Last Man Out by Jr. James E. Parker Read Free Book Online

this—without any reservation. You must be willing to die to do your job. Your commission has no meaning without that commitment.”
    As excited as I was, trying to keep up with everything going on that day, I heard the general’s words clearly, as if he were speaking directly to me. I was oblivious to the hundreds of people in that auditorium. No one else was there—only General Heintges on the stage, and me sitting alone in the middle of all the seats when he said, “You have been selected to protect the dignity of the United States. If necessary, die fighting … You … You.”
    Sitting in the auditorium as if I were alone, I thought, “Yeap, I’m your man. I’ll take the risks. I’ll do the job.”
    Later, Dad pinned second-lieutenant bars on my shoulders. The words of General Heintges still ringing in my ears, I stood tall and felt a tremendous sense of self-worth and dedication.
    As a graduation present, Daddy and Mother gave me two thousand dollars. When I returned to Southern Pines on two weeks’ home leave before jump training, I went out in search of a 190SL Mercedes convertible. Pete was a sports car enthusiast, had an Alfa Romeo, and had made the case a thousand times that dollar for dollar, pound for pound, the 190SL was the best sports car on the road.
    So I looked for a 190SL. A used-car dealer in Raleigh had heard of one on a small lot in South Carolina, and I drove down in one of Daddy’s trucks that afternoon.
    I came around a curve on the country road. There on the edge of a field ahead was a 1957 190SL Mercedes convertible. It was love at first sight. Graceful, continental—what was it doing on a South Carolina dirt farm? The farmer/dealer said he had bought it at an auction and did not know its history. I bought it for fifteen hundred dollars, pulled it back to Southern Pines that afternoon, and was racing along country roads near home late that night with the top down and a beer between my legs.
    I went out most nights during my leave and usually didn’t return home until early in the morning, sometime after the sun had come up, but I hung around Mom and Dad and my sisters during the day. I took Mom shopping in the Mercedes. She squealed as we scooted along the streets and occasionally waved at the townspeople.
    Returning to Fort Benning for jump training, I checked into the bachelor officers quarters (BOQ) at the school and played poker that night with some of the newly commissioned officers from my OCS company. We were now making the unheard-of amount of $242.42 per month. Some of the new officers lost a whole month’s pay in the poker game. The following morning when we started airborne PT training, my former classmates and I realized that we were in better shape than anyone else. We ran the last leg of an endurance run backward and the jump instructors criticized us, but we found it was hard to be humble and intimidated after a half year of OCS training.
    We did become humble, however, when we started tower training prior to our first airborne jump. We became even more humble the first time out of a plane. I was in the middle of the “stick” of men along one side of the plane for my first jump. I ran out the door and do not remember anything until my chute opened, jerking me back to my senses. The ground came up so quickly that I froze and landed with a bone-jarring thud. The next time out I had a sense of doom as I jumped. I felt little relief when my canopy opened, because I knew that I still had the thud ahead.
    The third time, unfortunately, I was the stick leader. As weneared the drop zone, the jump master went through the jump commands. When he reached “Stand in the door,” I stood with my hands outside the door frame, helmet hitched tight, loaded with parachute main and reserve plus combat gear, one foot slightly in front of the other, head up to watch the red light under the wing outside, ready to jump when it turned green, and I waited and waited. I looked down and the