My Military Years: A True Story

By David William Feeney

Set during the Vietnam War, 1969-1971, this is the story of a conscientious objector draftee who deserted the US Army and, after a chase and ultimatum by the FBI, returned to duty. With pending orders for Vietnam, as an infantryman, when the army found out that David Feeney could type, they took away his rifle and gave him a typewriter. And with that new weapon, Private Feeney worked the "pen is mightier than the sword" adage to the benefit of himself and others, regularly breaking military law.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jan 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781312829794

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My Military Years: A True Story

My Military Years: A True Story

David William Feeney

Copyright © 1991, David William Feeney

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-312-82979-4

Foreword

What type of life would I have had without that visit from the man in the wide-brimmed hat?  That question, one that I have asked myself frequently during my lifetime, can never be answered.

When I was five-years-old, a visit to our home by a stranger started me thinking about life and my place in the world.  The man, impeccably dressed, never sat down or even removed his long woolen coat or took off his wide-brimmed hat.  I know that he was not a Mormon or a Jehovah’s Witness because my father regularly slammed the door in those peoples’ faces.  Only my parents and I met him.  My parents appeared captivated by the man’s likability and by his conversation.  I remember him saying that he was twenty-five-years-old and wondering what I would be like when I reached twenty five.  Will I be fat?  skinny?  Will I even live that long?  And my superlative curiosity – Will I like myself?  Why, at that early age, did I think so deeply and profoundly while the stranger was there?  I even thought about small particulars, like how old I would be when I could see the top of the refrigerator.  (twelve)

When the man left the house, Mom and Dad just stood there, spellbound, watching him.  My father, a serious man unimpressed with anyone’s special abilities or talents, including good conversational skills, turned around with a look on his face that I had never seen before and would never see again.  Mom also had a different look about her; and she commented, and Dad agreed, that the stranger was a nice man.  And I, for some strange reason, decided to objectively observe this life and this planet that I had inherited, through no choice of my own, and to be truthful, particularly in judging myself as I judge others.  I was determined to have a full and adventurous life – and I have.  I have traveled the world and seen marvelous sites and animals still unknown and unnamed by science.  (Black parrots in the Colombian Andes, for example.  They are in no reference books.)  I have lived and worked in twelve countries on four continents and Central America, teaching and doing my passion – humanitarian work.  Living and moving around in perilous places the way I do, danger is always just one step behind; and I have had many narrow escapes; particularly when spying on American corporate activities abroad; which I did often.

The visit by the stranger occurred in the Roosevelt housing projects in St. Paul, Minnesota.  We were poor.  Born homeless in Boston, Massachusetts, by the time I was two-years-old we had lived in four cities in three states, going from the East Coast to the Midwest.  But, I wouldn’t have had it any other way – not for all of the money in the world.  My life as a poor kid had richness leaps and bounds greater than any privileged child could ever fathom.  I explored my world and had a wonderful time doing so.  I had to be creative and imaginative, which worked my mind and made me smarter.  I had popularity and friends galore.  And, I was safe.  Our parents loved us.  Although we suffered through hunger and cold, we always had a roof over our heads and lived in upright neighborhoods with neighbors who cared. People gave us food.  The local bakery, where my older sister worked after school, closed for the weekend on Friday evenings and gave us all of their leftover donuts.  For five days, we had donuts for breakfast, donuts for lunch, and donuts for supper.  And, each day that passed, they got drier and harder.  I haven’t eaten a donut in decades. 

