Only the best, the U.S. Army says, are considered for recruiting duty, and from those, fewer still are chosen. But I was selected anyway.
We departed Germany a year early for my new assignment in the States. Children still cried on the plane, including our own, but the trip home was better than our flight over, two years ago.
Awaiting me at Newark was a brand new 1972 Gremlin X V-8 that I ordered in Germany through a special overseas program and paid the $2,400 price in cash. Laugh at your peril.
It was modified by Randall Motors, authorized by the factory, and pumping out about 250 h.p. It weighed just 2,600lbs, had a Chrysler® sourced torque flight three-speed automatic, 4.10 gears, and HD suspension. The black sleeper had reasonable insurance rates, and it was the only V-8 available in that price range. It ran a 13.9 sec. quarter-mile, as fast any production car in 1972 including a base Corvette®, and slightly quicker than a 1972 Trans Am™ 455. I surprised a lot of people at stoplights in small Carolina towns and on country roads.
Dear valued reader: If you had rather not hear the details of my struggles with diarrhea and all the unpleasantries that came with it, including incontinence, problems at work and at home, surgeries and the like; I understand and ask that you skip to next Chapter: "Kansas City Here We Come" I will discuss the problems I had with my colon in future chapters because it was a big part of my life, but try not to dwell on it.
Once again I found myself at Ft. Benjamin Harrison, this time to attended Recruiting School. About four weeks into the eight-week course, I began having frequent stools, diarrhea.
That is symptomatic of what one might get when arriving overseas, usually not upon returning, as I just had from Germany. I always tried to be near a bathroom, and there were a couple of times I didn’t make it. That was a real confidence-builder, while in a demanding course, especially when giving a presentation. I toughed it out and graduated on time. This is surely a temporary thing.
We make Guarantees not Promises, Robeson Co. U. S. Army recruiters.
I was a recruiter in Lumberton, North Carolina, where we bought our first house. It was a pleasant town of about 17,000 in Southeastern North Carolina located on I-95, the halfway point between NYC and Florida. We were just 80 miles from Marty’s parents, her older married sister, and a younger brother.
My recruiting partner in our Lumberton station was a Staff Sergeant just as I was, but outranked me by his earlier date of promotion. That wasn’t an issue until my health deteriorated.
We were a successful team. He was from the area and had been in the Army Reserve before becoming a recruiter and knew the best places for Barbecue — argued by many as best in the country. As for my recruiting style, there was never any pressure, and that seemed to put the potential recruits at ease.
We always met our quotas, and we received commendations for our performance. After a few months on the job, the diarrhea and cramps that I experienced in Indianapolis not only returned, but worsened.
I went to the doctors at Ft. Bragg, North Carolina (about an hour from Lumberton). After describing my symptoms, the doctor said my diarrhea was probably a result of the pressure of being an Army Recruiter. And how was my marriage? Are things OK with you and your children?
He scoped my rectum and sent me on my way with four Atropine™ (anti-diarrheal drug). The medication helped as long as it lasted, like two days, and my symptoms continued unabated. Unabated as in about six semi-liquid stools per day.
Naturally, trying to work while the symptoms persisted was difficult. Playing a role as father to the twins, who were sweet and loving, and husband to Marty, who was stressed, was difficult and at times, impossible. She continued to see a psychiatrist, as she did in Germany.
After several weeks with no improvement, my recruiting partner and our supervisors in Raleigh were not understanding. How could someone have third-world type dysentery, here in the United States, to the point they couldn’t work full-time? They had never heard of such a thing. I wasn’t surprised; seems the doctor’s had never heard of such a thing either. Fatigued, with bloody stools and a bleeding rectum, I returned to see the doctor. I had a perianal abscess.
