Flight of the Pegasus

By Dorian Morrison

In 1965, shortly before his 17th birthday, Victor Moore, a poor black teenager from rural Illinois, enlisted in the U.S. Army. At 18 he was sent to Vietnam where he experienced culture shock, opium dens and struggled to survive in a unforgiving war. In 1968 he returned home to a land devastated by civil unrest & wounded by the ugly legacy of slavery and the assassination of a Civil Rights hero.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorian Morrison
• Release date: Aug 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301391486

Dorian Morrison

Dorian Morrison was born in the late 40's in Southern Illinois. At the age of sixteen he enlisted in the military shortly before his seventeenth birthday. At eighteen he began serving two tours of duty in Vietnam. He was awarded the Vietnam Service Medal, with bronze star. Republic of Vietnam Campaign Ribbon. Marksman Badge, with Rifle Bar. The National Defense Medal, two Overseas Bars. After being discharged under honorable conditions in 1968, he returned home to the turbulent Civil Rights Movement. The story, Flight of the Pegasus, is based on true life events which the writer experienced while growing up in rural Illinois, and serving in the United States Army. Presently the author lives in the Midwest with his wife.

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FLIGHT OF THE PEGASUS

THE CELL

DORIAN MORRISON

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2002 Dorian Morrison

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Library of Congress Number: 2002093700

ISBN:1-4010-6968-1 (Hardcover)

ISBN: 1-4010-6967-3 (Softcover)

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Table of Contents

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter I

IT was a humid South East Asian morning, May of nineteen sixty-seven. Even though dawn had broken an hour earlier the temperature was already eighty degrees. Victor's sweat soaked jungle fatigues clung to his ebony sun-baked skin. A light morning mist added to the humidity.

Under armed guard, chained and shackled, Private first Class Victor Moore was being flown on a helicopter gun-ship to Long Binh Province, Military Detainment Compound, where he was to begin serving time in the detention center famously referred to as LBJ. A couple hours earlier he had stood before a military tribunal at battal- ion headquarters in Qui Nhon and was sentenced to a brief, but rugged stay at the Army's correctional facility located in the southern section of South Vietnam.

The chopper moved aggressively over the sand bagged and barbed- wired perimeter of field headquarters, then up and over the moun- tains that towered above the base camp. Vietnamese peasants worked in the rock quarry at the foot of the ancient mounds chipping busily in the morning drizzle. The helicopter hovered above a convoy of American troops in track vehicles and deuce and 1/4 trucks, hauling their goods to war. Traffic moved rapidly along the twisting route of Highway One. In the northern parts of the country it connected to the Ho Chi Min Trail. A giant Buddha statue towered in mystical stone silence over the landscape. A squadron of choppers from the First Cavalry Division flew by in eagle formation, paralleling the MP'S gun-ship for a moment, then heading northeast in the opposite di- rection towards the DMZ.

It had been raining lightly while a persistent sun was shining brightly, a frequent phenomenon in the South East Asian climate. Rainwater heated on dark green rubber tree leaves and dripped down to nourish the assortment of tropical plants and insects on the fertile forest floor. Fog loomed in a persistent glistening mist. The early morning temperatures climbed rapidly. By noon it would be 100 de- grees.

The chopper bore Southwest over the checkerboard rice patties. A water buffalo being driven to duty by a Vietnamese farmer and his two small sons wore a graying wood harness wearily on his shoulders as he hung his head in obedience. The little farmer's bare feet clung confidently to a narrow muddy trail as the beast of burden lumbered forward.

Reeling and rumbling, the chopper veered and dove into a dark maze of thick jungle terrain, a corridor of forestry that seemed undis- turbed by Agent Orange, napalm bombs or other arsenals of destruc- tion birthed by the Vietnam War. The gun ship skimmed the top of the dense South East Asian Forest. A flock of tropical birds took flight as the noise of the approaching war vessel intruded on their sanctu- ary. The morning dew dampened their colorful wings and their mag- nificence was enhanced by the bright blooming sunlight. Treetops rustled by the winds bowed to the chopper's rotating blades.

