“Corruption, short rations, political infighting—they’re all part of the price Hanoi’s leaders are making the people pay for endless war. Still, aggression is being pushed, with no indications of a letup.”

—U.S. News and World Report, Nov 30, 1970

30

Operation Mercer

September 1970

Bravo Company scouted the trail for four more days, receiving rations and ammunition kicked out of helicopters. I preferred helicopters several days apart, believing their presence marked our position for the enemy. But Labrozzi was testing a new concept of daily resupply intended to allow us to move quickly and unencumbered by heavy loads of rations and ammunition. He was concerned about the weight we carried in the jungle, but my greatest concern was security and surprise.

Mortars struck us again after four days’ respite. The command group and one platoon were in a patrol base, while three platoons searched the surrounding area. We were thankful that no antipersonnel mines were included in this attack; increased security prevented them from getting so close again. Nevertheless, the enemy was able to pinpoint our position well enough to lob ten 60mm mortar rounds onto the command group and one platoon gathered in a small perimeter. The attack lasted two minutes. I presumed the VC had set up the mortar, fired the mission, disassembled the tubes, and scattered by the time the first rounds struck. When our artillery came to bear, they were already in underground bunkers.

This time, the platoon securing the command post activated the killer team as soon as we heard the mortars plunking. If the Viet Cong forward observer was in position to observe their reaction, the fire mission was likely cut short—exactly what I hoped for. Unfortunately we took four more casualties anyway, including Wayne Czajka. Now I doubled as the artillery forward observer while controlling maneuver platoons. I was glad I had artillery experience in the Delta to draw on, but I simply couldn’t do everything. Lieutenant Colonel Carl Vuono, our direct-support artillery commander, stated his intent to send a lieutenant to replace Wayne. Wayne was good, and I didn’t want to lose him, but I knew he was due to leave the field soon.

The day after the mortar attack, dreaded news crackled over the battalion net: the battalion commander, plus two others, would join us in the field. He had been doing that with other companies, but I wasn’t happy about it. I was already short-handed in the command group, and now I would have three additional people to worry about. Worse yet, I believed my competence was being challenged in the wake of the mortar casualties.

We followed the trail, worrying about security. Labrozzi was inbound and we needed a landing zone. I told him we didn’t have one, hoping he would give up and go away, but I knew that would never happen. Labrozzi never gave up.

He had spotted a bomb crater in a field of bamboo and intended to rappel in. I took a platoon and backtracked to the bomb crater just as the helicopter arrived. Troopers circled the spot, curious to watch the sideshow. The chopper hovered at fifty feet while three passengers dropped their rucksacks to the ground fastened to the end of 100-foot ropes. Since the ropes were twice the distance to the ground, the rucksacks smashed their contents upon impact.

Labrozzi did fine on rappel. He kept his balance, with head higher than his feet all the way to the ground. The command sergeant major and the radio operator were less graceful; they flailed their way down, landing flat on their backs in the bamboo. I bit my lip to keep from laughing aloud as they recovered their belongings. Everything inside their rucksacks had burst, water mixed with the C-rations, and dripped from the corners. Unfortunately their radio and spare battery were also smashed. I confiscated a radio from one of my platoons, enabling the battalion commander to maintain contact while he stayed with us. I collected rations and water to replace those losses as well. Needless to say, they ate ham and lima beans for the rest of their stay; those were the C-ration meals no one else wanted. I was gratified when no complaints were heard from our uninvited guests. I wondered whether Labrozzi actually liked the ham and limas.

During their insertion, a platoon called to report that their point man had spotted a hole that appeared to be a latrine. He was suspicious and had poked around with a long stick. The latrine actually concealed a false floor. Removing the wooden floor, the platoon discovered an ammunition dump of 120mm mortars, B-40 antitank rockets, and unused picks and shovels. They secured the site pending our arrival.

We didn’t make it to the cache site until after dark. While my troopers quietly established security for the night, our rear-echelon guests shined flashlights, talked loudly, and banged around noisily. I informed them, including Labrozzi, that they would have to abide by our rules as long as they stayed. My warning helped some, but I could tell my men were made as uncomfortable as I was by our visitors.

The next morning, I designated the cache site as our new patrol base and the platoons fanned out to search the ridge line. The discovery gave us a better concept of what we were looking for and why the enemy was trying to keep us away. Over the next several days, we uncovered several storage bunkers similar to the first and eight more that had been prepared but were still empty.

