As I suspected, his answer was the same as mine, "I didn't have to. It wasn't going to hit us!"
The grunts couldn't believe how calm, cool, and collected we were. Or appeared to be, at least. Seconds later, both of us got the shakes andas if a wave had just crashed over us-began laughing like schoolgirls as we started to shiver. It felt like the air temperature had suddenly dropped thirty degrees. It was our brains' subconscious half trying to tell its conscious side that we had just felt Death's scythe breeze by.
Over the next few weeks, Richards and I shared our experience with several other men. They listened to us but couldn't understand, except for a couple of guys who had experienced terrible car accidents back in The World. They confirmed our recall of the slow-motion experience. Each of their accidents seemingly took forever to play out, and they witnessed it more than experienced it. All these victims confirmed that during the entire accident they were totally helpless-as if they were just along for the ride, as if the outcome was already certain. But Richards and I never experienced helplessness. Time had slowed for both of us, yet we were absolutely convinced we weren't going to be hit, certain that we were in no danger.
Yet in the back of our minds, Richards and I had a nagging question we never shared with anyone else. If we had realized the metal was going to hit us, could we have moved to avoid it? Neither of us was really sure. At that split second it wasn't even a consideration. But could we, if we had had to? It gnawed at us for months.
There were several ways to measure long time in The Nam. Many grunts wrote their rotation date on their helmets. Sometimes they listed all thirteen months on the side and put an X through the months served, like notches on a gun. Tanks afforded a lot more space to display the time remaining for a short-timer-anyone with less than one hundred days left on his tour. If the crew included a short-timer you could probably find his calendar posted on the inside wall of the turret, a proclamation taped to the steel, like the ninety-five theses that Martin Luther nailed to the church door, for the rest of the crew to witness. A tank crew always knew who their "shortest" guy was. The shorter he got, the farther they often tried to distance themselves from him. Short people could drive you crazy.
The most common design for a short-timer's calendar was the picture of a nude girl, divided up into ninety-nine areas or boxes, with each one numbered. The junction of her thighs was reserved for the final box-number zero, his rotation date. The short-timer began coloring in the boxes, one day at a time, starting ninety-nine days out. It gave him a way to measure his time left in the insanity that was Vietnam. I only wished I had a hundred days left; I was still looking at 300-plus days. In-country, that was a lifetime.
How could you tell how long a tank commander had been in-country? Simply by observing him out in the field. If you saw only his head sticking out of his hatch (or cupola, as it was called), he was an FNG. If you saw only his eyes sticking above the cupola, he was a short-timer. But you can't lead effectively if you're hiding down in the turret. So between those two extremes-or for about nine months of his touryou would find him chest-high, exposed and doing his job.
BY AND LARGE, we spent the huge majority of our time in utter boredom. Time was something we had plenty of, and in the Marine Corps, that meant busy work. You often got burdened with mind-numbing work like filling sandbags or, if you were unlucky enough, disgusting work like collecting drums from the shitters.Time also came in unequal increments. It never passed swiftly except on R&R, when it flew by all too fast.
My time in personal hell was about to end. Not with a ticket home, but when my mother's rescue package arrived.
I don't remember why, but our platoon found itself back together again, inside the perimeter of 2/27's fire base. The mailbag came to us by truck every few days with other supplies, and the latest one had just reached us. Before handing out the letters, Embesi removed several small packages from inside the bag and set them on his cot.
One box jumped out at me, because it bore my mother's distinctive handwriting.
To say we lived for mail would have been a gross understatement. Letters were something we could never get enough of. A package, however, was a gift from God, appreciated by everyone. Because tank crews shared everything among themselves, we all enjoyed the arrival of a box. But I wasn't about to share the contents of this particular box because Mom had done the impossible. Inside, I knew, lay my long-awaited bottle of twenty-year-old Glenlevit Scotch.
I had received some letters too, which I tore open and dove into, keeping one eye on Embesi all the while. When he finished reading his mail, I went over and sat down on the cot across from his, keeping one hand behind my back.
