Changes

By J D Morgan

Set against the backdrop of the early Seventies, when promiscuity and drugs were the “norm” for many Americans. Changes is a fast-paced, no-holds-barred rollercoaster ride through the mind and the libido of a disgruntled high school drop-out, who enlists in the U.S. Army and becomes frustrated at not being sent to Vietnam when so many were avoiding it and quickly becomes addicted to a life of adrenaline, sex and drugs.
With the Anti-War movement at its peak, he becomes increasingly restless, and is drawn to the dark side of life and is soon drug & arms dealing while continuing to notch up a dizzying number of sexual conquests - all the while avoiding any deep and meaningful relationships. However, one woman, in particular, does make a lasting impression on his life.
The very real threat of dishonorable discharge and jail or death is not enough to make him change his ways, and readers will be torn as his lawlessness spirals out of control.
How much of this tale is fact, and how much is fiction? That’s for you to figure out! However, this hedonistic account of army life during the Vietnam War by J.D. Morgan is certain to leave you craving more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J D Morgan
• Release date: Feb 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311428561

J D Morgan

Morgan served in the 82nd Airborne Div. and SF, JFK Institute for Military Assistance during the Vietnam War. Now residing as a road warrior and corporate gypsy.

Book preview

Copyright © JD Morgan 2016

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the author or publisher. It may not be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Editing by Ingrid Hall

Cover design by JH Illustration

Ebook formatting by Maureen Cutajar

Credit: Catherine Munro 82nd Jump photo

Credit: Fayetteville Observer cover

Photographs by JDM LLC

Print ISBN-13: 978-1503257153

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

In Memory

Debra L. Swope

Womack Army Hospital

Alvin D. Scott Gillian

173rd Airborne Brigade

Michael Echii Jap Sakashita

18th Airborne Corps

Contents

PROLOGUE

Chapter One: ON MY OWN

Chapter Two: TIGERLAND

Chapter Three: JUMP SCHOOL

Chapter Four: JUMPING JUNKIES

Chapter Five: THE STRIP

Chapter Six: COMMANDO AT LAST

Chapter Seven: LEAVING MY BODY

Chapter Eight: SHOOTOUT

Chapter Nine: ROAD TRIP

Chapter Ten: SMOKE BOMB HILL

Chapter Eleven: THE MANSION

Chapter Twelve: PAYBACK IS A BITCH

Chapter Thirteen: THE CARIBBEAN MISSION

Chapter Fourteen: GETTING MARRIED

Chapter Fifteen: DESPERADOS

Chapter Sixteen: THE TRAIL

Chapter Seventeen: ETS

Chapter Eighteen: WEST COAST OR BUST

Chapter Nineteen: BEST LAID PLANS

Chapter Twenty: THE OZARKS

Chapter Twenty One: CALIFORNIA

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PROLOGUE

Running away from home to California at the age of fifteen by train was short lived; the conductor received a telegram with my description as a fugitive. The local police in Albuquerque, New Mexico were dispatched to pick me up at the station. After spending the week in jail over the Christmas holiday, the police returned me to Wichita Kansas to my step- father’s custody. When the cops put me on the airplane, the Detective Sergeant said he was worried that I would parachute out before reaching Kansas. Little did I know at the time that there was some truth to that. On the drive to the farm, my step-father told me about being adopted, which explained the way that I had been feeling for several years. I spent New Year’s on my uncle’s farm south of Salina, Kansas with my 18-year-old step cousin; at night, we slow danced to 60s music. We talked about California – she had lived there with an aunt – a place I longed to see. Upon my return, I dropped out of high school so that I could join up and get into the Vietnam War before it was over. I longed to grow up fast and was about to get my wish in ways I would never have guessed.

On November 21, 1970, a force of Green Beret commandos raided the Sơn Tây prison camp in North Vietnam to rescue the estimated eighty prisoners of war. Immediately before the raid, the prisoners were moved to Đồng Hới, about 15 miles east of Sơn Tây. I enlisted in the U.S. Army the following day, volunteering for Airborne Infantry and duty in Vietnam.

Chapter One

ON MY OWN

Iwoke up as the bus trundled down the road through the Ozarks of Missouri in the early hours of a winter’s night; it was frigid. I was wearing only jeans and a flight jacket. In the back of the bus, two old guys shared a paper bag between them. Well, being only seventeen they seemed old to me. The smell of booze and rancid men invaded the bus for a long ride from Kansas City to Fort Leonard Wood Missouri, through the Ozarks. The sun was starting to come up, but the temperature was still below freezing; there was not even so much as a head in the bus, so we pissed in coffee cups.

