“Stroll around the fire base at night and chat with the guards and the men manning the artillery. There is no consensus about the Army or Vietnam duty. Few want to be in Vietnam. But many—even though they don’t want openly to admit it—are proud they served here.”

—U.S. News & World Report, January 25, 1971

37

Staff Wars

January–February 1971

My purpose for being in Vietnam had vaporized as fast as my command. Now, with a steady dose of news from AFN radio and Pacific Stars and Stripes I could see more clearly that we were just hanging around the war zone. I would stay for another five months, but no longer, and no extensions; my enthusiasm had waned.

The military custom for change of command signifies passing authority and responsibility from one commander to another. Bravo Company, jungle fighters, not parade ground patriots, straggled onto a dusty road that sliced through the center of Fire Base Green. The ragged line reminded me of a similar formation six months earlier, when I took command. Remarkably, the troopers settled into fairly straight lines before the mortar platoon’s sign: “High Angle Hell.”

Labrozzi walked stiffly into the street and said a few unmemorable words, probably the same ones he had said before. I didn’t listen or care what he said. His litany sounded as depressed as I felt. The same guidon I had received so unexpectedly from him seven months earlier had been rushed in from the rear. The first sergeant handed it to me; I held it until Labrozzi pulled the staff from my grip and passed it to Capt. Dana Gary, a good man.

I wanted to leave then, disappear. I wasn’t interested in hearing his remarks, either. Nevertheless, I stayed to congratulate him. I liked Dana; I just didn’t want to hand him Bravo Company. It was all over after that. I felt as if I had been stripped of my purpose, been made obsolete.

Now I was officially a forward-area staff rat; more specifically, I was intelligence officer for 1st Battalion, 7th Cavalry Regiment. I was proud of my skill at finding the enemy in the jungle. I credited that to being able to read and interpret signs—and gut instincts when there were no signs. Sometimes I relied only on feelings in the pit of my stomach or a chill on the back of my neck. I presumed that I’d been handed this particular job because of that ability. I was less confident in my capacity to find the enemy from an underground bunker. Finding the enemy and discerning his intentions from radio reports and intelligence summaries were not my idea of how to “close with the enemy.” The indicators would still be there but they’d be different. I just had to learn to read them in another way.

I knew Labrozzi was upset at losing his own command, and I appreciated his efforts to retain me in a staff job in the field rather than in a rear area. But I found it difficult to forgive him for taking away my purpose. It amounted to trading a hundred warriors in the jungle for a dirt bunker and map board. Ensconced with Master Sergeant Kress, I swapped the quiet cool of the jungle for a blazing hot sun and the constant commotion on a fire base. Instead of engaging the enemy face to face, I would fight indirectly with a staff notebook, map, and grease pencil.

Kress had arrived at the battalion about the same time that I had, but he had been intelligence NCO the entire time. He knew the area of operations and the enemy very well from reports. I knew them face to face. I didn’t know why we needed an intelligence officer with an NCO as competent as Kress; but it didn’t matter, I was there.

I moved into my new residence in a sewer—literally half a culvert for sleeping. After a long day in a dirty, underground bunker, I crawled into my sewer pipe to sleep, like the rat I had become. I selected one near the tactical operations center so that I could be found easily in the dark. To customize my hole for human occupancy, I stacked sandbags at one end to slow the constantly flying red dust that blew through the openings; now it just settled on top of everything. Inside the cramped space I assembled my luxuries: air mattress, poncho liner, rucksack, and rifle, a small battery-powered radio, and a dry-cell-generated airfield landing light for reading and writing at night. All the comforts of home!

An accidental shooting on Labrozzi’s last day in command threw him into a rage. I stayed out of the operations center and out of reach throughout the day, moping quietly. Kress could easily handle the job for a day, and I didn’t want to be near the Mad Italian in his final hours. I was quite familiar with the demons he wrestled. After the change of commanders I would find out what the new one wanted.

Dearest Sandy,

    Yesterday I mailed you a nasty letter that I’m already sorry for. There was no excuse for me responding in such a manner. More than anything, I want our marriage to work, and it will as soon as we have a chance to build on it together. A year apart like this may strengthen character, but it doesn’t strengthen the home—especially one as new as ours. I’m sorry for the things I said—truly sorry.