Victor Moore, feverish and sickened by drug withdrawals became concerned. Why in the hell are they flying this crate so low? he thought. Victor felt his voice burst from his body. It boomed over the noise of the engine. He protested to one of the two MPs that was guarding him. Say man, do you mind speaking to the person flying this tin can, and tell him to put some altitude on this bird? We're going to get shot out of the air like clay pigeons.

The irritated MP looked at his partner and spoke loudly. Did you hear someone say something?

Why no, I didn't hear a thing.

One of the MPs yelled back at Victor. If that was you mumbling and flopping your jaws prisoner, keep your damn mouth shut, you piece of manure.

Yeah, before we make rice patty fertilizer out of you. The heli- copter gunner remarked. If we can pop a couple of gooks on the way in, there will be less of them to worry about. The gunner put his hands on the machine gun. His eyes gleamed as he surveyed the tropical forest below.

Oh you red neck crackers. Victor snarled back in defiance. Say another word boy, and you're air borne.

Victor sat back and put his head against the chopper hull. His Army green baseball cap slid down and covered his brown eyes shad- ing his pupils encased in red. His dark bronze face was sweating profusely. Silver tin dog tags were glued to his bold hairless chest. He had smooth chocolate reddish skin that was inherited from his Ameri- can Indian and African ancestry, a trait he was most proud of. As he inhaled the heat from his own atmosphere of existence his broad nostrils flared with each deep breath. His brain cried for more oxy- gen.

As his muscular lean body absorbed the vibration of the ship's engine he reflected on the recent events. He silently cursed his cap- tures, or were they his saviors? The Viet Cong would certainly have captured him had he stayed AWOL much longer. The money he had received from black-marketing was never enough. He had been liv- ing in a restricted area. At night he hid from the Viet Cong in a secret room supplied by his French Vietnamese girlfriend. By day he dodged the Military Police in the impoverished off limits area where he lived like a runaway slave. In a few hellish months Victor had become hope- lessly addicted to opium. He raided the military depot for food and supplies and sold them to the Vietnamese cowboys and black market- ers for drugs and civilian clothing. Because of his ravished condition and delirium from the drugs the Asian gangsters, most of them South Vietnamese army deserters or communist insurgents, usually cheated Victor out of most of his bounty. Memories of the massage parlors and go-go bars in Qui Nhon, Soul City in Bein Hoa, the opium, the gambling, the beautiful French Vietnamese temptress, the back-room black-market deals, all flooded his fevered mind. He was the victim's victim.

At Victor's court-martial, starched over zealous career officers sat like cold inanimate silhouettes acting out their ceremonial roles, as if it were a well-written drama unfolding before them. Their lips were salivating with condemnation.

Victor Moore, this military tribunal sentences you to six months hard labor, to be served in Long Binh Province Army Detainment Compound. You are now reduced to a Private E-1 and you will forfeit all pay and privileges.

Glaring at him with a look of disgust they passed their judgment of dishonor with certainty. Their eyes peered down at him as if he were being cast into hell. Duty-sworn officers, with rigid military de- meanor, impressed upon Victor that he was an undesirable and he agreed with them. He was an undesirable. Certainly he did not desire to be in Southeast Asia, with no hope or certain future. He had be- come addicted to a drug called Black Tar Opium, and White China heroin a more refined substance made from the Asian poppy plants. A little over a year ago, he knew nothing about their existence, or the drug's power and torturous control over the mind and body.

Shaking and convulsing from a raging fever, Victor was led out of the humid courtroom and placed in shackles by two guards. A canvas topped company jeep with muddy tires stood waiting to carry them to the company's landing zone, once a hot LZ. Victor spent many nights guarding it against VC saboteurs and snipers. A lot had change since July of Nineteen Sixty—Six, The area was now considered secure. The Army had even begun to build permanent wood barracks. The heliport was covered with flattened steel connexes for support, a foundation laid by Victor and other members in his outfit, who had drawn extra duty. The helicopters rested on it like giant renditions of Asian dragonflies. Oily smells released embracing hot winds. En- gines bolted and started. Roaring propellers commenced their windy rotation generating a high pitched whine.