A Proctoscopy exam using a rigid 10-inch steel scope through my raw and inflamed rectum was ridiculously painful. The results were normal but consistent with someone who had been in the throes of diarrhea, i.e. inflammation and blood. I considered not complaining to avoid those procedures. The doctor prescribed six Atropine, antibiotics, and suggested sitz baths three times a day. The frequent stools continued.
I wondered what would be happening had I been in the Environmental Science and Engineering program at Texas A & M, (last chapter) instead of recruiting, and having the same symptoms. The Army might be thinking this guy just couldn’t cut it, wasn’t officer material. That might have been worse than my present dilemma. But I digress.
Within a month, I had a fissure and fistula of the rectum, which required surgical repair. Incidentally, while at Womack Army Hospital in Ft. Bragg for the surgery, the main architect and loser of the Vietnam War, LBJ, died. An irreverent patient, making a joke about what LBJ may have done with farm animals in Texas, had me chuckling. A good laugh is not wise when you’ve just had rectal surgery.
My coworker and officers from the Raleigh station came by for a jovial visit. OK, you’ve had surgery, now get off your ass and get back to work full-time, was their expectation.
No, perianal surgery does not cure dysentery. I was released without any Atropine, “Get that from your GI doctor, we’re the surgeons,” they reminded me. Once I started eating again and returning to work, the frequent semi-liquid bloody stools continued, as did the abdominal cramps, incontinence, and dehydration. Since arriving from Germany, seven months ago, I had lost 35lbs!
I’ve heard of and read about patients who were very ill, some with terminal conditions, whose relatives said they never once complained. My theory: If you’re not complaining — you must be too sick to, or not miserable enough.
Unbelievably the doctors and my supervisors still assumed the pressures of recruiting, and the quotas therein were causing my diarrhea. The doctor reminded me that my proctoscopy examination was normal (except for “non-specific inflammation”). Oh, and how was my relationship with my wife? Now not so great, she’s not causing the diarrhea, she’s frustrated because I have it. And you’re doing little to help.
Finally, the doctors decided to give me a refillable prescription of Atropine and some rest: “No Field Recruiting Duties until further notice.” I did better having my medication in ample supply and recognition, at least, by one doctor that I needed a break.
Off-duty from recruiting didn’t mean I was just going to sit home on my painful butt. WTSB in Lumberton knew that I’d been a DJ and asked me to do an on-air shift at their station, and I happily complied. A few weeks later, I got a call from a competing station, WFMO in nearby Fairmont, and they talked me into working for them.
I didn’t feel guilty about doing a four-hour shift in radio and leaving my recruiting partner in a bind. I had already signed up several people for the Delayed Entry Program that met my quota for two months after the doctor took me off recruiting duty.
Working as a DJ, I didn’t consider a job anyway, certainly not compared to 10-hour day recruiting. Plus, I was producing and airing Army Recruiting Public Service Ads and receiving “trade-out” certificates, instead of cash for my radio gig.
For a few weeks, with restrooms nearby, I was playing Big Bad Leroy Brown by Jim Croce, We’re An America Band by Grand Funk Railroad, Kodachrome by Paul Simon, Give Me Love (Give Me Peace On Earth) by George Harrison and occasionally some oldies from Elvis.
I happened to be on-air the joyous day our POWs were released from North Vietnam.
A couple of months after the doctors gave the order that relieved me from recruiting, I was given a PCS for the Army Hometown News Center in Kansas City, Missouri.
We had been in Lumberton for just 18 months. Fortunately, we had no problem selling our house and even realized a small profit. As for Marty leaving her relatives; being close to them wasn’t as good as she had imagined.
After our household goods were picked up, we packed up the twins and all the other stuff we could fit into the little Gremlin and eased out of the driveway one last time.
Marty had liked Lumberton,* and I had enjoyed recruiting — both were now in our rearview mirror.
* 2019 update: Fox8 TV in High Point, N.C. reported Lumberton to be the worst place to live in the state, based on high crime, high unemployment, and low wages. USA Today reported similar findings about Lumberton, N.C.