Praying for Slack: A Marine Corps Tank Commander in Viet Nam

by Robert E. Peavey

  Crack! Another round landed next to its intended target, the helicopters, seventy-five meters away. With my head pressed hard to the ground, the helicopters were directly in my sight. Those whirling machines, loaded with wounded, were just starting to lift off when a mortar went off right beneath one of them. The bird abruptly lost power and crashed ten feet back to earth. The second helicopter was luckier. After straining to lift off, it flew out of the perimeter with its load. I didn't dare turn my head to watch it leave, but as soon as its clatter died away, so did all the firing.

  I waited several seconds, then slowly got up, picked up my load, and made it back to our tank. I had to yell several times before Hearn or Embesi opened their hatches. They had waited out the mortar attack from safely inside the tank-where I should have been.

  Embesi looked down at me with one of his smiles. "Been out for a walk, have you?"

  Over the radio came word from one of the tanks. A tanker running ammo like me had been hit with shrapnel. He had to be medevacked.

  That afternoon, I got my second helicopter lesson-the first being, never get aboard one again. Today's lesson was how the NVA would wait for a chopper to land, when it was most vulnerable, to unleash their mortars. Helicopters were flying magnets that drew enemy metal out of nowhere, the way blood draws sharks. You could be on an operation for a week and never see a thing-until a bird came in to land. That was always accompanied by screams of "Incoming!" and "Corpsman!" Then you heard that distinctive bloop! in the distance, meaning you had three or four seconds to find a hole and make love to Mother Earth.

  Just like tanks, helicopters had a love-hate relationship with the grunts. Grunts loved what the birds could deliver and bear away, but with their good came the bad-enemy mortars and machine guns. Personally, I hated the damned machines.

  The wounded were recovered off the downed helicopter while the crew looked over their wounded bird. We were now fixed to this location; we couldn't abandon the wounded bird. We would have to wait for another, larger chopper to lift it out. In other words, we were going to be here for a while, which was not good news. Meanwhile, Charlie could regroup and marshal all his forces.

  We had a tank crew that was short one man, and the wounded crewman was the only trained tanker on the vehicle. Inasmuch as the other three crewmen were all former amtrackers, none of whom knew how to drive a tank, someone had to be taken from another tank crew and reassigned to this vehicle. John Cash was chosen. He left his crewmates and joined the all-amtracker tank as its new driver.

  Several hours passed before we heard that a larger chopper was not available. We would spend the night in the same position, having to make it through until daybreak with what little ammo we had.

  We made some adjustments to the lines to take advantage of the terrain in order to form a stronger perimeter. Luckily, they allowed us to move back from the tree line, in front of which we had spent our entire morning and afternoon. Lieutenant Scott, our platoon leader, pulled his tank up on line with us, about seventy-five feet to our right. In front of us were several burial mounds, a Vietnamese graveyard. Never mind the grim reminder-we didn't like them because they provided potential cover for would-be attackers.

  About an hour before dusk, Embesi and Scott were summoned to attend a sitrep-situation report-with the battalion CO. Gary Gibson came over to our tank. He tried to convince us that during the morning's ambush, NVA had been on top of our tank.

  "That's bullshit, Gary. We're not fallin' for that one," I said.

  It sounded like a typical Gary Gibson story; he was trying to take credit for our being alive. He was a notorious prankster who couldn't always be trusted with every story he told you. None of us believed Gibson until he noticed Embesi's flak jacket, which sat on top of the cupola. For some odd reason, Embesi had grabbed someone else's flak jacket for his meeting. Gary reached over, grabbed the jacket, and pointed to three flechette darts, one-and-a-half-inch-long metal darts that were packed into a beehive round. Our mouths dropped open. Those darts proved that Embesi hadn't ducked quite far enough. Gary was telling the truth after all!

  Better Living Thru Canister had lived up to her name after all. That beehive round from Gary's tank was responsible for us being alive. The three of us looked at one another. All we could say was, "Holy shit!"