Chills ran through Victor's body contradicting the warm burst of flowing air swirling around the rumbling ship. His insides began to shake violently. A wave of nausea swept over him as he broke into a cold sweat. The earth began to spin like a Ferris wheel and his mid- section burned as if he had digested crushed glass. His body and soul were conquered, bound and defeated. His legs barely gave him sup- port. Only his youthful spirit sustained his melting frame. He felt as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

As Victor was about to be put aboard the pulsating dragonfly, he noticed the battalion insignia; a black and yellow icon of a horse head. His mind was searching for relief from this sickness. He wanted desperately to rejoin his mistress White China, but more than any- thing he wished he could somehow will the horse to life, mount it and fly to freedom on sprouting wings.

Victor struggled with the two military guards. They threw him onto the floor of the chopper, then set him up and attached his shack- led ankles to the dragonfly's vibrating belly. It had been a long morn- ing and he was becoming increasingly worried about the darkness of the unknown that awaited him.

Suddenly all thoughts were intrusively interrupted by automatic gunfire. When the diminutive missiles struck the ship the sound simulated air bursting from pop-top cans, followed by ear splitting booms. The reinforced metal of the iron bird gave way and was torn, and dented by the impaling rockets. The chopper's green coating was chipped away revealing a cold gray bullet-riddled hull. The light streamed through the hot smoldering holes of the ship's body and wet tropical mist rushed in to claim the darkness hidden in the inter- nal space of the wounded prey.

Jesus Christ, what the hell was that? Victor shouted in the hyste- ria. What he had feared moments earlier had become a reality. In- stantly his sick feeling of withdrawals manifested into stark fear. He lay frozen in his chains on the deck of the chopper where he had fallen lying in his own vomit. A split second later a large hole opened up beside him on the floor of the helicopter. He could hear the fragmented round striking the chopper blades as they whistled fiercely passed him.

The cherry faced gunner screamed in alarm. We are being fired upon! In a fiendish panic he returned fire. The M60 blazed in anger, thundering in murderous revenge. The rounds echoed through the dense forest crippling or destroying everything in its path. The rubber trees bled from their wounds. The chopper filled with smoke and the distinctive aroma of gunpowder. The empty shell casings that were purged by the sixty-caliber guns rolled and bounced about the damaged vessel echoing the slinging of brass.

When the guns were silent the repetitive squeal of the damaged swirling blades of the chopper could only be faintly heard. On deaf ears, they sounded as if they were coming from some distant horizon. Gradually the propellers became louder, whining and screaming in a low moan in time with the smoking chopper's sputtering engine. With its icon, the insignia of a horse's head threaded and punctured by the intrusive missiles, the iron bird floundered towards Long Binh Province.

Victor's hearing, impaired by the loud gunfire, partially returned. He heard a wailing noise. Struggling with his chains, he got back to his feet and sat up. He turned to see one of the guards with his mouth wide open shrieking in terror. The eyes of the MP were bulging. It appeared their red veins were going to burst and bleed. His face and hands were covered in blood.

Victor scanned the ship for the other military police officer and then witnessed what his mind could not accept. He focused and tried to block the sunlight that was shining through the punctured hull of the chopper. He then experienced the true horror of war. He saw the other MP who was almost decapitated by the gunfire. The only thing left of his head was a mass of hairy flesh and blood. Shattered bone and gray brain matter spattered on the melting wall of the helicopter. His body was surrounded by bullet holes in the ship's hull. A halo of light encircled his exploded crown.

A tidal wave of emotion swept Victor into a deep whirling funnel of uncontrolled fear and mood swings. The pendulum of his feelings swung from one end of the spectrum to the other. The animosity that Victor had felt for this man turned to sorrow and grief. He shared the pain of his devastating wounds.

