Recent website
additions:
video: First Airborne Task Force prep, with Bill
Boyle
Dick Spencer - HQ CO, 3rd Batallion
Leo Balestrini - 460 PFAB, Battery A
Remembrance of
Capt. Robert P. Woodhull, by Tory Parlin
2009
Europe Road Trip Photos
Annual Florida Mini-Reunion
January 16-19,2010
Darrell Egner
Ben please put this in Mail Call.
Florida Mini
Reunion
January 16 - 20, 2010
Location: Ramada Gateway
Hotel
Kissimmee, Fl
34747
Reservations:
1-800-272-6232
www.ramadagateway.com
Contact: Leila Webb
4155 Kissimmee Park
Road
St. Cloud, FL
34772
407-892-3595
Registration fee: $40.00
Menu: Prime Rib
or Chicken
Please every one send your money into Leila and make your
Hotel Reservations ASAP. The Hotel will not charge your credit card until
you check out. Leila has also arranged to have the
Hospitality Room moved to the first floor for easy access.
It's directly under the room we used last year.
Leila puts on a wonderful
Reunion and you could help her by registering
as soon as possible so she can plan the Food and Liquor for the
Hospitality Room.
Thank you,
Darrell Egner
Kenton Floyd
Immerfall
Dear Ben,
I've been sitting in the kitchen trying to write a
"short" biography of my Uncle Floyd. I have put this off for so long and
it isn't any easier now that I have all sorts of documents and pieces of paper
to look over. Plus, I have to keep wiping tears from my eyes as I read
something new I had not seen before about Floyd. I have telegrams he sent
to my father so that Dad could pick him up at a train station and, "DON'T TELL
ANYONE - FLOYD," to articles about him being KIA in Belgium. Nobody
ever mentioned that he was sent to Ireland in 1940 or 1942. Now I have
more research to do.
But, the real reason I am writing to you this
morning is to send you a piece Floyd wrote about how it feels to jump out of a
plane. I had not seen this Algona, Iowa, newspaper article, dated
September 3 from Fort Benning, GA. I believe that Officers' Training was
there in 1942 so I will assume this is the year Floyd wrote this and sent it
home. I will do my best to type this just as the news article was
written. Maybe some of the Mail Call readers will find it
interesting.
Here's How Paratrooper Feels When He
Makes Jump Into the Thin Atmosphere.
THIS VIVID LETTER BY A PARATROOPER was written to his
family without expectation of publication. The writer is a son of Mr. and
Mrs. Wyot Stott, of Portland township, and was born and reared in this
county. (Floyd was actually born in Nicollet County, MN.) He
volunteered for service in the national guard and in 1940 was sent to Ireland,
but after a period there was sent home for officers' training at Fort
Benning. Mrs. Leo Immerfall (Darlene), wife of the county auditor, and
Mrs. Vernon Peterson (Iola), Madrid, whose husband is employed in Ankeny, are
his sisters, and a brother Merrill is a high school sophomore at
Burt.
By Lt. Floyd Stott
Fort Benning, Ga., Sept. 3 - Today I made my seventh
jump. Up to this time, each jump I had experienced a feeling which is
indescribable. You might call it fear - yes, I guess that is what it
was. Honest paratroopers would call it that. However, there are
jokes and little songs that go around the group present. Meaningless
titters rise and you can readily tell everything isn't as it should be in an
organization such as ours. But there is really nothing seriously
wrong. It's just that we are making another jump, and some good fellow is
uselessly trying to raise the spirits of his buddies.
We are briefed in the classroom upstairs above the
hangar. The mosaics are passed out to the men who are to jump. The
field that each is to jump on is pointed out - "H" field. It is one not
entirely devoid of trees and bordered on two sides by the Chattahoochee River -
a deep old river 300 feet wide that has already claimed members of our branch of
service.
On the Way.
Oh, well, little incidents like that add to our
alertness and interest, and there is no going to sleep this afternoon.
When we are sufficiently oriented, the pilots and co-pilots who are to fly us
over our jump area are brought in and are told what is expected of them.
They are also taking training.
No questions are left, so we trek downstairs and into
a different hangar to get our chutes on. Several stop for a drink of
water. They aren't thirsty. Just a stall on time - thinking perhaps
a few minutes might make a difference, and someone will change mind about our
going up or the weather may not permit.
To you who have never left the door of a plane while
it was in flight at 1200 feet, this will appear as cowardice, but it isn't
exactly that. And it isn't a feeling to be ashamed of. We all feel
it at one time or another during our career, but it's seldom you find one that
will admit it.
Mae West Put On.
We put on our Mae Wests - remember what I said about
the Chattahoochee? Even though there is a patrol boat running up and down
the stream, it is comforting to know you have about you the means to keep
afloat; that is, if you make it down that far, and safely.
Next comes your main parachute; then your
emergency. It's all heavy - 37 pounds.
The harness fits exceptionally tight, but you don't
mind when you understand that it has to be tight or there is danger of your
parting from your chute when the opening shock takes place. But it feels
good when the instructor tightens the belly-band on the reserve chute; kinda
fills up that empty feeling in the stomach.
What the Rope's
For.