  For the rest of that evening, Sergeant Embesi's luck stayed with him. He and Lieutenant Scott were walking back to the tank when three RPGs flew out of the tree line behind the burial mounds. The driver and I were standing watch, eating a can of C's, when the RPG streaked right between the two of us, inches above the turret. This was the second time we had been sitting atop the turret when something deadly passed between us. Only this time, it didn't happen in slow motion, and it scared the shit out of us. We didn't know it, but that same rocket continued on and landed between the feet of the returning Sergeant Embesi. With no idea he was approaching our tank, we immediately pumped out two canister rounds in the hopes of getting the shooters. Then, through the glass vision ring of the TC's cupola, I saw Embesi struggling to climb up on the back of the tank.

  I opened the TC's hatch. He climbed down inside, obviously in a lot of pain. That's when I noticed his boots and trousers were torn to shreds. Hearn and I took off his boots, expecting to find severe wounds and a lot of blood. To our surprise, we found only two very scratched up ankles and lower-leg abrasions. How he survived was a stroke of luck; how he kept both legs, and his genitalia, was a miracle. In light of his coolness under fire with two NVA on top of the tank and his surviving an RPG between the legs, I knew then that I would follow him anywhere.

  Sergeant Embesi could barely stand, but he refused to be medevacked. He didn't want to leave a crew shorthanded, nor turn his platoon over to someone else. We rigged up a board that he was able to sit on and continue his role as TC and platoon sergeant.

  That night, we learned that our sweep had been given the operational name of Allen Brook. It was a name that would stay with us for the rest of our lives.

  The next twelve hours were some of the most nerve-wracking any of us would spend in Vietnam. And it was only the first of many more scary nights to come. Sergeant Hearn had been a rock all day, under the most difficult conditions. But now he started having flashbacks of his Operation Starlite episode, where he lost his tank and crew and had to survive in the bush for two days. I never saw or heard it, but Hearn started to sob while he and Embesi were standing watch together that night.

  As Embesi told me years later, Hearn said he couldn't go through that again. Later that same night, the driver also had words with Embesi. "Sergeant Embesi," he asked, "are we going to die tonight?"

  YOU HAD ONLY TO LOOK INSIDE the turret to know we were in a very precarious position. There were only six rounds of main gun ammunition left, and only one of them was a canister round. In other words, just one shotgun round stood between us and the North Vietnamese Army. We all checked our pistols and stretched the magazine springs, making certain they hadn't become weak over the past three months. Contrary to Marine policy, my.45 was cocked and locked, meaning I had a round in the chamber and the hammer back, with the slide safety on. I was certain that I would be using it that night. We all were.

  Everyone, grunt and tanker alike, was apprehensive. We were all pitifully low on ammunition. During the morning's ambush we had gone through fifty-four rounds of main gun ammunition, plus the two I fired while Embesi was walking back to the tank. We also were very low on .30-caliber machine gun ammo. And with an LZ as hot as this one was, resupply was out of the question. They weren't about to risk losing any more choppers.

  Who could imagine an American unit, in the latter half of the twentieth century, running out of ammunition out in the field? After all, we were the beneficiaries of the largest material buildup since World War II. We had all the latest marvels, the helicopter being just one of them. They wouldn't just leave us out here with nothing to shoot. Would they?

  We were all awake. No one could sleep. No one want
ed to sleep. The clock moved like the proverbial watched pot that never boils. It seemed like dawn never wanted to show its face. Our main gun, its safety turned off, was loaded with our last canister round. One squeeze of the electric triggers would mow down anything and everyone in front of us. That night, we kept our talk down to brief whispers. All our attention was focused on the area in front of us.

  Standing watch at night always began at 10 p.m. The number of men who stood watch at any one time was determined by the threat level, and it was the tank commander who made that assessment. Whoever was on watch always stood in the TC's position, where, through a single handgrip, he had control over the turret and its guns. But this oneman-on-watch arrangement was used only in naturally fortified and fixed positions, like that of a fire base or bridge emplacement. There, the odds of an attack were low, plus the tank was hull-down in a deep manmade trench. That arrangement allowed each crewman six hours of shut-eye.

