“The communists today rejected a U.S. offer to exchange prisoners of war and said if there were any more American commando raids to rescue captive U.S. pilots, the United States will have to assume full responsibility.”

—Marietta Daily Journal, Dec 3, 1970

36

Backs to the Wall

December 1970

The war zone was quieter than usual after Thanksgiving. A rumor circulated that Labrozzi would leave around Christmas. That raised questions for me, but the one that alarmed me most was whether I would retain command of Bravo Company after Labrozzi left. In fact Bravo Company was my only real reason for being there in the first place. But the war continued despite how we felt about it.

While I was on Green with Bravo, one of Alpha Company’s patrols had an accident with a Claymore mine and Pfc. Gary Bivens was severely wounded. Word came in while I was seated between Labrozzi and Merick, the U.S. News & World Report reporter at the evening briefing.

The briefing was nearly over when someone handed Laabrozzi a note from the operations center. “Good God!” he murmured under his breath. I knew there was trouble.

“Forget about everything else,” Colonel Labrozzi ordered. “Just get that kid out of there.”

There, in the middle of War Zone D, medic John D. Swan took charge. It was pitch dark, but Specialist Swan managed to apply tourniquets. Four volunteers stretched out on the ground beside the wounded soldier to give him direct blood transfusions.

Once Private Bivens’s evacuation was underway The Mad Italian’s concern gave way to anger. He pointed a finger in my direction. “These accidents shouldn’t happen. You will hold an inquiry, and from now on, no more ‘automatics’ until we’ve had a chance to put these guys through training again. From now on, command-detonated Claymores are the rule until we’ve put our guys through training again.”

Obviously I agreed with him, but I knew Bravo had never had an accident with Claymores. We were fortunate, but we were also careful, and I had emphasized training. In fact we had been on the range firing our ammunition that same day.

In early December Charlie Company made contact and had a running engagement for several days. I sat in a patrol base while Bravo Company squads scouted for other signs of activity. I listened to Charlie’s engagement in case we were called to help. I heard a report that my friend, John Fuller, was shot in both legs. A platoon leader was also hit. The details were confusing, but it sounded similar to the incidents involving Judge and me. AK-47 rounds had broken both John’s legs; the platoon leader died of wounds. John went back to the United States for treatment, and he was engaged to be married when he returned.

Bravo was redeployed to Green on December 10, 1970. I was met by more bad news. First Sergeant Royas had received a drop and had already gone home, one of my best lieutenants was reassigned to the 75th Rangers, and the division would begin a redeployment home in March. Worst of all, Labrozzi informed me I would be the battalion intelligence officer at the end of the month.

I didn’t want to stay on the fire base one day longer than necessary. I pleaded with Labrozzi to leave me in Bravo Company; it was no use. But this time he explained his decision, which was rare for him. If I was not in a principal staff position at battalion, I would be reassigned to the brigade staff or sent home early. The only way to stay in the battalion until the end of my tour was to accept the S-2 job. I realized I was not being offered a choice. It was an order with which I had to comply, clinging to the false hope that I would find another way to stay.

My morale sank into my jungle boots. Meanwhile Bravo Company prepared to move out once more. Our mission was to return to LZ Mercer and search for signs that the Viet Cong had returned. Going back to the Mercer area of operations was like going home again.

At Mercer 4th Platoon was ambushed on the familiar trail network. One trooper was killed and two were wounded, including a new platoon leader. A Vietnamese Kit Carson scout—a former VC who switched sides—guided the platoon and was also wounded. We came up short on the surprise attack, and that bothered the men. We had once been able to shake off setbacks quickly and go about our business, but now the strain was accumulating into a burden. I felt that it was my personal responsibility to keep everyone safe, but I just couldn’t do it.

Lieutenant John Lynch of Alpha Company had been leading a platoon behind another Kit Carson scout when one of his men collapsed from heat prostration. I was following the action on the radio because heat was a real problem for all of us. Labrozzi snaped out instructions: “Keep wet towels on that man. Wrap him in wet blankets. Keep his head up.”

