Believe Nothing You Hear, and Only Half of What You See — A memoir of Service, Shame and the Search for Truth.
Orders for Jump School — Fort Benning
The U.S. Army Airborne School at Fort Benning, Georgia, was one of the most grueling yet exhilarating experiences of my military career. Known simply as “Jump School,” this four-week crucible transformed me into a qualified paratrooper, earning the coveted Parachutist Badge.
I would be attending Jump School alongside three of my classmates from the Chemical Officer Basic Course at Fort McClellan: James Piner, Perry Williams, and Ron Snyder. My roommate in the Bachelor Officer Quarters (BOQ) would be Perry, while James and Ron shared a room. Together, the four of us reported to 43rd Company, 4th Student Battalion (Airborne), The School Brigade, Fort Benning, Georgia.
43rd Company (Airborne)
Our company commander was CPT James Bly, as strict as a pirate. The first sergeant was 1SG Riley Miller, but the man who ran the show was Staff Sergeant Trevor Bennett — nicknamed “Idi Amin” who had an eiry resemblance to “The Butcher of Uganda.”
The company had two massive platoons, each led by a student officer. Our platoon was led by a Navy ensign on the verge of becoming a SEAL, with five other SEALs sprinkled throughout. Whenever a Black Hat ordered “Drop and give me 10!” our leader would snap his head and shout over his right shoulder, “Make it 20!” We would drop, do 20 push-ups, return to attention, then clap and bark like seals (trademark of the US Navy SEALS). The Black Hats would retaliate, and our SEAL leader would double down. Push-ups stacked into triple digits, building both physical and mental endurance while keeping us motivated.
Airborne School Inprocessing
Our first stop was Inprocessing. We were issued an Orientation Packet and a billeting assignment at Abrams Hall, where bachelor officers were typically housed. The packet included instructions for drawing some of our combat gear, such as a steel pot helmet and load-bearing equipment (LBE). I’ll never forget the helmet they handed me — it had a huge dentright in the top. Later, during Jump Week, I would learn exactly how that dent may have been made.
We Receive Our Student Numbers
When we shuffled through the Arrival and Inprocessing line, Ron, James, Perry, and I stuck together and ended up with consecutive student numbers: A120, A121, A122, and A123. These numbers were painted boldly on the fronts of our helmets. From that point forward, I wasn’t “Carbone” anymore — I was “Alpha-122.” Officers’ numbers all began with the letter “A.” Non-commissioned officers (NCOs) started with “N,” and enlisted soldiers had just three digits. Anyone who had previously failed Jump School was forced to wear the letter “F” after their number — a daily mark of humiliation.
BOQ, Boot Black & Corcoran Jump Boots
After we finished in-processing, the four of us reported to our rooms at the Bachelor Officer Quarters (BOQ) in Abrams Hall. That’s where we first discovered the “Boot Black” — a man who made his living shining boots for officers, and only officers. His work saved us a precious hour each day, and the results were almost unreal.
The shine he put on our leather made them look like patent leather, gleaming so bright they seemed untouchable. Jim, Perry, and Ron had already bought their classic Corcoran Jump Boots, the iconic footwear of paratroopers. I, however, held back. I told them I was too superstitious to buy a pair before I’d actually earned my wings. Once those silver Jump Wings were pinned on my chest, I promised myself I’d head straight to the PX and buy a couple pairs of Corcorans to wear proudly every day. I couldn’t wait.
My Airborne Haircut
After we finished checking into our BOQ we dropped off our boots with the Boot Black. Then, we headed over to the post barber shop. It was loud and packed, a Saturday rush with everyone getting their weekly cuts. I was the first to sit in the chair, and I confidently asked the barber for a “Regular Officer’s Cut.” He started at the back of my neck with the electric razor. Perry suddenly shouted, “He’s here for Jump School!” The barber paused and declared, “I see!” Without another word, the barber drove the razor straight down the center of my forehead. In an instant, I had a reverse-Mohawk shaved right to the scalp.
A few quick swipes later, I was completely bald. I wanted to kill Perry—I didn’t think shaving my head was an actual requirement for Airborne School. But there I was, looking like a freshly polished bowling ball. In the sweltering days of training that followed, I had to admit—being bald wasn’t the worst thing after all.
Orientation Week
For enlisted soldiers, Jump School began with Orientation Week, a soldier-only phase that officers skipped. Instead, we officers dove straight into Ground Week, which meant the soldiers already had the advantage of being in better shape and knowing the rules and SOPs of Jump School. Still, as officers, we had no choice but to jump in — pardon the pun — like we knew exactly what we were doing. We could not afford to fail in front of soldiers.
Orientation Week itself was a whirlwind introduction to airborne culture and physical preparation. Soldiers went through rigorous PT assessments — push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups, and a two-mile run — designed to weed out those not fit for airborne training.
