Friday. Trash. Rescue in Midair.
It’s an ancient story. I probably read it sometime around 1993, and it’s probably apocryphal. It doesn’t matter. The storytelling is magnificent.
A demonstration performance by parachutists from the local flying club at some major aviation festival.
The team mechanic, Petrovich, having seen off the last group of athletes in bright jumpsuits aboard the old An-2, decided that he could finally relax.
He went into a shabby little 2-by-2 shed at the edge of the airfield, where all sorts of useless junk was stored, carefully shut the door, pulled a bottle of port wine out of its hiding place, wiped his hands on his bright yellow jumpsuit like the rest of the team wore, and began slicing tomatoes.
The final act of the demonstration program was a stunt called “Rescue in Midair.”
The idea was as follows: a dummy in a jumpsuit, pretending to be either a passenger who had fallen out along the way or a parachutist with a failed parachute, was thrown out of the plane. Then an athlete jumped after it, caught up with the dummy in midair, embraced it, opened his own parachute, and both landed to the audience’s thunderous applause.
The spectators gathered on the airfield watched the aviators’ tricks with delight, washing down the spectacle with kebabs, soft drinks, and stronger beverages.
At last came the final act. A man separated from the airplane and flew toward the ground; another jumped out after him and rushed in pursuit. The crowd froze. The second parachutist skillfully caught up with the first and grabbed him by the hand. At that moment, whether because of a gust of wind or for some other reason, they were torn apart. There was no time left. The second one, waving goodbye to his comrade, opened his parachute.
The crowd, unaware that anything was wrong, went rigid with horror. The first body hurtled toward the ground and at enormous speed smashed into the decrepit shed at the edge of the airfield. Clouds of dust, pieces of slate roofing, and rotten boards shot up from the site of the shed. An ambulance, siren blaring, raced toward the scene of the tragedy, not really expecting to be able to help anyone anymore. People ran after it. In front of the huge pile of boards, everyone stopped in uncertainty.
Suddenly the boards began to move, and out from underneath them crawled Petrovich in his bright yellow flight overalls, drenched in port wine and smeared with tomatoes. Wildly looking around and spewing curses, he shook his fist at the departing airplane:
“Some rescuers you are! If you don’t know how to catch, don’t make fools of people! I’m not working for you bastards anymore!”
They say that after these words, the ambulance doctor fainted.
Recorded almost from Petrovich’s own words.