“Despite the outcome, the Battle of the Little Big Horn distinguished the 7th Cavalry in setting a pattern for fighting men in courage and devotion to their country beyond the call of duty.”

—Pacific Stars and Stripes, 1970

25

Garry Owen

July 10–14, 1970

“Garryowen” is an old Irish quickstep, traced back to the early 1860s. The “garden of Owen” was a boisterous beer rendezvous in Limerick, where rowdy boys gathered to play, fight, and drink. Garryowen was sung as an Irish Regiment drinking song and was picked up by a 7th Cavalry trooper. General George Armstrong Custer heard the tune and started humming it in 1867. The tune became so common in the 7th Cavalry that it served as the regiment’s nickname, as well as its official song when words were added. “Garry Owen” was the last tune played for Custer’s men as they rode out from the Powder River to the Little Big Horn.

We know fear when stern duty
Calls us far from home,
Our country’s flag shall safely o’er us wave,

No matter where we roam.
“Tis the gallant 7th Cavalry
It matters not where we are going"
Such you’ll surely say as we march away;
And our band plays Garry Owen.

In the Fighting Seventh’s the place for me,
It’s the cream of all the Cavalry;
No other regiment can claim
Its pride, honor, glory and undying fame.

I walked into the division personnel office at Bien Hoa as if I owned it. A major handed me a stack of orders and walked to a map of Vietnam taped to the wall.

Pointing to the map, the major said, “The 1st of the 7th just pulled out of Cambodia.” He tapped a pin in the map near the Cambodian border. “They’re at Quan Loi now. Here it is.”

“How do I get there?” I asked.

“I’ll get you a ride to the airfield. Show them your orders and get on the manifest for the first thing flying to Quan Loi.”

“What’s my job?” I asked the question that wouldn’t go away.

“That’s up to the battalion commander. You’ll meet Colonel Labrozzi there.”

“When can I go?”

“Be here with your gear in an hour. I’ll arrange a jeep for you.”

That was it. By noon I was on a C-130 Hercules bound from Bien Hoa to Quan Loi.

We landed on a red clay airstrip covered with pierced steel planking, which didn’t stop red dust from swirling in the backdraft of the propellers. The rear ramp dropped, and everyone scrambled off with an urgency not seen at Bien Hoa. The C-130 turned around immediately and lifted off with troops who scrambled on as quickly as we disembarked. A blast of wind from the departing aircraft covered us with red dust so thick I had to cover my eyes and nose with my hands.

When the air cleared I sensed something was wrong. Looking around, I saw the fire base was nearly deserted. I walked into the operations shack to find out how to get to my unit.

“I’m here for the 1st of the 7th Cavalry,” I announced to the sergeant behind the counter made from artillery boxes.

“Well, you’re off to a lousy start, sir,” he replied.

“What do you mean by that, sergeant?”

“Who sent you here, sir?” he asked.

“G-1 in Bien Hoa. My orders are for the 1st of the 7th at Quan Loi. Where are they?”

“Well, if you came in on that C-130 a few minutes ago, the last of your unit got on it headed for Phouc Vinh.”

“Phouc Vinh? I guess I need to catch up with them. You have anything else going that way?” I didn’t know where Phouc Vinh was, and I was angry at G-1 for sending me to the wrong place, wasting time. I was also pissed at the sergeant for making cracks about my plight.

“You’re in luck, I guess. See that C-7 coming in?” He nodded towards a Caribou on short final. “He’ll take off soon as he lands—heading for Phouc Vinh. He’s carrying ARVN, though. When you get there just go to flight ops. They’ll call your unit.”

“Do I need to put my name on the manifest?” I asked.

“Shit no, sir. You’re in the zone now. We don’t do Mickey Mouse.”

I grabbed my gear and hurried out to where the Caribou was turning around. When the ramp dropped a mob of Vietnamese soldiers clambered aboard, grabbing the available seats. Some had live chickens and vegetables lashed to the outside of their rucksacks, reminding me of countless rice-and-duck meals in the Mekong Delta. I was last on, and all the seats were filled. I noticed I was also the only American except for the pilots and crew chief. I didn’t mind that but I was concerned about my destination. I didn’t want to fly all over scenic Vietnam, just get to my outfit as soon as possible. I settled on the floor near the back ramp.

The pilot spoke over the intercom. “We’ll take off for Phouc Vinh in one minute. If you’re not going there, get off now. If you are, hang on. We’re taking off fast!”

I was relieved to have confirmed that we were actually going to Phouc Vinh. I hoped my unit was really there, after all.