Mad Anthony was ecstatic. I could hardly restrain him as he rushed alone through the jungle to explore each site. On the positive side good things started happening. Explosives and chainsaws arrived to open a one-ship LZ. Labrozzi wanted to name the landing zone and asked me what we should call it. I quickly looked to others for suggestions before offering one. I told him “Mercer,” after Jimmy Mercer, the Bravo pointman killed on his birthday. The name stuck, and eventually became the name of the entire operation.

With a landing zone available, we could easily resupply and shuttle people in and out, including the battalion command group. Unfortunately others found us as well. This was the most productive operation in the division area, so we had more visitors, including Major General Putnam, the division commander, and Major General Wagstaff, chief of staff of II Field Force, in addition to the brigade commander and various other staff officers.

Labrozzi was present when the generals arrived. He pulled me aside. “Do you want to make any instant awards or promotions while we have the opportunity?” he inquired.

“Sure. Let me think about it a minute.”

“How about a Bronze Star for the pointman that found the first site?” he asked.

“Yeah.” I agreed quickly. I knew I would not have much time, but I followed with an additional request. “I also want to promote one of my platoon leaders. He’s a sergeant and has been great. A real leader on this operation, and he was the platoon leader who ran that ambush near Camp Gorvad.”

“I’ll talk to the general,” promised Labrozzi.

In a few minutes, we arranged a quick formation in the jungle clearing and Major General Putnam hung a Bronze Star medal on the chest of the pointman. Then he removed the staff sergeant stripes from his orderly’s shirt, and pinned them on Sergeant Rogers’s shirt. I was impressed by how easily that was done and appreciated Labrozzi for making it happen. The general’s orderly, doubling as photographer but now sans his stripes, took some pictures. At Labrozzi’s urging, I led the column of generals on a tour of jungle trails to observe the loot. They were interested in medical supplies, especially Chinese penicillin.

When the heavies finally departed, Labrozzi sat on a fallen tree trunk and asked me to join him.

“I want to build up to task force level. You’ll command it, but I want to talk about what we need to bring in here. I want you to intensify the search to find more cache sites and extend the patrols further out, if necessary. What are your most pressing needs?”

“Well, for starters, I’m short on infantry. Casualties from mortar attacks left us under strength. Digging up and moving explosives, rigging for demolition, and other jobs leave us shorter than ever.”

“I’ll attach the recon platoon to Bravo immediately. That’ll give you more eyes and firepower. I’ll round up laborers from the fire base to help dig and haul.” Labrozzi quickly met all my first demands. He had impressed me all day, and I realized his visit had been a blessing instead of a curse after all.

I continued, “My next concern is those damn mortars. We can’t get artillery fast enough to be effective, and our grenade launchers don’t have the range. If we’re here awhile, we could use 81mm mortars from the fire base. They could outrange the 60s.”

That conversation briefly transformed a small one-ship LZ in War Zone D into the busiest place in Vietnam—LZ Mercer. Task Force Bravo, 1st Battalion, 7th Cavalry, took shape. Over the next few days we grew to include: Bravo Company HQ, with my wounded radio operators returning to man the radios; our regular four rifle platoons from Bravo Company; battalion reconnaissance platoon; three dog teams for explosives detection; two tracker dog teams to track any movement on the trails; an engineer squad to handle the cutting of trees; an explosive-ordnance disposal team to handle demolition of captured explosives; a labor squad from Alpha Company to help with manual chores; a mortar section of two 81mm mortars; and a pathfinder team to handle air traffic.

I was pleased with the organization and the new sense of responsiveness to our requirements. We received a hot meal every second day and mail every day. Things were working so well that I took a chance. The next day, General Putnam was flying overhead when he called me on my radio net. “Gator Six, this is First Team Six. Over.”

“First Team Six, this is Gator Six. Are you coming to our location? Over.”

“Just passing overhead, but I wondered if you needed anything down there. Over.”

Pushing my luck, I replied, “We’re doing well, but we sure could use some ice cream.”

“You’ll get it. Out.”

On the next day a log bird landed with ice cream packed with dry ice in styrene boxes that normally held blood bags. We lapped it up! More important, we got ice cream every other day after that. Someone coined a new motto: “Bravo Kills for Ice Cream.”

Labrozzi continued to visit us daily. One day we sat on a fallen tree to talk. “What do you need?” he asked.

“Well… I think we have everything. Ice cream is the icing on the cake.”

“No, I mean what do you need? Personally.”

I was flabbergasted, but I couldn’t stop myself from blurting it out. I had received everything I had asked for over the past several weeks. “A shot of bourbon and a good cigar would be fine after a hard day’s work,” I said jokingly. Labrozzi, who was a nondrinker, didn’t comment. I didn’t think he appreciated my sentiments.

