Secret Army - Robert Muchamore Page 0,44

way if something goes wrong with one of the least confident trainees it doesn’t affect everyone else. Paul was offended because he’d done as well as anyone in the ground training and Luc had only passed the exam by one mark. He reckoned he was only at the back because he was small and skinny.

The lanky Polish officer hooked his parachute to a rail above his head. When he jumped, the cord would snag and release the parachute. A shout of all-clear came from the ground.

‘Good luck, Lieutenant,’ Parris said. ‘On my mark … and mark.’

Tomaszewski threw himself forwards off the platform. Four seconds later the cage rocked as the rope snagged and the chute opened.

‘Rosie, hook up,’ Parris ordered.

At the same moment an alarmed shout came up from the megaphone-wielding officer on the ground. ‘Take it right, take it right! Use lift webs now.’

Rosie was hooked up and trapped behind Parris, but Paul, Marc and Luc looked over the side and saw the Polish officer drifting towards the edge of the airfield.

The higher you are, the greater the effect a gust of wind can have on your final landing position and it seemed that Tomaszewski had been hit by a blast of wind as soon as his chute opened. To make matters worse, instead of correcting by opening both lift webs to steepen the angle of descent, he’d pulled on just one cord. This meant he was heading away from the trimmed grass and concrete of the airfield and into the rocky scrubland beyond the perimeter fence.

‘What’s he doing?’ Rosie asked anxiously, as the boys watched three of the training instructors racing towards the fence and yelling instructions that couldn’t be heard over the rain and wind.

Less than fifty metres from the ground, the Pole realised he was in trouble and opened the flaps on his chute. This steepened his descent, but also increased its speed. He hit the ground hard, but at least he was on the shaggy grass a few metres inside the perimeter fence.

‘Shit!’ Sergeant Parris shouted.

Rosie was in agony as she waited on the edge of the platform. Two minutes passed before Tomaszewski hobbled away with his arms around an instructor and the all-clear signal came from the ground.

‘Rosie, are you good to go?’ Parris asked.

‘As I’ll ever be sir,’ she said, sounding more confident than she felt.

‘Remember, if that wind hits hard like it did with Tomaszewski, correct straight away. He’s lucky he didn’t break his legs correcting that close to the ground. Now, jump on my mark … mark.’

Paul clutched his chest as his sister flung herself off the platform, then inhaled with relief as the cage juddered and Rosie’s chute opened.

‘Luc, hook up.’

The wind was benign and Rosie made a perfect landing.

‘Excellent, excellent, excellent!’ came through the megaphone, followed by the all-clear.

Luc had a more difficult time with the wind, but made it down, albeit with an uncomfortable landing on a concrete taxiway rather than soft grass. The only damage was a shredded glove and a painful bump on the arm he’d injured the night before.

Marc was next. As he saw the top of Luc’s parachute his mind flashed back to the previous September and the sight of a decapitated parachutist hanging in a tree. He felt like he was going to vomit and shit at the same time as he clutched his arms to his chest.

Keep your nerve and think about your training, he told himself.

‘All clear,’ Parris said. ‘Trainee, jump on my mark … mark.’

But Marc froze. The ground swayed beneath the cage as he tried telling his body to make the leap.

Parris had seen nerves before and spoke with uncharacteristic warmth. ‘Calm down, son. Just follow your training. As this is your first drop, I’m going to count to three and give you an extra chance, OK?’

Marc turned around and nodded anxiously.

‘You can do this in your sleep, mate,’ Paul said encouragingly.

‘On my mark,’ Sergeant Parris said. ‘Keep calm, one, two, three, mark.’

Paul grimaced as Marc grabbed the side of the cage and doubled over. ‘I just can’t,’ he said, gasping desperately. ‘I don’t understand … I just froze.’

‘You’ll have to stand aside,’ Parris said, as he disconnected Marc’s static line from the railing over their heads. ‘Paul, hook up.’

‘Can’t he have one more go?’ Paul begged. ‘He can do it, for sure.’

‘Hook up,’ Parris said firmly. ‘Marc, sit down at the back of the cage and try to compose yourself. Paul, ready on my mark … mark.’

Paul hesitated: