“In the wake of the bitter domestic dissent sparked by the Cambodian invasion, the Nixon Administration seemed intent on Assuring the nation it was making a sincere effort to negotiate its way out of Indochina.”

—Newsweek, August 3, 1970

28

Green

August 1970

Fire Base Green was to become our center of operations in War Zone D. The fire base was named for Pfc James A. Green from Boynton, Okalahoma, a rifleman in Delta Company, 1st Battalion, 7th Cavalry, killed in Cambodia on June 18, 1970, his first day in combat. Efforts over five days to recover his body were unsuccessful, and he was declared missing in action.

Every time I saw a new fire base I was grateful I wasn’t building it as headquarters company commandant. I was quite happy in the jungle with an air cavalry company. I was quite content to sit on my helmet under my low-slung poncho “hooch” in a driving rain, feet wet, drinking warm beer and smoking cheap cigars. Life was good—for a soldier.

When palace guard duty ended our battalion was unleashed in the jungle. For one week out of four Bravo Company pulled security duty on fire bases, but in the othber weeks we patrolled the surrounding jungle in search of the Viet Cong.

In one area large apes in the trees spooked us. Warriors gazed up in wonder at them, recalling snipers in trees in Cambodia, expecting the monkeys to morph into VC. It was indeed spooky.

Our turn to occupy the fire base rolled around again, and Labrozzi publicly praised Bravo Company. I already knew we were good but I wasn’t quite sure what he was praising us for. Nevertheless I was happy to be on Labrozzi’s good side. We sweated with fire base construction and improvements, but I found time to take platoons to the perimeter to test-fire weapons. They needed marksmanship training, but I also wanted them to expend their old ammunition and replace it with new. Ammunition of all types became wet and damaged as it was carried in the jungle. I preferred to have ammunition misfire on a training range rather than in combat. In firing the full spectrum of our ammunition in training, we not only honed our weapons skills but also refreshed our mental acuity about the real purpose of soldiering.

One platoon was dispatched on an air cavalry operation in support of the air scouts. In such a minicav operation the platoon flew in helicopters on patrol. If something suspicious was spotted from the air, the rifle platoon landed to check it out. Normally the reconnaissance platoon performed this mission, so we were honored to get the nod. These were real hunter-killer operations, and the troopers loved them—at least they felt like genuine cavalry for a time instead of footslogging Infantry.

To the LZ we are going, Sergeant Flynn.
In the breeze the guidon is blowing, Sergeant Flynn.
High and low, birds of thunder,
We will drive the bad guys under.
Drive your bayonet to the hilt for
Dear old Garry Owen.

We trudged through the jungle north of Phouc Vinh for three weeks: steep terrain, crosscut with hills and valleys, complicated navigation and movement. We stayed wet constantly from rain or sweat or both. I pushed the men to their limits in the rough terrain. They were too tired to fight, and their weapons were wet and rusty. It was not unusual for the most experienced of navigators to became disoriented in the rough terrain and have near-miss firefights with another platoon. It was time to reassess these missions.

Bravo Company, like every other unit in Vietnam, was always short on experienced leaders. I wrote home that two platoon leaders were second lieutenants, one a staff sergeant, another a buck sergeant. Lieutenant Kevin Myles was the most experienced of my officers in the field; he reminded me of Lieutenant Consedine, a veteran of Cambodia, who was already the company XO when I arrived. Both were quiet, competent officers, who would knock down walls to get the company what it needed, or what we wanted, whether we needed it or not. I protested when Labrozzi announced that Myles would become XO, replacing Consedine, whose tour was up, but deep down I knew Bravo needed a good man backing us up. Lieutenant Pete Dencker, a West Pointer, replaced Myles in the 1st Platoon.

Another area where we were understaffed, but well supported, was in artillery support. The artillery forward observer was Pfc Wayne Czajka, who did everything I asked of him. I believed an officer would carry more weight with the artillery battalion, but no one could carry more weight with Bravo. Wayne was backed up up by Spec. 4 Joe Sauble as his radio operator. When Wayne was later wounded, Joe stepped in to adjust fire missions while simultaneously carrying his own radio. I couldn’t have asked for better people, but officers should have filled all those positions except radio operator. I was pleased with all of them, but I wondered about priorities when we couldn’t staff the leadership in our combat forces. Ironically, the noncommissioned officers and enlisted men who rose to fill those positions did so because of their proven courage and competence under fire. They were great Americans, every one of them!

When we needed supplies, I faced choices of either clearing an LZ or having supplies kicked out from a hovering chopper. I preferred the kick-outs because they were simpler and more secure. Unfortunately, we couldn’t send out mail or exchange our funky jungle fatigues for clean ones on kick-outs. When someone was due for R&R, he could not get away during a kick-out. While I preferred this kind of resupply for operational security reasons, I tried to never have two kick-outs in succession. Morale competed with security, and they were interwoven to a large degree.

