The major was a little taken back by my response. Shaking his head in disbelief, he went on to review the operation slated for the following morning. Spread out in front of the officers was a map depicting our surrounding area. I listened as the major described how his armored unit would come up the beach at dawn, pass our position, and move into the DMZ. He then indicated on the map where they would begin to move inland across the sand dunes just north of Oceanview.
"Excuse me, sir," I interrupted, "but you can't take tanks in there."
"Corporal," he barked, "when I want your opinion, I'll ask for it! Your job is to sit right where you are and cover our left flank from this outpost," he said, pointing to Oceanview on the map. "You got that?"
Maybe he just didn't realize, I thought. "Sir, you won't get a hundred meters before hitting mines or old shells. That whole area is full of unexploded ordnance."
"You just cover our flank, and leave the war to us!" he said, dressing me down in front of the others, then emphasizing my lowly rank. "If you're through, corporal, may I finish the briefing?"
This smart ass thought he knew more about our TAOR than we did. We had been here for two months, but he knew the area better than us? Yeah, right! Screw you! I thought to myself.
"It's your show, sir," I said, answering his rhetorical question with a melodramatic headshake. Sarcasm always was one of my strongest and least-recognized talents.
After the meeting, I assembled my two crews and gave them the sitrep. I proceeded to unfold my own copy of the same map the major had just used. On it, I diagrammed exactly what I had just been briefed on.
"You gotta be shittin' me!" said the other crew's tank commander. "They'll lose every tank they got!" All the other men shook their heads at the absurd idea of driving tanks over thousands of unexploded bombs and shells, plus countless antitank and antipersonnel mines.
"You know that, and I know that. This could well be the shortest operation we'll ever see," I told both crews, "and we won't even have to leave Oceanview!"
"I hope they don't find an unexploded round from the New Jersey," joked one of the crewmen.
"Hey," said another, "if these guys want to clear the Z of mines and spent ordnance, all the better for us!"
I nodded sadly. "They really have no idea what they're in for."
We couldn't wait for the next morning to arrive. The Army would be showing us how to fight the war on the DMZ, and we'd have ringside seats.
I HAD THE LAST WATCH THAT NIGHT. Well into the second hour, the first hint of light began to glow in the eastern sky. Another hour would bring another day, and the outpost would begin to stir.
As the sun began to show itself, I could hear the blowtorch-hiss of burning C4. The men of Oceanview were heating up their morning coffee and cocoa. I was standing in the TC's cupola, eating a can of beans and franks-the most sought-after meal in every case of C's. I had just swallowed my second spoonful when I heard in the distance the faint but distinctive sound of tanks approaching up the beach from the south.
"Here they come!" I yelled to my crew. I got on the radio and alerted my other tank that the Doggies were on their way.
The sound grew louder. Soon it became obvious that substantial numbers of vehicles were approaching. Their noise increased until finally they passed our position, halfway into the surf, the same way we traveled the beach. The ground vibrated as ten tanks and an equal number of APCs (armored personnel carriers) thundered by, each vehicle throwing up a rooster tail of water.
The Army crews waved to us, as if they were out for a sightseeing tour. We could only turn our heads, glance at one another, and look back in amazement as they roared by, going full out. They're going to get a tour, all right, I thought to myself.
We hadn't seen this many armored vehicles in one gathering since leaving the States. It was just like the Army to do everything on a colossal scale-a sledgehammer to kill a mosquito. But there was a hint of envy on all of our minds, for here was armor being used decisively and not in a support role, as we typically were. These vehicles were not encumbered by slow, walking grunts; their grunts were riding on top of the APCs. Unfortunately, this was the wrong place and the wrong war for such foolishness; someone was leading armor as if he was on the plains of Europe.
I called down to my gunner to get me a beer while I pulled out an old ratty lawn chair from the gypsy rack and set it up on the armor plate over the tank's engine. Truitt handed me up a beer, and I gave him my camera. I wanted a photographic record of the hardest operation I'd ever be on-and one that I expected would be the shortest.