“It’s my fault,” Lt. Lynch reported. “I guess I’ve been moving the man too fast.”

“Take it easier,” Labrozzi advised. “Don’t run the platoon into the ground.”

There have been times in this war when a commander would not have compromised an operation to save a single man. But this was a new phase of the war.

On December 21 we needed a resupply. The pilot called on the final approach, “Gator Six, this is Log Bird Four. I have a load of rations and ammo for you. Pop smoke, please.”

“This is Gator Six. Smoke is out. Just push it out right on top of the smoke. Over.”

“I see grape smoke.”

“Roger. Kick out on the purple smoke.” Boxes fell through the air.

“Gator Six, the goodies are unloaded. Merry Christmas, buddy!”

His words were like an electric shock. I had forgotten Christmas was coming—or had pushed it out of my mind. No one had talked about it. The thought smothered me: I felt a year’s homesickness drop on me all at once. I wondered what others thought about Christmas. How would I lead these guys through that challenge?

On Christmas Eve, we received a resupply that included another hot meal of turkey and the trimmings. I didn’t want to stay in the same place because we had been there too long already, but Labrozzi ordered me to stay at the LZ so that we could take a regular meal, instead of another kick-out. While we were there Labrozzi and Colonel Stevenson visited us. The Catholic chaplain came along to conduct mass. There were not enough chaplains to go around, so each company either had a Catholic or Protestant service. All were invited to the “religion of the day.” Otherwise Christmas was completely uneventful. I moved the company into the jungle for shade to wait out the ceasefire. I sat alone and remembered the violations of the one in 1968.

After Pfc Wayne Czajka was wounded, I had trouble keeping an artillery forward observer, despite Colonel Vuono’s best efforts. One caught pneumonia on his first night in the field in a driving rain; another one was hit in the knee by an artillery shell fragment while adjusting direct fires on the fire base in his first hour with the company; and I can’t even remember what happened to the third one. Finally, Lieutenant Jones arrived; he was a “keeper.”

We had trouble with communications after Christmas. Jones bragged that he could climb a tall tree to erect an RC-292 antenna near the top; however, he set the condition that he would climb the tree only if I would take the antenna down. I knew Jones had been a gymnast at the University of Oklahoma, but that made the challenge even sweeter. Jones made going up the tree appear easy, and the antenna worked beautifully. The next morning I had more difficulty bringing the antenna back down, but tried to make it look as easy as Jones had. My arms and legs trembled, but I covered up with a smile.

December 31, 1970

Dearest Sandy,

I love you very much. I need you more and more every day. I long for the day we’ll be together again as one happy family.

Here it is New Year’s Eve and I don’t have any resolutions. I guess I’ll just try to be a better husband—(better than what?)—and, I will be a good father.

On New Year’s Eve a patrol reported a fresh trail, so I moved up front to see for myself. As I caught up with the lead squad, the point man signaled movement ahead. The lead platoon spread out on line, flat on their stomachs. Rifle fire erupted from the jungle. We were twenty meters from approximately twenty VC, and bullets ripped through leaves around us. We stayed flat on the ground returning fire. I was on the front edge and saw a VC in black pajamas. Just as I squeezed off a shot, a flash burst directly in front of my face that blinded me; I couldn’t see if I had hit my target and wasn’t sure whether I’d been hit. The VC broke away and fled downhill through the jungle, and our firing subsided. I knew I had been hit by something, but was unclear about exactly what had happened. I’d never seen a flash like that one before, and it was very close. The trooper next to me lay on his side, examining the muzzle of his M16rifle. As my vision slowly returned I looked at his weapon.

A bullet had struck the flash suppressor on the rifle’s muzzle; metal splinters from the bullet and rifle had burst over several of us, accounting for the blinding flash. The splinters had sliced my face in several places, as well as my arms and legs. Others, including the trooper whose rifle was hit, were also bleeding. None of our wounds was serious, but looked bad because of all the blood.

