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

by Robert E. Peavey

  We were as remote from our platoon CP as we could be, and we were at the fringes of our radio's range. Embesi's job was to interface with the KMC commanding officer's staff and keep us supplied with ammo and food. Mail was the high point of any week spent in the Flats, but we got it only sporadically. Embesi had a hell of a time getting a U.S. Marine helicopter to make a run to the Mud Flats; for them, a Korean outpost was a low priority.

  To avoid going hungry we often had to eat Korean food, which was unbelievably and inhumanely hot. It brought tears to the eyes of the bravest of us. While stationed in Southern California, where the nearby Mexican border strongly influenced the local cooking, I had grown accustomed to spicy food, but nothing could have prepared me for the volcanic kimchee. About the only Korean food we could manage was what they called pop, or rice, which they ate with every meal.

  Eating was almost a ceremony. Groups of about six Koreans would cluster around a small fire, waiting for their rice to cook in an empty.50- caliber ammo can. They drooled over it while it was cooking, each chef giving his own verbal input, as if they were watching a filet mignon on the grill.

  We mixed rice with our C rats to stretch out the meal. There were twelve meals in each case of C rats, and each of us had his likes and dislikes. Two of them were absolutely horrible and defied improvement, no matter what you added to them. But all over Vietnam, be it Army or Marine Corps, the hands-down winner of the Worst Meal Award was ham and lima beans.

  I can confidently say that of the five million-plus men who served in The Nam, not one could bring himself to eat that disgusting meal. It was the same color and consistency as the contents of a baby's diaper-and smelled like one, too! We called it ham and motherfuckers, usually just motherfuckers for short. Nothing you mixed with motherfuckers could make it palatable; rice only increased the quantity of the inedible mess.

  Each box of C rats came with a few accoutrements. There was always a little pack of toilet paper in each box. One was never enough for a single session, so it was necessary to pool our resources. We saved the packets in a communal pile, awaiting the next crewman's needs. Some meals had a can of either apricots or sliced peaches, which, in the extreme heat, were worth their weight in gold. Often we would open a can of fruit just to drink the sweet juice. But it only made us thirstier.

  Some of the meals came with a small tin of cheese and crackers. The dry crackers tasted like hardtack. Most of our C rats had manufacturing dates on them from the early 1950s, making them at least fifteen years old. Ever eat a fifteen-year-old cracker?

  One of the most sought-after items that accompanied the C's was a small flip-top box holding five cigarettes. Winston was the most common brand. You didn't have to smoke to want those cigarettes. They were quite valuable as a trading commodity.

  There was a packet of instant coffee and packets of sugar and dried creamer. But the most prized drinkable was the instant cocoa, which didn't come with every meal.

  Certain C ration meals contained a tin of peanut butter or cheddar cheese. The peanut butter was saved in another communal pile next to the toilet paper-appropriately enough, because C rat peanut butter had the mysterious, unique ability of stopping the runs. It certainly wasn't whipped up with that in mind, but we found it to be more effective than any over-the-counter diarrhea medication.

  For many of us, a tour in Vietnam was one endless cycle of diarrhea and constipation-or peanut butter and soap. Everyone would get hit with a case of the runs several times during his tour, which is where the peanut butter came in handy. But often it worked too well. The only sure way to get "unplugged" was to ingest a small quantity of soap. Many peanut butter overeaters like me preferred Wisk. Because it was a concentrated liquid, you needed only a small swallow to do the trick. Often a man's entire tour was one nonstop cycle of soap that gave him the runs that only peanut butter could stop.

  One last little item in every box of C's was so thoughtful, only a woman could have thought of including it: a tiny box containing two Chicklets. Someone thought it would be nice if America's fighting men didn't have bad breath while sharing a foxhole with a buddy. The Chicklets' sweet taste was prized by all.

