How to yell good

Sometimes a “doubting Thomas” foolishly questions facts about stories I’ve related regarding my adventuresome youth. That happened the other day when I told about biting a hole through my tongue 67 years ago.

One guy said, “Okay! Let’s see the scar.”

Had to explain there wasn’t one. That lack of evidence left serious doubt about an otherwise good yarn.

Knowing I had written a column about that incident, I went through over a thousand of the old ones and found the right one. It was published on February 13, 1997, and is printed below.

Well I’ll be darned! Have wondered about that a lot. Finally know why there isn’t a big scar on my tongue. Monday’s daily trivia column said, “The tongue is the only part of the human body that will grow back after injury, without scar tissue.”

My monster tongue injury was caused by one of the toughest Indians who ever lived. During the American development of airborne troops, some gung-ho guy came up with the idea of yelling as they left the aircraft. It relieved tension and was considered mighty macho. Eventually they settled on using the name of that tough Indian. All those wild young soldiers were allegedly urged to go pouring out the side doors of a C-47 yelling “Geronimo.” Nobody ever told me why they didn’t holler Sacajawea, Hiawatha, or Sitting Bull.

Near as I can recall, if everything went as it was supposed to, those old static line Switlik and Eagle parachutes got enough air to pop open and jerk the heck out of you in just under four seconds. Sometimes they’d open faster, especially in situations where the pilots didn’t throttle back the engines enough. Once in a while a chute would come out a little slower, but if it wasn’t open in five seconds, we were told there were two choices: reach for the reserve chute handle or start with “Our Father who art in Heaven...”

Until I got familiar with the experience of leaving a perfectly good airplane, I kept my mouth shut and teeth clenched, concentrating on keeping a vertical position, with eyes on the horizon and arms across the chest, while silently and rapidly counting, “One thousand one, thousand two, thousand three...”

There eventually came a day I decided to try “Geronimo.” Should have just yelled “Geron,” but instead went for Geronimoooooo.” On about the fourth “o” that parachute cracked open like a rifle shot and risers hit the back of my helmet and slammed my mouth shut so hard I saw stars, the moon, and the Milky Way.

Was feeling okay when I hit the ground, but as I started to holler at a guy who landed near me, a lot of blood came out. That’s when we discovered I had bitten a hole in my tongue big enough to stick a thumb through. Some of the more obnoxious people there thought I might not be able to talk, but that was just dreaming. Wasn’t keeping a diary then, but I swear the thing healed in less than a week, and there was just a slight irregularity on the surface. In two weeks there wasn’t a sign of anything.

Up until last Monday, I thought the miracle healing had happened because God wanted me to be a radio announcer when I grew up. It is rather upsetting to learn after all these years that it could happen to anybody.

One other thing. I made quite a few static line parachute jumps after the “Geronimo” fiasco. Liked the idea of yelling because it did relieve tension and kept my mind alert. But, from that day on, I always yelled “Bull sh**.” That’s something a fella can really get into but still keep his tongue safely inside clenched teeth. Try it sometime.

Not in the house ... dummy!

George Ostrom is an award winning columnist from Kalispell.