Victor wanted to scream, laugh hysterically or cry, but he could not. Perspiration rolled down the middle of his back and his stomach, to the center of his being where it turned cold. He was frozen in time. The shackles became heavy weights and he could not move as he observed the men yelling in horror. Victor remained rigid as the helicopter commander barked into the helmet microphone, trying frantically to reach base camp with news of their assault.

Victor's hearing slowly faded as if someone was turning down the volume. Then all at once he realized that he could not hear. His system shut down. He became disorientated as if he were going to faint. In total mental confusion Victor watched the actions around him begin to manifest in slow motion. His body felt as if it had turned to stone.

Adjusting his coordinates slightly the chopper pilot made an emergency landing at Long Bin base hospital, not far from the army detainment compound. A precision ground crew of medics removed the remains of the military police officer from the battered ship and rushed him into ER. The remaining MP unlocked Victor's shackles from the ship's belly. Jerking him by his chains, he pulled him to the threshold of the chopper door ordering him to jump down. Come on, get down out of there.

It wasn't as difficult getting Victor out of the chopper, as it was getting him in, needless to say. Some how he was able to break free of the frozen terror and move. He jumped. Victor fell to the ground. He could feel the rumbling of the chopper motor as it began to shut down.

Lying there with his face in the mud, he smelled the perfume of the rich Asian soil creep into his nostrils and pushed back the nau- sea. He filled his lungs with air and he thanked God. He thought about Saint Paul's Baptist Church in Lincolnville, Illinois, and the house he lived in as a child that was attached to the church. On Sundays he could hear a lot of Thank you, Jesus. being sent up to the heavens via the pulpit and congregation. He now shared a deeper understanding of what it meant to be truly thankful.

The MP and a medic helped him to his feet. Victor's leg irons made it difficult for him to walk. Pulling and dragging him under both arms they led him to the emergency unit. Still unable to speak or hear Victor watched silently as the medics covered the body of the MP.

Well, at least he's out of this mess. One the medics blurted out with a bit of sadness and sarcasm in his voice.

The pilot and helicopter gunner reported to a bullish looking Army Captain from the First Cavalry Division. Victor focused on the Captain's patch, and there he was again, the head of the horse, the Pegasus. It was encased in gold and black on the army officer's shoul- der. Victor thought to himself how glad he was to see the Pegasus. The sniper fire had not destroyed the flying horse. A twisted, faint smile appeared across Victor's face and then faded back into the density of his soul, like he knew something no one else did. To the First Cavalry the insignia represented the horse that was never rid- den and the river that was never crossed. To Victor it represented freedom.

The helicopter pilot, the gunner, and the captain disappeared into a room, with the Pegasus riding on the officer's shoulder. In shock from the ordeal Victor no longer knew what was real and what was not. He could not distinguish between what was animate and what was inanimate. He was experiencing double vision and visual hallucinations. His mind spun out of control.

Take him to the mortuary unit. The examining doctor stated. He threw a sheet over the expired MP's face. The doctor's voice was filled with exhaustion. He and a nurse walked over to the surviving MP in an attempt to examine him. The doctor looked down at the MP with tear filled eyes and spoke softly. He could see that the young man was holding back the emotion caused by yet another terrible tragedy. How are you feeling young man? The Doctor reached for the MP's arm and took his pulse.

Fine, I think. The MP responded nervously.

Let's have a closer look at you. He began listening to his heart with his stethoscope and inspecting his limbs. After examining the MP the doctor came over to Victor and spoke to him. The nurse remained behind gently wiping away the blood of the MP's fallen comrade from his brow and face. He was visibly shaken and terrified. Hello soldier. I see you are not doing too well in this man's Army.

He peered down at Victor with concern as he scrutinized the manacles that securely embraced Victor's body. Victor looked up. His eyes were filled with fright. He noticed that the man speaking to him was not only a doctor but also a soul brother. Victor wanted to call out to him as if he were a drowning man gasping for the surface. He opened his mouth wide and tried to speak to him. Nothing would come out. He could only sit shaking, inhaling and exhaling repeatedly. He was sucking air deeply as if there was a limited supply.

