Jump Day

***This is not a story, this is my life.  My only hope is that the words I write will help draw those I love closer to our Father in Heaven through showing how truely merciful He really is.***

Today.

My whole body was shaking from my helmet down through my boots. Even the ground shook with deep vibrations that seemed to shake my inner soul.  The chute on my back tugged at my spine, my shoulders burned from the pain of the harness digging into my collarbones.  I looked over at Johnson and grinned. 


“Did you ever think you’d grow up and jump off a helicopter into a Lithuanian swamp?”  He smiled and shook his head. I could tell he could barely hear me over the sound of the spinning rotor.

“No, Sir,” he said, “never.”

The grass below me withered and danced against the hurricane force winds that blasted from the chopper and I suddenly realized I was very, very cold.  My uniform was wet from the rain and the single strap that stretched across the door holding us in was sopping wet.  My arms were soaked. 

My feet, dangling out the side of the bird, suddenly felt a shift. Then lift off.  The ground sunk below us as if in slow motion.  I could see the other Blackhawks getting smaller—we were the first chalk—then the tops of the trees--then we were off. 
 
The jump master yelled over the sound of the bird: “We’re going to do a dry run.”  I nodded in response and tried to adjust my chin strap that holds down my ACH (combat helmet).  Somehow while boarding, my strap had become crooked; I worried that when I jumped, I’d lose the helmet altogether.  At one thousand feet, child like awe took over my whole being.  The Curonian lagoon, stretching south towards Kaliningrad,  was separated from the Baltic sea by only a thin peninsula.  It had a deep green/blue sheen, reflecting off the water.  The Baltic sea, from the angle I was at, rose seamlessly into the clouds, as if the sea stretched into heaven. At 1500 feet I could see Klaipeda, with all of its seaside cranes and soviet era apartments. About half-way around the DZ (drop zone), I heard the jump master again.

“6 minutes!” he yelled.  The jumpers echoed his words.

“6 minutes!”

I gave a thumbs up to SGT Rakas, the Lithuanian recon scout sitting on my right.  He spoke decent English, but over the constant thumping of the aircraft, I was certain he wouldn’t hear me.  He returned my odd American gesture with a wide Lithuanian grin. 

“1 minute,” yelled the jump master. 

My heart was pounding.  I could see little white specs on the lagoon.  What are those?  Are they ducks?  People?  Geese.

“30 seconds!”

There was a small boat.  Only one.  They would pick us up if the wind pushed us too far west on the DZ. 

“Sound off for equipment check!”

I went through the routine, the same as I have done a hundred times.  *Helmet*, *chin strap*, *chest strap*, *left and right leg strap*.  I touched each one as I said the words to ensure the harness was still adjusted correctly on my now aching body.  I put my hands palm down on the floor to prepare to jump.

“Get Ready,” said the jump master, then,  “Stand by!”

Suddenly I saw it, a huge orange ‘H’ marking the edge of the DZ actual.  I heard the jump master yelling behind me as he reached out and hit each jumper's helmet. 

“go……."

"go……."

"go......”

I saw Rakas push himself up and out of the bird, his body falling quickly down and away, out of site.

“Go!” said the jump master as he hit the back of my helmet.  I lifted my body, with all of my attached equipment, off the floor of the Blackhawk and thrust myself forward—out—into the air. 

Quiet.