On this fateful night I was commanding a Company of volunteer Paratroopers from Glasgow. My Second in Command was an intelligent school teacher who was carrying all our plans for a major NATO exercise while I took his mortar bombs.
Crowding some sixty men, all carrying heavy loads, in addition to their parachutes, reserves and lifejackets into a fairly roomy aircraft makes a pretty tight squeeze. In we all waddled and perched on the webbing straps which served as seats on these aircraft as the pilots ran the engines up to speed and the armada took off into the night sky.
There were thirteen aircraft loaded with paratroopers and behind them another twenty filled with equipment – land rovers, field guns and trailers filled with all the bits and pieces a major force like this would need to operate successfully in the field.
The noise was deafening, but inside you soon got used to it and tuned it out as you started to think about everything; from the coming exercise to humdrum daily tasks you might have forgotten to complete before you left. Often there is an irresistible urge to nod off for a short while as the vibration lulls you to sleep, disregarding the purpose which had brought you there. Some of the men chattered to keep their spirits up and disguise their nerves, others stayed silent lost in their thoughts, and the RAF crew, who would open the doors and urge us out, clustered down at the tail of the aircraft nonchalantly looking as though this was all in a day’s work, which for them it was, although not usually on this scale.
Lost in your own world, the apparently sudden command from the crew to 'stand up and fit equipment' shook us into reality. This was the point where the jumpers hooked their parachutes to the long cable inside the aircraft and started to check that everything was still secure and the equipment on the man in front was also ready. I was jumping first on the port side of the aircraft.
The night air rushed in as a cold blast when the PJI (Parachute Jumping Instructor) slid the door up and we both watched the lights beside the door turn first to red and then to green. 'Green on. Go.' Without hesitation training took over. I stepped over the sill of the aircraft trying to close my legs tight together and clamping my arms across the top of my reserve parachute to stop myself from being whirled about in the slipstream. It was a good exit and in moments I realised the noise had gone, I was in the night sky hoping that I would make a comfortable landing.
On the ground was a large illuminated A (the Alpha), the signal to the incoming aircraft that this was where the DZ (dropping zone) started. The hope that this was going to be an easy ride slipped away quickly as I realised that up here there was a fierce wind blowing me past the A towards the major canal and the lights of a brightly illuminated ship.
Although the steerability of PX parachutes is limited there is a small amount available and I reached high, higher than I have ever reached before or since, to loop my fingers through the lift webs carrying the cords from the harness up to the canopy and pulled down, further than I have ever pulled down before or since to try to slow the forward drift of the chute, and avoid the water and the ship.
Although I needed to exert what control I could over the chute, I also had to release the heavy container of personal equipment still strapped to my leg. I had to press down the quick release levers on the hooks holding my container of equipment on to the parachute harness and let it swing clear. There is always a fear that one hook will not release and jam the other, but I pushed them both down and to my immediate relief the heavy bag dropped down to the length of its 15 foot rope and out of harm’s way.
As soon as it was away, my hands were back up the lift webs and hauling down as hard as my strength would let me in the hope that this would be enough. As I looked down at the canal and the ship, which seemed to be stationery in the water, I became aware that the wind was dropping and I was descending less sharply. There was hope.
As my parachute drifted further down I could hear bells ringing on the ship and men shouting but assumed that they were fascinated by all the parachutes descending out of the night sky.
The hope that I would miss the water suddenly seemed possible but I held the back lift webs hard down until I hit the soil just short of the canal bank. This was no time to hang about, as I gathered in my equipment I was alarmed to hear the first of the big platforms carrying vehicles under three sixty-six feet parachutes crashing well off course into the trees nearby.
Red Very Lights started to arc up into the night sky to warn further aircraft not to release their loads but my task then was to gather the men of my Company. Only when they were together did I realise that two were missing, including my second in command.
For three days I held on to the certain hope that he was alive and merely concussed until I was brought the news that his body had been recovered from the canal. I had survived but in spite of my most earnest hopes I had lost a good friend, and his family a husband and a father on that fateful night.