Touching Victor firmly on his shoulder the doctor steadied him. Can you hear me? How are you feeling?

Victor stared at him with a look of disbelief as he faded across the parameters of reality. A solitary tear rolled down his cheek. Seeing the black man revealed his deep regrets and how badly he missed home.

Speaking in a low monotone, the doctor leaned down and whis- pered in Victor's ear. Get a hold of yourself solider, at least you are still alive. Look around you. There are people in a hell of a lot worst shape then you. The black doctor glanced back at the MP and spoke in a commanding voice. Unshackle this man, Corporal! I would like to examine him.

With deliberate hesitation the soldier stood defiantly. He scuffled over to Victor obeying the doctor's dubious orders and released Vic- tor cautiously. His tan freckle face was red with frustration and tainted with blood and sweat as he stared into Victor's wild tearing eyes. He stepped backwards and put his hands on the butt of the holstered forty five-caliber sidearm. The MP tightened his grip on his pistol, as the chains shook free and clambered to the hospital floor, and lay there loose in inanimate silence resembling deceased vipers. Care- fully the MP bent and retrieved the tools of his trade.

As the doctor proceeded with the examination, the MP watched Victor with great intensity. The doctor captured the MP with a mo- mentary glance. Noticing the guard's demeanor he spoke softly. There's no need to worry about your prisoner. The youthful police- man appeared to be going into shock. I think he's had enough. This man's not going anywhere, and neither are you. Your weapon, sir.

Extending his arm carefully, the doctor stared with concern into tearing terror on the lonely MP's face. The guard stood stiffly, with the chains draped across one arm. A moment of silence gripped the air.

The MP mumbled incoherently. Slowly he withdrew his forty-five, and placed the cold steel instrument of authority in the doctor's hand. The physician removed the clip and put it in his white cloak pocket. He directed the same subordinate nurse that had washed them. Nurse, prepare these men a sedative. We will keep them overnight for observation.

Yes sir She immediately relayed the doctor's instruction to an- other nurse.

The doctor turned and looked at the dethroned MP. Don't worry, we will arrange to have someone watch your prisoner, son. The doc- tor swiftly walked towards the adjoining room that the army officer and helicopter crew had mysteriously retreated into. He disappeared behind the huge tent's screen door, closing it quietly.

A conditioned drug addict, Victor perked up when he heard sedative. God had answered his prayers and sent him some relief from the suffering of the withdrawals that haunted him. The painful cravings burned deep into the fabric of his shattered nerves. A seda- tive, he pondered joyously, would bring him comfort from his tor- ment.

Standing erect and motionless, the MP allowed his gear and draped chains to be removed by a nurse who piled them on the emer- gency room receiving desk. Then the attending nurse guided him into the corridor to a crowded hospital dorm. As the nurse led the military policeman from the emergency ward Victor, for a fleeing moment, became reality based and noticed that the MP didn't look so tough without his weapons of authority. The police officer appeared to be a very young man, not much older than Victor, about nine-teen or twenty, a cherry boy as the Vietnamese hookers would say. The truth was, although they were of a different race they shared commonalties. They were both soldiers and emotional casualties of this war. Each wished that the nightmare would end.

For Victor, it was the beginning of the end, the end of one terrible saga and the beginning of another. The demonic nightmares and the struggle for his sanity were yet to be seen, played out in a hole close to Satan and far away from the reality of God. A cell at LBJ awaited him as a coffin awaited the dead, the living dead. Victor felt a pounding in his ears, then a roaring. He noticed the nurse was wiping away the blood trickling every so slowly down his arm. She had returned with the sedative without him even being aware.

The roaring got louder as he drifted into a lull from the sedation. The pounding sound reminded him of the tunnel leading to his high school arena. He could hear the spikes from the teams' shoes hitting the concrete and cinder track that lay before a chain linked fence. The fence surrounded the entrance to the freshly manicured green grassy turf of the high school football field, a place that con- tained the dreams of young gridiron warriors. He could see the bright lights illuminating the arena on a Friday night in Lincolnville. As