Next day, a messenger approached me with a C-ration box. He said, “The battalion commander sends this with his compliments.”

I couldn’t imagine why he’d sent C-rations until I opened the box. Inside were a bottle of Jim Beam and a box of Tampa Nuggets. I couldn’t believe my eyes. “I really love that guy!”

Fame is fleeting, however. Following a visit by more generals and the division staff, we seemed to have exhausted the cache sites. Delta Company got into a fire fight nearby and attention shifted there. I expected a new mission soon, and our task force lost some of its attached teams as well as its interest in tramping around the same jungle day after day. Just as I was getting comfortable, we got a wake-up call.

One platoon patrolling several kilometers away from LZ Mercer was singled out for another mortar attack. Sergeant First Class Furr, who had come to Bravo from recruiting duties at home, commanded the platoon. I didn’t believe his past duties had prepared him well physically for the challenges of a platoon command, but he was the senior field NCO in the company. When he arrived, I kept him near the command group for several weeks to become acclimated enough to stand the heat and humidity while absorbing some “field sense.” I remembered how Bobby Hurst had kept me under his wing for a few days on my first tour of duty.

My judgment in placing him in leadership so soon was misplaced. He was out of position during the mortar attack and didn’t launch the killer team. However, many things happen in the fog of war to cause things to go awry. Fortunately Private First Class Martinez manned the radio and reported the situation to me.

I stayed in touch with Martinez and instructed him what to do as he described the situation to me over the air. I coordinated fire support from the company CP. Martinez barely spoke English, but I credited him with keeping the situation under control during a very stressful time and enabling me to get gunships in support. The mortar attack was brief, but the platoon suffered eight more casualties, taking their total strength down to eight effective troopers. I had to attach them as a squad to another platoon until they were staffed again.

After the attack, I questioned members of the platoon to find out what had happened. As a result, I awarded Martinez a Silver Star and requested that Labrozzi find another position for Sergeant Furr since his platoon was dissolved anyway. After a period, Sergeant Furr joined another company and proved his courage under fire, giving his life leading his men. Sergeant William Furr was decorated posthumously and Fire Base Furr was named in his honor. He was a heroic American, as were those he led.

Additional companies were brought in, and an operations order was delivered to me. The operation was named Operation Mercer.

As Bravo Company mobilized, we lost our section of 81mm mortars. Mortar attacks continued and we were hit three more times. Our best responses were still the killer teams, but now we got artillery faster because there were active battalion-level operations in the area. Helicopter gunships were on station more often, too. The combination of responses reduced the mortar attacks to only three to five rounds each.

Near the junction of a small stream and trail, we found seventeen bicycles near a camp of thatched huts. The bikes were stripped of seats and pedals and rigged for pushing heavy loads. This was a last segment of the supply chain from the Ho Chi Minh Trail into War Zone D.

I believed the VC sometimes camped on the trail at night; we had found remains of cooking fires on the trails. As I briefed a patrol preparing to search the trail after dark, I leaned my hand against a tree and was bitten by a spider on my palm. The sting hurt like hell, but the shot the medic gave me put me into dreamland. I instructed another officer to take charge until I came out of the stupor and not to do anything I ordered until morning. By the next day the drug had worn off, but my swollen hand throbbed for several days. I walked around holding it over my head to relieve the pain and swelling.

A platoon found another cache with five new AK-47 rifles, twenty magazines, three older SKS rifles, one new B-40 rocket launcher, nineteen B-40 rounds, nineteen rounds for a 75mm recoilless rifle, eighty antitank rifle grenades, and 5,000 rounds of AK-47 ammunition. The new discovery restored excitement at higher headquarters, and we were back on cache-searching duty. Bravo was ready for something new.

While searching we needed a kick-out resupply of rations. We were in tall trees, and a helicopter hovered above the triple canopy of hardwood to kick the C-ration boxes through the trees. A box of C-rations falling from that altitude can kill. I made everyone wear helmets and stand close to a tree trunk. Prop blast from the helicopter hovering overhead blew twigs and leaves through the air. I was sitting on the ground, leaning against a tree, studying a map in my lap. In the swirling wind something landed on my map case. I thought it was a branch, but as I reached to move it a snake looked back at me. I don’t know which of us was more startled, but I flung snake, map, and myself apart in one move. I recovered my map—and my composure—before we moved out.

