What the hell am I doing here up in a C-130 cargo plane standing near the end of a line of twenty with the hook from my backpack latched to an overhead rod? They will open the cargo door soon and there is only one way out, through that door, no backing out. It is jump or be pushed out.

Two and a half years in the army—a foot soldier, close to the ground, a belly-crawling specialist, two months to honorable discharge. So what the hell am I doing here thousands of feet above ground?

What possessed me to volunteer for paratroop duty two months before discharge. Is it to go out with a blaze of glory, one up on my friends, the ones I grew up with, played with, went to school with, reached puberty with, competed with, served in the Army with? Is it to have a special story to tell? I am afraid!

The plane is descending. This is going to be combat-type jumping, close to the ground, reduced chance of being shot by ground fire. We level off at 500 feet. The cargo door opens and I hear the swish of air rushing past. Surprisingly, I feel calm.

"Go!!" The first in line jumps out. In subsequent jumps there will be only one "Go!!" We all follow each other without stop.

For the first jump there is a separate "Go!!" for each jumper, a pause between jumps. "Go!!" a slight hesitation and I jump out.

I descend and hit the ground. I am supposed to bend my knees, turn and roll over the side. All gone to waste.

I land squarely on my feet. The shock of impact travels up my legs, through my torso and into my chin to clinch my teeth shut. Except my tongue is in between my teeth. I bleed and screech like a stuck pig, running in circles to alleviate pain. Damn it to hell, it really hurts.

A medic comes to my aid and stuffs my mouth full of gauze. I am to clamp my teeth hard to stop the bleeding. Should take a couple of hours—no eating for twelve.

What the hell, one jump under the belt with four more to go. Then it is home, to see Nina. I got a story to tell.

~ Gideon Wizansky