The C-7 has a narrow body and large wings and tail. It is not very fast, but it can take off in a steep climb. It was apparent that was what the pilot intended as the engines revved and he pushed the C-7 down the runway at top speed. He raised the rear ramp as he made a near-vertical takeoff. Everything not strapped in or hung on came flying or sliding past me to rest on the bottom section of the ramp. I clung to a loose cargo strap to avoid sliding into the random pile.

The ground directly below was visible through the open top clamshell as the nose of the plane pointed up. Finally, the pilot leveled off, but a high-pitched whine from the engines penetrated my ears. I found C-ration toilet paper in my pocket, rolled it up, and stuck it in my ears as a buffer; that took care of the noise.

In an act of kindness, the crew chief left the top half of the clamshell ramp open. It was hot inside, and the Vietnamese emitted a pungent odor, having been out in the field for an extended period. It was the familiar smell from my past that reminded me where I had been and where I was headed now.

We landed at Phouc Vinh at 3:00 P.M. A clerk in the operations shack cranked a field phone to call the battalion for me. After he talked into the phone a moment he informed me, “Someone will come for you. Don’t go anywhere.” A jeep arrived soon and the driver threw my bag into the back while I settled in front for the short ride.

The normal disarray of a unit just arriving covered the camp. Tin shacks and sandbag bunkers were permanent, but the people were temporary, and these troopers obviously had just arrived. We stopped in front of one of the shacks. A hand-painted wooden sign reading “S-1" was nailed over the door. An officer walked out to meet me.

“Come in out of the sun, Captain,” he said. “Got a copy of your orders?”

“Yep.” I yanked a copy off the top of a stack.

“I need five copies. I guess personnel sent you to Quan Loi?”

I counted off four more sheets of paper. “Yeah. I’m glad I finally caught up with you.”

“Want a beer?” he asked. “The water’s no good.”

I selected a Budweiser from the ice chest. “Bud saved my butt at the Seminary; it might work here,” I thought aloud. The personnel officer didn’t seem interested, and I didn’t much want to explain it anyway.

“We just came out of Cambodia,” he briefed me. “Took lots of casualties over there. We have a new battalion commander. What do you want to do?”

“Command a rifle company.”

“You and everybody else. You’ll have to wait a while. Several companies will change commanders in a few months, but most of them are new after the other guys got shot up in Cambodia. How about Headquarters Company?”

The mention of Headquarters Company sent chills down my back, despite the heat. “I don’t want headquarters; I want a rifle company. I’d take it if that’s the only way to get a line company, but you know how it goes. Sometimes you get stuck and can’t get out. Or somebody says, ‘You’ve already had a command, you can’t have another.’ Bummer!”

“I’ll tell the old man. He makes the decisions on officers, but I know he’s thinking headquarters. When we leave Phouc Vinh, the headquarters commandant will build the new fire base. So you’d be out at the fire base, at least. It’s an important job. You’d be close to the action and could prove yourself to the old man.”

“Well, I want to discuss it with him first,” I replied, disappointed.

A runner burst into the shack, shouting to the S-1, “Fight in the street! Might want to get down there.”

“Come with me,” the S-1 called. “Bring your stuff, and we’ll look for a place for you to bunk after we see what’s going on.”

I felt like an orphan, carrying my canvas zipper-bag and folder of orders in a combat zone. We approached a gaggle of men surrounding two people—one black, one white—who were shouting at each other. Neither was wearing a shirt, so I couldn’t identify either by name or rank. I couldn’t make out what they were yelling either, but it was ugly. It quickly grew worse.

The black soldier swung and landed an uppercut on the chin of the white man. The tall white guy fell backward and landed flat on his back in a cloud of dust outside the throng. That started a rumble between other blacks and whites. The fight ended quickly when the black man grabbed an M16 rifle and sprinted to a sandbagged bunker, where he fired several shots in the air. Everyone froze in his tracks. Military police screeched to a halt in their gun jeeps, mounted machine guns loaded and ready. A standoff followed: several hours of negotiation were to be required to dislodge the armed black soldier from the bunker. We didn’t wait for it.

The S-1 had a few private words with the white officer who had been flattened by the blow. I couldn’t hear their discussion. Following the excitement the S-1 and I resumed our stroll among the shacks, looking for an empty bed in officer country.

“What was that all about?” I asked.

We ducked inside a shack with a tin roof and sandbags stacked along the sides. He indicated a bunk with a dingy, rolled-up mattress.

