conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first three paragraphs for a story with the title 'Lightning'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Lightning
  We hated the silver wings because they were "Army," "lead sleds" or "training wheels." After I got back from Jump School in 1990, my Goldwinger buddy Karl Duce showed me the ropes and successfully guided me through my "cherry jump," the all-important sixth jump. It doesn't sound like much. Number six? Big deal! You made it through Jump School, right? In the Marines you might not jump again for months or even a year and you get rusty fast. In short, this means cherry jumpers are dangerous as hell. They're rigging their own pack for the first time, a Black Hat isn't monitoring every movement they make, and they're nervous as hell or flat-out scared. After all, jumping out of a perfectly good airplane isn't the most natural thing to do. Jump school is a very tightly controlled environment with instructors literally about every 30 feet for the entire three-week course, and nothing is left to chance. When you're back with your unit, you are expected to ramp it up and get your gear ready on your own and on time, and keep your eyes open for a clean safe exit from the aircraft. If your unit is jumping all the time, this might not be such a bad thing as there's no long break from jumping between the time you graduate Jump School and make your sixth jump. However, sometimes there were long dry spells for jumps, such as during the late 1990s when the missions in Bosnia sucked up so much transport aircraft that after Jump School many people had to wait as long as a year to start jumping again. These poor souls are basket cases of nerves and some of them are just freaking out and get lazy with their procedures. Obviously these types can be very dangerous to themselves and others and are usually paired up with an experienced Goldwinger to literally keep them alive.
  Plus, military static line jumps are at very low altitude. Training jumps are at 1,250 feet at Fort Benning, nothing like the videos you see of skydivers jumping from 10,000 feet. But my cherry jump was at around 900 feet over a local wildlife refuge called J. W. Corbett Wildlife Management Area run by the Florida Wildlife Commission. How we ever got permission to jump into a protected area I'll never know.
  My sixth jump had me standing about fifth in line in my "stick," or the group of Marines I would be exiting the aircraft with, and I could clearly see out the door and was a bit shocked to see just how low we were. In a real mission you might have hundreds if not thousands of troops falling from the sky, plus a highly armed enemy might be shooting at you the entire time. In other words you need to get on the ground and fast. I could clearly see every detail over Corbett including various pine trees and Sable palms that I might land on top of or smash into. I always had pregame jitters like an athlete before the game, except that we couldn't get up and pace back and forth in the locker room or take turns pounding on each other's shoulder pads to get each other fired up. On any jump you have to stay calm and in control of yourself despite your fears and apprehensions. It was one of the main reasons I wanted to go to Jump School in the first place. If I can't successfully jump out of an airplane, how could I possibly withstand the rigors of a combat assignment? Once my stick stood up and moved toward the open door under the explicit control of the jumpmasters, I could see out the door and see the ground passing below us.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me four more paragraphs.. End with the sentence ' When these two cocked back to swing, their right fist started moving out by the airport and hit my chest-implanted gold wings just below the sound barrier.'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Just as promised, they rammed me out of the back door and I went flying. Gunny Todd pinned me once more for good measure and passed me a helmet while he poured some beer on the little holes in my chest. Ten strikes by my own hand and then my mates even sang me a song:
  I never resented anyone who pinned me and never had a Marine who I pinned hold it against me. In fact, it bound us together for even tougher things to come over the next several years, even in peacetime.
  Walsh and von Heel hit the hardest. Corp. Kenny von Heel was a lanky Recon Marine who'd come to us after plenty of field time including the Gulf War. His years of patrolling mixed well with ANGLICO's fire support knowledge. GySgt. Mike Walsh was a veteran paratrooper who'd started as a radio technician. Since communications are central to anything ANGLICO did, Walsh was ruthless with young Marines who didn't transmit radio signals properly. Walsh was a very patient, intelligent, and thoughtful teacher of military communications. But once he was done teaching and training, either you did it right or he lit you up like the Fourth of July right in front of your grandma.
  Everyone thinks that a muscle-bound guy can hit hard, but that's not always true. If he's not loose, he can only cock his fist back to his shoulder. However, Walsh and von Heel were both tall, thin, and with long arms. When these two cocked back to swing, their right fist started moving out by the airport and hit my chest-implanted gold wings just below the sound barrier.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Canada finished out the remainder of the very short ground war capturing and collecting Iraqi prisoners of war. Canada couldn't help but wonder how effective the Allied blockade efforts or air attacks on supply columns had been as every Iraqi he came across was wearing brand new camouflage uniforms and smoking fresh packs of cigarettes. Canada would receive another commendation, a Marine Corps Meritorious Mast, for teaming up with a Navy corpsman to perform medical triage on twenty-two wounded or starving Iraqi prisoners of war. As far as all the high-speed, low-drag ANGLICO, airborne-all-the-way, bad-ass stuff that he was trained for?
