In spite of getting little serious exercise during his years as a deputy, Macurdy hadn’t lost much strength. What he had lost was condition, endurance. But during nine weeks of infantry training, he’d gotten a great deal of exercise, and his endurance was at least as good as it had ever been. After reaching twentyfive, the officer had continued to count, for those who were still pumping. Macurdy, despite his two hundred seventeenpounds, had lasted through fifty-eight. Only two had surpassed . The seemingly tireless Shorty Lyle, from Macurdy’s squad, was still grinding them out when the officer stopped counting at one hundred.
When Shorty was on his feet again, the officer put his hand on the trainee’s shoulder. “This,” he said, “is the kind of man we’re looking for.” But obviously didn’t require, because all nineteen who’d done twenty-five had their names taken down; they were accepted. Seven were from B Company.
They were all pleased with themselves. Shorty Lyle was a bit miffed, though, that the officer hadn’t kept counting, so he could show how many he could do.
12
Jump School
The airborne volunteers left for Fort Benning on June 6, 1942. Though they didn’t know it, 2nd Battalion of the 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment had just shipped to England, the first airborne outfit to go overseas. Several other parachute regiments were in training, and in mid-August, the 82nd and 101st Airborne Divisions would officially be formed, and begin theirs. The armed forces were shifting out of military conservatism, trying new methods.
At Fort Benning, as at Camp Robinson, assignment to squads was alphabetical. Thus Macurdy and Shorty Lyle were in the same squad again. Even more than Macurdy, the flamboyant Shorty-five feet four and one hundred forty extremely muscular pounds—caught the attention of the airborne training cadre because he was tough, cocky, and seemingly fearless. He was twenty years old, had been a high school track and field star, a member of a local gymnastics club since age ten, and a sometime Golden Gloves boxer who’d spent two years in the CCC. They were an odd pair. Macurdy large, mildmannered, and seemingly deliberate, Lyle smi, flamboyant, and impulsive.
The first week of training was the most grueling; fewer than forty percent got through it, the rest being shipped back to whatever command they’d come from. And the daily four hours in the physical training pits weren’t the end of it. They ran everywhere they went-would as long as they were there pausing on command to drop down and pump out twentyfive pushups. Even in the packing hangar, where they learned to pack their own chutes, they were stopped frequently to “give me twenty-five.” The man who, on leaving the mess hall, wasn’t tanning on his first stride out the door, regardless how full his stomach, might be ordered to “give me fifty,” an order few could meet, though a clean thirty-five might avoid a training gig. All in all, that first week, the trainees probably average at least 700 pushups a day.
Friday was make or break day: The trainees did 1400 sidestraddle hops, by which time a lot of gigs had been recorded. (A gig–a penalty point was given for failing to complete an exercise; three gigs and you were washed out, eliminated.) Then they lay on their backs, legs straight, booted feet some twenty inches above the ground-and were left like that. Soon little grunts of pain and effort could be heard, with occasional and increasing thuds as heels dropped to the ground. When about half had failed, the order was given to lower their feet.
During the final hour they ran. Running gigs were especially potent; each one got double value. And while the trainees were used to fifty-minute runs, this day’s was different, with spurts of sprinting–a sort of gruesome interval training in boots–and for the first time, their trainers cycled in and out, taking turns. Well before the fifty minutes were up, men were peeling off to heave their guts, or falling headlong, until the sixty percent wash-out was attained.
In every training exercise, Shorty Lyle excelled, even at running, short-legged though he was. Once, for doin his pushups more rapidly than the count (to get in extras he was ordered onto the demonstration platform and told to “give me twenty-five.”