“South Vietnam’s war will go on for years. That’s the outlook now, as American troops step up withdrawal—and Reds dig in with a new strategy. Fighting has expanded alarmingly in recent weeks and the area of conflict now encompasses half a dozen regions of South Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos.”

—Atlanta Constitution, August 3, 1970

27

War Zone D

July 23–August 28, 1970

An earsplitting, blinding torrent of 82mm mortar fire fell on Bravo Company during the black night of July 23. As a result I was already awake when orders arrived from Labrozzi. Early in the morning, Alpha and Bravo companies would reinforce the 2d Battalion of the 7th Cavalry, which was already in combat in War Zone D. The orders presented a logistics problem for me because Bravo Company was still scattered in external security positions outside Camp Gorvad. Overnight, I developed a plan to reassemble them by dawn so we could resupply before we left.

We flew in Chinook helicopters to a French-built airfield on a logging road at Fire Support Base (FSB) Garry Owen, northeast of Camp Gorvad. There we boarded Hueys to shuttle to a smaller fire base, Patton. Lieutenant Colonel Ed Trobaugh met us there and briefed us before we walked north, our rucksacks sagging with ammunition. Bob Powell’s Cold Steel Alpha had been in combat for nine consecutive days. The field strength of Bravo Company was only ninety-one troopers as we began the operation, so I felt short-handed.

We worked in War Zone D, a remote region with practically no civilian population, which afforded free movement for the Viet Cong. This was a free-fire zone: if something moved we shot it before it shot us. Soon after we left Patton, we entered a complex of twenty bunkers but fortunately encountered no resistance. I observed the men exercising strict noise and light discipline without any encouragement from me. Bravo Company troopers set up automatic ambushes on trails approaching our positions every time we stopped. They read the signs as well as I did and prepared for the worst. Bob Powell’s company found 400 new AK-47 assault rifles, still in their original wrappings, on a Viet Cong supply route.

War Zone D was covered by tall hardwood trees in triple-canopy jungle. True jungle was not ideal for helicopter operations, so I didn’t expect to be resupplied often. The 2d Battalion was already overtaxed logistically, and two additional companies to support further constrained available helicopter support.

I adapted to the routine of field operations. When mail finally arrived for me, I stored letters from home in my helmet liner to keep them dry. If there was time I read them several times before burning them. I kept letters as long as I could, usually until the next mail delivery came to replace worn-out paper with fresh news from home. It was impossible to keep letters longer than a week in the humidity, anyway. I kept those I had written tucked into my helmet liner until I could send them out with the resupply helicopters. When activity quieted down for the night, I pulled a poncho over my head and, with my flashlight held under my chin, composed letters to Sandy and then made notations in my military journal. These were not the best conditions for writing, but I did my best.

July 13, 1970

Dearest Sandy,

I think the greatest feeling in the world, other than a wonderful family, must be command of a rifle company. The men in the company are the greatest people I have ever met. I never have a dull moment and seldom have a moment to sit down and collect my thoughts. I got up at 0630 hours this morning and it is now 2315. I think this is the first time I’ve sat down all day. I’ve done everything from pat men on the back, chew them out, convince them they can operate at night—just like Charlie, break my back to get them anything, almost cry when they do the same for me, search them for pot. In short, I do more in a day here than I did in a month at Fort Benning, and have more of a sense of accomplishment.

Early next morning I received a report from Labrozzi that Bravo Company’s area at Camp Gorvad had been hit again, harder this time, with a combination of 120mm and 82mm mortar rounds. The attack appeared to target my headquarters. Fortunately, most of us were in the jungle and escaped the onslaught. Unfortunately Bravo Company suffered one killed and one seriously wounded; several more casualties occurred in battalion Headquarters Company. Specialist Jimmy M. Mercer was killed in action. He had earned a reputation as the best point man in the company. I didn’t know Jimmy well because I had been in the company such a short time, but others did. He had made it through some of the worst fighting in Cambodia, and he was in the rear to prepare for R&R and to celebrate his birthday. The irony is that had he been with us on point, he would have been fine.

Mercer was a good man, as was the headquarters medical platoon leader, Lieutenant Noble, and the circumstances surrounding their deaths visibly bothered the men. Later, we learned the attack was a reprisal for our killing the high-ranking VC in our ambush. Spies inside Camp Gorvad had stepped off the distance to our huts so that the attack could be aimed precisely on Bravo Company. Apparently all the spies inside Camp Gorvad had not been rounded up yet.

Both companies of the 1st Battalion were extracted from the operation, returned to FSB Garry Owen, loaded on Chinooks, and hauled back to Camp Gorvad. Once there I barely had time to shower, shave, change clothes, and quench my thirst before we launched yet another combat assault. Three Viet Cong had been spotted near Camp Gorvad, suspected by the camp intelligence officer as forward observers for the VC mortar crews that had shelled the camp recently. Bravo’s mission was to saddle up with tracker-dog and mine-detection-dog teams and search for the 120mm mortars that had pounded us. Unfortunately we came up empty.

While the patrols were out and I waited for their reports, I reread old letters. Sandy had asked me to include days of the week on my letters, but I couldn’t ever remember what day it was. The only significant day was Monday, the day the medics passed out big orange malaria pills: Mondays were unmistakably marked by stomach cramps. I already had difficulty remembering life in the United States. It was hard to reconnect with the situations Sandy faced alone in Columbus. As time marched by, the distance between us became greater.

Sandy,

This is going to be a long, long year, but as long as I am physically miserable and tired, I don’t hurt for you quite so badly. I love you very much. Keep writing and please try to understand when I can’t possibly write every day. Take care of yourself and thank you for just being you.