Uninvited guests: part 1

Everybody had a pattern to deal with stress.

Ralph Roman clipped his nails, then the cuticles, and finally, he trimmed away the calloused flesh of his fingertips with the nail clipper tied to his combat harness. Mike Stone slept, a puddle of drool gathering in the corner of his mouth and waiting for gravity to give it means of escape. Sgt. Hilgenhurst composed a letter to his wife in the subdued, tactical red glow of the cargo hold. Normally, I would have dissected lyrics I hadn't heard in awhile, picked apart the phrasing and painstakingly assured that I had every word, line and verse correct.

Had I not been painfully aware that I was flying nap-of-the-earth, 500 feet above Panamanian jungles where, soon, I would meet people who wanted to kill me, I might have thought of a song to work with. I couldn’t. I pushed bad thoughts away and tried to focus on anything, even the 150 pounds of equipment hanging from my shoulders and the 30 or so hanging as the parachute from my back.

When the jump doors opened, 80-degree air filled the cabin—quite a shock after the 30s in North Carolina and the chill of 30,000 feet. As the heat intensified, faces turned pale and canteens came out. Half the chalk looked like it would suffer heat exhaustion before leaving the bird.

The engines' drone stuttered and dropped to a fluctuating hum. When the light turned green, I had tunnel vision on the door.

Feeling the tug of jet engines and the roar of the wind, I counted four seconds, checked that I had a canopy—the plane had almost disappeared from view in the night sky. Heat and humidity brought stillness to the night. Other than people being killed just below, it felt almost tranquil.

Beneath me, green tracer rounds flew outward. Red ones returned, some streaming toward the planes overhead. Explosions rocked the airport terminal; the heaviest fighting.

As treetops passed, I pulled the straps to drop my rucksack; two of them would send it sprawling to the end of a 15 foot line, where it would hang until I landed. Unfortunately, the line didn't extend before it hit the ground. I wasn't high enough. I came barreling in on top of it, bounced, and landed with the gun I carried firmly embedded in my ribs.

I like trees.

Hence, I spent the ensuing 30 or 40 seconds staring at a majestic acacia. It took most of the time to focus and to ascertain that it was an acacia, but that's what I looked at while I tried to figure out if any bones or equipment were broken beyond repair.

Merry Christmas, Pfc. Davidson, welcome to Panama.

****
Sunday, Dec. 17, 1989 had been a good day. That is, it had been a good day until someone woke me from drunken slumber to tell me I had 24-hour duty. I had slept about four hours. I reported as runner to the Charge of Quarters, CQ. My job entailed anything the sergeant on duty required. I did receive the bonus of Monday off, but not until 9 am.

Nothing about that day stands out in memory with the exception of a 24-hour bug known as hung-over-bag-of-ass syndrome. "Rough shape” didn't do my physical ills justice. I had planned on sleeping most of the day.

Monday's relief arrived right on time—about 23 hours later than I wanted—and I went to bed. For waking me around noon, Traveling Matt Farrel received a laundry list of expletives as he told me we had been put on alert. Sgt. Hilgenhurst wanted me in the command post, immediately. Farrel had a habit of playing jokes when people were most vulnerable. I went back to sleep.

I should have listened. A little later, Hilgenhurst burst through the door and unceremoniously dragged me from bed. He let me shower and shave. I got the short form on what had happened the previous three hours and what the next 18 held in store.

That afternoon, we headed to green ramp, the section of Pope Air Force Base reserved specifically for paratroopers. The grounds provided all the space and equipment for training and preparation. Long, wide benches had room to don parachutes and sit comfortably while awaiting inspection. Randomly arranged tables bolted in place stood ready for loading magazines, rearranging gear, packing, repairing, even eating. Vacant lots had storage space for equipment or—on a drizzling day in December—for paratroopers who were not flying out on schedule.

After drawing ammunition and ordinance, we learned that parachutes wouldn't arrive until morning–not enough covered cargo trucks. Paratroopers operate efficiently when drenched. Parachutes, not so much. We took the rest of the day getting ready, going over plans, doing whatever needed to prepare ourselves. At night, some played cards; some wrote letters. I made my gear ready for quick morning departure, and sacked out in my cot before the tent lights went out.