On my first full day on the job as S-2, I gave separate briefings to Labrozzi before his departure, to Lt. Col. Alfred E. Spry after he assumed command, to the brigade commander, to the assistant division commander, and to the division commander. That was merely my first day on the job, and I didn’t think I knew much about it. I assumed the briefings were intended to lock me down and witness that I was actually out of the jungle. I wondered whether the powers-that-be didn’t trust Labrozzi, or me, to actually make it happen.

The ceremony was on the large helipad. To my surprise the flags, music, color, and pomp and circumstance were impressive. Loudspeakers broadcast a musical rendition of “Garry Owen.” Generals flew in to participate in or witness the parade. The troops were sharp, including Bravo Company, and I found my place in a row of staff officers composed of staff principals. We did it without a rehearsal. As Labrozzi had said several months earlier, “If you’ve been in the army more than a day, you don’t need to practice this stuff!”

Spry and Labrozzi were poles apart; Spry would certainly command differently. The Mad Italian had been a pure and simple field commander, relying primarily on his company commanders for advice and action. Spry relied considerably on the staff, reflecting his own staff background. I’d been fortunate to command under a commander-oriented leader and serve as a staff officer for a staff-oriented boss. Each was effective in his own way.

Immediately after the ceremony, a platoon engaged fifteen Viet Cong during a patrol. Graciously, the VIPs departed to get out of the way. Two VC were killed, but the others escaped, leaving their rifles behind along with a large Chinese radio with an estimated range of seventy-five miles. The radio belonged to the Viet Cong 81st Rear Service Group, which was responsible for the arms and ammunition caches and factories we were uncovering. I climbed aboard the helicopter with Spry and Capt. Robbie Robinson, the new operations officer, to overfly the scene.

As soon as we arrived at the site we dropped a rope with a grappling hook attached. The three of us attempted to haul up the radio and captured rucksacks attached to the end of the rope. The take was so heavy that it pulled the helicopter down, and had to be separated into two loads. We finally managed to get the 120-pound radio equipment aboard, but we were tired and sweating, with trembling muscles and stiff backs as we hauled the second load up. Spry was familiar with the radio and explained its capabilities to Robbie and me off the cuff. I wondered whether this job might be interesting after all.

Spry relied heavily on intelligence, constantly prodding me for information. He understood the relationship of sound analysis to success from his own experience in the Pentagon and with the 1st Cavalry Division during the Tet offensive. He demanded good assessments and could quickly discern intelligence from bullshit. I often worked past midnight, but I found the new job challenging, stimulating, and interesting. Spry was an uncompromising teacher. His questions were intended to direct my investigation and analysis rather than get a quick and easy answer.

Spry shared his helicopter, too. He permitted me to take it for a visual reconnaissance one day. His only guidance was: “Don’t fly low enough to shoot Viet Cong with your .45!” I laughed at his remark, but I privately wondered whether he was sending me a message. Did I have a reputation for recklessness? I considered the question for some time, which was, I believe, exactly what he intended.

A hunter-killer team was composed of a light observation helicopter and a Cobra gunship. The low bird searched low and slow, peeking under jungle canopy and enticing the enemy to fire and thus give away his position. The high bird, a Cobra attack helicopter, circled high above like a hawk and waited for the scout to find something. Then the attack helicopter would strike quickly from above. An infantry squad, either in the air or at the helipad, remained ready to respond.

Master Sergeant Kress and I were responsible for briefing the teams before they went into action. We accompanied one team on a mission to get a better feel for it. Kress flew in the Cobra, and I took the scout, reflecting our personalities. The warrant officer pilots invited us to fly the choppers for a while. We drifted around aimlessly all over the skies, trying to master the art of flying helicopters, which was more difficult than we’d imagined. Perhaps flight training had not been right for me after all; I would keep my feet planted firmly on the ground, where my instincts were more reliable.

When we returned to Fire Base Green, General Burton joined us for lunch. He spoke excitedly about the new triple capability division forming at Fort Hood, Texas: it was being assembled from returning units of the 1st Cavalry Division. He informed us that 3d Brigade would remain in Vietnam with the 1st of the 7th Cavalry, 1st of the 5th, and 1st of the 12th. The three battalions would form Task Force Garry Owen, and Burton would command it. That meant I would stay with the 7th Cavalry. My family and my army remained in conflict; I wanted to go home but I also wanted to stay. I envisioned the new division and began to feel a growing excitement for a hot, dry prairie in Texas. Finally Sandy and I had a place to visualize in our future—the first step in construction.

