Drowned in Air

One by one, the 36 paratroopers dropped from the hatch of the high-tailed C-123 troop carrier. Their static lines, the 15-ft.-long "ripcords" attached to the plane, automatically plucked open the parachutes, set them free to drift, like whitish blossoms, over "Drop Zone Salerno" at Fort Bragg, N.C. "All troops away," sang the crew engineer into the intercom, and then he began routinely pulling in the static lines, which were wind-plastered against the fuselage. Suddenly he realized that one was stuck fast, looked down and under the plane to see a sprawling jumper being dragged through space, belly up, eight feet beneath the fuselage.

The paratrooper on the line was Private Wayne Flugum, 23, a supply clerk from Leland. Iowa, making his ninth jump. Now he dangled spread-eagled in the rushing, punishing torrent of the plane's slipstream and propwash. Air Force Lieutenant Thomas Ansberry took the C-123 up from 1,600 to 3,000 ft., let down flaps, slowed his plane to about 70 knots. With two crewmen the copilot went aft to try to pull on the slick, virtually gripless static line (two-inch wide, ribbon-thin nylon webbing) against the dead weight of Paratrooper Flugum's 170 Ibs. and the massive press of air. They could see Flugum desperately trying to claw at the choking strap of his helmet. His lips time and time again mutely formed "Please, please, please . . ."

Reaching Hands. The static line was hopeless. Next the aircraft crewmen put out a rope. Flugum grabbed it, and they pulled him three feet toward safety before the force of the airstream loosened his grip. They lowered the rope again, and Flugum tied it around his waist. Then, through a sweating two hours, the crewmen inched Flugum up with rope and static line. Finally he was at the hatch, his elbows almost in. A crewman seized each hand, a third grabbed at his fatigues. Flugum could not help himself, the sweat-slick hands of the rescuers could not hold the unbearable weight. Flugum tumbled down again in the roaring torrent of air.

On the ground other airmen, following radioed reports of Flugum's plight, ordered another approach. A T-33 jet trainer went aloft, slowed near to stalling speed as the pilot tried to lift Flugum with his wing so the crewmen aboard the C-123 would have an easier time of it. The trick failed, possibly because by this time the paratrooper was hanging limp and apparently unconscious.

Smooth Glide. After three tense hours there was still one faint hope: a landing that would give the dangling paratrooper half a chance to survive the high-speed impact with the ground. Ingeniously the Air Force ordered fire engines to spray a runway of Pope Air Force Base with slick, heavy foam. Just before the null wheels touched down, one of the crewmen cut Flugum loose. He shot along the runway back down, protected by his parachute pack, in a smooth, 100-ft. glide. Thanks to the split-second ingenuity, he was unbruised by the landing. But despite all the ingenuity, all the desperate effort, all the risk, Private Flugum was dead--literally drowned, the medics said, by the continual blast of air while he dangled aloft.

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