Tuesday defined Army life and the 1000 clichés it’s spawned. Hurry up and wait; multi-denominational services every hour, Catholic on the 15s, Episcopalian on the 30s, etc; repetition breeds remembrance; if it ain’t raining, we ain’t training. We had a hot breakfast and lunch and were back to green ramp proper for 3 pm. The brain trust scheduled takeoff for 6 with a six-hour flight to a coordinated airborne assault at about half passed midnight. During a fresh sleeting, we feasted on MREs while technicians de-iced wings on a fleet of C141 Starlifters, their sleek, black backs shimmering in sub-freezing evening sky.

Around 6, we packed in like school girls on the free bus to a New Kids on the Block concert. I’m sure a few would rather have gone to a show rife with teenage girls than hang out in a freezing plane waiting to wage war.

I had to piss as usual, had since before we loaded. I tried to sleep. It lasted about 20 minutes before one of the crew shouted down the line. I woke, spent the rest of the flight meditating in silent dread the concept of actually going to war. Sure it’s what I’d signed up for, but I never expected to have to do it.

Our mission was a classic airborne operation: an airfield takedown. Intelligence pinpointed Noriega's Dignity Battalion's strongholds, though there were few. We, in concert with the 1st Battalion/75th Rangers, intended to reduce resistance at Tucomen Torrios Airfield, establish a base of operations and then take a sunrise helicopter ride to the south coast of Panama City, a village called Panamá Viejo.

But at our target time, we were still over the Gulf of Mexico. At altitude, ice formed on our wings, so we flew lower and slower than planned. We were going to be late. Already on station in Panama instead of flying in from Georgia, the Rangers would be on time and, potentially, notice our absence. By 1:15, everyone was awake, internal clocks suggesting that something was wrong.

At 1:30, the jumpmaster gave the 20-minute warning. In those last minutes between the door opening and steps out of the plane, it sank in that this wasn't another training mission. Locals waiting below wanted to kill me.

I searched my mind for something to concentrate on. Nothing came. The jumpmaster held up thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. Thirty seconds. Counting down mentally, I held my cool until the jumpmaster motioned to the door jumper, "Stand by."

The tension was palpable; it wasn't a feeling in the plane. It carried the plane. It was a creature in space breathing down every neck. It was every hair, every hackle, every fluttering eyelid and labored breath. I leaned into my assistant gunner's ear and with all the strength I had—which amounted to quite little at the moment—I screamed "fuck yeah."

I wasn't motivated. I was scared shitless, but I had to make it seem as though I was motivated. Stewart responded with a sort of open-mouthed growl, "aargh," and the whole plane lit up. It culminated in cries of "get some," as the light turned green.

I charged the door fast on Stewart’s flank, handed off my static line and passed through roar and shake, into calm. I could see Rangers were in the thick of the fight.

Something else had changed. The original plan had thousands of paratroopers dropping unannounced in the middle of a runway before any fighting began. Call it a misdrop; call it quick thinking on the part of the pilot. He had veered right of his intended target. Perhaps he was afraid of having his ship and cargo shot up during the approach; maybe, he knew we would be landing in the middle of a firefight. Either way, we landed about a kilometer away from where we needed to be. And being the first plane, all other pilots had followed him.

As I surveyed all this, I forgot to do my math problem: If Pvt. Joe Snuffy exits a C141 aircraft traveling 200 miles per hour at approximately 500 feet above ground level, descends four seconds at 75 feet per second, how long does he have before he hits the ground descending under canopy at approximately 20 feet a second. Answer, not long (8-12 seconds, depending on atmospheric conditions—humidity and heat help keep parachutes aloft).

I was close to the ground. Dropping my rucksack, I watched it impact from about 12 feet up. I didn't have time to prepare for landing. Feet and knees together, I angled my legs and tried to miss the ruck but couldn't. It happened too quickly.

Pulling my gun from what seemed to be permanent residence in my ribcage, I got ready to move, which, believe it or not, included what’s known as the sixth point of performance. I took a piss.

I left my chute where it came down, donned my rucksack and unsheathed my mortar tube. Trees obscured the landscape, but my compass knew the way. I spied the elephant grass that I had to pass through, alone, in the dark. The scraping and ticking of blades brushing together in the breeze sounded like footsteps and whispers.

And a song finally came crashing into my thoughts, a Grateful Dead tune that, as of 0150 hours, Dec. 20, 1989, I knew exactly three lines to: "Dire Wolf." I knew the chorus, and as I waded, pistol drawn, among eight-foot stalks of elephant grass, I sang them in my head.

"Don't murder me.
I beg of you, don't murder me.
Please, don't murder me."