Finally, we drove through the gate at Fort Leonard Wood into the recruiting area, which turned out to be old WW2 barracks. Standing up from the backbreaking seats after an all-night ride, we could hear the screams of the drill sergeants telling us to get our fucking asses out of the bus and in line. The frigid air was stale and filled with the smell of diesel exhaust as more buses rolled in. We stood there in our civvies freezing in line; a hurry up and wait routine that I would encounter the rest of my time in the U.S. Army. Finally, we filed into a gymnasium-sized building, stuffed like sardines from wall-to-wall. The reality was that it didn’t feel too bad when compared to standing out on the parade ground freezing our asses off.

Two men walked up to the stage and called attention. We snapped to and wondered what awaited us. The Sargeant Major introduced the Commander of the Training Brigade as Colonel Burns. The Colonel started out by welcoming us to what we fondly called ‘Fort Lost in the Woods,’ and told us the processing procedures for the next week. As a final note, due to someone’s lack of detail, our cold weather uniforms were not going to be available until the following week, and we were to wear our civvies until further notice during processing. As we all shuffled out once again, we formed lines that we would later learn were our squads. We were then assigned to the barracks to commence the processing procedure. Next came the chow hall. We had not eaten anything in the last twenty-four hours, and we were starving. To my astonishment, they had chocolate milk; all you could drink, and coffee, which I had not taken to as of yet. After a long wait in line in the low temperature, we finally got to the chow hall only to find we only had just ten minutes left to eat. After chow, we fell out, returning to our barracks and our ranks. We spent the rest of the day getting to know some of the guys that had filtered into our new home. The Sergeant assigned to watch over us was a short timer back from Nam and wanted nothing to do with us. During the rest of the week, we were marched from class to class, test to test, while we waited for our Army clothes to arrive, and be assigned to a training battalion. Walking down to the Sargent’s quarters at the end of the barracks I noticed a card game was going on. There were a number of people gathered around footlockers playing poker; a pastime that would occupy much of my time in the not-too-remote future.

The day had come for our uniforms (or fitting as it were). We all lined up, going from stall to stall, having the fatigues and other gear thrown at us in stacks. The size of the clothing didn’t seem to matter until it came to boots. This was important, particularly to an infantry soldier, and we would soon be spending a lot of time in those boots. As we came out of the depot our new drill sergeants, wearing Smoky the Bear hats, were waiting for us. The fun was about to begin.Fall in, sound off and prepare to board a line of deuce and a half trucks waiting for us. At last, we had suitable warm green clothing that matched everyone else and were on our way to basic training. As the trucks arrived in front of our barracks, it became apparent that we had moved to a new section of the camp, the buildings being three-story brick. We lined up once again in our assigned squad and then formed into our platoon. The CO came out and addressed the company. He wore jump wings and a Special Forces patch on his right sleeve, signifying his Vietnam combat unit. He gave us an overview of our next eight weeks, and what we could expect should we survive. The next few weeks went as anticipated until meningitis broke out in the battalion. Six people died. I wasn’t feeling too well myself; the orders were to report anyone you thought might be sick since it was highly contagious. Since most of us were young and gung-ho, we just went on. The medicine for ARD symptoms was codeine in clear bottles; we called it G.I. Gin, and you definitely got a buzz from drinking the bottle. We marched all over the Fort for classes and live exercise ranges in the cold snow covered hills of the Ozarks, running in formation and singing I want to be an Airborne Ranger.

One night during live fire exercises on the rifle range, I was sick and drinking GI Gin, while shooting my M-16 rifle downrange. There was a post from each firing position and a round culvert buried in the ground beside it. I was leaning on the post, holding myself up, and did not realize my temperature was high. It wasn’t such a smart idea to be responsible for a live weapon firing an automatic burst at a target in my condition, but I persevered. We had passed the 6-week point in our training, the usual basic infantry format, and this weekend was to be our first pass. That night, laying on top of my bunk burning up with fever, I didn’t want to turn myself into the sick bay.

The following day I took my first-weekend leave, managing to get to the Greyhound bus station and back to Kansas City even though I felt as sick as a dog. When my parents met me at the station, I could barely stand up. They took me straight to the ER. The prognosis was, thankfully, not the meningitis that was killing so many troops at the Fort. The doctor gave me medication and suggested bed rest for a week, but there was no way that was going to happen. He contacted my Commanding Officer with the details, and the Captain said, No problem, which surprised me. I was apprehensive about not being able to graduate with my class.

