Operation Just Cause

William McKinley once wrote, "Our flag has never waved over any country but in blessing."

Twenty years ago on in the early morning of December 20, 1989, I was one of 2500 Rangers that parachuted into the country of Panama to take down a corrupt Dictator, Manuel Noriega.  It was my first taste of actual combat.  Compared to the fighting most of today's warriors experience, Operation Just Cause was extremely short and had a nice, tidy ending with the surrender of Manuel Noriega three weeks after we dropped in.   Today, nobody disputes that we did the right thing in removing him, though some Panamanians believe we could have been, say, gentler about it.  Thinking back on the chaos of that night in 1989, and looking at the strong, stable democracy that Panama has become, I can confidently say I'm glad to have played some very small part in that history.

Perhaps one day the veterans from Iraq and Afghanistan will return to those places and feel similar emotions.  Hopefully, this story will encourage today's men and women who serve overseas.  Sometimes in the middle of the deployment, away from family and friends, it's hard to see how much your efforts are making the world a better place. 

This Christmas, more than 200,000 of our military will be spending the holiday away from those they love.  Remember them as you curl up safe and warm with your children - and give thanks.

Chuck Holton, age 20, 2nd from Right

In 2003 I published a book about my experiences in the Rangers and the invasion of Panama.  Here is an excerpt from this day, twenty years ago.

“Get ready!”

The jumpmaster shouts over the roar of aircraft engines, stirring me from deep thoughts. It’s almost 1 a.m. on December 20, 1989. I’m one of nearly one hundred Airborne Rangers who, four hours ago at Fort Benning, Georgia, packed into this C-130 transport plane—built to carry no more than sixty-four jumpers.

After serving in the Army for about two and a half years, I carry the rank of Specialist. Tonight I can barely feel my legs. I am buried under an eighty-pound rucksack attached to my parachute harness at the waist, and overlapped by those of the Rangers packed tightly around me.

“Outboard personnel, stand UP!”

I look across at my friend Philip Lear, and he gives me a wry smile that says, Here goes nothing! I reach over and clasp his wrist, helping him struggle to his feet in the cramped confines of the aircraft—a near impossible task. Earlier this year, Lear and I were assigned as buddies in Ranger school, a two-month leadership course where we spent the majority of our time running patrols through every type of terrain imaginable.

It was wintertime, and many nights we had to huddle together for warmth. We’ve been through a lot together. Lear is like a brother to me. I wonder if it was God’s intention that we ended up side by side on this airplane. He is with the 2^nd Ranger Battalion, stationed at Ft. Lewis, Washington; I am with the 3^rd Battalion at Fort Benning, Georgia. This is the first we’ve seen of each other since the day we graduated from Ranger School ten months ago. I regret that we haven’t been able to do much catching up on the ride down. The inside of a C-130 is definitely not conducive to conversation. Lear did tell me that he is engaged to be married. I hope to be able to talk to him sometime later and find out more. But once we hit the ground we must go our separate ways, following separate platoons, accomplishing different missions.

“Inboard personnel, stand UP!”

It’s my turn to struggle to my feet. I can’t believe it’s gone this far. This mission may actually go down. We’ve been called up for real-life missions before, but they’ve always been canceled at the last minute.

This time our destination is Panama.

The overall plan is to arrest their corrupt dictator, Manuel Noriega, and help establish a democratic government. Of course, 3^rd Battalion’s specific mission is much more limited in scope—we’re simply the kickoff team. There are units at every U.S. base in Panama waiting for H-hour to come. Our coordinated attack should be swift and violent.

There’s much we don’t know about the political or strategic reasons for the mission, but it’s gratifying to think that the Army might finally use us. We’ve been training for this operation for months. If I have to serve my entire enlistment training for combat without actually experiencing it, I will always wonder how I would have performed in battle. It would be like training for the Super Bowl and then never getting to play.

When I was a kid, I did yard work for an older gentleman who was a deacon in our church. He had been in the Airborne in World War II. His stories about parachuting into combat fascinated me, and I used to dream about what it would be like to do the same.

Tonight I might finally get to find out.

“Hook up!”

We all struggle to attach our static lines to the overhead cable that will pull our chutes open once we exit the aircraft. The task is made difficult by the fact that it’s so crowded—we can hardly move. I wonder if our leaders planned it this way so that we will be anxious to jump. If they did, it’s working. I am careful to check that my static line is securely fastened to the cable, though my faith in getting to the ground safely does not lie in the cable above me or the parachute on my back. If it did, I don’t know that I would have ever made it through jump school to begin with.

“Check equipment!”

Time to focus. We’re all deadly serious now. Girls, bills, and all the other problems that seem so important in my day-to-day life are nowhere in my consciousness at this moment. There isn’t room in my head for them. One hundred percent of my faculties are intent on the job that we have to do here in Central America. We do our best to check each other’s equipment in the dim light of the aircraft interior. I try to ensure that there’s nothing under my feet that I might trip over when heading for the door. I can’t even see my feet. A vice begins to tighten in my gut as my pulse quickens.

