George Singleton jumped out of the first airplane that he ever rode in

George Buster Singleton

(For decades, local historian and paranormal investigator George “Buster” Singleton published a weekly newspaper column called “Somewhere in Time.” The column below, which was titled “Jump was one to remember,” was originally published in the Feb. 20, 1997 edition of The Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)

As with most everyone, there are memories of past events that stand out above all others. As I have stated in some of my writings, I was born a country boy that grew up near the small town of Sweet Water, Alabama. Due to many things beyond our control, I didn’t have the opportunity to do much traveling outside of the immediate area. I did, however, get the chance to make a trip to Mobile on a couple of occasions before my graduation from high school. Then, due to the fact that our football team went undefeated my senior year, the citizens of Sweet Water made up money and the team was presented a trip to Montgomery for the annual Blue-Gray game. A fairly wealthy merchant in town hired a man with a cattle truck to carry us to Montgomery and return. We had it good though, we had 50 cents given to us for our lunch, a ticket to the game, and we had a tarpaulin over us to keep out the weather.

Although these trips were very important to this country boy, there were others that superseded those by far. High school graduation was on a Friday night. Since I had enlisted in the U.S. Marine Corps prior to my graduation, I was scheduled to depart the next morning to begin boot camp. Catching the Greyhound bus at Thomasville, I was to begin a new adventure of a lifetime. I was entering a whole new world, as the bunch of recruits, of which I was one, made our way from Birmingham to later arrive at Parris Island, S.C.

Due to the fact that I was in good physical condition, I ended the 16 weeks of boot camp with good markings. The war had not been over long, but the military had already began to cut back on its money for training. All Know that this was a mistake, but nevertheless it happened. The Marines, however, decided later that it would be the proper avenue, since they were supposed to be ready at a moment’s notice, to reorganize the famed 2^nd Raider Battalion. This battalion has been absorbed by the 1^st Marine Division shortly after the war.

This would mean that those who volunteered for the Raiders would have to go through parachute training, or what is now known as “jump school,” as did the members of the old Raider Battalion. Not realizing what lay ahead, the country boy who had never set foot in an airplane, decided to cast his lot along with a couple of his friends, and join the Raiders. Besides the $55 a month, we were going to be paid $25 extra for going to parachute school. I couldn’t understand just how I was going to handle all that money. Remembering that I had bought the most expensive class ring, which had cost $12, due to the fact that I wore the largest in the class, I now might be able to own me one of the fine wrist watches that I wanted so much.

The day we reported to the parachute training center was one to remember. Those that thought that Marine boot camp was rough, came to realize that it was like a school picnic compared to the parachute training that we faced. My platoon training instructor, I was later to find out, was a survivor of the famed Bataan Death March. He told us in no uncertain terms that we would graduate this training at the head of the training cycle. At this time, I had begun to wonder if this country boy from Sweet Water had made the right decision. But, my pride and loyalty to my buddies held me to my decision.

We would come to learn that our instructor was one of the toughest that the corps had produced. We would also learn that he was one of the finest men and straightest and fairest the corps had come up with. After interviewing each member of the platoon for period of about two hours, he let it be known that he, too, was a country boy from the hills of Virginia. He had survived on almost nothing on a very small farm way back there in the hill country. At his death, some years later, I had the honor to be a member of his military funeral team. In a small backwoods country churchyard, high in the hill country of Virginia, one of the finest men that I had ever known was laid to rest.

That eight weeks of parachute training school will forever be remembered. Both encouraged and highly supported by our fine instructor, the whole platoon made it to graduation with flying colors. As was expected of us, our platoon graduated at the top of the class. No one dropped out during the entire training period. Our fine instructor was a well pleased Marine, and received a commendation for his leadership. We had become to know him as more than an instructor. He had become more like a father to the members of the platoon.

Then, that day came when we were to make our first jump. The day was Tues., Feb. 11, 1947. Strapped in our parachute equipment, we made our way out to the large C-47s that waited near the loading zone. I thought those planes were some of the largest that I had ever seen. Before entering the large planes, our instructor yelled at us that if anyone paused or hesitated in the doorway of the plane when it came their time to jump he “was going to put that number 12 jump boot that he was wearing right up their behinds.” Each knew that he would do it. We knew we had better jump when the signal came.

As the large twin engine cargo plane climbed to the required altitude for the jump, a nervous and excited bunch of young men waited to hear the command from the instructor standing by the door to “Stand Up and Hook Up.” After what seemed forever, the order was given. All stood and hooked their static lines to the cable. As each in turn stepped to the door, a slap on the left shoulder by the instructor and a shout of “go” was the signal to jump. Riding in the first airplane that he had ever ridden in, a frightened country boy from Sweet Water, Alabama stepped to the door. Upon receiving the signal to jump, this frightened country boy stepped out into the morning sky.

(Singleton, the author of the 1991 book “Of Foxfire and Phantom Soldiers,” passed away at the age of 79 on July 19, 2007. A longtime resident of Monroeville, he was born to Vincent William Singleton and Frances Cornelia Faile Singleton, during a late-night thunderstorm, on Dec. 14, 1927 in Marengo County, graduated from Sweet Water High School in 1946, served as a U.S. Marine paratrooper in the Korean War, worked as a riverboat deckhand, lived for a time among Apache Indians, was bitten at least twice by venomous snakes, moved to Monroe County on June 28, 1964 and served as the administrator of the Monroeville National Guard unit from June 28, 1964 to Dec. 14, 1987. He was promoted from the enlisted ranks to warrant officer in May 1972. For years, Singleton’s columns, titled “Monroe County history – Did you know?” and “Somewhere in Time” appeared in The Monroe Journal, and he wrote a lengthy series of articles about Monroe County that appeared in Alabama Life magazine. It’s believed that his first column appeared in the March 25, 1971 edition of The Monroe Journal. He also helped organize the Monroe County Museum and Historical Society and was also a past president of that organization. He is buried in Pineville Cemetery in Monroeville. The column above and all of Singleton’s other columns are available to the public through the microfilm records at the Monroe County Public Library in Monroeville. Singleton’s columns are presented here each week for research and scholarship purposes and as part of an effort to keep his work and memory alive.)