Troopers packed into the C-130s like fish from a cannery. Four long rows of us in each aircraft, two on each side of the airplane facing each other, so close together that our knees banged. Roar of engines and aircraft vibration made talking difficult. Some of the guys soon nodded off with chins bouncing on the tops of their reserve ‘chutes. Others, withdrawn and reflective, stared down between their boots. Glances flitted around like ricochets, eyes refusing to meet for fear of revealing the creepy little worms crawling around inside our intestines. You couldn’t let your buddies see that you were afraid.
If I twisted around in the web seating, jostling awake the soldier napping on either side of me, I managed to look out the airplane’s round porthole behind me. It was dark out. All e the stars and a sliver of moon and the ocean below with a moon streak leading away across it into infinity. My mouth felt dry and I couldn’t sleep, but I wouldn’t admit it was because I was afraid. I pictured myself strutting around at the NCO club wearing a combat jump star on my silver parachute wings. I was still a teenager; I turned twenty at the end of the month. At that age, you were immortal, invincible, and stupid.
From what I recalled from high school geography refreshed by talk among the troops as we on-loaded the planes, the Dominican Republic was a big island half of which was Haiti. When daybreak filtered weak and watery through the C-130’s small portholes, I twisted in my seat to see if I could see it yet.
The sea still stretched away unmarred by land. It was a beautiful cobalt color made translucent in reflection of a cloudless sky. Other dark-green C-130s flew in formation off our flank. I wondered how many aircraft there were in our flight, and how many flights there were. It was an impressive sight when the 82d Airborne and America went to war.
Word came down. “Make sure your weapons are loaded. Keep them on Safe until you hit the DZ.”
The DZ, we had been told after donning parachutes by squads inside the aircraft, was a large cane field next to the airport. I felt for the magazine in the M16 secured butt up over my left shoulder and fingered the selector switch for the Safe position. I readjusted my reserve ‘chute pack. Because of my small size, it covered most of my chest. It occurred to me unexpectedly that a combat jump was conducted from eight hundred feet AGL. Why were we issued reserves then? Even if your main malfunctioned, you didn’t have time to activate a reserve before you creamed in.
Maybe the reserve was just to make us feel better.
Another thought occurred to me. What if they started shooting at us while we were still in the air? The Nazis had done it in World War II. I glanced at the guy across from me. His eyes were round and very wide. Maybe he was thinking the same thing.
“Thirty minutes!” came the word. I looked out the window, but still saw no land.
I was sweating. Judging by the odor, we were all sweating. I told myself I would feel better after the jump doors opened and we got some fresh Caribbean air.
Watch out, commies. The mighty Airborne is gonna hick some ass.
Sergeants started pumping us up for it, shouting and slapping our helmets. We stamped our feet and bobbed in our seats. We fisted each other on the shoulders and grinned to show that, hey, the AA, the All Americans, feared no fuckin’ commies. I would have to call on ol’ Drop-Drop Estelle and show him my medals when we got back.
Just when we were really pumped up, more word came back. The aircraft crew chief passed it on to the jumpmaster first. He frowned and climbed up on the webbing above the troops so he could shout and be heard above the engine noise.
“The jump is scrubbed,” he bawled out. “The Marines have landed and secured the airfield. We’ll be air-landing.”
Although we naturally felt obligated to boo the Marines, I saw more relief than disappointment in the faces around me. I felt actually let down, however. I had really been counting on that combat star for my wings.
“Take off your ‘chutes and stack ’em. It’ll be a hot landing. Get off the airplane as fast as you can get down the ramp when we land. The plane will be taking off again immediately.”
I had been looking out the window all the way for a first sighting of the Dominican Republic. I was never to see it from the air. As we bled off altitude on the final approach to the airport at Santo Domingo, the crew chief suddenly bellowed, “Get down! Everybody get down on the deck! We’re taking fire!”
Paratroopers tumbled to the floor like a bunch of starded puppies. The belly of a C-130 was armor-plated whereas the sides were only thin metal. I discovered myself crushed against the cool metal floor underneath other bodies. I could hardly breathe.
I heard what sounded like dull thuds striking the airplane. Something like isolated hail stones thumping the roof of your Ford Fairlane. I later learned we took sixteen hits from a .30-cal machine gun on our way in. Rebel snipers hiding in the swamps around the airport’s approach shot at everything that flew by. That was the first time it occurred to me that, in an aircraft, the only thing you heard of gunfire was when the bullets hit.
C-130s set down with screaming of rubber on asphalt. They slowed but never fully stopped. Ramps lowered and troopers spilled out onto the tarmac. I scrambled for cover. Everything was brought to a halt when someone shouted in surprise, “What the fuck. over?”
A U.S. Air Force tech sergeant stood at the edge of the runway with his arms crossed, laughing at us. Other Air Force guys and some Marines walked casually about in the morning sunshine, for all the world like guys back in garrison out for a Sunday morning stroll. Some of them had coffee cups hooked on their fingers.
“Glad you fellas could make it,” the tech sergeant jeered. “Come on in. Have some coffee, courtesy of the U.S. Air Force and the U.S. Marines.”