  In the field, standing watch was an entirely different matter. With no revetment or slot to pull into, a tank sat hull-up, high above the ground, rendering it vulnerable to RPGs. In the field, at least two men were always on watch, one wearing his comm helmet in the TC's position, the other-usually without a helmet-in the loader's position, listening for any enemy movement in front of the vehicle.

  Having another man on watch next to you helped maintain your sanity. At night, any dark bush often looked like it was moving if you stared at it too long. A second set of eyes gave you someone you could check with, helpful in confirming if the foliage was friend or enemy. In the course of our tour in Vietnam, we killed a lot of friendly bushes.

  While in the field at night, the two off-duty crewmen would try to catch some sleep. One sat in the driver's seat, where his sleep was sure to be interrupted. A tank's radios had to be on and monitored, making for a constant drain on the batteries. To recharge them, the engine had to be run once every hour, for about ten minutes. Whoever was trying to sleep in the driver's seat also needed to wear his comm helmet, in case the TC needed to talk to him, and that meant listening to all the radio traffic and static as well. No one in the driver's position ever got much sleep.

  The fourth crewman was the only one who would get any semblance of rest in the field. We usually found him curled up on the turret floor. Some men slept on the rear decks of their tanks-which, in the field, was not the smartest place to be. One unlucky mortar round during the night and a sleeping crewman could wind up taking a long snooze inside a zippered bag. When in the field, no good TC ever let his men sleep outside the tank. If the shit hit the fan, the loss of one man jeopardized the rest of the crew. Still, we saw it done. But with Embesi as your TC, it wasn't even an option

  With two men standing watch you got only four hours of sleep, providing Charlie didn't play any of his mind-fucking games. He typically caused interruptions all night long by feeling out our position and throwing a grenade now and then. On longer operations, long stretches without sleep took a toll, as it was doing now. Each night left us groggier. After three or four days, we became zombies.

  When you stood watch in the field the night air often felt chilly, not so much from the drop in temperature as from the adrenaline that still coursed through your veins. That was especially true on nights just like this one. None of us had any doubt that we were going to be hit. Because the NVA had missed dusk, we knew they would come for us just before dawn. This kind of situation called for everyone to be in his fighting position all night long. That meant virtually no sleep at all.

  The North Vietnamese knew we had busted a lot of caps during the day's firefights. They knew, too, that we hadn't been resupplied. Our position was no secret, either, not with seven tanks running their engines every hour. No, Charlie knew damned well where we were. He also knew we weren't about to leave a downed helicopter. What's more, after the day's shelling, his mortars were still zeroed in on our position.

  We were easy pickings.

  Chapter 8

  Angels Flying Too Close

  to the Ground

  he morning began just like the previous six, it was already hot and damp as a sauna, a warm and muggy prelude to the obscene temperatures that soon would follow. Everyone was up before the sun, anticipating an assault that never materialized.

  Mr. Charles never hit us that night; our only casualty was the additional loss of sleep. The most sleep any of us got was an hour's worth. The North Vietnamese missed an opportunity that night. An entire Marine battalion-what was left of one-stood a very good chance of being overrun. We could only assume that we had chewed up on Charlie pretty good, leaving both sides with the same dilemma-totally spent, and needing time to regroup. But he wasn't done with us yet, not by a long shot.

  Embesi had to sit on the boards we jury-rigged for him, but if we came under fire he couldn't drop lower into the turret. Also, his feet had turned black from toes to mid-calf. It was the worst bruising I had ever seen on the luckiest guy I have ever known. His episode of the previous evening, plus my short foray to collect ammo, formed the basis of the second of Peavey's Axioms: Axiom Number Two: Never, ever, get off the tank.