My earliest heroes were Robin Hood (Errol Flynn), Zorro (Tyrone Power), and the real life Doctor Thomas Dooley.  I sincerely hope that I model the latter in deed and the other two in character as a champion of the oppressed.  My years of work with the poor in Colombia, Mexico, and Guatemala, have been the most fulfilling and rewarding years of my life.  I am presently writing this foreword in Guatemala City, Guatemala, where I go to the most dangerous parts of the city, at night, to help feed the people who live inside the city garbage dump.  I saved my mother’s life twice, Ray the Beekeeper’s life, and a Boston police officer’s life, and performed good deeds.  I worked two and three jobs at a time to support myself and get an education and escape lower class economics.  And, through hard work, I excelled in sports and music and did well academically.  So, if I happened to meet the stranger in the wide-brimmed hat today, I would tell him that, thus far, I am quite pleased with the way things turned out.  And then I’d ask him who he is.

CHAPTER ONE

In November 1967 Paul Reid came home from Vietnam.

From 1965 to 1968 the United States military pummeled North Vietnam with over one-million tons of bombs, United States Air Force Chief of Staff Curtis Le May promising, we’re going to bomb them back into the Stone Age.  Realizing the staggering dollar loss of their nonsuccess in that endeavor, the Washington brass turned for help to the age-old tactic of besieging and overrunning an enemy with flesh and bone:  the 1968 one-hundred-thousand man draft.  I received my greeting(s) from the president in November.

Paul was a friend.

8 October, 1959: The Feeneys move from St. Paul, Minnesota, to Boston, Massachusetts.  I was twelve years old.  Dougie and Buzzy stayed behind.  On our way to the airport it started snowing.  Mom, Dad, and their eight children would never again be ten together.

25 February, 1969:  In the middle of a record breaking snowstorm, I and eighteen others left Boston for Fort Jackson, South Carolina. The train made a stop in Washington D.C.  We wandered and felt proud.  I thought of my Uncle Eddy.

Company E, 6th Battalion, 2nd Combat Brigade; eight weeks of what we all knew basic training would be like - we had seen it in the movies.  They simply replaced Jack Webb with someone named Eubanks and added the best curse words a depleted human mind could formulate.  In a number of ways, though, I benefitted from basic training.  It strengthened my endurance and perseverance, and it gave me a personal lifelong motto to live by: 

Deprivation is the Key to Appreciation.  Sometimes nothing is better than something.

I made friends quickly in the new neighborhood and at my new school; and I liked being with them.  But I also enjoyed just being alone – always have.  I got myself a Boston Globe paper route and joined St. Theresa’s Band.  Nixon and Kennedy were running for president. 

One day in 1982, like every day, I donned my running gear and headed for the back door.  A sudden thought of a friend of mine who had been away injured for nine months came and I decided to call him.  His sciatica had healed, so we met up for a workout.

I had been having the darnedest time searching for an affordable apartment, and I mentioned this to my friend.  Rick is moving out of his place in Dedham, he said.  I called Rick.

I lived and loved in that apartment for five years; that fleeting moment of thought and a phone call affecting a memorable five-year span of my life. It had happened before and it has happened since and it will happen again:  a chance meeting, a flat tire, a generous act, or some other unexpected occurrence changing the course of a day, a month, even years.  It is called fate; that unforeseen bearer of change.  One moment you are heading somewhere, the next moment you are not.

Say what?

Let’s not go, said Rocco, referring to our basic training graduation day festivities.

We’ll get Article 15’s, I said.

Rocco laughed. Dave, come on; the whole brigade’s gonna’ be there - on that huge parade ground.  Wha’ d’ya think, the general’s gonna get up onto the podium and yell ‘Abbott!’, and some guy is gonna scream back ‘Arthur A., present, sir!’ all the way to Zimmerman?

So, we hid upstairs and watched through a window as the others hopped onto army transport trucks and drove off to graduate.  When we were sure that they were all gone, we ventured out and around the transitory ghost towns of the other companies, boldly entering some of the headquarters offices and pawing through drawers and filing cabinets and putting our feet up on their desks just because we could.  We ended up at the post library.  Rocco opted for the music room; I preferred to read.

Paul had lots of friends, too.  I often saw him by himself.

