Remembering D-Day and a Fallen Friend: Part 2

Click here to read part 1 of this story.

It was June 1, 2019. Four more days until the jump.
 
The team congregated and assembled at my least favorite (and arguably the worst) airport on the planet, Paris Charles de Gaulle. Luckily, no luggage was lost, just minor issues with rental vehicles. What followed was a very scenic four-hour drive north to Normandy. With personnel and equipment accounted for and a semi-firm schedule set forth, the next item on the list was to keep a keen eye on the weather and maintain open communication about our primary plan of jumping on June 5th.
 
The 75th anniversary of D-Day was technically the day following our scheduled jump day; dignitaries from across the globe would be conducting and participating in numerous ceremonies on June 6th. As such, jumping and other non-essential air traffic in the region was prohibited that day, so commemorative events like ours were held in the days prior and after. 
 
Still, we maintained a backup plan to jump on the 7th, 8th or 9th in the event of inclement weather. As it would turn out, our prudence was wise to proceed as planned for a June 5th jump schedule as it would dump rain with winds of over 40 knots from the 7th through most of the day on the 9th.
 
June 5, 2019 After a couple days of touring around and gaining our bearings, June 5th arrived. We headed to Cherbourg Airfield bright and early to meet up with our chalk of jumpers and await our turn and our aircraft, “Drag ‘em Oot.” In true military fashion, there was a lot of hurry up and wait (we were the first of ANYONE to arrive at the airfield, and were one of the last chalks to jump).
 
We spent several hours trying to make sense of the confusion of this multi-national, high profile event but maintained our upbeat spirit. We took pictures, talked about old times and generally goofed off.
 
Finally, we got the call: “Get it on!”
 
The Jump Luckily for us, it’s not as painful as jumping static line in the military. Instead of hours of donning, checking, and sitting around, we would throw on our gear, do a few safety checks and head to the aircraft.
 
I had jumped from a WWII era C-47 Dakota several years ago in an airshow in Florida. They truly are magnificent. Big, bulky, loud and not very fast; the spirits of the troopers and pilots from over 70-years ago still live within the skin of those aircraft. So do bullet holes. In fact, “Drag ‘em Oot” still sports over 30 bullet holes from the invasion operations alone. The feeling was almost overwhelming.
 
While it was certainly emotional, my energy and attention quickly diverted to Scoti, the mother of SFC Kris Domeij, as natural a leader as I had ever met and a guiding star while I served. Scoti was my passenger, and we would be jumping to honor Kristoffer’s legacy. Andy and Larry – my lifelines – would ensure the aircraft was in the correct spot for the jump and nail the aerial shots of Scoti and I in freefall. I could feel Scoti’s nervous anticipation, so I made small talk to divert her gaze out the window to admire the English Channel and beautiful scenery of the Normandy countryside. Fifteen minutes later, Andy gave me the nod.
 
I hooked up Scoti, gave her a short, comforting reminder of what we were going to do and we walked together to the door. It was time.
 
Andy finished the spot via hand signals to the crew chief on comms, gave me the thumbs up, and hung on to the skin of the aircraft bearing the full brunt of the 130-knot airspeed and 1200hp prop blast. I gave the count and we exited the aircraft.
 
For me, the jump was all business. I focused on my flying, on Andy and on Scoti. Before I knew it, it was time to open the parachute.
 
Once under a good canopy, I checked on Scoti, made sure she was comfortable in the harness and started setting up for my landing pattern. Somewhere in between, I found time to enjoy the view a bit.
 
Scoti didn’t want to land. In all truth, I didn’t either. What an incredible sight. The English Channel was at our backs and the entirety of the hallowed grounds of Normandy was before us. The emotions almost broke through my focus on landing safely and sticking the shot for the cameras.
 
We landed safely a few feet in front of Larry. I unhooked Scoti and gave her a big hug. Scoti went off to do some interviews. Larry, Andy, Griff and I high-fived and chatted about the aircraft flight, spot and jump. Scoti soaked up the moment while the rest of us packed our parachutes and headed to the beer tent to toast and enjoy the subsequent jumps over Carentan DZ.
 
The dishes were done. Mission accomplished.
 
Over the next few days, we finished up some interviews and toured Point du Hoc, Utah Beach, Omaha Beach, St. Mere Eglise, and other sites of significance from the days of the invasion. We were there nearly a week after the jump, but it just wasn’t enough.
 
I hope that people continue to go to Normandy – and other places like it – to remember the hundreds of thousands of people to include Kris, who raised their hands and said “take me, I’ll go.” All to help people they don’t even know.
 
There are too many places to visit. Too many souls to thank. Of them all, there’s one in particular I will never get to thank again, but hope I maintained his respect.
 
Thank you, Tyrant 22. RLTW.