  Two MONOTONOUS WEEKS CREPT BY in which not a single Korean patrol went out, day or night. That was something unheard of in an American unit, because patrols and ambushes kept Charlie off guard. A U.S. Marine outfit of this size would have sent two patrols out during the day, plus two or three ambush teams at night. Charlie owned the night, and we could never take it away from him, but at least we could instill some fear into him.

  Lieutenant Kim, a Korean officer who lived near our tank, told me that the Koreans thought it was too risky to send patrols out into Dodge City during the day, and sending men out at night wasn't even an option in their minds. Those were the first signs that maybe these guys weren't all they were cracked up to be. After trying to reason with them, to no avail, we passed our concerns on to Embesi, who took them up with the Korean CO back in Hoi An. His prodding must have worked, because one afternoon we got the word that tonight the Koreans would be sending out an ambush team-their first ever! We were glad to see them finally taking some initiative, to lessen the chances of the fire base being attacked.

  Typically, a U.S. Marine ambush team would go out after sundown or drop off from a large daytime patrol and set up for the night. A typical team consisted of five to ten men-seldom more than that, because the more people you had with you, the more chances for making noise.

  That afternoon, the Korean CO briefed us on the intended location of the Korean ambush team that was going out. From the tone of the briefing, it was obvious they were worried less about Charlie, more about the tanks firing on them after sundown. They were scheduled to go out at 10 p.m. through the north gate, right in front of our tank.

  As usual, our crew was up on the tank just before sunset. We would stay until 10 p.m., when night watch started. At 9:45 p.m., a group of Koreans slowly formed up in front of us. More and more men appeared. Finally, when more than forty soldiers were standing in front of us there, I turned to Kimbrew and asked, "What are all these guys doing here?"

  "I think it's the ambush team," he said.

  "Team?" I asked. "This isn't a team. It's a herd. There's no way this many guys, with all that gear, can keep quiet!"

  It was an invitation to disaster. An ambush team's survival depended upon stealth. You couldn't make the faintest sound, nor wear any bug repellent, due to its smell. No bug juice meant insect bites all night long, which you didn't dare slap for fear of giving away your position.

  The Korean ambush platoon was more like a route-step parade than a stealthy fighting unit. But they were afraid to send out anything less than a full rifle platoon. We tried to explain the lunacy of what they were planning, but they said we were the crazy ones for even suggesting a night ambush. That was our first inkling into how these guys operated-totally missing the point.

  It was no surprise when, in the middle of the night, two NVA soldiers caught them totally by surprise. From our tank we could see the explosions and hear the eruption of gunfire. Charlie ran through the middle of the Korean ambush site, throwing grenades to either side-and got away unharmed! But the Koreans must have expended five thousand rounds of ammunition, firing relentlessly for several minutes. We immediately noticed that all the tracers in the night sky were exclusively red in color. The NVA used green tracers.

  The ambush team suffered two wounded, all the proof they needed that this was a very "hot" area, far too dangerous to justify sending out any more patrols.

  That was just the tip of the iceberg. A few weeks later, we were working with them on a sweep: Operation Mameluke Thrust, a joint U.S. Marine and Korean Marine op. The Koreans insisted they had to be back inside their perimeter by nightfall, because spending a night in the field was way too dangerous.

  We began having some serious operating difficulties with the Koreans on the first day-as soon as we got outside the wire, in fact. They refused to go out ah
ead of the tanks, insisting it was our job to lead the way. We stopped and argued with the Korean captain, who wanted to keep his men behind our tanks-way behind. They didn't understand that we depended on the infantry to uncover enemy RPG teams. We had heard rumors about a previous Marine tank lost to enemy fire. Purportedly, it had taken six RPG hits from all directions-an impossibility if the grunts had been around the tank.

  Kimbrew refused to move, and it developed into a stalemate. To Kimbrew's credit, he got on the radio and explained our predicament to Staff Sergeant Embesi, who was monitoring the radios at the Korean CP, in Hoi An.