The instructors, known as “Black Hats” for their distinctive headgear, drilled them on airborne history, safety protocols, and the mental toughness needed to jump out of airplanes. They also learned the basics of the T-10 and T-11 parachute systems and their maintenance. For those soldiers, Orientation Week wasn’t just training — it was a test of commitment.
Ground Week
Ground Week was the first of the three core phases of Jump School — and the starting point for officers. It was all about mastering fundamentals. The Parachute Landing Fall (PLF) became our daily obsession. Over and over, we drilled the five-point landing: balls of the feet, calves, thighs, buttocks, and back. We practiced on sawdust pits, from platforms, and off mock doors until our bodies moved instinctively.
Sunday, before Ground Week officially began, we attended church and went out for brunch. The rest of the day was spent preparing uniforms and equipment. I even found a pay phone to call Mariann and share what had happened so far. That night, we went to bed early because the alarm would come at 0430 the next morning.
Monday morning arrived quickly. The day began with the brutal rhythm of Ground Week: early wake-up, physical training, parachute landing fall (PLF) practice, mock door drills, parachute packing, and classroom instruction, all under the relentless scrutiny of the Black Hats.
A Typical Ground-Week Day included:
- 0430–0500: Wake-up and personal hygiene. Bunks made to military standards.
- 0500–0600: PT. Calisthenics, running in formation (often in combat boots), and airborne-specific exercises.
- 0600–0700: Breakfast and accountability. Black Hats inspected uniforms and appearance.
- 0700–1200: PLF drills, mock door exits, classroom lessons on parachute components and emergency procedures.
- 1200–1300: Lunch. Quick refuel for the afternoon.
- 1300–1700: Afternoon training, continued PLFs, parachute rigging and packing, additional classroom instruction, and PT.
- 1700–1800: Dinner. Officers were dismissed back to the BOQ, while enlisted soldiers continued.
- 1800–2100: Evening review, equipment maintenance, or personal study.
- 2100–2200: Lights out.
Our First Day of Training
That first Monday morning, Jim, Perry, Ron, and I joined the company formation at the barracks. We were aligned in ranks called “sticks,” with an officer in the first spot, each paired with an NCO, with dozens of soldiers to our left (as many as 50–60 enlisted men). The Black Hats were relentless. Each day, soldiers who couldn’t keep up were dismissed or volunteered to quit at the end of the day. By Jump Week, my stick had dwindled to fewer than a dozen.
We also studied parachute rigging and emergency procedures: what to do if a chute malfunctioned, if you got entangled, or if you had to cut away. Physical training ramped up, with long formation runs in combat boots and punishing group calisthenics. The Black Hats kept us under constant pressure, enforcing discipline with no room for error. By the end of Ground Week, every movement — exiting an aircraft, checking equipment, executing a PLF — was burned into muscle memory.
Looking After the Zairian Lieutenant
During Ground Week, I had the additional duty of looking after a lieutenant from Zaire, 2LT Mbanga Bona (A900F). On the first day, when the Chow Trucks arrived at noon, he leapt toward them in excitement. I ran and grabbed him by the shirt. “The chow is for the soldiers,” I said. “When do the officers eat?” he asked. I replied, “We don’t. They feed the soldiers, not the officers.” He chuckled. “Oh, in my country, it’s the opposite!”
I asked him what he normally ate. “If I’m lucky,” he said, “I eat cow!” His response made me laugh and forget my own hunger for a brief, much-needed moment of levity.
My Miserable Night as SDO
One night, I was assigned as the Staff Duty Officer for the company. That meant staying in the barracks overnight, with no sleep, monitoring the Charge of Quarters, and answering to Idi Amin. Soldiers cleaned the barracks under his relentless orders, while I tried to survive the night.
By 0430, when I was released to shower and dress for PT, I was delirious. The next day, after mud had accumulated from overnight rain, I was forced to do push-ups directly over puddles until I collapsed into the muck. A Black Hat leaned over me, yelling, “Do you want to quit, Lieutenant?” Blowing bubbles in the mud, I replied, “No, Sergeant, Airborne!”
“That’s what I want to hear, Airborne. Now get back in formation and look like a paratrooper!”
Tower Week
After surviving Ground Week, Tower Week tested both courage and skill. Tower Week took everything we’d practiced on the ground and elevated it — literally. The 34-foot towers were our first real test of simulated aircraft jumps, focusing on proper exit posture and landing technique. Then came the 250-foot towers and the Swing Landing Trainer, simulating real canopy sway and descent dynamics.
The 34-foot towers were our first real test, simulating the jump out of a C-130 door. We learned to keep our posture tight: chin tucked, elbows in, knees bent. Clean exits were everything.
