Republic of Vietnam

“To see you standing there, alone, waiting for your husband to rush off to his phony little war, with questions in my own mind: Is it all for myself? The Army? Or the United States? And will it do anyone any good?

To see you standing there, alone, just as you’ve been alone for nine months already, and bearing your burden so resolutely, I begin to wonder which of us is the real soldier. I have never in my life, or could I ever again, feel for anyone what I feel for you… .

I’m afraid to take out the photographs and look at them because my loneliness is bad enough already.”

—Richard

42

Fragments

March–May, 1971

I was disoriented when I returned to Vietnam, pretending like everyone who returned from R & R that the break had been wonderful. In reality, I was stunned by a realization that the war had taken its toll on lives in ways other than death and destruction.

Tony Labrozzi, who shared my warrior spirit, appeared out of nowhere to rescue me from my morose mood again. I never knew what prompted his visit that day—he and Spry were barely on speaking terms—but it was as if Gabriel had sent him to firm up my crumbling foundation. Mad Anthony arrived in a helicopter and suggested we take it for a reconnaissance flight. We relived former times even though few words passed between us. We reenacted a reality that he and I had shared before; the pilots and door gunners were only supporting cast in this scene.

Labrozzi instructed the crew to take the chopper high for a better view of the horizon. Once we were up he spotted garden plots carved out of the jungle. He spoke into the intercom to the pilots: “Make a low pass over those gardens for a closer look.”

We made a low and slow approach, buzzing the ground as if daring someone to take a shot. I wished, as I am sure he did, that someone would test us—but no one dared. Here we clearly saw crops waiting to be harvested to feed a Viet Cong army. After the third low-level pass without a shot, we regained altitude. Tony reached under his seat and pulled out a box of white-phosphorous grenades.

White phosphorous explodes and burns for a long time in a white-hot fire. It burns green crops, and if even a sliver touches human skin it must be cut out or it will literally burn for hours. A white-phosphorous grenade exploding inside a helicopter would ignite fuel to create an inferno and turn the helicopter into ash before it hit the ground.

Tony calmly pulled the pins out of five grenades, one at a time, and handed each one to me. I pressed each grenade against my chest to keep the handles attached. Once the pin is pulled and the handle flies off, the grenade is activated to explode in five seconds. After handing me five, he removed the pins of six for himself. My adrenaline pumped while I wondered whether he had a death wish. I thought the two of us might be better off as ashes in Vietnam than as misfit soldiers in a tame world.

“Okay, go back to altitude,” Tony instructed the pilot. “When I give you the word, dive over the center of the garden, with guns blazing to cover us. We’ll drop the Whiskey Papas.”

We had done this before: this was how he cultivated his persona of Mad Anthony. I respected who he was, and he thrived on it—he could not live without action and danger.

We dropped quickly and began a high-speed pass over the gardens with doors wide open. While the door gunners fired their machine guns from each side, Tony and I hung out the doors and released the grenades one at a time. The chopper gained altitude so we could watch the emerald-green field turn to a white sea of smoke. All my cares were washed away.

Seeing Labrozzi again and taking that high-speed, high-risk mission of zero consequence just for the hell of it was exactly what I needed to clear my mind. Thank you, Gabriel, for sending the Mad Italian!

Army First Lt. William L. Calley, Jr. was sentenced to life imprisonment for premeditated murder of at least 22 South Vietnamese men, women and children at My Lai three years ago.

Drudgery quickly replaced the excitement of seeing Tony Labrozzi again. Dirt, heat, and a hole in the ground were a long way from Hawaii. Enemy sappers had been testing base defenses around Vietnam, breaching perimeter wire and attacking from inside. The brigade commander personally checked defenses. I had staff responsibility for security, and had noticed inconsistencies between company procedures at different times. My analysis of the variations led me to some conclusions: nighttime inspections revealed that alertness was highest on the first night that troopers were on the base. On subsequent nights, they gradually relaxed until they sensed how insecure they were. After that security improved until the final night before returning to the jungle. But the last night on the fire base turned into a party night, and then security was worst of all.

The normal cycles of insecurity were exacerbated by the cycles of darkness. The moon provided the only light on the fire base at night. As light increased, security increased, and as light decreased, security dropped—just the opposite of how we wanted it. I reluctantly briefed Spry on my findings, and we changed our security planning. I think that was when Spry decided that I really had the potential to be an adequate intelligence officer, even by his high standards.

One night, at the evening briefing, Spry expressed annoyance that our contacts with the enemy were too infrequent.

“Staff, we have three companies in the field, with four platoons each. If we exclude one platoon as reaction force… that leaves three platoons per company. Each has four squads. That adds up to thirty-six possible ambushes each night. Is that correct?”