  Embesi then argued with the Korean executive officer and tried to explain what the infantry's role was when working with tanks. After it became a heated argument, Embesi demanded to see the Korean commander, who was a general. Getting no response from the XO, he stormed out of the CP and into the general's private quarters, waking him up. Due to the language barrier, Embesi didn't get very far until he noticed a nearby blackboard. Grabbing a piece of chalk, the Marine staff sergeant diagrammed for the general just how infantry and tanks worked together. The "conversation" turned heated when Embesi threatened to pull his tanks out altogether.

  A U.S. Army officer, acting as an adviser to the Koreans, had overheard the entire exchange. Later, he accused Embesi of creating a potential international incident between two allies. Embesi said he didn't give a damn; those were his men out there and no one was going to fuck with them. That was Embesi for you.

  During all that time we remained in a deadlock, sitting outside the perimeter at the Mud Flats. Finally, instructions were given to the KMC infantry leader over the radio. The Korean field commander suddenly ordered his men to move past the tanks. Embesi had gotten through to the general.

  That same morning, we came across a small village and got to see that all the stories we had heard about the Koreans were true. They were brutal toward all the Vietnamese, women and children alike, riflebutting any civilian who didn't move fast enough. We couldn't believe it. As if a switch had been turned on, the laid-back Koreans became tyrannical and ruthless. We were no fans of the Vietnamese, but certainly they didn't deserve this kind of treatment. We could only wonder what the Koreans would be like when the shit hit the fan. Their ferocity was legendary throughout I Corps. So far we only saw them in action against defenseless civilians.

  After we left the village, we continued what became an uneventful sweep. By mid-afternoon, the Koreans decided it was getting late, so we turned around to make our way back to the Mud Flats. We had just pulled into our old position next to the berm when Embesi called; he wanted to know how much ammunition we required. He also wanted to know the condition of our crew, which we thought was odd. Embesi was trying to organize an emergency resupply run before sundown. We couldn't imagine what the rush was all about until he asked how much ammo we had gone through.

  Kimbrew was holding the radio's mike in his hand. He and I just looked at each other and shrugged.

  "Do you know what he's talkin"bout?" Kimbrew asked me.

  "No," I replied. "I think he's losin' it."

  "Is everyone okay?" Embesi wanted to know.

  Kimbrew and I glanced at each other. "You think they're drinkin' back there?" he asked me.

  "Maybe they spent too much time on the beach and fried a few brain cells."

  Kimbrew keyed the mike and said, "Everyone's fine. How are you? Over."

  With that, we both broke into laughter. It sounded more like a friendly phone conversation than standard military radio traffic.

  "Why does he give a shit about us all of a sudden?" Kimbrew asked me.

  "Maybe their pinochle game back on the beach broke up early," I said. "And while they're waiting on the steaks to cook, Embesi had a few spare minutes to see how we're doing."

  We hated the rest of the platoon, particularly Embesi, for living the life of luxury on a movie set while we were stuck on the dark side of the moon.

  Embesi came back on the radio to explain that he had been at KMC headquarters the whole time. He was there when the shit hit the fan and said that we must have gone through a lot of ammunition. He was concerned that we might not have enough left for the coming night.

  Kimbrew and I looked at each, now more confused than ever. Finally Kimbrew spoke into the mike, "What the hell are you talking about? Over."

  Embesi explained. The Korean CO on our sweep had just reported 250 NVA dead, while only sustaining light casualties.

  "I don't know where you're getting your information, but we didn't see anything, let alone shoot anything! Over."

  This was our first insight into why the Koreans' record in I Corps was what it was: They simply lied about their kills. A little investigative work by Embesi uncovered what these "allies" were up to. They would report fictitious engagements and proclaim huge numbers of enemy KIAs. And then, true to the agreement the United States had with them, we would replace their ammunition.

  Embesi decided to do some follow-up detective work. Using the truck he had at his disposal, he waited for the truck convoy to deliver the replacement ammunition to the Koreans a few days later. He watched the ammo being unloaded, and stayed with it until he saw it reloaded on Korean trucks, which he then followed to the docks of Da Nang and to a waiting Korean ship.