After getting back at the Fort, I ended up in sick barracks, attached to the infirmary. Following what felt like an endless rest in an open bay, with sheets tied between bunks to reduce the risk of diseases spreading I was able to catch up with the rest of the company and get back on track in a few weeks; just in time for a last weekend pass. This time, I resolved to stick close to the base and check out the local area, riding the rickety bus into town. Waynesville, Missouri was like most other camp towns that I would encounter in the next few years. With their share of pawnshops, bars, strip clubs and hookers, all of which I would become intimately acquainted with. Although I was just seventeen and underage, the uniform leveled the playing field for me, and I was able to gain entry into bars.

As we started down the main drag of the town, there were some hecklers hocking their goods in front of the shops. One of my friends decided to buy his girlfriend a ring, and I wanted to go to the movies, something about mercenaries in Africa. As a sales clerk droned on about the ring with my friend, I kept saying he could do this anytime which resulted in me getting dirty looks from the sales clerk. Parting ways with the ring buyer, I hooked up with some other people coming down the street. I found out later that my friend got stuck with the ring because his girlfriend dumped him. We left the bar crawl and landed at a casino. There we learned to play craps from a toothless old black man. As it got louder in the smoke filled room, a newfound friend instructed me in the nuances of throwing dice. Since I only made $123 a month I didn’t have much to invest in the endeavor. My attention was drawn to a slutty blonde girl in a long red dress who was waltzing my way. The crowd at the table shouted at me to throw the fucking dice and looking up, I saw the blonde walking away with a guy on her arm, toward the back door. My mind was racing as I tried to figure out a way of meeting up with her.

Thirty minutes later she breezed back in exactly as she had done previously. I was determined to be the one walking back out with her this time, and vowed that nothing was going to get in my way. As I walked over to her, she asked if I would like a date. I nodded and we walked out back arm in arm keeping one eye on the shadows for anyone that might wish to ambush me. However, thankfully we made it to her trailer unscathed. It was small and tidy at that point; the liquor was kicking in, and I cared about little at that point. Her red dress dropped to the floor showing off her nice body and perky breasts. She started to unzip my jeans and took my cock in her hand. It did not take long. I got hard just looking at her. Crawling up onto the bed she spread her legs apart and reached over to her nightstand. Dipping a hand into a jar of Vaseline, she slathered it generously between her legs all the while commenting that she had been fucking for hours. As she guided my cock deeper inside her pussy she made very little noise and was most likely stoned as well. Grinding on her clit, I pumped faster, as she reached down to grab my balls just as I was cumming. She was more experienced than the girls back in high school; that was for sure. Taking a towel, she wiped off, and we were back in the casino for another round at the tables. That would be my last time visiting the blonde in the red dress, but there would be many more like her in the not-too-distant future.

The winter was relentless. Day after day we marched in the snow and slush doing our basic training in the freezing climate of Missouri. We headed out for a bivouac in the field to practice everything that we had learned over the past seven weeks. The temperature hovered around 30°, with the current of air blustering through the hills and the scent of diesel as we rumbled through the forest to our campsites. In reality,it was just a few days of challenging living in pup tents with inexperienced campers. With over one-hundred nights on the ground from my Boy Scout days, I figured that it would be no problem. We moved through the various regiments of patrolling, combat tactics, and survival training, at the end of which, no worse for wear, we returned to our barracks. Spring arrived late that year, but the sun was out for our graduation from basic, as we moved on to our advanced training, AIT. As we spent our last night in the barracks, we finally befriended our Drill Sergeant. We walked into his room, which was decorated with playmate foldouts taped to the walls, and had a beer; both of which were illegal. Our Drill Sergeant had been in Vietnam as an MP and had gone through Tet in ‘68. Moving around the room (seven or eight of us were sitting on the floor), he asked each one of us where our AIT would take us. We gave answers such as armor, artillery, intelligence (which was an oxymoron), and so on. When it came to my turn, I was proud to say Airborne Infantry and everyone in the room stared at me. The Drill Sergeant took his hat and threw it at me yelling, What the fuck, Peewee? He began berating what he considered ‘my idiotic choice’ and told me I should be smarter than that. Do you know how fucked up it is there? That there is a good chance of not coming back? Rant over, everyone burst out laughing and we continued to get drunk and say our farewells.

Chapter Two

TIGERLAND

We received our orders the following day; next stop was Ft Polk, LA, the armpit of the world! Having a week to get to my duty station, and taking a flight out of Kansas City, I had already decided that I would check in with my folks back home. This was my first ever experience of flying in a jet. Of course, I had flown many times on smaller propelled aircraft, this though, was going to be an entirely new experience. I looked up a couple of my high school friends to see what they were doing; it turned out that most of them were a year ahead of me and had already graduated.