A long rope is tied on your left side, out of the way
in case you have to pull your emergency. There is a reason for this rope,
too. In case you make a tree landing, and are a long way from both
tree-trunk and the ground, you can tie the rope on to your chute and slide down
to terra firma.
Everything has been inspected, and we walk out on the
runway to climb into our plane. Number 53, it says, and it is nick-named
"Barfly." That's o. k. with us. One plane is as good as
another. Only I wish those two buddies of mine were going with me instead
of in another group.
We fasten our safety belts and take off with little
time lost. As soon as our wheels clear the field, we are allowed to
unfasten safety belts and smoke. Needless to say, everyone is smoking,
either from the relief they derive from it, or just to help pass time. For
this is where time really hangs heavy on your hands.
Poising for the
Jump.
Someone attempts a stirring paratrooper song, and a
few heartless jumpers chime in. But the feeling just isn't there.
Besides, those two motors are making a tremendous noise, and the craft is
vibrating a great deal, plus your own nervousness. Oh why, oh why did I
join the paratroopers? You ask yourself inside, but at the same time you
look down at the faces and kid some guy about getting hold of a bum chute which
probably won't open.
I'm the fourth to jump, and my turn is up before I
know it. The windows had previously been blacked out so we couldn't have
the benefit of studying underlying terrain.
From the time I am called to the door, I am given 90
seconds to recognize the terrain below as I had seen it on the aerial photograph
30 minutes ago. And did you ever try memorizing something when you were
frightened?
I carried my little equipment bundle up to the open
door, hooked my static line on the anchor line cable, stuck one foot in the
door, got a healthy hold on a pipe, and peered out into the
atmosphere.
There's Where to
Land.
The propeller blast beats you in the face and it is
almost impossible to see anything to the direct front because of it. You
look back into the plane at all of the fellows watching you. There are
three new students. "Cheer up, Stott, look at those rookies back
there. How do you suppose they feel? You're an
old-timer."
With that on my mind, in addition to other things I
take another look out the door. Oddly enough, I feel better. Sure
enough, there is the bend in the "GET READY!" "STAND UP!" "HOOK
UP!" "CHECK EQUIPMENT!" "SOUND OFF FOR EQUIPMENT CHECK!"
"STAND IN THE DOOR!" "ARE YOU READY?" "LETS
GO!!!"
Eight More Seconds.
While the men are checking equipment someone
compliments me on my boot shine. You'd be surprised how a little
thing like that helps when at the correct time.
Here's the intermittent stream which is my north
limiting point, and the pilot has brought the ship down to about 800 feet and
slowed down to 95 miles an hour, which is essential for jumping safely. I
count off three seconds to compensate for the wind drift, which is 134 yards for
the altitude we're flying, then I kick out the equipment
bundle.
Eight more seconds and Stott will go out! I'm
counting them to myself, and a multitude of things are going through my mind -
not all sins, either. Strangely enough I expect to live to make another
jump. I only wish this one were over a corn field back in Iowa instead of
in Alabama.
Into the
Atmosphere.
Here's the split-second for my jump! I crouch
down low, with my hands on the outside of the plane door; I look out into the
horizon and make a vigorous leap into space, at the same time making a half-left
turn, keeping my feet together, and ducking my head, so the connector links
won't hit me in the back of my head and cut it open.
I reach the end of my 15-foot static line and the
back-pad of the chute is jerked off. The propellor blast picks up the
canopy of my chute and whips it out over my head like a shot. A terrific
shock is experienced - but nothing ever felt better, because it means that the
means of transportation to mother earth is in working
order.
Now look up at the canopy and see if there are any
blown panels. Check oscillation and see where the hell you think you're
going to land - not that you can do anything about it, can't even light in the
river if you want to - lucky day! Think I can miss those trees down there,
too.
What a Bump!
Soon I'm 100 feet off the ground and am making the
necessary manipulations with my risers so I will come in with the wind.
Bango! I hit! My poor legs must be broken! But let's get up
and give them a try. Wait a minute - gotta get out of this chute first,
and do it as if in combat. Lie flat on back, unbuckle leg straps, unbuckle
the chest strap! Take off Mae West and rope, quickly roll over to right
and assume firing position at anyone who may have run up by now intent on taking
your life.
Why, Nothing to It!
All o. k., now you can get up. Easy, now.
But hey, everything seems in order. Legs navigating all right. Why,
there's nothing to it! This parachuting is the life. Run over
to the gang, where everyone has his own way of landing and wants to expound to
the rest. Now wasn't that easy!
Another one coming next Thursday night. Don't
tell anyone, but every darn trooper who has to make that jump is worrying like a
demon about how it will turn out. But do you think you can tell it on
him? You can bet your boots that these men won't let you find it out if
they can help it.
There's no getting around it - the best men in the
service are in the PARATROOPERS, that's my guess. They're a
fast-moving, hard-hitting outfit which is more than a novelty, and don't you
forget it!
Well, Ben, that is an account from a brave man who
wasn't afforded the gift to return to his loved ones. As I read this a
second and third time, I picked up on how proud my uncle was to be a
paratrooper. As those of you who jumped look through the paragraphs, I
hope you will remember, fondly, those many faces of your Band of Brothers that
stood beside you in defending this great nation.
Sincerely,
Kenton Floyd Immerfall
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