He looked at me, sharing an easy smile. "How's it been out at them damned bridges?"
"Sergeant Embesi," I asked, "if you could have one thing right now, what would it be?"
His smile grew wider, and his eyes twinkled to life. "A piece of round-eyed pussy!" he instantly replied, flashing a big white grin from beneath his black mustache.
Why had I bothered to ask such a dumb question? "Can't help you there," I said, presenting the bottle from behind my back, "but I may have the next best thing."
His eyes focused on the bottle's label in disbelief. Speechless, as his grin got even bigger as he comprehended the two-month-old debt he never expected, much less asked me, to repay.
Whatever special occasion Embesi had planned for that first bottle of his, it was lost forever that day. Cracking open the seal, he removed the cap and simply inhaled its fragrance.
"God, I love that smell! Go get your canteen cup."
He poured a couple of shots into my cup, then shared it with Lieutenant Gilliam, who was sitting on a cot on the other side of him. We all clicked cups and chugged in one swallow.
"I'd written that bottle off," Embesi laughed. "Never expected I'd ever see another one. Not here, at least." Tickled to death to get his replacement, he couldn't believe my mother had gotten it through the mail unharmed, much less undiscovered. But he didn't know my mother.
There's more to this story that begs to be told. Knowing that my mother had gotten one bottle through the mail successfully, I implored her to send another one to my friend, John Wear. He and I first met in tank school and upon graduation were both assigned to Charlie Company, 5th Tank Battalion. John went to 1st Platoon, and I went to 3rd. Four weeks before the mount-out of Bravo Company he received his orders for Vietnam and like ninety-five percent of all those who served in Vietnam, he flew across the Pacific. Only on his arrival was he assigned to a unit. That was always a risky affair because you were never sure that once you got there you'd end up doing what you were trained for. If they needed grunts-hell, you've already seen how that worked.
But John's luck held. He was assigned to 3rd Tank Battalion. You might argue that wasn't luck at all, for it meant that he was up north, on the DMZ. So while I was sitting on a bridge outside Da Nang, bored to death, John was in a flame tank on the outskirts of Hue while the Tet Offensive was still going on. He was supporting the 5th Marines, who were retaking the city, one block at a time, just as the Allies had in Europe during World War II.
In any war, street fighting is the worst and deadliest kind of combat, generating the most horrific casualties. During the Vietnam War, it was only seen during Tet in Saigon and Hue City, where it lasted several weeks. It was house-to-house, block-by-block-the worst scenario for a tank to be in. Several tank commanders were killed by snipers from windows and rooftops. Marines all over Vietnam were aware of what was going on, and for a short time the media's coverage of Hue almost eclipsed the siege at Khe Sanh. Down around Da Nang, where we were, rumors had it that we were about to be drawn into Hue as well.
So if anybody could have used a bottle of Scotch, I thought it was John. Once more, I implored my mother to send a bottle through the mail. John never got the bottle, but to understand the rest of the story, you have to see the war through a mother's eyes.
The year 1968 was the blood
iest year of the entire war, when the number of Americans killed easily exceeded two hundred a week. Today, it sickens us to hear of six deaths in Afghanistan or twenty-two in Iraq. But back then, the six o'clock news was crammed with film of the war. And once Tet got started, none of it was very good. Hue was still going on, as was the siege of Khe Sanh. On the DMZ, Con Thien had taken a heavy pounding. Fighting also picked up around Da Nang. Marines were taking substantial casualties.
Mothers of Marines lived as harrowing a year as their sons. These women were usually surrounded by oblivious strangers who went about their everyday routines, caring little about the war. Many sons were attending college or had draft deferments; a few had fled to Canada. But mothers of Marines in the field never knew what news lay around the corner. They dreaded the ring of the telephone or the contents of their mailbox.
