Operation Lavivrus. John Wiseman
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Andy’s five foot eight inch frame was packed with sinewy muscles. He was a keep-fit fanatic and could run all day. He still had his raw Brummy accent after ten years in the army.
‘No problem, Andy. Hand your weapon in and be back here at two. We’ve got a briefing about tomorrow,’ said Tony.
Peter added, ‘Listen in, everyone. Tomorrow we have an early start. Parade at the guardroom 0200, arrive Lyneham 0400, fit parachutes for take-off at 0430, with P hour at 0530. Staff, will you take over? The Colonel wants to see me.’
Tony was taken aback by Peter’s formal attitude, which did not go unnoticed by the men. He tried to maintain the same expression, continuing the briefing in fine detail.
‘Chalky, you will be pleased to know the DZ is Foxtrot Charlie on Sennybridge. Try not to break your leg this time.’
Keen eyes studied the map displayed before them, following the pointer as Tony explained the run in and release points. These were determined by the wind, and the long-range forecast was favourable.
‘Draw and fit parachutes this afternoon, and pack your containers. Keep the weight down to sixty pounds. Three Troop are acting as enemy and have challenged us to a speed march afterwards. I’m trying to get the colonel to put up a case of beer for the winners. It’s like trying to get blood out of a stone, so I hope Pete reminds him.’
Rendezvous points (RVs) were given so they could all meet up and clear the drop zone as a troop as quickly as possible. Emergency RVs and grid references were also given, together with contingency plans in case the jump was cancelled.
Although the radiators were on full blast, it was still cold in the temporary briefing room. The main ops room was being revamped and they had to make do in an old wooden hut that was due to be demolished as part of the new camp rebuild. The very mention of parachuting also brought a cold chill to the room, lowering the temperature by several degrees.
‘Chalky, med pack; Andy, radio, check with sigs on frequencies. Charlie and Ron, I’d like you to take the thermal imagers. Make sure they have new batteries. Chalky and Fred have the night sights.’ Tony paused, looking back over his notes. ‘I think that’s it. Any questions?’
It was way past eight o’clock before Tony returned to the cottage. Rays of light escaping from gaps in the curtains were a welcoming sight to a very tired man. His groin protested at the uphill run, and he was sorry he had declined a lift.
During the run he had time to reflect on what they had done that day. He kept wondering if he had covered everything for tomorrow, and hoped the weather stayed settled like it was now. One vivid picture kept returning, replacing all other images: the expression on the captain’s face in the gym. Try as he might he couldn’t shake it off. Even the scattered light of the city below him and the brilliant stars above failed to erase it. ‘I’m overtired,’ he thought.
Angie greeted him warmly, hugging him closely. She could feel the tiredness and tension in his body. ‘What sort of a day has my little soldier had?’ she asked in a sultry tone.
Tony dropped on the sofa in a weary heap, before answering, ‘You know when you got hurt as a child and mummy used to kiss it better . . .’
Peter looked in the mirror, checking the neat line of stitches. It was midnight, and although he was tired sleep wouldn’t come.
‘Look at that lot. That’s all I need. What are Mo’s parents going to think of me?’ For the first time in his life he was worried about other people. ‘I look more like a bouncer than an army officer,’ he reflected, tenderly rubbing the swelling.
Mo had given him no sympathy, and her attitude when they met at lunchtime was closer to disgust than sorrow. He knew he would be away soon, and not knowing when he was coming back didn’t help matters. She was keen for him to meet her parents before he went, and had described him as a sweet, gentle man. She could imagine her mother’s face when Punchy Pete turned up, cut, bruised and swollen.
Things were happening too fast for Pete’s liking: rehearsals, training, briefings, and on top of all this an injury. He was also concerned at the way the troop had rallied around Tony rather than him. He tried lying down again, closing his eyes and hoping for the relief of sleep to blank out his anxieties. Army beds were not the most comfortable of berths, and he struggled.
Knowing that he was parachuting in the morning always affected him this way. So many things could go wrong: hard pull, malfunction and mid-air collision were all distinct possibilities. A bad spot could cause you to land in water or hit power lines; landing on the DZ with equipment was bad enough as it was. In one part of his mind he hoped that the jump would be cancelled, but he also looked forward to the challenge.
Everything was his responsibility; the colonel had made that quite clear at their last meeting. He was told he had to take charge more, and not leave everything to his Staff Sergeant. He couldn’t help thinking of Tony again, and their fight.
He tossed and turned, trying to switch off his overactive mind. Just when he was on the verge of sleep an explosion of light would pierce his tired eyes, bringing him fully alert and leaving a myriad of dancing lights bouncing around his skull. There was no escape; the more descents he had done, the worse it got the night before.
All too soon the alarm clock went off. He arose from sweat-soaked sheets.
Conversation was non-existent in the minibus, and the early start was only partly to blame. Parachuting always had the same effect, and most people wanted to be quiet. They feigned sleep, reliving past descents, mentally going through a checklist: good strong exit, stable fall, smooth opening, lower equipment, feet and knees together for landing.
They never knew until the last moment whether the jump was on or not. The weather seemed good, but it could change in an instant. They were jumping in Wales near the mountains, and the weather here was unpredictable. The C-130 rarely became unserviceable, but it did happen. The ground party who manned the DZ had the last say. If they gave the thumbs up, the jump was on.
Every descent was different, and if you were unprepared you could get caught out. All these men were experienced, however, and left nothing to chance. They always went through the same rituals and mental rehearsal.
Chalky – Lance Corporal Henry White – a veteran of more than 1,000 jumps, had broken his tibia and fibia the last time he jumped on Sennybridge. This was a freak accident that happened eight months ago. A gust of wind caught him as he was about to land, causing him to fall heavily on a trip flare piquet that had been left behind by some irresponsible unit. He was now fully fit, but he sub-consciously flexed the old injury, trying to reassure himself that it wouldn’t happen again.
Chalky was of mixed race, and had endured plenty of malice and racial abuse as a child growing up in the East End of London. His father was a West Indian seaman who met his mother at the Stepney General Hospital, where he was taken sick after a voyage. She was a nurse there, and fell pregnant after a brief affair. He sailed away, promising to return, but he never did. He was never seen or heard of again. Coming from a religious family, his mother was ostracised for bringing disgrace to the family. She was cast out and had to fend for herself. She had to work, so Chalky was passed around among the few friends she had left. Sometimes she had to take him to work at the hospital, where he was hidden in the laundry or looked after by a porter.
It was a tough community to grow up in without a father. His mother suffered endless abuse from bigoted neighbours, and Chalky couldn’t wait to be big enough to defend her. Although she doted on him, he was a painful reminder of the past, and joining the army was a natural escape for him. He fitted into his new family well. At twenty-seven years old, with seven years in the Squadron, he was the troop medic, probably influenced by his mother.
Fred massaged the scar on his leg where he had been burnt hitting high-tension cables three years ago. It seemed like yesterday that the brilliant blue flash lit up his body and the surrounding area of Salisbury Plain. Cables are difficult to see from the air, even in daylight. The parachute collapses when