A hot meal was delivered in another interesting kick-out. I wasn’t sure how they could kick out a hot meal, but it worked quite well. Hot food was literally poured into long rubber tubes affectionately called “elephant rubbers.” The filled rubbers were stuffed into 105mm shipping canisters. On the ground, we cut the ends of the rubbers and poured chili macaroni and green beans onto paper plates. The meals were still hot and tasty and reminded us of real mess hall chow.

Operation Mercer slowly wound down. We returned to Fire Base Green for a couple of days to wait for four B-52s to bomb the area around Mercer. We were to go back after the strike to conduct a bomb-damage assessment.

Mad Anthony rolled out the red carpet for Bravo Company at Fire Base Green. He met me at the tactical operations center, an underground bunker, and presented me a foot-long cigar. I don’t know where he got it, but it was a nice gesture—until I lit it. It was terrible! I liked Tony Labrozzi more every day. Of course it helped to be on his good side, but he was a true warrior, and they were hard to find any more. He brought a flying PX to Green so the troops could buy nice-to-have things like film, candy, and magazines. I bought a pipe. Established as a cigar smoker, I threw a curve ball and changed my image.

Labrozzi suggested I go to Bien Hoa for the day, which sounded good to me. I knew that the first sergeant and XO had the rear in good hands, but I needed a change in scenery. I enjoyed a meal in a real mess hall, barbecued spare ribs, potatoes, and fresh bread. I spent the afternoon talking to the first sergeant, supply sergeant, and company clerk. The first sergeant gave me his room to spend the night. I asked him where he would sleep and he said, “Don’t worry about it.” I enjoyed his cot with a mattress, clean sheets, an electric light bulb, rotating fan, and radio. I was in heaven!

In the morning, I went to the 11th Aviation Group to complete an application for flight school. Before leaving Green, I had discussed flying with Maj. Wayne Knudson, our S-3 and a superb aviator. Sounding a warning note, he advised me my chances were only fifty-fifty at best, because I had too much time in service.

I completed the application and took a flight physical, which revealed significant problems with my hearing. Two years of being shelled and shot at had taken a toll. The results were so bad that the flight surgeon scheduled me to go to Long Binh for evaluation of my fitness to stay in the army.

I managed to return to Green just before dark. My eyes were dilated from the flight physical, and my vision was just coming back. We took incoming 82mm mortar rounds and sporadic rifle fire that night, but there were no serious attacks. Nevertheless, as commander of base security, I was unhappy with the bunker line. Bravo Company had let its guard down from too much red-carpet treatment and the commander’s absence for two days.

Most of the problems were concentrated in two platoons, where I found guards asleep, troopers sleeping without mosquito nets, and beer cans in bunkers. Staff Sergeant Rogers’s platoon was perfect. I placed myself on schedule to walk the perimeter every two hours and ordered my lieutenants to walk with me. They weren’t happy about it, but the next day the company was back to normal.

The B-52 strike was planned for September 30, 1970. Before our return to LZ Mercer I took the company, one platoon at a time, to the range to test fire weapons. A grenadier fired a grenade into a tree at the minimum distance to arm the grenade. Fragments flew back to where we were standing: one fragment buried itself into my right thigh near the bone and another sliced my nose. I went to the aid station for treatment, but there was nothing they could do but dab iodine on the wounds. I was lucky the fragment that touched my nose had missed my eye. My lucky day, I guess.

I was leaving the aid station when a helicopter lifting off from the landing pad at Green lost power and fell into the trees. The rotors were ripped apart as they hit them, and the chopper settled almost to the ground. We rushed to help the pilots out. No one was hurt. Their lucky day, too!

We air-assaulted into the bombed Mercer area immediately after the B-52 strike. Devastation to trees and land was complete. LZ Mercer was so disrupted that we never got oriented again. The big brass expected us to find dead VC or more cache sites exposed by the bombs, but we found nothing except fallen trees and holes in the ground. Tall, majestic mahoganies were scattered like Lincoln Logs. The good news was that if there were supplies hidden there, the VC wouldn’t be able to find them, either.

After several days of stumbling about in the damage, Bravo was lifted back to Green and then flown to the 1st Cavalry main headquarters in Bien Hoa for “company refresher training” at the First Team Academy. Thus ended Operation Mercer.

Dearest Sandy,

    I’m almost sorry to say—the war is over—over here. The rules and regulations now make it almost unbelievable. It isn’t fun any more. I probably should have stayed here on my last tour until I had enough of it. Now, I can only wait anxiously until I return to you. I can see it will be very difficult being a soldier without a war.