A radio operator reacted quickly as I had trained him to do, reporting our situation to battalion. Labrozzi wanted to send a chopper out for me, but I refused to leave. I insisted on having a field medic dress the cuts and stayed until our scheduled extraction on January 3. I that knew if I left again, I would never return to Bravo Company. The medic shot me up with penicillin, and I stayed with the others.

Before we left the field Lt. Ed Sweeney’s platoon found an old elephant skeleton, proving we had been right about elephant tracks on Thanksgiving Day. I directed Sweeney to bring the skull back as a trophy for the fire base, but his men couldn’t lift it. So they dragged up a ten-pound elephant tooth and some bones as proof. Somebody took a picture of Sweeney, wearing his classic army-issue sunglasses and holding an elephant bone. Funny!

I met with Labrozzi at Green. I tried to feel him out and confirm my earlier suspicions.

“Thanks for leaving me in the field. I’ve seen enough aid stations,” I said.

“Don’t get too used to it. Brigade and Division both wanted you out when you were hit again. There’s an unwritten rule: second Purple Heart, you depart.”

“Tell them to keep it.”

“Doesn’t work that way.”

“I won’t survive in the rear. Will you leave me in Bravo Company?”

“You’ll stay as long as I do,” he promised. “But you’ll come out the day I do, unless you get hit again. If you are, you’re out—no questions asked!”

“That’s the best I can get?” I left with my head hanging.

I appreciated Labrozzi’s support. I really loved the guy. This war would be no fun without him.

Sandy’s pay allotment was still fouled up. On January 5, 1971, I was unsuccessful making a MARS (Military Affiliate Radio System) call to the States and Labrozzi suggested I go to the Saigon USO (United Service Organization) office in Saigon. Unfortunately a commercial call cost $54. I hated to spend the money, because I knew Sandy was also struggling without enough money. I didn’t have any to send her because we were salting as much as possible into savings. I had to book the call, so while I waited a Vietnamese sketch artist drew my picture.

My name was called before the artist had finished, but he completed the sketch while I talked. Since it was a commercial call instead of by short-wave radio, we didn’t have to say “over” and “out” as we talked.

The call left both Sandy and me with a strange, vacant feeling. We thought we knew each other through our letters, but on the phone we were strangers. This needed to be addressed by us, but it would have to wait until we were reunited in five months. I didn’t like leaving it that way, but it was too much to handle right then. I couldn’t deal with my future life while struggling to handle my responsibilities there, along with my doubts about the war. Were we really still in love, or were we just accommodating each other during a difficult time? Unasked and unanswered questions, and unrequited doubts, remained to be resolved later, if there was a later. If there was not, it wouldn’t matter.

I was haunted by my uncertainties as I walked along Tu Do Street, buying souvenirs of Saigon. I wanted to have a good time in the city but I had forgotten how, or had lost the motivation. I had forgotten how to celebrate, or relax, or just hang out. I was depressed to be leaving my company, which was my closest family. I was uncertain about my future as a staff officer, and more uncertain about my next posting in the army. I was disturbed by the timetable and conditions of the army’s redeployment from Vietnam and distressed over protests at home. I was afraid that those of us on the battlefield were being sold out at the Paris peace talks. I missed Sandy so much that my heart ached, but I wasn’t sure whether we even knew each other any more. I was confused about how to be a father even though I knew I would be one very soon.

I was just in the damn dumps! So I bought a small battery-powered radio and prepared to live the life of a fire base rat in a culvert. I remembered my pet rat in My Tho, and wondered whether I was any better off now than I had been then, any better off than the rat.

November 30, 1970

Hello Darling,

I was really shocked at the newspaper headlines I received today—“GI’s Enter North Vietnam,” “Russia-Red China Ties Restored,” “Bombing Started Again,” and general activity seems to be picking up—at the same time units are going home. I stay puzzled and perplexed most of the time.

Your letters mean so very much to me. There isn’t much else to look forward to.