I didn’t like lingering in an open LZ waiting for a chopper to arrive. Consequently I usually pushed the company a considerable distance quickly, just before we were due to receive a sit-down resupply. When we reached the clearing I’d selected, several of us invariably had heat cramps and we were all exhausted. Logistics was a serious constraint in combating guerillas.

After one particular resupply we were air-lifted out of a waist-deep swamp for a combat assault. If the swamp wasn’t bad enough by itself, Mother Nature doused us with a driving rain so that we were literally soaked from head to foot. Intelligence reported a hundred VC in the vicinity, and we detected well-used trails running in every direction as soon as we landed. I increased our security posture by prohibiting hoooches, chopping, cooking, or digging that night. We just kept a low profile in the unfamiliar territory.

I had loved the company through the worst conditions, but even surrounded by brave men loneliness of command takes a toll. I wrote Sandy about my feelings:

Making difficult decisions is challenging. Sometimes, a commander must weigh the merits of safety against the cost of comfort. Being a company commander in the field is a lonely job. You have no peers to talk to, you must make decisions on your own, with little or no advice, and you can show no favoritism. Who says this is the greatest job in the Army?

After endless days of trekking through the jungle I was ordered to find a new pickup zone. Bravo Company was lifted from another swamp and flown to Camp Gorvad by Hueys, then transferred to Chinooks for a flight to division headquarters in Bien Hoa. I went directly from the swamp to the division headquarters VIP center. That afternoon, battalion officers sat in a roundtable discussion about tactics and operations with Major General Putnam, who had replaced the deceased General Casey.

Next morning, our brigade commander, Col. “Barbed Wire” Bob Kingston, briefed battalion officers. The 1st Battalion, 7th Cavalry, was to transfer from the 2d Brigade to the 1st, move into northern War Zone D, and build a new fire base. I didn’t really care much which brigade we were assigned to. Brigade was too far above us to have a measurable impact on our daily life.

That afternoon, I accompanied First Sergeant Royas to the 24th Evacuation Hospital for something I did care about—visiting troopers wounded in the mortar attack. I was buoyed by their high spirits but disheartened by the effects of the war on our country’s youth. On the way back to camp, Royas swung by the Long Binh PX to soak up air-conditioning and enjoy an ice cream cone. I had forgotten such pleasures existed. I went along only because the first sergeant insisted, but I was happy when we left. Luxury made me uncomfortable—a moment’s pleasure, a diversion from harsh reality, but ultimately a certain return to truth.

At high noon the next day Bravo Company assembled into a parade-ground formation. Major General Putnam was on hand to present awards to some of our Cambodia veterans. I was proud of them and actually in awe of their courage. At the same time, the company received a Valorous Unit Citation for a battle in Tay Ninh Province in November 1969. General Putnam said, “The 1st of the 7th has a long tradition of this sort of thing. I don’t think there’s another unit that can wear three Presidential Unit Citations, three Vietnamese Gallantry Crosses with Palms, unit citations of the King of Greece, and a unit citation of the Republic of the Philippines.” The Valorous Unit Citation equated to an individual’s Silver Star.

Sometimes it takes a while for heroism to be recognized, but it was a long war after all. Soldiers should know what they do will someday be recognized as valuable. We felt connected to men who preceded us in battle under the Garry Owen banner. We only hoped our nation would be grateful to us when the war was over.

When the festivities were finished I wrote a letter to Sandy.

Dearest Sandy,

I’m as happy as a pig in shit to be back in the jungle. The Big PX, traffic, dust, hustle and bustle of Bien Hoa, and the generals make the jungle a better place to live. The VC lives in the jungle because they had first choice. I do miss the showers, clean clothes, and cold beer, but there were other frustrations, too. I tried to call home on MARS every night, but never got through. I really wish I could talk to you now.

We departed Bien Hoa by Chinook en route to LZ Garry Owen, then made a combat assault into our new area of operations in War Zone D. The LZ was a VC cornfield sculptured from heavy jungle. No farmer this far from a city would need so much corn unless he was feeding an army. We spotted a caretaker as we touched down, but he departed in haste. We found small-animal traps, bunkers, small stores of ammunition, a large rice barn, corn, bananas, squash, and well-used trails leading in several directions. Eventually a sniper engaged us in a feeble attempt to resist. Then it was quiet again.

Our resupply on August 13 was completely screwed up; nothing went right. Immediately after the fiasco we made contact with a VC squad that was trailing us: we killed one soldier and captured a 9mm submachine gun. Bravo Company was the first to pay off in the new zone. Labrozzi was ecstatic, and I loved it. Nevertheless all pleasures were short-lived.