One morning, a plain-colored car drove up my mother's long narrow driveway. Looking through the curtained windows she saw that it had white government license plates. When she saw a uniformed man exit the car, she was certain that he was an officer bringing her news that I had been killed in action. Her knees almost gave way as tears filled the proud woman's eyes as she tried to face the news.
Maybe I was only wounded, she hoped, knowing only too well that this wasn't how families were told about WIAs. She could barely bring herself to open the door.
"Mrs. Peavey?" he asked.
"Yes," was all she could muster as she held onto the door for support.
"Did you send a bottle of liquor through the mail?" he demanded.
She didn't understand this question at all. "What?" was all she could ask.
"I'm an inspector for the United States Postal Service. We have a box with your return address on it that contained a broken bottle of liquor. You do know it's a Federal offense to send alcohol through the U.S. Mail, don't you?"
"What?" she repeated.
"Mrs. Peavey," he persisted. "Do you understand why I'm here?"
Then it began to dawn on her. This wasn't about me! Suddenly the gravity of federal charges meant nothing at all. She started to laugh as if he had just told her the funniest possible joke.
He had no idea why this woman was laughing in his face. After all, these were very serious charges! Finally she explained why she thought he had come.
He realized what he had just put this woman through, which made him feel like an idiot. Excusing himself, he awkwardly left her at the door with a polite warning.
Later, through the mail, I pleaded for her to try again, suggesting that she pour the Scotch into plastic baby bottles that wouldn't break. Understandably, she was reluctant-for several months. But that's a later story.
To this day, more than thirty years later, Embesi still breaks into a broad grin when he recalls the moment in which I replaced his bottle. Our drinking Scotch from a tin cup is one of his fondest memories of both of his tours in Vietnam.
But that pleasant moment was soon followed by a sobering one. The very next morning brought us the call: A Marine unit had stepped into a hornet's nest and was calling for tank support.
At first, it didn't seem to be all that significant; we would be gone longer than anyone guessed, and we would see far more than any of us ever wanted to see.
Chapter 7
Allen Brook
e didn't realize it, but we were entering the first week of what would become the bloodiest month of the Vietnam War. May 1968 began the start of the second phase of the enemy's Tet Offensive, which was later referred to as Mini-Tet. Like its predecessor, this offensive would prove to be devastating to the North Vietnamese, but with it came a high cost of American casualties, much higher than February's Tet Offensive.
It routinely reached 100 degrees Fahrenheit around noon, and I couldn't help but wonder what July would be like. May 4 was the beginning of another hot day. After standing watch on the perimeter of 2/27's fire base, we came off the line. Most of us had spent too many days on nameless bridges eating C rations, so we took advantage of a hot breakfast in the mess tent. Later, we sat around reading yesterday's mail for the fifth or sixth time.
It was a real treat to be back at the fire base again, where the cool showers were rivaled only by the hot meals. Our living area remained unchanged, except that, because of the heat, the tent flaps had been rolled up. Compared to bridge duty, this was really living.
Rumors that abounded said we would be pulled into the fighting up north. So when Staff Sergeant Embesi and the lieutenant were summoned to a meeting at the battalion CP, we all waited in anticipation. Something was in the air.
They returned an hour later. "Want to join me on a helicopter ride?" Embesi asked me.
"Sure!" I agreed. "Where are we going?"
"We're being assigned to an operation. We're going to make an aerial recon of an area, to see if tanks can go into where they want us."
I was flattered that he had asked me, of all people! And a helicopter ride sounded like fun. If nothing else, it meant a break from the boredom. But, as I threw a few things together, I couldn't help but wonder why a staff sergeant asked a lowly corporal to accompany him. It would have made more sense for Embesi to ask one of the five tank commanders instead. But my feeling of pride that Embesi had asked me overrode any common sense I had gained in two months in-country. In hindsight, I realize Embesi must have known the answer any veteran tank commander would have given him-and he figured right.