Bob Steele, the loader, spread out a blanket and joined me on the back of the tank. I sat in my lawn chair, feet up on the gypsy rack, and beer in hand when Truitt snapped my picture.
As the tail end of the armored column finally passed us, we witnessed a sight that left us totally speechless. The column, which had been heading north into the DMZ, suddenly changed direction without warning. As if on a parade field performing close-order drill, each vehicle made a 90-degree turn to the left, so that the entire column was now moving on line across the Z.
For the second time that morning, the four of us looked at one another, shaking our heads in amazement.
"I don't believe these guys," I said.
"They ain't gonna get far now," said Truitt.
"Charlie will fix their arrogant ass," I told him.
The first explosion occurred some one hundred meters from the ocean's surf or about twenty seconds after their stunning flanking maneuver. A minute later came a second explosion, as one of the tanks tried to come to the aid of the first victim.
The third explosion was smaller, but took out one of the Army crewmen inspecting the damage to his tank. (Secretly, I hoped it was the major.)
The fourth explosion was another antipersonnel mine, stepped on by the Army medic running to aid the wounded man. In three minutes, the Army's armor operation had turned into a cluster fuck.
Our attention was next drawn to the sound of a helicopter approaching over the dunes. It was easy to recognize an Army chopper, thanks to the large red crosses in white squares painted on the bird's sides, belly, and nose. Only the Army troubled to paint its medevacs that way, as if they expected to be granted some immunity from Mr. Charles. Hell, Charlie was an equal-opportunity shooter. Years earlier, we Marines had learned not to bother, a fat red cross on a brilliant white field only helped Charlie to aim.
We had learned three things about the Army: One, they were really good at parade maneuvers; two, they sure could get a medevac in a hurry; and three, as I already knew, they didn't know how to listen.
An hour passed while the Army crews worked on the two damaged tanks, tiptoeing around them in fear of finding more mines. Finally, hours after the mission came to a halt, all twenty vehicles cranked up their engines, came alive again, and moved out-in reverse. They didn't want to risk hitting any more mines by turning around; they hoped to extricate themselves by backing over the tracks they had left coming in. Once back in the surf, they performed another brilliant display of closeorder drill, a simultaneous left turn in tandem, and began their full-speed retreat south down the beach.
On this return trip, however, there was no grinning or waving of hands. They ignored the taunting and mocking laughter of Oceanview's two Marine tank crews, as we stood on our art-nor plate giving them the finger. They wouldn't even turn their heads in our direction. Like dogs with their tails between their legs, they pretended they never saw us as they looked straight ahead.Yeah, that was the day the Army showed us how to fight the war on the DMZ.
Chapter 17
Tiger!
o that our radio messages wouldn't reveal too much to any enemy eavesdropper, the military used code words or phrases. I don't think some of them fooled anybody; they actually described what we were trying to hide better than its actual name would. For example, "fist movers" were jet fighters.
These substitutions were changed only rarely throughout the entire war. O
ften they became part of our everyday language. "Arc Light," the code name for a B-52 bombing mission, became a universal term throughout Vietnam. Other things were often identified or spelled out by their phonetic alphabet names. Over the radio, it was easy to mix up the many similar-sounding letters like B, C, D, E, and G that all end in an ee sound. Replacing a letter with a word eliminated that problem. The international phonetic alphabet, developed for NATO countries and still in use today, was a set of words that corresponded to each letter of the alphabet.
Often these letter-words became names all by themselves. For example, the four companies in a Marine battalion would be identified by four consecutive letters-A, B, C, and D. But you never called them by their letter-names, as in Bee Company or Dee Company. Instead, you called them by their phonetic alphabet designations: Alpha Company, Bravo Company, Charlie, Delta, Echo, and so on. This practice, universal throughout all the armed services, was an effective way of eliminating errors that could be caused by static, people's accents, and particularly noisy surroundings.