Browsing around, I noticed military regulations books collecting dust on some bottom shelves.  What are those? I wondered.  Maybe there’s stuff in there I should know?  Curiosity slid one of those books off of the shelf:  The Uniform Code of Military Justice (UCMJ). This, for me, would turn out to be a fortuitous find.  Intuition fingered the indexes of a couple of them, and I found what I wanted; a section on AWOL, or absent without official leave, followed by another on desertion.  Minus the Pentagonese, the standard operating procedure mandated that an enlisted man (EM) absent without official leave for more than thirty days be dropped from the rolls of his present organization and classified a deserter.  Once apprehended, the man was to be secured at the nearest military facility for transfer to the nearest fort.  It went on further to explain that the EM would be held at that fort throughout the processes of court martial, sentencing and incarceration, and repatriation.  I thought, Could it really be that simple?  Run and hide for thirty days, and no more Jackson?  There had to be a catch; or everyone would be jumping the fences and turning themselves in at forts nearer to their homes. New Englanders could turn themselves in at Fort Dix or at Fort Monmouth, both in New Jersey.  Weekends in New York City!  There was a fort in Massachusetts, Fort Devens.  There had to be a catch.

And, I was adventuresome: A lone eight-year-old boy – a climber, a crawler, a shorty spelunker - walking to the Mississippi River to play along its banks.

Half an hour later, the low rumble of large vehicles on the move caught my attention, and I looked out of the library window to see transport trucks moving toward the brigade area.  Graduation ceremonies had ended.  I knudged Rocco, and we hustled back to E-6-2 just as the others were getting off of the trucks.  One of the drill sergeants called a formation, and the company clerk began calling names and handing out advanced training orders. We were tense.

Wide smiles and sighs of deliverance pointed out the men who received orders for training in a support role.  Doom and gloom on the faces of the guts ‘n’ glory guys.  AIT FJSC RVN TRNG read mine:  Advanced Infantry Training, Fort Jackson, SC; Republic of Vietnam Training.  And, all grunt (infantry) reporting dates were for that same day!  The reporting dates for the men who received non-combat orders ranged from seven to fourteen days forward.  They were going home on leave (furlough).

We had barely read the orders when a canvas covered troop transport truck arrived like the wind and came to a screeching halt in front of us.  The driver and one ill-tempered drill sergeant jumped out.  The driver called off the names of the advanced infantry men, all together seven of us, and we lined up. The drill sergeant roared, You’re already late!  You got two minutes to grab your gear and get your asses back here!  He glanced at his watch and roared again, I want to see the last man!

Next stop:  D-11-3.  I looked at the sad faces of the other men.  The blood had drained from them.  The first few minutes of the ride no one spoke.  Mike Russo, seated beside me, looked at me and said, Dave, this is the worst thing.  Out of the original Boston nineteen, only three – Feeney, Sweeney, and Russo – received advanced infantry training orders.

Everyone’s laugh for the day regarded Rocco’s orders:  Medic.  They’re going to give dope, needles, and syringes to an ex-junkie! he said.  At the induction physical I showed them my arms, and I wrote ‘yes’ on those forms that asked about drugs.  They just kept moving me along, like, ‘That’s ok; you’ll get over it.’  When we had had our blood taken in Reception Station, they came up dry on Rocco.  Phlebotomist after phlebotomist failed; and each time they failed, Rocco begged them to allow him to do it, telling them, I know where to go. Finally, when he screamed You’re hurting me! they relented, and handed him the needles and tubes and let him go for it.  He filled the tubes on his first try. I can see it now, he said, still joking about his assignment, someone will get hit and ask for morphine, and I won’t have any!

Paul took to adventure just as much as I, maybe more.  Was that you who derailed the train? I once asked him.  He laughed and said that some other kids named Reid did it. 

What was I thinking, I said. 

What do you mean? asked Mike.

Thirteen out of fifteen, I reminded him. 

Maybe they’ll make you a sniper.