Then came the 250-foot tower, a hulking steel structure visible from across the base. Hoisted skyward in a parachute harness and then released, we learned to trust the canopy, control our risers, and prepare for landing. The Swing Landing Trainer added another layer — simulating the motion of descending under a chute and forcing us to nail our PLFs under stress. Tower Week was more psychological than physical, bridging the gap between practice and the reality of what was coming next.
Doctor Mushroom Head
During Tower Week, I noticed the ranking officer in our company — a Major, a physician, who had been assigned to a Special Forces unit — walking around in a white skydiver’s helmet instead of a standard steel pot. The Black Hats called him “Mushroom Head” all day, shouting, “Mushroom Head, drop and give me 10!” It was humiliating, and I felt sorry for him. Occasionally, our SEAL platoon leader would shout, “Make it 20!” and we would all laugh at the Black Hats, who became even more furious. Moments like these made the long, grueling days pass with a little bit of levity.
Jump Week
Jump Week was the culmination of everything we had worked toward. Each of us had to complete five Airborne jumps to graduate. The Black Hats liked to joke that if a trainee died on the fifth jump, they would still pin silver wings on his chest.
The aircraft delivering paratroopers over Fort Benning in 1981 came from the 317th Tactical Airlift Wing at Pope Air Force Base, North Carolina. Over the week, I had the opportunity to jump from three different aircraft: the C-130 Hercules, the C-141 Starlifter, and the venerable C-47 Skytrain “Gooney Bird.”
The C-130 was by far the most common, a workhorse of tactical airlift. Jumping from the C-141 was the smoothest experience — the jet blast from its four engines snapped your chute open almost instantly, leaving no doubt you’d deploy safely. In stark contrast, the old C-47 was painfully slow. I remember hanging in the air, counting — “four-thousand, five-thousand, six-thousand” — my hand already reaching for the reserve handle, when finally my main canopy decided to blossom above me.
Combat-Equipped Jumps
The first two were Hollywood jumps — just us and our parachutes. Then came two combat-equipped jumps, where we hauled full gear into the aircraft and lumbered to the door under the weight of it all.
Night Jump
Finally came the infamous night jump — the one that every paratrooper remembers. It was scheduled for a night with a new moon, which meant there wasn’t a sliver of moonlight in the sky. It was pitch black.
As the officer leading my stick, I was called forward: “Stand in the door!” the jumpmaster barked. I stepped up, staring out into pure darkness. There were no landmarks, no horizon, just a black void. My instincts screamed Don’t do it. But training takes over. The green light flashed. I jumped.
Out into the universe — blackness rushing past, the roar of the aircraft fading, counting one-thousand, two-thousand, three-thousand, four-thousand — and whoomp! My chute opened. The sudden silence was surreal. Just me, the canopy above, and the invisible ground somewhere below.
Floating Backwards with the T-10 Parachute
For night jumps, we were issued the older T-10 parachute, the kind without slits, which meant it wasn’t steerable. I didn’t realize until I landed flat on my back that I had been drifting backwards the whole descent. With no horizon to orient myself, the ground came sooner than expected. I slammed down hard, helmet cracking against the drop zone. “F**k!” I shouted instinctively — and in that moment, I finally understood the dent in the steel pot helmet they had issued me. I was certain I had just added another.
Flat on my back, staring at the black sky, I actually paused for a second to admire the stars and thank God I was alive. Then — splat! Another paratrooper hit nearby, cursing “F**k!” A second later — splat! another one, then another: “Fk! Fk! F**k!” It was like a chorus of misery echoing across the drop zone.
That’s when it dawned on me — I couldn’t see a thing, and at any moment someone might land directly on top of me. I rolled up my chute in record time and sprinted for the green beacon marking the Assembly Area, as fast as my legs could carry me.
Each landing tested the PLFs we’d drilled endlessly. Each successful jump added to the confidence and camaraderie of our class. By the time we completed that fifth jump, we were no longer just students — we were paratroopers.
5th and Final Jump
The fifth and final jump was a mix of nerves and pure anticipation. By now, I trusted the process, but nothing matched the relief of feeling that chute snap open overhead one last time. My descent was steady, my PLF crisp, and as soon as I hit the ground, I rolled up my chute with a grin I couldn’t hide. Sprinting to the Assembly Area, I knew what waited at the end of this run—my Airborne wings, the symbol of having earned a place among paratroopers.
Graduation and Pinning Wings
At graduation, when those silver wings were finally pinned on my chest, I knew I had earned not only the badge but also the right to go buy those Corcoran Jump Boots I’d been waiting for. Yet, standing there, another thought stayed with me. I didn’t know if my father would ever see me differently—as a fellow paratrooper, or finally as a man to respect. But in that moment, it didn’t matter. I had pushed myself through every ounce of training and earned those wings on my own. Airborne School gave me more than a badge; it gave me confidence in myself as a soldier and stirred a warrior ethos that ran deep in the Carbone bloodline. Regardless of my father’s judgment, I walked away knowing I had truly become my own man.