My jungle rot was a fact of life; everyone had it, even in the dry season, because we were wet from sweat when not wet from rain. Mine had mostly cleared up while we had stayed dry at Bien Hoa, but it sprouted again on my right arm and left leg. Festering sores and oozing pus just don’t heal well or go away in damp jungles. In addition to jungle rot I was nauseated, sweaty, and suffering from stomach cramps. Many others had the same afflictions, but most bore them with gritty determination.

It rained constantly, and the area was infested with leeches, which dropped off the trees in the rain to fall down inside your shirt, sticking to your arms and wriggling into your boots and pants from the ground. The persistent little pests swarmed to us. Weather, geography, and poor health made short work of my cheerfulness.

We wandered into a Viet Cong camp, which had pigs running around outside and clean uniforms inside a shack. A searcher discovered a letter dated August 10 that said two NVA companies were to arrive on August 14 or 15 to be resupplied. From all appearances, they had arrived early—or we had arrived late.

Darling Sandy,

I’m running completely out of light and I feel I’m racing against time to get this letter written. I don’t know why I’m writing so frantically because I’ll probably carry it around in the liner of my helmet for a week before I can mail it. Anyway, I feel a little closer to you when I am writing you. I love you so much that I think about you every spare moment.

Bravo Company was picked up again in a driving storm and dumped in a bamboo field. Daisy cutters, 500-pound bombs rigged to go off at ground level, had cleared a landing zone. The ground was so soft the bombs had blown large holes in it, which prevented the choppers from landing. They hovered on the side of the hill while we jumped out with rucksacks, rifles, and helmets jerking and bumping every which way.

Our new brigade commander, Col. Robert Stevenson, landed in his smaller chopper, his pilot managing to find a level clump of ground to perch on. He informed me that we were searching for a Viet Cong hospital. My main concerns were a bad cold, jungle rot, and swarms of damn leeches, all making my life miserable (I wondered if the Viet Cong hospital staff could treat my jungle rot). I finally surrendered to one of the company’s medics, who gave me a shot of penicillin. My condition improved immediately. Why had I held out so long?

The sun burst through like rays of hope. We had found no signs of a hospital in the valley, so I moved the company to higher ground to dry out for a while. Patrols were sent out, and I monitored the battalion radio frequency to update the situation. It was then that I heard that Charlie Company had suffered a tragic accident when a trooper tripped his own automatic ambush. Labrozzi was angry, but there was little anyone could do about the awful accidents that occur while fighting a war. Our normal instruments of war were simply designed to be lethal to human beings, and that meant anyone who got in their way.

Bad news came in waves. Delta Company suffered four men killed and two others wounded in a VC ambush. I remembered Bob Powell’s admonishment and renewed my dedication to keep Bravo Company’s hundred men alive. Somehow the hills, the leaches, the mosquitoes and the bamboo vipers seemed less relevant under the weight of that challenge.

In the hilly terrain we crossed a large stream with fast-running, very cold water. We waded across slowly to provide each man time to drop trousers and wash his funky butt and crotch in the clean, cold water. That helped.

When we walked out of the jungle onto Fire Base Green, Bravo entered clean-shaven, which impressed Labrozzi again. I wasn’t out to impress him—I didn’t require the men to shave in the field, but I did require them to shave prior to arriving at the fire base. I wasn’t stupid. When Labrozzi was happy, we were all happy!

We all worked to improve bunkers, lay barbed wire and communications lines, organize the battalion ammunition dump, and square away our own basic loads. We dug holes to bury fougasse between the concentric strands of barbed wire that encircled the perimeter. This volatile mixture of gas and oil was buried in 55-gallon drums, to be ignited if VC sappers cut through the wire to infiltrate the base.

I was apprehensive about our marksmanship in the field. We needed additional training, so I oversaw construction of a twenty-five-meter zero range at the edge of the berm. Then I supervised the building of a walking range through the jungle, complete with pop-up targets along the route. As a soldier walked along a trail, someone walking behind him pulled a wire, which raised targets nailed to hinged ammo boxes. Every soldier zeroed his rifle again, and then walked through the range to sharpen basic fighting skills.

At night, I ordered machine guns test-fired with 200 rounds of continuous firing without interruptions. Labrozzi directed the security officer to walk the perimeter every seventy-five minutes. Since it took thirty minutes to walk it, I didn’t get much sleep at night, and it was too hot to sleep during the day. I was soon anxious to return to the peace and quiet of the jungle. At least our time on the fire base was productive in sharpening our marksmanship, if nothing else.