But this was my first helicopter ride, and I was still naive. I thought I could snap some great photos from the air, so I grabbed my camera, helmet, and flak jacket and headed off to grab the submachine gun we carried inside Better Living Thru Canister. I wasn't taking any chances in case some mechanical problem caused us to unexpectedly have to set down. I hadn't been in-country long enough to learn that mechanical problems weren't what I should have been concerned about.
Sitting on the LZ-the landing zone within the base's perimeterwas a vintage Korean War H-34 helicopter, powered by a gasoline radial engine. It was one of those flying antiques that made up the bulk of the Marine's chopper force, a helicopter the Army had done away with years earlier. By this time, the Army was using jet-powered Hueys, which were quieter, faster, and far more powerful. But that was the Marine Corps for you-making due with whatever the Army threw away.
As we approached, I heard the chopper's engine running, but as we got on, its blades were standing idle. Later, I wondered if this was a well-planned deception to lure the unsuspecting fly into the spider's web, for when the engine's RPMs dropped way down and the blades began turning slowly, I started to doubt my eagerness to take this joyride.
The faster its blades turned, the more the giant eggbeater vibrated like a car's tire that sorely needed balancing. The vehicle shook faster and faster, vibrating and gyrating like a machine gone mad-and it was still sitting on the ground! I realized now that I had probably made a serious mistake. But it was too late. I was committed.
I could feel it trying to leave the ground as it strained, bent on flailing itself to death, as its rpm increased. Was some unseen anchor holding us down? Finally, painfully, slowly, the machine began to win its fight with gravity and to lift itself off the ground at a rate I could have measured in inches per minute.
My immediate thought was that we were seriously overloaded. My eyes darted around the chopper's interior, looking for the source of the engine's strain-but Embesi and I were its only cargo. The door gunner looked very nonchalant, not worried in the least. That eased my apprehensions. Years later, I learned that the H-34 was seriously underpowered, especially in high heat, and what we were experiencing was considered its "normal flight characteristics."
A cacophony of noise consumed us. We climbed slowly. Cupping both hands in front of my mouth, I screamed, "Sergeant Embesi, where do you think the Corps got these things?"
"I don't know," he replied. "But they sure got took, didn't they?"
We flew over an area that seemed to interest him, although it was beyond me how Embes
i could read a map in this flying cocktail shaker. ("Flying" was a gross misuse of the word when used in context with the H-34.) I was only along for the ride, if you called the harmonic rattling of your guts and brain a ride.
Embesi and I wore our pistols, but the thought of our chopper being shot down never crossed my mind. My education about the numerous shortcomings of helicopters would come in just a few days, under the very spot we were passing over.
In my hands was our tank's submachine gun, an example of American firearm design at its worst. Every Marine tank had an M3 "grease gun." It cost Uncle Sam only $15 to manufacture, and rumor had it they really were made by Mattel. I could never stop imagining grease guns coming off the same assembly line as Barbies. My guess was, they'd designed the M3 as an accessory for Ken, but he refused to be seen carrying it, so they gave it to us Marines.
Eventually our giant Cuisinart made its way back to the fire base. I managed to snap a couple of pictures, even though I was certain nothing would come out. I didn't think the fastest shutter speed on my camera could disguise the vibrations of our ride. Embesi reported his observations to the lieutenant. I already knew what his verdict was: We were going in.
No SOONER HAD I STOWED THE M3 back on our tank than Embesi summoned three tank crews. "Get your stuff together and be prepared to mount out in thirty minutes. Pack enough for three days. We're joining a sweep already in progress, on a place called Goi Noi Island."
At the announcement that we were going to an island, I thought he'd lost it. Our chopper ride stayed at least ten miles from the nearest coastline. So while everyone was getting busy, I walked over to ask him. "Island? We didn't fly over any islands!"
He looked surprised. "Didn't you see the rivers around that huge chunk of real estate?"
"No," I half-kidded. "I was too busy getting homogenized by that goddamned whirling blender to see much of anything. But do me a favor? Don't ask me to come on any more helicopter rides."
Praying for Slack: A Marine Corps Tank Commander in Viet Nam Page 10