  In one final crazy act of Frank Canada's wartime experience, one day's mail call brought a pleasant and pretty message from home. Canada said mail was very slow getting to the desert, usually around six weeks late. Throughout the Gulf War ordinary Americans were encouraged to send mail to our troops in the desert. Troops in the Gulf were given literally tons of mail from school kids and every kind of perfect stranger. During one mail call the designated mailman said one letter contained a picture of a girl. Even though Marines share everything with each other, including secrets we don't tell anyone else, Canada promptly pulled rank as the senior sergeant and took possession of said letter. The photograph showed a pretty blonde girl from Florida wearing a nice sweater and holding a can of beer. Canada had his priorities straight.
  Well, Canada didn't get his beer, but he did get a new pen pal in the name of one Suzanne Elizabeth Birch. They wrote to each other for the rest of the conflict. They wrote each other when Canada returned home to central Florida. Letters led to phone calls. Phone calls led to more phone calls. More phone calls led to a first date, then more dates, and they've been married for twenty-two years. If people ask who first introduced them, Canada has a quick answer:
  When I originally signed with Stackpole Books, I wondered how much interaction I would have with a publisher new to me, but I couldn't have been more pleased with the complete freedom to write whatever I needed to. Special thanks to David Reisch, Lauren Szalkiewicz, and Joshua Rosenberg for their guidance and advice on the completed manuscript.
  For my friends and family, I deeply appreciate the support, encouragement, and occasional pint at O'Connor's Pub. Heather, Texas Troy, Barry the Baptist, Redneck Donnie, Domer, and Tommy Mac, they were all behind me. Naturally, my mom, Sue, was timely in her support and usual wisdom on everything. For all the Marines I ever served with, you had a hand in this story as well. You taught me well, helped when I was struggling with a supportive arm around my shoulders, and gave the sometimes needed boot up the arse to get me back on track. I did my best to tell the public how we operated, how hard we worked, and the fun, crazy situations we always fell into.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Canada couldn't help but wonder how effective the Allied blockade efforts or air attacks on supply columns had been as every Iraqi he came across was wearing brand new camouflage uniforms and smoking fresh packs of cigarettes. Canada would receive another commendation, a Marine Corps Meritorious Mast, for teaming up with a Navy corpsman to perform medical triage on twenty-two wounded or starving Iraqi prisoners of war. As far as all the high-speed, low-drag ANGLICO, airborne-all-the-way, bad-ass stuff that he was trained for?
  In one final crazy act of Frank Canada's wartime experience, one day's mail call brought a pleasant and pretty message from home. Canada said mail was very slow getting to the desert, usually around six weeks late. Throughout the Gulf War ordinary Americans were encouraged to send mail to our troops in the desert. Troops in the Gulf were given literally tons of mail from school kids and every kind of perfect stranger. During one mail call the designated mailman said one letter contained a picture of a girl. Even though Marines share everything with each other, including secrets we don't tell anyone else, Canada promptly pulled rank as the senior sergeant and took possession of said letter. The photograph showed a pretty blonde girl from Florida wearing a nice sweater and holding a can of beer. Canada had his priorities straight.
  Well, Canada didn't get his beer, but he did get a new pen pal in the name of one Suzanne Elizabeth Birch. They wrote to each other for the rest of the conflict. They wrote each other when Canada returned home to central Florida. Letters led to phone calls. Phone calls led to more phone calls. More phone calls led to a first date, then more dates, and they've been married for twenty-two years. If people ask who first introduced them, Canada has a quick answer:
  When I originally signed with Stackpole Books, I wondered how much interaction I would have with a publisher new to me, but I couldn't have been more pleased with the complete freedom to write whatever I needed to. Special thanks to David Reisch, Lauren Szalkiewicz, and Joshua Rosenberg for their guidance and advice on the completed manuscript.
  For my friends and family, I deeply appreciate the support, encouragement, and occasional pint at O'Connor's Pub. Heather, Texas Troy, Barry the Baptist, Redneck Donnie, Domer, and Tommy Mac, they were all behind me. Naturally, my mom, Sue, was timely in her support and usual wisdom on everything. For all the Marines I ever served with, you had a hand in this story as well. You taught me well, helped when I was struggling with a supportive arm around my shoulders, and gave the sometimes needed boot up the arse to get me back on track. I did my best to tell the public how we operated, how hard we worked, and the fun, crazy situations we always fell into.