In fact, the phonetic alphabet was responsible for how our IndoChinese foe got his nickname. It all began during the late 1950s, when guerrillas calling themselves the Viet Cong first tried to overthrow the South Vietnamese government. American military advisors quickly shortened their name to its initials, VC. Over the radio, though, you wouldn't say "Vee Cee," but instead used the phonetic alphabet equivalent, or "Victor Charlie." Because radio procedure required that words be short and concise, Victor Charlie became simply "Charlie."
As the war progressed from a guerrilla uprising to an all-out invasion from the North, it became necessary to differentiate the local VC from the professional North Vietnamese Army-or NVA-troops. Often, for expediency, we referred to both enemies as "Charlie," but we sometimes called the NVA "Mister Charles" as a sign of respect. Professional courtesy, if you will.
Now that I was up north, I had to get used to a few new terms. Down south around Da Nang, for example, tanks were referred to as "kings" or "beetles" over the radio. Up north, we called them "tigers." Actually I liked the new term better-it was closer to how we really thought of ourselves.
WE RECEIVED ORDERS TO MOVE NORTH of Dong Ha and link up with a grunt unit for a sweep near the Z, somewhere northwest of Con Thien. I was the section leader in charge of three tanks when I got the order to move west on Highway 9 and make contact with a battalion of the 9th Marines.
Hearing that regiment number, I froze. "Which battalion of the Ninth Marines?" I asked. "It's not One-Nine, is it? Anybody but the First!"
In northern I Corps, that was the first question any other normal man would have asked. No one in his right mind wanted to work with the 1/9. But at least the 9th Marine Regiment had three battalions1st, 2nd, and 3rd, so the odds were two-to-one in my favor. This time, the luck of the draw was with me. "Two-Niner," said the voice over the radio.
We left Dong Ha and drove west past Cam Lo in the direction of the Rock Pile, where we met up with 2/9 and got briefed on the sweep. It was to be a search-and-destroy mission, our main objective being the insertion of two sniper teams during our sweep northeast of the Rock Pile. I'd heard about our Marine sniper teams and their legendary accomplishments of shots farther than 1,000 meters-better than three-fifths of a mile. But until that morning, I never had the chance to meet one.
Each team was made up of two men, the spotter and the shooter. Often they sat for days to wait for a single shot on some unsuspecting North Vietnamese soldier. But sniper teams were one of our best psychological weapons during the war, second only to the B-52 Arc Lights. Imagine the mind-job a good sniper can wreak when the head on the guy next to you explodes-without you hearing a shot! The bullet, traveling faster than sound, arrives before the report from the rifle. Several seconds before the shot is even heard, the body has hit the ground. That would leave a strong impression upon anyone in the vicinity, long after they ducked for cover.
Both of the two-man teams would be riding in on the back of the tanks as we supported the grunts on their search-and-destroy mission. The sweep's covert purpose, however, was to secretly drop-or insertthese two teams as we proceeded onward. At a time of their own choosing, the four men would slip off the back of our tanks and hide in the tall grass. We were to move on without stopping, leaving them behind.
I signaled to the four men approaching the tanks by holding up two fingers and pointing to the tank to my right, and then two fingers again waving them up on the back of Pray for Slack. As the second pair climbed on board, I couldn't help noticing that one of them had stenciled on his helmet, in large black letters, 13 KILLERS. Not understanding, I asked him, "What's the thirteen cents for?"
He reached inside his shirt and, from beneath his armpit, pulled out three bullets. "Each one costs Uncle Sam thirteen cents," he said.
"You keep your ammunition under your armpits?" I asked, incredulous.
"Keeps 'em at the same temperature, no matter where you are."
Whoa! I thought to myself. That was really splitting hairs-or did a bullet's temperature make that big of a difference?
The second guy was still on the ground, waiting to climb up on the tank. The aluminum case he carried was five feet long and perhaps four inches thick. I knew a gun case when I saw one, but couldn't fathom why anyone in The Nam would be toting one around. It wasn't like these boys were going out deer hunting.
The first sniper took the case from his partner and sidestepped past the turret with it. His partner climbed up. Working his way over to my side of the turret, he asked if, after the sweep, I wouldn't mind bringing the cases back and leaving them with the grunts.