Are you kidding?  Mike, I can’t kill anyone!  It’s one thing to take pride in the fact that you’re a good shot - at a target dummy.  It’s a whole other thing to shoot a person and take that life off of the planet - forever.  I gotta’ get out of here – tonight! 

You mean it, Dave?  I nodded.  Then, I’m going with you!

When we test fired for marksmanship badges, I tied the post three-hundred-meter record, hitting thirteen out of fifteen targets dead center.  The following day, we stopped firing for a few minutes so that some colonel could walk the firing line and present me with a medal.   Mike’s sniper comment started me thinking:  So far, I had learned that there was nothing profound in army logic regarding what to do with the draftees.  If you could shoot well, you were infantry.  Mike’s sniper remark may have been more of a prophecy.

I laid out our escape plan during supper chow:  Most of the men would be asleep within an hour after lights out at 9:00 p.m.  We would put our khaki dress uniforms and some personal items into laundry bags and wait until 10:00 p.m. to make our move to the latrines.  I would go first.  Mike was to wait five minutes and then do the same.  Using the pay phones in the latrine, we would call a taxi, change into our uniforms, and head out the side door to the taxi stand.  Taxi – airport - home.

Bobby Hartley came home.  His box was a different color than Paul’s.  The flag looked the same.

9:00 p.m., lights out.  9:05 p.m., scheme demolished.  Having lost large numbers of draftees in the same manner, the army posted night watches at all of the doorways.  There would be no escape.

Because I shot thirteen hearts, could walk left-right and count into the triple digits, I made squad leader, a one grade promotion.  Up at 4:20 a.m. now, a five-minute breakfast, and off to roll around in the dirt firing machine guns, bazookas and mortars, and lobbing hand grenades.  The harassment never ceased:  You think it’s bad now? our drill sergeant would yowl. Wait’ll the fifth week!

Every Friday, by 5:01 p.m., most of the training cadre got out of there as fast as they could; a skeleton crew in place for weekend duty.  So, at the end of the second week, I convinced new friend Jack Pappas to join me in sneaking off post and going downtown to check out the happenings in Columbia.  We donned our dress khakis, slipped out a side door, and found a taxi waiting at the stand.

So, it was no strange coincidence, then, that Paul and I would find ourselves in each other’s company one snowy night in early December.  Some kid I hadn’t met before, some new kid, said, Hey, you’re the new kid.  You’re from Montana or Minnesota or something.  I heard about you.  Hi, I’m Paul Reid.  You probably heard about me. 

Downtown Columbia, and every which way we walked a never-ending wave of khaki.  Prostitute Paradise.  We rounded a corner and stumbled upon two military policemen, MP’s, stopping troopers and asking to see their passes.  We decided to be cool and casually walk by. 

I guess we weren’t cool enough; because, as we casually passed them, the MP’s casually asked for our passes.  Passes? we said.  Jack tried to reason with them, saying that we didn’t know any better and that we’d go straight back to the fort and never do it again if they would give us a break and let us go.  They seemed like nice guys.

Jack be nimble, we were handcuffed and on our way back to the fort in the back of a military police wagon.  At Monday morning’s formation we were issued Article 15’s, removing our stripes and meting out two weeks of extra duty.

Growing up, my favorite actors were Errol Flynn and Humphrey Bogart.  I saw a lot of brownstones in the movies and on television in those days:  Abbott and Costello meeting someone; The Little Rascals; The Dead-End Kids.  There were no brownstones in Minnesota.  Brownstones, to me, represented a mythical place in another dimension of similar but different people.  I hoped that someday I might visit those brownstone places.

Our punishment consisted of cleaning the administration offices after supper, usually until shortly after 11 p.m.  Returning to the barracks one night, I mentioned to Jack that I hadn’t seen the company of men who bunked on the floor below ours in a while.  They’re a couple of weeks ahead of us, he said.  "They must be