D-Day: Count to Four

December 2023

“We stand at the door and count to four and jump into the sky. Anyone says he isn’t afraid is telling a g**damn lie.”

Many, many times, I heard the story of the unnamed paratrooper who was right in front of him on most of his training jumps. Throughout the work in England from their bivouac in Ramsbury, Wiltshire, this man confided to his buddy that he was scared to jump and could not overcome it. So, he told my dad that when he approached the door and “counted to four,” he needed a push because he knew he would panic and freeze. His pride and his desire to serve as a Screaming Eagle were much greater than his terror of jumping from an airplane. Dad used to tell me he never said a word to anyone, especially the sergeants or officers, and would give his buddy an inconspicuous shove out the door every time. Looking back and imagining the scene of this well-built athlete with movie star looks, and his brave friend in front of him, I chuckle at the secret arrangement. These two American boys were absolutely determined to do their best despite the challenging times and dire trials, and while I have no direct knowledge of this matter, I do have some experience as a former military officer. I am confident that the non-coms – maybe not the officers! – knew all about this little arrangement and winked knowingly at one another.

No training tonight!  This jump was real. They were parachuting behind the enemy’s positions.  My father approached the door and fireworks filled the air. The rounds kept hitting the plane and the tracers kept bouncing around inside like demonic little fuckers who were determined to kill some poor, unlucky soul. Standing at the door, he realized it would be impossible to jump in the intended close intervals that were designed to allow the two sticks of 18 men to stay together on the ground.  “We had to pause until the tracers went by” and then identify enough of a pause to get out of the plane without being killed.  In a poignant and slightly mysterious note, he wrote of his friend,

“I must mention before I forget one of my buddies was afraid to jump and he was in front of me in the stick…. He asked me to push him every jump and I did. I think this is real bravery. I had no problem jumping and I respected him until he died.” 

Those final words “until he died” were crossed out with black ink. I do not know if that was because it was an error, or if he simply did not want to write those words about his young friend. On this night, the night of nights, shells bursting all around them, did my father stand, once again, behind his friend? When the jump order came, did he nudge him out of the careening C-47 and into the dark sky lit up by fireworks and the war that waited to engulf them both? And did that unnamed trooper ever make it home?

Now, it was his turn. He placed his hands against the frame of the airplane and waited for the command. With tears in my eyes, I write these words as I imagine this larger-than-life figure. I see him in all his unbelievable energy, positivity, and vibrant, heroic youth doing the unthinkable with so many of his brothers. These men from all walks of life, with a wide variety of experiences, belief systems, and communities were right where they were most needed. Many of them had hardly traveled beyond their own town, and most had never been in an airplane before the war. But here they were, and they were all willing to stand at the door.

"So, Heidi, Heidi, Lord Almighty. Who the hell are we? Zim-zam, g**damn, we’re parachute infantry!”