid Macken
I never really knew why 257 was there. His real name was Taylor. And about all I knew was that he was a 2nd Lieutenant in the U.S. Army Transportation Corps, fresh out of Officer Candidate School, who had volunteered for the U.S. Army Basic Airborne School at Fort Benning, Georgia, affectionately known as Jump School by its graduates. The school challenges students physically and exposes them to three experiences most have never encountered before: the 34-foot tower, the 250-foot tower, and five parachute jumps from an aircraft. It has been more than fifty years since I attended the school at Benning, and 257 haunts me to this day, in a good way.
Soldiers who graduate from Jump School are distinguished from the majority of other soldiers by silver parachutist wings worn on their uniforms. If they graduate, they also have earned bragging rights; at least until they meet a Green Beret, an Army Ranger, or a U.S. Navy SEAL. Members of all U.S. military branches are eligible to attend, but they must volunteer and meet physical requirements. Soldiers volunteer for a variety of reasons. Assignments to some military units, such as airborne divisions or Special Forces, require the training—my reason for volunteering. For some soldiers it is a personal challenge to see if they “measure up.” For some officers it is a ticket to be punched as part of their career progression plans. I didn’t know 257’s, and he seemed out of place in the ranks of the students. Of smallish build and bespectacled, he did not fit the typical GI Joe image, and he was terrified of just about everything he encountered at the school.
Each student at Jump School has a number on the front of their helmet. That number is the student’s identity during training. I got to know 257 because our helmet numbers were close together. Mine being 278 meant we were always in the same group during training.
Jump School is composed of three weeks of training, Ground Week, Tower Week, and Jump Week. Ground Week is mostly physical training with lots of running and classes. Tower Week involves jumps from the 34-foot and 250-foot towers. During Jump Week the students make five jumps from an aircraft and, upon completing those jumps, receive their wings.
The 34-foot tower is the first place students stand in the door of a mock-up aircraft and are told to step into thin air with nothing in their field of view to assure them they won’t go straight into the ground. Students are, of course, connected by a harness and straps, called risers, to a trolley which rides on a cable above their head. But in the door, they cannot see this. They only see a black-hatted instructor sitting in a chair 34 feet below them who grades their performance. After exiting the door, the trolley slides down the cable carrying the student to a berm where other students catch and disconnect them from the risers. The student then runs along the berm and back to the “Black Hat” for his critique.
The 34-foot tower was where students learn to put their faith in all the people who make what paratroopers do possible: parachute riggers, jump masters, air crews, aircraft mechanics, almost an endless list. It was there 257 taught me a great lesson in personal courage.
Students training on the tower line up and climb a series of stairs from the ground up to the mock airplane where black-hatted instructors take charge and connect them in turn to the risers for their jump. Along the way and after reaching the top, they wait for preceding students to be hooked up, receive their instructions from the Black Hat on the ground, exit the door, and ride the cable. Each student has a lot of time to ponder what will happen, especially the first time up the stairs.
My helmet number put me near the seated Black Hat when 257 was in the door. I watched 257 take his position, sound off loudly with “TAYLOR, 257, SERGEANT,” place his hands on the outside skin of the mock aircraft, one foot forward, knees bent, eyes on the horizon. On the Black Hat’s command of “GO,” 257 began a sort of dance in the door without moving his feet. He bobbed up and down trying to work up the courage to jump. After a bit, the Black Hat in the tower stepped up behind 257 and none too gently pushed him out the door. Reporting to the Black Hat in the chair, 257 was ordered to do it again and he returned to the line on the stairs. This was repeated several times over a couple of days until the last time I saw 257. He stood in the door going through his routine. The Black Hat in the tower stepped behind him and put his hand on 257’s back. I couldn’t hear what was said as 257 turned on the Black Hat, but I could clearly see 257 wagging his finger in front of the Black Hat’s nose—no small feat since 257 was easily a foot shorter than the instructor. The Black Hat stepped back. Turning again to the door, 257 continued to bob and weave until one foot shot out as he tried to jump. Instead of jumping, he slipped, fell to a sitting position on the edge of the door, and tumbled from the tower. By the time 257 returned from the berm for his critique, I had moved on so did not hear the Black Hat’s comments. I did not see 257 again.
After graduating and arriving at my assigned duty station, I learned 257’s fate at Jump School. A friend who was in the class following mine told me that 257 was recycled to his class and experienced the same difficulties that I witnessed. However, 257 stuck with it and completed tower week. He then went on to Jump Week. My friend sat next to 257 in the aircraft for the five qualifying parachute jumps. On one flight to the drop zone, my friend, in a mischievous mood, looked at 257 and casually said, “I wouldn’t jump that ‘chute.’” This sent 257 into a panic. He insisted the Jump Master recheck him and his parachute. Receiving the OK but not totally convinced that all was well, 257 returned to his seat and completed the jump. To his credit, 257 completed all five jumps and graduated from Basic Airborne Training. He received his silver wings, the mark of a paratrooper.
Military lives are often entwined: connecting, parting, and reconnecting over the years. Not so with me and 257, but he sticks in my memory after five decades. In the short time I knew him though, I was greatly impressed by his character. He was obviously terrified of what he was doing at Jump School but was determined to complete it and did so despite his fears. He did not quit. I think the Black Hats may have also seen his resolve and, perhaps, they did not drop him from the school because of it.
People come in a wide variety of shapes and sizes. Some exude an image of strength and courage, some don’t. 257 was one of the latter. However, courage can often be found where it is least expected and, in my estimation, 257 was courageous. To have courage isn’t necessarily to be free of fear. Courage can also be the ability to succeed despite fear.
Wherever 257 went, and whatever he did later in life, I hope he takes pride in the silver wings that were pinned to his chest at graduation. He earned them.
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Sid Macken grew up in rural farm country of Oregon’s Willamette Valley. He served over 20 years in the US Army’s Special Forces; active duty, Reserve, and National Guard. He served three years as a commissioned officer in 10th and 12th Special Forces but took a reduction in rank in order to stay in Special Forces. He retired as a Master Sergeant in 1998. Sid comes from a family with a long history of military service dating from the Civil War through World Wars I and II and Viet Nam. He lives in his great-grandfather’s house in the Oregon community where he grew up.
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