“Sound off for equipment check!”

Someone slaps me on the shoulder. I tap the guy in front of me and shout “OK!” He taps the guy in front of him, and so on, toward the jumpmaster at the rear of the aircraft. Once the jumpmaster gets the “All OK” signal, he will open the aircraft door and begin spotting for the drop zone.

Behind me is Mike Bohannon, a brand new private. He’s only been up in an aircraft on nine occasions, and he’s jumped every time. He doesn’t know what it’s like to land in an airplane. This will be his third jump with our unit; the other two he performed in training for this occasion. I’m worried about him, because he’s so new and because he’s my responsibility. I lean back and yell in his ear, “When we hit the ground, stay put, and I’ll come find you. Stick with me and you’ll be OK!”

He nods, wide-eyed.

The white lights go out. They’re about to open the door. To say that it’s uncomfortable standing with an eighty-pound rucksack full of ammunition hanging between your legs is like saying Siberia is “brisk” in winter. My M-203 grenade launcher is in its case, strapped securely to my left side.

I review the mission in my head. We’re jumping onto an airfield at a place called Rio Hato, about forty miles south of Panama City. Some of the most ruthless of the Panamanian Defense Forces (PDF) are housed there. We are to take the airfield and ensure that none of the PDF special forces, the Macho de Monte, have a chance to reinforce enemy positions in Panama City, where more Rangers are preparing to attack. My platoon’s part in the mission is to take out a couple of anti-aircraft guns that border the runway. We are then to clear and occupy the buildings of a military school located on one side of the airfield. Intel says that the barracks are empty, their soldiers home for Christmas, so clearing the buildings shouldn’t take long.

Murphy’s law, however, has a tendency to take over in these situations, so we are prepared for anything.

At least...I hope we are.

Suddenly, the roar of the night intensifies as the doors open. Hot, humid air floods in, reminding us that we aren’t in Georgia anymore, where it had been sleeting when we took off. I can just see the red light next to the door that will soon turn green, telling us to jump. The jumpmaster takes hold of the doorframe and leans far out into the night, looking for the airfield. All he sees is water. We are coming in over the Atlantic Ocean at five hundred feet. When we jump there won’t even be time to pull my reserve chute if the main one doesn’t open. I’m not sure why I even wore one, except that it is simply part of the pre-jump checklist.

We stand for what seems like hours in the dim red light, sweating profusely and listening to the screaming engines. Not being able to talk leaves us alone with our thoughts.

Unaccountably, a quiet sense of peace settles over me.

I’ve been training for this moment since I first raised my hand at the swearing-in ceremony two and a half years earlier. Scared? Yes—but not so much about my safety. I’m more concerned about how I will perform once I hit the tarmac below. It’s a natural feeling, I suppose, when you’re about to parachute into a firefight in a foreign country from an aircraft traveling at one hundred and fifty knots.

Beyond all those conflicting emotions, however, I know this is where I’m supposed to be at this very moment. And I believe that if a person follows God’s purpose for his life, there’s no safer place to be.

I glance toward the window just in time to see two closely spaced flashes of light. There’s no turning back now. The mission calls for two F-117 stealth fighter aircraft to drop five-hundred-pound bombs on the leading edge of the airfield to kick off the invasion. It’s the first time these aircraft have ever been used in combat. The flashes confirm that the bombs have just detonated on the beach.

Game time.

A testosterone filled “HOOAH!” goes up from the Rangers in our aircraft. We are first in line, with twelve more C-130’s following, also packed with “death from above.”

The jumpmaster screams, “Drop zone coming up!” I can’t hear him, but I see his lips moving and know what he’s saying. Lear reaches over and slaps me on the helmet. We shake hands. He gives me a thumbs up that says, Let’s do this!

I yell in his ear, “Be safe!” He nods and grins confidently.

The light turns green. Rangers start shuffling out the door as quickly as their much-encumbered state allows. For a long moment, those of us back toward the front of the aircraft aren’t moving at all. Finally, enough guys have jumped to make room for us. Then we begin lumbering toward the open door, pulling our static lines along the overhead cable. Suddenly the C-130 starts banking sharply left, then right. The pilots are taking evasive action to avoid anti-aircraft fire. Now I really want out of this plane.

Everything around me moves in blurry slow motion, but my consciousness is razor sharp. At this second, my entire life is focused on this exact point in time. There is no past, no future, only present. The pre-game anxiety that I was feeling vanishes, leaving only white-hot, focused purpose. Ten feet from the door, the light turns red, signaling the end of the drop zone. The Air Force loadmaster steps up and tries to get us to stop jumping. Everyone ignores him. There’s no way we’re not jumping now. I run for the door and step into blackness...

 

Excerpt from "A More Elite Soldier," By Chuck Holton.