Unit withdrawals accelerated. I felt that the few of us remaining were the only ones blocking a large army in Cambodia and North Vietnam from our escape hatch in Saigon. It was not a comforting thought. I believed that our backs were against the wall and that the Paris peace talks were only buying time because we became increasingly outnumbered and outflanked. I feared we were being duped again as we had been during the Tet cease fire in 1968. To the Communists diplomacy was another means to achieve victory: “talk, talk, fight, fight, talk, talk, fight, fight.”

The reconnaissance platoon was an intelligence unit and therefore fell under my staff control. One day the platoon found 114 Montagnards wandering in no-man’s land. The “Yards” were brought to Green for interviews and taken to Song Be for resettlement. At 2:00 A.M. next morning, I was awaked from my rat hole near the operations center when the recon platoon troopers detected movement outside the perimeter. They believed the VC were preparing to attack them, but I was afraid that other Montagnards were moving about in their vicinity. I hated second-guessing people in the field, but I worried about killing civilians. I urged the battalion commander to have the platoon hold fire unless attacked. Tension mounted in the op center and in the voice of recon’s radioman.

At 4:30 A.M. events sprang to life.

“Cymbal Two, we are being penetrated,” was the initial alert. I heard sounds of firing in the background as the radioman spoke.

“Scout Six Alpha, more details, please,” I requested, wondering whether I had been wrong.

“We had movement around our perimeter. A trip flare was set off. We blew a claymore and started firing.”

“Are you taking fire now?” I asked.

“I don’t think so,” he replied. That puzzled me. I knew that if Viet Cong were attacking, they would be firing. I was afraid civilians had wandered into our defense position and been shot.

“The firing stopped. We got something. We need artillery flares to check it out.” Tension increased as we held our breath for the next report.

“Roger,” I replied. “I’ll get the guns cranked up. There should be light over you in a few minutes. Be ready!” I cranked the hand generator on the field phone to wake the artillery fire direction center.

I heard artillery fire one round, then another, then three more spaced a minute apart.

“Cymbal Two, we found one KIA.” I was bewildered. One person wouldn’t attack alone. I hoped it was not an old man.

“Anything else?” I asked.

“It’s a tiger, four feet long, about ninety pounds, I’d guess.” Deep breathing. “He smelled our C-rations and decided to sample some.” Laughter erupted in the op center. I envisioned a shaved-head briefing officer telling this story at the evening briefing for the brigade staff!

I was getting a handle on the job after three weeks. From my position, I actually influenced operational plans. I also made improvements to my living conditions by adding a poncho flap over the open end of my culvert to keep out more red dust. I acquired a cot and styrene blood box to ice my beer and Cokes. A large cable spool served as a table under my poncho flap, and an ammunition box worked for a chair. Life on easy street! I found more time for letters and to contemplate the future.

I missed Sandy, and the baby was nearly due. Bravo Company called to ask if I was handing out cigars yet. I had spoken about my family more than I realized. Sandy and I argued in our letters over the baby’s name. If it was a boy, I wanted to name him Zachary—Zachary Scott Taylor—but Sandy vetoed Zack. We settled on Scott.

Our intelligence picture improved as we gathered information on the VC 81st Rear Service Group. Maneuver platoons managed to win most engagements with the enemy, but they were harassed with friendly fire and plagued by noncombat accidents. Occasional trips to the field for firsthand intelligence helped my morale. Spry sensed that I needed to occasionally get a “fix” on the war in order to stay in touch with reality. I still missed Bravo and wished I could return to a cavalry company. But an old proverb says, “Be careful what you wish for, you might get it.”

Defense Secretary Melvin R. Laird left Vietnam on January 11 with a promise that the current withdrawal target—48,000 more men by May 1—will be met or exceeded. To the 322,000 Americans still in the war zone, this word was welcome. For most GI’s, leaving Vietnam means an end to dull routine or the daily challenge of staying alive.