“You can bunk here,” he told me. “Get a clean sheet and pillowcase from supply. You can get all your field gear there, too. Just give the supply sergeant a copy of your orders.” I dropped my heavy load on the bedsprings, reserving my spot.

The S-1 continued: “I don’t know what started the fracas outside, but we’ve had racial troubles since we left Cambodia. Tempers are high; everyone’s on edge. They’re okay in the field, but as soon as they get to the fire base and start jiving and drinking and smoking pot—that spells trouble."

“What’ll happen to the black soldier?” I asked.

“Labrozzi will decide, maybe court martial, article 15 … depends.”

“Who was the white guy?”

“Bravo Company commander,” he said, watching for a reaction from me. “Still ready for this shit?”

I attended the evening briefing in the tactical operations center and learned the battalion had been pulled from the field to reorganize, receive replacements, and serve as “palace guard” at the division’s forward headquarters. The base, near the village of Phouc Vinh, was named Camp Gorvad after a battalion commander, Lieut. Col. Peter Gorvad, killed in action. Comforting thought. The camp stood like a massive roadblock protecting Saigon from the Cambodian “fish hook” border. On a map, the fish hook appeared to be trying to puncture the old rubber plantations and defoliated forests north of Saigon, piercing toward the heart of the III Corps Tactical Zone.

The battalion evening briefing prepared the battalion commander for the base commander’s briefing. Lieutenant Colonel Labrozzi was a veteran several times over and wore the patch of the 187th Regimental Combat Team from Korea on his right shoulder. He was more seasoned than I expected, was lean and fit, and had a high energy level. He also had a sharp tongue and a temper to match. I found out that Anthony Labrozzi was known as “Mad Anthony” or the “Mad Italian, " but never to his face. I suspected he was aware of the nicknames and was determined to live up to them. Mad Anthony chaired the battalion briefing—and he was mad as hell! Everyone who delivered a brief received a bite of his temper in return. I learned some colorful new words at the evening briefing, strong enough to make a new cavalryman blush.

By 9:00 P.M. the earlier disturbance had escalated into a battle within the fire base. Grenades and rifle fire were exchanged inside the perimeter by factions of Bravo Company, maybe others. Most of the attacks seemed directed at the company headquarters.

I hung around the battalion operations center after the briefing. I didn’t relish walking into the fray, and I wanted to understand what the palace guard’s mission was. By staying, I also hoped to find an opportunity to discuss my future with the commander. I didn’t have to wait long. Labrozzi stamped in and grabbed my arm.

“Come into my office. I’m investigating this incident and I want you as a witness,” he said, dashing any hopes that we could sit and discuss my career plans.

I stood against the wall while he interviewed numerous soldiers, black and white, on both sides of the fight. He talked and listened to them as individuals and in small groups. Sometimes he listened quietly, and sometimes he shouted and cursed. Occasionally he appeared to lose his sanity, but I suspected that Mad Anthony knew exactly what he was doing all the time. He skillfully mixed temper with pretense to achieve the effects he wanted. He was masterful as he investigated from every angle with remarkable stamina until 1:00 A.M. And he kept his patience. I wondered how I would hold up under his unrelenting pressure.

When everyone had departed he turned his cold gray eyes on me. First silence, then a question: “Do you know what happened here?”

“I don’t understand all the issues involved, but I do know what happened.”

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I want a line company.”

“You’re getting headquarters. Get some sleep. I’ll tell you what I want you to do later.”

The interview was over. I was disappointed. I stumbled around in the dark for an hour until I finally found the bed with my gear on it. I was thirsty and drank a couple of warm beers; then, using a flashlight for illumination, I wrote Sandy about how discouraged I was. I was upset over the Headquarters Company assignment, but the ruckus I had witnessed bothered me more: I suspected the fight was a symptom of deeper problems. I realized this was not the same war I fought in 1967 and 1968.

That was when I started my journal as well. When I drew my field gear at supply, I had asked for something to write in, a notebook. The supply sergeant handed me a green ledger from a shelf. It was larger than I wanted, but it seemed large enough to keep notes for a year at least. After I wrote home, I started to catch up on what had happened over the last week and ended with my thoughts that night. My letters and musings often became intertwined, like woven thatch on the side of an Asian hut.

Bob Powell had related something to me at Bien Hoa that I remembered. “This war is a lost cause,” he said. “My goal is to be aggressive, but not to let anyone get killed.” That remark from the finest soldier I knew had been disconcerting when he said it, but now I understood his meaning. Loneliness fell over me. I missed Sandy, and I wanted her to hold me in her arms and tell me everything was all right.