  Six nights of long watches and short naps had left my mind numb. It felt like that annoying feeling you get in those first few dizzy minutes after a carnival ride, while your brain tries to remember which way is up. Except in our case, it never went away. Little sleep made for lethargic eyelids, heavy as the heads behind them. We were functioning on inertia, out of habit instilled in us by years of training.

  Everyone suffered from this brain fog, which made for a constant series of little mistakes. A driver over-revved his engine, thinking the transmission was in gear; and a tank commander failed to turn off the radios before the driver started the engine, which threatened to blow the radios. The dull ache in our heads had only two cures: several hours of uninterrupted sleep or a sudden shot of adrenaline-but the later was only temporary. At best, it lasted only a few hours. Then, as with an addict beginning withdrawal, the ache would return, worse than before.

  As the sun peeked over the horizon, a collective groan rose from the sleep-deprived grunts around the perimeter. Slowly the ground came to life as camouflaged and tired Marines got ready to face another day on Goi Noi Island. When the grunts realized they had survived the night, they clicked their rifles to the safe position. Nobody spoke. The only sounds came from rifle magazines and hand grenades being gathered up in front of each man's fighting position, along with the rustling of grunts looking through their packs for a cold can of breakfast.

  Due to the casualties from the two ambushes and the oppressive heat, our battalion was now numbered forty-four Marines fewer than the day before. Lack of water was also taking its toll. Word went around the perimeter to get ready to move out. It had been decided to leave the H-34 helicopter where it was, a permanent casualty of war. Some backin-the-rear-with-the-gear genius, probably an officer, had decided that what had been a valuable asset yesterday was now a worthless antique, not worth the tremendous risk of sending another helicopter to salvage it. Someone had realized-correctly-that a large chopper would be a sitting duck as it hovered above the treetops, totally exposed, while cables and slings were hooked up to the downed bird. In Vietnam, there were far too few large helicopters to gamble on the relic we were guarding. It was decided to blow the H-34 in place with C4, a puttylike plastic explosive carried by the combat engineers.

  This really pissed off a lot of us who had just spent a most harrowing night. Couldn't they have decided that yesterday? Just chalk it up to military intelligence.

  Nevertheless, military intelligence did confirm that we had been engaged by elements of the 2nd N VA Division. That put the odds about five to one in Charlie's favor. Goi Noi Island had been a Viet Minh bastion going back to the days when they had fought the French.

  Our battalion left behind a few engineers to plant charges around the chopper and blow it up as soon as we were a safe distance away. We had moved about two hundred meters when the cha
rges went off.

  Two infantry companies swept east, and a third protected the battalion's right flank. The Song Thu Bon, about five hundred meters wide, was on our left as we approached an unusually high railroad berm. About twenty-five feet high, it cut across the width of the island in front of us, from the edge of the river on our left to as far as the eye could see on our right.

  No sooner had we come within two hundred meters of the berm than we began taking heavy fire from enemy machine guns and rifles, quickly followed by mortars whose rounds tore among the grunts.

  The tanks were unaffected by either kind of fire, but we couldn't approach the berm. If we did, we would be forced to shoot up at a dugin enemy, which would render our fire ineffective. So we stayed back a hundred meters and provided supporting fire while the grunts maneuvered to assault the berm. They made several attempts, but each time a deadly wall of enemy fire drove them back, sometimes just short of the top.

  Over the radios we heard the battalion CO pleading for artillery or air support. Finally a battery of 105mm howitzers, or what we called 05s (pronounced "oh-fives"), started raining shells on both sides of the berm. It was impossible to see the effectiveness of shells falling on the far side of the berm, but suddenly the mortars stopped. A few of the artillery rounds hit the top of the berm, but many more impacted on our side, close-too close-to our own troops.

  It was getting late, only three or four hours of daylight left. They made another attempt to assault the berm. Some grunts made it, only to be pushed back once again. The dug-in NVA resumed firing their mortars. Behind the safety of the berm the enemy was free to reinforce his position at will. We had no way to flank the berm; pulling back was no option as long as Mr. Charles was shooting down on us. We had to take the berm itself.