In my youth, I was a paratrooper,
Where on a regular basis, I would climb,
Into a big iron bird to fly away,
And to some unknown rigger, trust my life.

The rigger would have packed a parachute,
Into a pack I strapped upon my back,
There on the hardstand is the waiting bird,
To fly me through a cold and moonless night.

Behind the bird, and waddling to the ramp,
The blast of heat and smell of jet exhaust,
Assails my senses, makes it hard to breathe;
This cramped and awkward walking is the worst.

The great, pulsating thunder of the engines,
Reaches deep and goes into my bones,
The deafening, roaring whine of all the turbines,
Numbs the mind and petrifies my soul.

Now accelerating down the runway,
Rotate, lift off, and climb to altitude,
I'm strapped and buckled, rucksack on my knees,
In claustrophobic flight, an hour or two.

And now imagination takes control,
With engines roaring, and the blast of wind,
While all Hell's devils scream in through the door,
To take their payment for my many sins.

I grip the door frame, leaning far outside,
Check three-sixty, see that all is safe,
The tearing wind there folds my eyelids back,
As if to peel the skin from off my face.

I put the men out, step up to the door,
Look out into the wind and cold and dark,
Clear to the rear, then turn to so report,
And try to slow the pounding of my heart.

Pulse rate one-sixty, leap into the night,
And feel the blast of wind from off the props,
My body turning, twisting as I fall,
I feel the sharp tug, as my chute deploys.

Now I'm swinging easy in the harness,
The thundering bird receding in the black,
Then silence as I gently float to earth,
And land, to roll and get my breathing back.

In my time now, I'll never jump again,
I'll never know that old exhilaration,
Stand in the door and feel the blast of wind,
The racing heart of fear's anticipation.

But O . . . from time to time there is a twinge,
I feel the passion rising in my veins,
To grab a chute and climb aboard the bird,
To bet my soul . . . and do it all again.