As I understood Labrozzi’s plan, on July 12 I would assume command of Headquarters Company, the home to the cooks, clerks, and staff, the “ash and trash” of the battalion. The “fun” part would be building a fire base under the constant vigilance of The Mad Italian. The only ray of sunshine was that if I succeeded, and didn’t kill Labrozzi or myself in the interim, I would be in line for Delta Company in two months. That was the gospel according to the S-1. (I knew he wouldn’t deliberately lie—but sometimes the truth changed.) I didn’t know how soon change would come.

I arose early on July 12, prepared to take my bitter pill of Headquarters Company command. When I walked onto the stage the script had been rewritten according to the author, Mad Anthony.

We didn’t rehearse the change of command ceremony. Labrozzi said, “If you’ve been in the army more than a day, you don’t need to practice this!”

I saw the line of troopers on the red clay of the company street. Labrozzi recited three sentences and the first sergeant handed him a company guidon. I noticed that the departing company commander was missing. Labrozzi placed the guidon in my hands.

I stared in disbelief at what I saw. The red and white cavalry guidon read “B-1-7.” It was the guidon for Bravo, not Headquarters Company. I was thrilled and confused at the same time; I had not been forewarned of any changes. I only spoke four sentences because I was nearly speechless. I was also afraid if I said too much, Labrozzi might realize he had given me the wrong company.

“I’m proud to have the opportunity to soldier with such a fine unit and join you in accomplishing our assigned missions. I look forward to meeting each of you in the next few days. All company policies and practices remain in effect until further notice! First Sergeant, dismiss the company!”

After the ceremony, Labrozzi shook my hand formally and said, “Complete your inventory and be ready to go to the field in three days.” Then he marched off. That was all the information I needed to take action, but I still had a few questions.

I located the S-1, standing nearby. “What just happened here?” I asked.

“He changed his mind this morning, after his investigation. He reassigned the Bravo Company commander and gave the company to you. Hope you can keep it!”

The people in Bravo Company, especially the first sergeant, impressed me from the beginning. First Sergeant Francisco Royas was a soft-spoken Hawaiian who could do anything—superman in my book! Paramount was the morale of the company. We started the company inventory immediately, and it was so well organized that we finished most of it the first day.

The executive officer (XO) was 1st Lt. Tom Consedine, experienced both as a platoon leader and XO. He would quietly do whatever was necessary to meet the needs of the unit. I was pleased with my first impressions of all the staff—clerks, armorer, supply. I believed that if I gave responsible orders and won the men’s acceptance and respect, we would be fine. The past was the past; the future began that day.

Each evening I was ordered to send several squads outside the perimeter on night security patrols. We planned and made preparations to conduct an air assault while simultaneously conducting security patrols around the base camp. I sat under the dim lightbulb powered by the camp generator and wrote in a letter:

“I am really thrilled to have command of a company of the line, but I can also feel the awesome responsibility for the lives and safety of these men settling on my shoulders.”

Activity normally started at 6:00 A.M. and continued all day until midnight. There was no time to reflect. Planning was done on the run; every minute was filled with activity. This was Labrozzi’s style and this was the tempo of the battalion. This was the real cavalry, by God!

I completed the equipment inventory and met the troops over the next couple of days, reported the results to Labrozzi, and received the warning order to conduct an operation fifteen kilometers southeast of Camp Gorvad.

The combat assault would be in a wooded area across the Song Be River and along a district boundary. We didn’t expect to find anything that close to the base, but one never knew about these things. This would be Bravo’s first company-size operation since leaving Quan Loi. The company had a barbeque in the afternoon and watched a movie in a driving monsoon rain. No one minded getting wet, but the rain fell with such force that no one could hear the sound of the movie, and the screen could hardly be seen through the downpour. Yet the men sat there watching the movie anyway, and having a great time with water running down their noses.

The next morning, we had chapel services and another unrehearsed company formation in the muddy street to present Combat Infantry Badges to fourteen veterans of the Cambodia operation. Again I wrote home: “At that moment, I was especially glad to have the CIB already on my chest and a combat patch on my right shoulder. I’m gaining confidence, and I hope the soldiers will soon have confidence in me. I still feel I’m on probation. At least I have time to prove myself to them.”

I would take these seasoned veterans into the field for the first time the next day. This was important, no matter what happened. I had to prove myself to them, and I would take a measure of their skills at the same time. I knew this would be a test that I couldn’t afford to fail.