“There are no more inspections on Saturday mornings to delay enjoyment of a weekend pass. No one stands in line for anything for more than 15 minutes. Above all, each man is a soldier because he wants to be. That vision of the future Army was soberly presented by the Pentagon as a goal to be achieved within three years in a drive to build an all-volunteer military.”

—Time, October 26, 1970

32

Bruised Heart

Late October 1970

As a result of withdrawals, soldiers began getting two-week “drops” from their scheduled dates to return home. Those receiving drops were excited to be leaving, but it made us all feel the war was essentially over. We were happy for the lucky ones, but it left us with a feeling of abandonment. Curtailments distracted us from the job at hand—finding and fighting the enemy. One Bravo Company trooper who received such a drop was stranded in dense jungle for two days beyond his adjusted departure date until Battalion sent in a helicopter with a McGuire rig, nothing more than a long rope, to lift him beneath a helicopter so he could go home. I didn’t like sending him out that way, but no one relished the idea of having a trooper injured in the jungle when he should be at home with loved ones.

In addition to individual curtailments selected units were leaving Vietnam, not as complete units but as their colors were retired. Soldiers in those units who still had sufficient time remaining on their tours of duty were reassigned to other units as replacements. The result was absolute turmoil in personnel. Bravo received many of these reassigned soldiers. The faces in Bravo were changing weekly, and I dreaded resupply days because I saw so many new faces before me each week.

They were all great U.S. soldiers, just like our troopers, but their turbulent situation was unfortunate. Acculturation of transferees is always difficult: their army family has been broken up, and they have to be accepted by strangers; tactics and techniques invariably differ from unit to unit. Their morale is naturally low, but the biggest operational problem is lack of training in a new unit’s standard operating procedures because they always bring different habits and techniques with them from other operational areas.

Bravo was still operating in the complex of trails when it was due for another resupply. We had people coming in and going out. I was notified that heavy commitments for Hueys made it necessary for a Chinook to deliver our supplies. We didn’t have an LZ large enough to land a Chinook, so we would accept an airdrop of rations and ammunition. However, a large number of soldiers were scheduled for R&R and two-week curtailments, complicating my plans. They would have to climb a rope ladder into the Chinook while it hovered above the trees. The climb was dangerous for a man with a rifle and rucksack because it was easy for a heavy rucksack to pull a trooper’s head lower than his feet, inverting him in the air. Rifles were easily snagged on the ropes, and troopers were exposed to snipers from a considerable distance while they were in the air. I wouldn’t like the operation in peaceful conditions, but my alarms rang loudly with the enemy so close.

If a Chinook was shot down while conducting a resupply or extraction over the company, it would kill most us underneath. Therefore I spread security out as far as practical, both to keep VC snipers as far away as possible and to keep troopers from beneath the large Chinook. I was satisfied that security was as far out as I could reasonably push it and still have a defensible perimeter, but it was still inadequate. My sense of imminent danger rose steadily while we waited, and the longer we waited, the longer the enemy had to act. There had simply been too many incidents like this one to ignore the threat. Something was wrong, and I needed to change the dynamics.

My first concern was in being observed, so I ordered a platoon to send a squad to look for signs that we were being followed or watched. We had been in the area too long already; we were not in a posture to react, and neither was battalion. Communications were stretched, and no air cover was available.

The patrol returned after about an hour and reported that it had found nothing. I was disappointed by the report, but mostly I was skeptical because I had seen so many signs of recent activity all around us. I suspected the squad had cut short the patrol, hunkered down, and returned with a false report. I had heard rumors before. The platoon was now infused with many new people from other units, and they may have operated with a lower standard than I demanded. I had already seen other indications of falling discipline with the transfusion of replacements. Our situation was too serious this time; I would not accept a superficial scouting report.

I ordered 2d Platoon to prepare another patrol immediately, one that I would lead myself because the security of the entire company depended on reliable information.

I led six volunteers outside the perimeter; among them were Steve Martinez, Cleatus Burgess, and Jimmy Denholm, experienced people I completely trusted. We had followed the one-foot-wide trail for about 500 meters when my senses grew stronger that the enemy was nearby. I signaled the others to move off the trail to the right and slightly uphill. We had moved twenty meters farther when the pointman, Cleatus Burgess, froze. About ten meters ahead of him, the brush moved when a dark figure ducked behind a tree.

I yelled, “Fire!” and raised my M16 toward the tree.

At the same time, we were blinded by a bright-red blast that turned the dark jungle into a sunburst. I was thrown to the ground on my back. The explosion deafened us. I yelled, “Fire!” again, but this time I couldn’t hear myself. Brush in front of the tree had disappeared; leaves and branches that covered it were stripped away.

We engaged the fleeting figures crashing through brush, going downhill toward the streambed. When I thought they were gone, I spotted another circular Chinese antipersonnel mine resting on its spindly legs on the opposite side of the tree trunk. I yelled, “Mine!” just as the second blast erupted.

An uneven crackle of M16s and AK-47s broke out from both sides. I estimated that our seven were opposed by an equal number of them. Unfortunately, they had achieved the element of surprise and were in concealed positions. They broke away quickly, but the damage had already been done.

I tried to stand to lead a pursuit of the escaping VC but it was impossible and impractical. Burgess and Martinez were sprawled on the ground, and something was wrong with my ankle. Jimmy Denholm checked on them, leaving two men to observe the jungle while I talked on the radio.

