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This Is A Copy of Brochure Designed and Printed by E. L. Hildreth and Co., Brattleboro, Vt.

"JUMP HAPPY"

Christmas Greetings:
With our love, 
hoping that this little brochure 
may bring inspiration 
to all who read it.

Vianda and Clark Williams,
Field Point Park,
Greenwich, Connecticut.

"JUMP HAPPY" Privately Printed, New York, Christmas, 1942. 

America is building a mighty army of paratroops to descend like men from Mars and capture strategic objectives. In the following dramatic letter, a young officer in training for this new branch of the army, vividly describes his first parachute jump and his initial impressions which are undoubtedly similar to those countless other boys in the same service.

This moving letter was written by First Lieutenant Arthur W. Ferguson to Colonel Clark Williams, his sponsor at the Citadel, the Military College of South Carolina. Since his first jump, the young lieutenant has won the nickname "Jump Happy".

Introduction used by the International News Service on the publication of this letter, with the consent of the War Department.

July 3, 1942


Dear Colonel:

Monday, June 29, 1942, began for me at 6:00 a. m., minus breakfast, minus jumping helmet (it had been issued to me Saturday and I had taken it home to show to Nell—also all the kids in the neighborhood came over to try it on). So Nell made a flying trip back to Columbia to get it and arrived back on the field in the nick of time. 

In the meantime I had put on my parachute. Strange that everything fitted well Saturday and nothing seemed right now. I adjusted the harness time and again—I adjusted the snap fastener. I asked several of my fellow officers if theirs fitted, but they were also having difficulty. I examined theirs and they examined mine, but still we weren't satisfied. We were experiencing the so-called "sweating it out" every parachutist feels before his first jump. We were getting hard looks from the instructors, watching for any break in our morale. But we foxed them—we all started singing. My voice sounded like an old crow—but the singing helped a little bit.

I smoked numerous cigarettes, went to the water cooler a dozen times, adjusted my harness again, looked to see if all the snaps were fastened. I forced myself to think about all the things my instructor had told me, and remembered that the percecntage of casualties had been small. But a small thought would come creeping in, would I be one of the "few casualties"? About that time a photographer came up to take pictures, so I had my picture made. When you receive it, please notice the expression in my eyes.

Suddenly the order came, "All right men, stand up"—and my heart jumped into my throat. Twenty-four officers walked out on the field, and watched the planes, loaded with parachutists, take off. By now we all tried to be non-chalant. I don't know how well we put over. We sat on a bench three hours (45 minutes by the clock) while we watched the planes fly over the field, throttle down, unload their "passengers" and the "mushrooms" float down. Why wouldn't my heart stay in its right place—it was always in my throat—and what I wouldn't give for another drink of water.

An instructor said, "Stand up and count off." I was number twelve in the first group. There were to be two groups of twelve men in each plane—making me the last man in my group to jump. Suddenly a plane taxied in and my heart took another leap. I remember thinking then that my heart was taking the devil of a beating today. The instructor said, "Stand up men—are you ready to go?" and we all replied "YEAH." As I went to the door, that I knew in a few minutes I would jump out of, I looked it over carefully—and there was that heart again. I sat down, buckled the safety belt well forward in my seat to protect essential paraphernalia of my chute.

For the first time I took a look at the inside of the plane, and received a shock. I never realized that a plane could look so small in the air and be so enormous inside. These planes have a seating capaccity of 26 men, not including the pilot and co-pilot. It is similar to the plane we will fly into combat. They gunned the twin motors, the roar was deafening, my heart was pounding in tune with the motors, and suddenly the plane leveled off and I knew that we were in the air.

I turned to the officer on my right, who it was I can't recall now, and asked him how he felt. He replied, 'Okay, how are you feeling Ferg?" Answer, "Nothing to it." Then I looked around at my fellow officers, and from somewhere I heard a small joke. We all roared with laughter, and my heart settled back down momentarily. I glanced out of the window, and theree was the thread-like Chattahoochie river. I didn't look down any more. I concentrated on one thought—I had to go out that door. The jump-master yelled over the roar of the plane, "How do you feel men?" The reply in unison, "All right."

Then comes the order, 'Stand up and hook up" (hook up means, hook the static line to a steel cable running the length and near the roof of the plane. This static line pulls the chute from your back after you have fallen approximately 100 feet). Then the command, "Stand at the door" (we had been trained for weeks on how to stand and hook up and how to stand at the door. I realized now the necessity for the thorough training we had received). Number one man stood at the door, number two man ready to pivot into the door and out. Number three, four, five, etc., shuffled forward with their left foot forward, holding their balance by holding on to the cable and static line. I was twelfth man, and the door seemed miles and miles away (I know just how a man feels walking to the electric chair). I could not pick up my feet they were so heavy, and I had to shuffle to the door. My 'chute weighed (to me) 1100 pounds. I knew that this was the end, and kept saying to myself, over and over, "I've got to go out that door." Deep in my mind I remembered that not officer had ever refused to jump and I said to myself, "I'm going out the door." Suddenly, I was number three man; number two had pivoted, he's in the door, he's gone. I threw my right foot down, I was in the door, I was gone—into space. I fell for centuries, I forgot to count, then I thought, "Something should happen now"—CRASH—a ton of bricks fell on my head—no pain—I was suspended 1,000 feet above the ground—too weak to do anything but hang there—but I was happy.

Everything was quiet (just like it is when snow is falling on a cold winter night). It was beautiful. Silent and still. No experience, no thrill, can ever compare with it. I had no sensation of falling whatever. Just suspended.

Then I began to realize I must work hard to make good landing, so I could walk away. I pulled down hard on my risers, as I had been taught, and let up slowly, to keep from oscillating. Then suddenly the ground rose up and seemed to almost hit me in the face—it was right there before I knew it. I didn't do anything I was taught, but made an old football tumble, which was second nature, and the natural thing for me to do. I stood up, then collapsed to my knees from weakness and joy that I was back on the ground with no injury. Then the perspiration began to flow, I was drenched in one minute's time. I was joyous. I had overcome all obstacles—and from now on nothing will stand in my way.

Off the record. Colonel, I fought the hardest battle in my life, I conquered fear, because nothing but will-power drove me through that door. But it was worth it, and I'm with the swellest group of men and officers in the world.

Sincerely, 
ARTHUR.

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2024-02-15 09:54:22