“Yes sir,” replied the S-3. “They set up ambushes every night, but with poor results.”

“I don’t think we’re putting them in the right places,” replied Spry.

Robbie explained, “We assign the company an area and they select the best locations based on what they find on the ground.”

Spry turned to me. “What do you think, S-2?”

“I agree with Robbie, sir. I believe the man on the ground can best make those decisions.” I reinforced my “man-on-the-ground” principle.

“Bullshit!” he retorted. “You sell yourself short. You have better information than they do. They’ve done their own thing for weeks with poor results. We won’t do that anymore! S-2, you personally select the fifty most likely ambush sites by tomorrow morning. S-3, you select thirty-six of those fifty, and assign them to the companies. By tomorrow night I want those ambush sites manned.”

“Sir, I don’t think that’s the best way. May I suggest another way?” I beseeched.

“No! I gave an order, and that’s it. If you can’t find the ambush sites, S-2, see me and I’ll help you.” The meeting ended abruptly.

It was an all-nighter. Sergeant Kress and I poured over records of every enemy contact in the area of operations from the journals of the 12th Cavalry and our own for two years. We plotted every contact or sighting on a map using acetate overlays and grease pencils. When the sun broke in the morning, we had established fifty hot spots from historical evidence. I gave the list to the S-3. Robbie divided it into sections and assigned them to the companies.

Following a day of protests and grumbling, by dark thirty-six of the ambush sites were manned. By next morning seventeen ambushes had been activated. Everyone was amazed, especially me. Spry was smug. His smile proclaimed that he was the master and we were apprentices. He had made me do my own thinking, and I was amazed by the results. Spry graciously gave me credit—another prime lesson in leadership.

Fire Base Charles was a new base, designed in a new way. U.S. fire bases were usually round; French firebases had been triangular. Spry asked me why the difference. I had absolutely no idea and couldn’t have cared less. He asked for my reasoned response in a couple of days.

I gave the geometry quiz some thought and concluded that the French made their bases triangular because they were designed with security in mind. The points of the triangle were strongpoints that provided grazing fire along the sides without being exposed. Each point of the triangle provided security for the other two points. On the other hand, U.S. bases were built to optimize logistics: they accommodated military supplies, weapons, people, and equipment, plus helicopters flying in and out. The round shape gave the most area inside the base, but offered the least security. Security was enhanced by additional artillery and air support. I was satisfied with my answer.

Surprisingly Spry accepted my conclusions immediately. Then he asked, “What’s the ideal shape?” After two more days of pondering and drawing, I decided a pentagon offered increased security with its five points, and sufficient area for our logistics. Surprising me again, Spry accepted my proposal and directed Charles to be built in a pentagonal shape. Good idea? I didn’t know. But I was puzzled that my analyses were accepted without question. Maybe I was getting too good at this job—or worse, maybe I was not so good, but he thought I was!

Just as pentagonal Charles neared completion, orders were changed to occupy Mace instead. Mace was a former brigade headquarters near Xuan Loc. All the work at Charles was for nothing, except as an experiment in fire-base architecture. Fortunately Mace was fully developed, having been a former brigade headquarters.

As of April 29 the 1st Cavalry Division was no longer officially in Vietnam. The 3d Brigade (Separate) stayed to control the remaining forces, all of them. The pace was invigorating, and the tempo of operations significantly increased. Yet I believed the Viet Cong were filling the vacuum left by departing Americans.

On April 14, the battalion had had a pitched battle with North Vietnamese forces near Xuan Loc for over three hours. The commander of Charlie Company was wounded, and I made my best case to replace him, but I was again denied. Instead, I was called to the morgue at the 15th Medical Battalion to identify a Bravo Company trooper killed in another action. I had seen death and I thought this would just be another unpleasant episode. It was worse.

I was unprepared for what I found. I was accustomed to soldiers dying on the field of battle. Bloody uniforms, strewn weapons, shot-up equipment, and loose boots with feet still inside were part of the landscape. Battle was an honorable death for a warrior—a crusader lying on his shield. That was what I expected to find, but it was not what I encountered.

First I was escorted into a walk-in refrigerator. Then, instead of a warrior in battle dress, I found a young American boy, completely naked, mouth and eyes open, lying awkwardly on a freezer floor. I had believed I was callused about death, but I felt the ground move under my feet. Where in hell was I? This was no place I had been before. I could not accept it my mind would not fathom it.

I averted my eyes toward the doctor.

“I don’t know this boy,” I muttered.

“Are you sure?” he pressed. “Think back. He would have been in uniform and looked different,” the doctor implored, trying to complete his paperwork.

“I’m sorry, I just don’t know him. I don’t know anybody. I don’t know myself anymore.” I left.