  The Koreans were in this war for reasons of their own.

  ON OUR VERY NEXT SWEEP WITH THEM, we made contact with Mr. Charles. The NVA sprang an ambush, and the Koreans turned and ran behind the tanks, leaving us totally exposed.

  The other tank working with us, which was from 1stTank Battalion, took an RPG hit on its searchlight. Luckily, there were no casualties. The tanks had to back away from the fight alone and unescorted because the Koreans had run.

  After the sweep, the two Marine TCs got together to vent their disgust at the Korean captain. They told him that from now on, one tank would keep its gun tube facing to the rear and would fire at any fleeing Koreans. The captain accused the tanks of almost running down his men while we were backing up!

  We never got the chance to go back into the field with these worthless noncombatants. But we did learn something about how rumors can lionize a unit that really hadn't done anything. We found out first-hand that working with the Koreans wasn't any different than working with Marvin the Arvin-our nickname for South Vietnamese troops, the Army Republic of Vietnam, ARVN. The ARVN were terrible fighters and couldn't be depended on any more than the Koreans. The lone exceptions were the Vietnamese Marines, who were pretty good because they had been trained by their U.S. counterparts.

  IT WAS MID-JULY and it seemed to get hotter with each passing day. During the six weeks we sat at the Mud Flats we hadn't felt the slightest hint of a breeze. The heat got so miserable we actually welcomed the nights. That was a first!

  It was one of these cooler nights that had the Koreans really freaking out. It was at the start of the first watch around 10 p.m. when voices came screaming out of the night. They were obviously coming from North Vietnamese loudspeakers outside the wire. Stranger still was that we couldn't understand them because they were speaking in Korean. Suddenly the little guys were scurrying around the compound, convinced they were about to be overrun. We were convinced that they were close to panicking, and that began to worry us. It was a tense night for the two tank crews; we didn't know if the Koreans would run out on us or not.

  Embesi tried to make life a little easier by rotating one crewman out of the Mud Flats every week, via the weekly resupply helicopter. It was a mini R&R vacation. During that time, the lucky guy got to visit the rest of the platoon and loll on the beach. They made the best of a great situation, even decorating their hooches with Vietnamese fishing gear they found around the area. It was a pleasant break from the tension of being the minority out in the middle of nowhere surrounded by non-English-speaking troops. It also meant a few nights of uninterrupted sleep.

  But all wasn't right in Shangri-La. Our crews had reported several bad incidents while trading wit
h the Koreans. They were merciless in their bargaining and would gang up on the tankers and amtrackers to take what they wanted. It got to the point where Embesi had to curtail all trading with these allies-adding more fuel to the fire, pissing off the Koreans even more.

  Evidently problems with the previous tank platoon had gotten to the point that one tanker found a Korean booby trap under his cot. The Marine tank officer threatened to leave the Korean base and return to Da Nang. On hearing that, the Koreans demanded the Marine tanks, which they claimed had been promised to them in exchange for their participating in the war. Hence the hasty exit of the previous Marine tank platoon. But why had no one warned us before our arrival?

  There was an abandoned fishing village a quarter mile from the platoon compound. For weeks, scores of tankers had made the short walk to the nearby village to scavenge old fishing nets, floats, and anchors to decorate their hooches. One day our truck driver-whose last name was Ford-was scrounging for some knickknacks. He found a particularly large wooden anchor and was dragging it back to his hooch when the ground underneath him blew up.

  At the sound of the blast, Embesi grabbed his pistol and medical pack, flew out of his hooch, and ran down the oft-traveled trail. Ford was on the ground, one leg completely gone. Embesi shot him up with morphine and had him carried to a nearby LZ.

  "Why me, Sergeant Embesi? Why me?" Ford repeated over and over.

  Embesi could only tell him to hang on. He applied a tourniquet and yelled for the corpsman. They quickly drove him to the LZ and loaded Ford on a Marine medevac helicopter, never to be seen again.