Steve was heading to college to be a dentist. Everyone else was trying to stay out of the War, except Fletch, who was delighted that he could legitimately join the Marines now. He had been furious when his dad had thwarted his first attempt to join up at the same time as I did. Leaving Kansas City for Shreveport, Louisiana I found myself in unfamiliar territory and in need of directions. Dressed in my class A uniform, I made my way to the Greyhound bus station with my orders, and purchased a ticket with a stipend for travel. Several hours later I arrived in the southwest part of Louisiana, close to Texas, and wound up in a bloody swamp called Leesville, Louisiana. From there I quickly sought out the USO and got directions to the bus that would take me to the Fort. I climbed on board with my duffel bag and all of my worldly possessions, ready for the next leg of my adventure. The bus rolled out of town, passing bars as we rolled out into the Louisiana countryside. The next thing I knew the bus had slammed on its brakes and skewed on the blacktop. It turned out that a Gator had derailed the bus.

It rained non-stop for hours before we pulled into the Fort and proceeded on through the central area and out the back. The deeper we went, the more jungle-like the terrain became, and it is for this reason that this was used for infantry training during the Vietnam War. We finally reached Tigerland and pulled into what looked like several Quonset huts and old WWII barracks.

The rain was now pounding off the top of the bus like rocks. Boarding the bus, the Sergeant ordered us all to report inside. The five of us huddled outside the edifice as he unlocked the door and ushered us inside. Drop your gear. As it turned out, they had not expected us until the following week. As time dwindled, we sat around a footlocker and started playing cards, listening to the rain pelting down. A couple of the sergeants that were processing us came over and began talking about their experience in Vietnam, setting the tone it would seem for the next twelve weeks. In that respect, we were wide-eyed, naive kids from all over the country, listening to tales from what we called ‘old guys,’ who themselves were just twenty-three or twenty-four years old. We were ordered to fall out and follow the Drill Sergeant, whom we nicknamed ‘Popeye,’ because of his short, stocky stature and square jaw, and heavily tattooed arms.

Sergeant Popeye informed us that we were early, but not to worry because he would put us to use. We marched off into the rain towards the mess. After chow, we assembled on the parade ground and got our first briefing and were assigned bunks in our new barracks. After drawing our gear and bedding from the quartermaster, we moved to our assigned area. We started making the beds, unloading our duffel bags in our lockers, and wondering what was next. As it turned out the first week was not too bad. We had the usual details; KP, fireguard, and associated policing activities, but we were able to go into town, Leesville a.k.a. Disease Ville.

Once in town, we worked our way to the USO to get our bearings and establish what was going on in the area. Next stop was the bars, and being only seventeen it was interesting that nobody asked for ID; something that would continue for the rest of my time in service.

The week went fast, by this point the rest of the company was arriving and we felt like old hands. The Commanding Officer addressed us on the parade ground, giving us the history of Ft. Polk and how General Patton ran training there for the North Africa invasion during WWII. We were in the same barracks that his troops used in WWII, with only a few modifications. Things settled into a routine as we embarked on our advanced infantry training that seemed like even more of the same. An eleven Charlie mortar unit was just next door to us. We were eleven Bravo, ground pounders or grunts. Looking back, we had the better end of the deal as we watched those guys lug those damned tubes and base plates around on their backs. The training was more intense than basic training and skewed towards jungle warfare. We marched with full combat gear for miles to the various ranges; rifle, machine gun, grenade, and gas. Now if you have never encountered tear gas, all that I can say is that it’s an experience you will never forget. CS was the designation by the Army for tear gas. But they didn’t take grenades of gas, like you see in the movies, and throw – it was far worse than that.

Our class received instruction on how to maintain and use the gas mask. Now for the fun part: We all shuffled into the room and were told to sit down and take off our masks. We didn’t see any gas clouds in the room, just some candles burning in the corner. How bad could this be? Allow me to tell you how fucking bad it was! In just a few seconds my eyes were burning, my throat was burning. Attempting to hold our breath, the Sargeant announced, with his mask on, Everybody sit tight and hold it all inward!

The exercise lasted maybe forty-five seconds until people started gagging and barfing. We all got the picture – it was time to evacuate! Twenty-five troops, and a standard sized door at the end of this long building. You can imagine what happened next; people clambered over each other, running, clogging the door and knocking it off the hinges. Once outside, we all rolled around on the ground, spitting up, cussing with all manner of disorganization! That was our gas class; an experience that has stayed with me forever.

The weather became hotter