Another battalion had had a significant engagement with an NVA intelligence unit and captured a large number of documents. Every day, Spry requested the brigade intelligence summary for information gleaned from the documents. Nothing appeared. The next time the assistant brigade commander was at Mace for a briefing, Spry asked him about the assessment of the documents.

“We heard about the documents captured a couple of weeks ago. What did you learn from them?”

“Our analysts went over them and can’t make any sense of them,” he replied.

“I can’t believe that!” Spry shot back. “Those are obviously important papers. If you can’t interpret them, Taylor and I will do your job for you.”

The colonel jumped to his feet. “If you’re so damn smart, I’ll send them out here. If you can’t figure them out, you owe me a bottle of Jack.”

“Quit drinking. You’ll never get it from us.”

I had never heard an exchange between colonels like that before. Furthermore, I was not sure I appreciated being included in the challenge. I had had no intelligence training except under Spry.

Nevertheless, a large pouch marked “Top Secret” arrived from brigade, and I had to sign for it. I wasn’t very happy about signing my name to the control sheet. Spry said sarcastically, “Don’t worry about it. The enemy already knows what’s in it. Our people don’t have a clue. That isn’t intelligence–it’s stupidity!”

Master Sergeant Kress and I spent a couple of days studying the translated documents. We made little headway, and I wondered how much a bottle of Jack Daniels cost. Spry pestered me for progress reports until I informed him it was an interesting system of checkpoints but that we were unable to break the code and connect them to map coordinates.

The next morning Spry came to me. “Take my helicopter and go to Long Binh. Do two things and don’t come back till you accomplish them. First, go to the main exchange and get a set of india ink pens so that I can color maps. Second, go to the U.S. Army–Vietnam map depot and requisition a complete set of 1940-through-1950 French maps of our entire area of operations.”

I thought Spry was crazier than Mad Anthony, but I spent the entire day at Long Binh doing exactly as he asked. When I returned that evening, Sergeant Kress and I spent another night assembling the brown French maps. All the next day and well into the evening, Spry helped us plot checkpoints on the French maps. Surprisingly everything fell into place. Kress and I spent another day creating a grid system to transfer the checkpoints from the French maps to the U.S. maps.

Now our companies could find the checkpoints on the ground. At each one we discovered that the checkpoints on the 1950 French maps were villages, cemeteries, or other structures that no longer existed and did not appear on our newer maps.

Spry was ecstatic. As we connected the dots, Spry shouted, “You’ve unlocked the entire communications-liaison routes from the Cambodian border into the heart of Vietnam.” And he was right about every thing except one: he had visualized it. I was only an instrument in his great discovery.

The next time the assistant brigade commander came to Mace, Spry directed me to brief him on our findings. At the conclusion Spry turned to him and said, “We handed you the entire enemy communications-liaison routes from the Ho Chi Minh Trail through War Zone D. You should have handed it to us. If you’ll send your intelligence analysts out here, we’ll train them to do their jobs. Send the Jack Daniels to Taylor.”

I never got it.

Needless to say, there was bad blood between Spry and the burly full colonel. Later he returned for another briefing. I was well into my presentation when the sounds of the colonel snoring had everyone looking in his direction. I stopped talking, unsure what to do next. Spry stood up quietly, took my long wooden pointer from me and stood in front of the full colonel. He waited a moment, with the pointer raised over his head. Then he suddenly slammed it on the wooden desk directly in front of the sleeping officer. The bird colonel almost flew the coop; he jumped straight up into the air. The two stormed out the door yelling at each other, and I thought there would be blows between them. A few minutes later Spry walked back into the briefing room, smiling from ear to ear.

“I’ll bet that son-of-a-bitch never sleeps in here again.”

I was just telling Lt. Adams that I went to Hawaii and fell in love with my wife all over again. I feel like a high school kid. I haven’t stopped thinking about you for one minute since I’ve been back. I am twice as impatient to have this tour over now as ever before. Please think of me and write every day, as time will pass just a little faster. I must close now. Even though there isn’t anything really to do, the longer I write the lonelier I become. I love you.

April 10, 1971

Another day without mail and frankly I’m beginning to worry. Today, most of our mail came, which had been delayed because of this operation, and everyone seemed to get a stack of letters except me. I’m worried about something being wrong because I haven’t gone even two days without hearing from you for months, and now I’ve only received one letter since R&R.

If you are angry for something, please don’t be. I love you more than anything in the world. I’m going to stay up again tonight and attempt to make a MARS call. With today ending I have only 80 more days left and that is another 10-day milestone.

I’m so sleepy I can hardly keep my eyes open. I’ll close for now and hope to hear from you by tomorrow.