I couldn’t reach Battalion on the patrol radio, so I contacted the company instead: “Gator Six Alpha, this is Six,” I called. Judge was already trying to contact me at the moment of the first blast, but I had been too busy to answer. After the blast my ears were ringing so hard I couldn’t hear very well.

“Gator Six, this is Gator One. What’s your situation? Over.” It was Judge; he sounded like he was in barrel.

“We were ambushed near the LZ. We have casualties. Report to Battalion, call for a medevac, get gunships up to cover, and postpone the resupply,” I instructed, realizing that I was shouting into the handset.

“I made an initial report already and I’ll take care of the other now. I’m prepared to send out a platoon, " said Judge.

“Go ahead and send them out. We’ll watch for them. Stay there in control until I get back. I’ll tell you more in a few minutes. Out.” While Judge made his requests to Battalion, I went to see about our casualties.

They were both in bad shape, but I thought Martinez would be all right if we got him out quickly. Several pellets from the mine had hit him but none seemed life threatening.

Burgess, however, was in much worse shape. Many pellets had struck him at close range in the face, chest, neck, arms, and legs. As pointman, he’d been closest to the first blast; his body had shielded others from the full effects. When the second mine exploded, we were already flat on the ground.

As I moved about to complete my checks, I realized I was dragging the toe of my left foot. I checked it and found a hole in the canvas of my left jungle boot, just behind my ankle. My left boot was squishy inside and some blood oozed from a slit in the side. I noticed cuts on my hips and legs, but I assumed that nothing was broken since I was walking. I ignored them. We had more serious problems.

But our troubles mounted. Confusion at the patrol base and LZ was amplified with the company commander isolated on patrol. The picture of our situation at the battalion operations center was muddier still. While Judge relayed the information I passed, he couldn’t answer questions while I was busy and unresponsive. My chief concern was getting my guys out of the jungle to medical care.

Trees were too large and close together for us to clear a landing zone, and we had no C4 to blow them down. The medevac pilot responded quickly, suggesting a jungle penetrator with a basket. He hovered overhead and lowered a cable with an attached basket to winch up the wounded men. But heavy downdraft from the hovering helicopter created severe turbulence, making it difficult to even stand under the ship. We all stood close by under a dead tree that offered the only opening through the dense canopy. The strong air stream from the chopper broke off the dead tree trunk, toppling it on to Jimmy Denholm, who was acting as ground guide. We rushed to the tree trunk to move it, but Denholm had an injured back and now also needed to be evacuated. The patrol was down to four men, three plus me. We no longer had the luxury of attending to security. I had to accept the risk of our vulnerability to get the injured out.

The final four stood below and watched as Burgess ascended into the medevac. As he rose I could feel my strength draining. Life was leaving his limp body as he went heavenward. It was an especially difficult moment for me; grief, guilt, and anger competed for control. I had led the men into the ambush, although I knew the patrol was necessary for the security of the company. I was furious that the first patrol had not done its job better, convinced it had done an inadequate reconnaissance. This should not have happened at all. I was concerned about my own injury, too; the wound itself didn’t seem very serious, but walking was difficult, and I couldn’t command in the jungle on crutches.

The evacuation was finally completed. I was afraid Burgess had died while suspended in air, but I was confident Martinez and Denholm would recover. We four, lonelier than ever, were left to straggle back to the company. One of the remaining men had a broken finger from the falling tree, and I was using my rifle as a crutch. Thankfully, we were met on the trail by the platoon Judge sent out to meet us.

I wanted to stay with the company, but the walk proved it would be impossible to continue on the trails, much less carry a rucksack. Someone took the radio off my back as I hobbled along. As we entered the perimeter, Judge told me Labrozzi was sending a helicopter with a McGuire rig to ferry the trooper with the broken finger and me to Fire Base Green.

The helicopter arrived and hovered overhead. Two long ropes fell to the ground, one from each side of the bird. The ropes were looped on the ends. We pulled the loops over our heads and under our armpits. When the chopper lifted up, we were lifted with it. We swung to and fro in the wind and we were slammed against the sides of trees, but not injured. We finally crested the treetops and were carried in a forward flight, slow at first but then gaining in air speed. We held our arms out to stabilize ourselves and prevent spinning. The flight to Fire Base Connell was only five miles. I had never been there and it looked unfamiliar as we landed. The chopper let us down gently and then landed beside us so we could climb inside for the continuation to Green.

At Green we went to the aid station to be patched up. While the doctor splinted the broken finger I briefed Labrozzi on everything that happened. I was still talking when the doctor approached us. I had already removed my boot and then dropped my trousers for him to paint the cuts on my legs and buttocks with mercurochrome. I stood with my pants around my ankles when General Burton entered the aid station. Someone called attention and he pinned a Purple Heart on my shirt while the doctor spread purple paint over my buttocks. I made a joke about “the purple butt award” and we shared a laugh, my first in a while and my last for a long time.

When the doc directed me to 15th Medical Battalion in Bien Hoa I was in no position to argue. I informed Labrozzi that Lieutenant Judge was in command of Bravo Company and emphasized that I wanted him to keep it until I returned. I had instructed Judge to investigate the first patrol and intended to see justice served by the Judge.

October 21, 1970

Dearest Sandy,

Right now I have a terrible headache and my eyes hurt. But don’t worry, because there is nothing wrong with me that about two weeks time won’t cure. I love you and think of you all the time. So please take care of yourself, and don’t worry. It all goes to make a year.

All my love,

P.S. Happy Birthday, Darling.