"No problem," I told him.
I was really surprised to see that this second guy had an M14 slung over his shoulder. He noticed my own M14 hanging from the side of the tank commander's cupola, much like the Winchester on a cowboy's horse, and gave me a thumbs-up to acknowledge that we both knew a good rifle when we saw one.
But I was more fascinated by what kind of surprise was in the aluminum case. "What's in the box?" I asked our new guests.
The team leader set it up on the gypsy rack and lifted the lid proudly, like a surgeon pulling open a drawer to show you his scalpels, then tipped the box to give me a better look. Inside was a Remington Model 700 with a large Redfield telescopic sight. You know how, when a close friend shows you his racy new sports car, you don't ask to drive it until he offers you a spin? This was one of those times. I so wanted to pick it up, but I knew the surgeon wouldn't want his instruments contaminated.
He closed the box and flipped the latches, never offering to let me try it out. "The most cost-effective weapon in the Marine Corps," he said. "One shot, one kill. Thirteen cents."
The regular grunts were ready to move out, and we began the sweep, into an area I had never seen before. The trees and brush began to thin out into tall grass. I constantly scanned the area, checked on my other tanks, and made sure the grunts were well in front of us.
I was looking at the ground when I saw them-tank tracks! They were impressions made in the ground from a vehicle I didn't recognize.
We had yet to see an enemy tank, but all tankers on the DMZ feared meeting one. Whoever shot first would likely be the winner. Reports that they were in the area were taken so seriously that our ready rack had three HEAT rounds in the first three positions, where the loader could reach them the fastest.
I caught the eye of the tank commanders on either side of me, pointed my hand down at the ground, then up to the ridgeline. I keyed my helmet microphone and used the proper code words, "Enemy tiger tracks going up the hill. Be ready, just in case."
We began creeping up a moderately steep ridge. The heads of the grunts in front of us disappeared over the top of ridgeline. I told the loader and gunner to have a HEAT round halfway into the chamber of the main gun and instructed the driver to slow down, creep to the top of the hill, and be ready to stop on my command. I told the other tanks to stop and let me take a gander first
: I wanted to scope out the area that was on the other side before driving into a possible ambush. Meanwhile, I wanted my head to be the only thing exposed above the ridgeline. Sitting atop the ridgeline would needlessly silhouette us, making us a juicy target for a would-be NVA tank.
I looked over the rise. The coast seemed clear, but there might be an enemy tiger I didn't see, and I didn't want any single tank of ours to be a lone target. I told the other tanks that we would all crest the ridgeline together-as fast as possible. My last instruction was, "Keep alert and watch out for a possible enemy tiger."
It was the start of a very confusing situation.
All this time, our company CP back in Dong Ha was monitoring our radio conversation. This was standard operating procedure. But because we rarely talked with them, I never gave it much thought.
When we broached the top of the ridgeline, falling away in front of us was an awesomely lush valley. A sea of grass about three feet high was being blown by the wind as if being brushed by an invisible hand. That unbelievably beautiful sight was unlike anything I had ever seen in this miserable country. In this peaceful Eden, there was no place for an enemy tank to hide.
The two sniper teams slid off the back of the tanks, leaving their gun cases behind. We lost sight of them almost immediately, as they melted into the tall grass. I couldn't help but admire and respect those guys. They were the true loners of the Marine Corps, and theirs was the purest form of combat: one man, one rifle, one shot.
"Good luck!" I yelled back, but the noise of the tank's engine drowned out my words. Even if they had heard me, they wouldn't have acknowledged it. This was the most dangerous part of their missionseparating from the main body of troops under the watchful eyes of Mr. Charles. Their life expectancy was directly proportional to the degree of stealth they maintained, and all they wanted to do was disappear.
So as not to be silhouetted on top of the ridgeline, we had stopped fifty meters down from the crest. We were all taking in the view when the grunt CO motioned to me that he wanted to come up on the tank. I waved him toward the front of our tank, then up to my position. Awkwardly he clambered up onto the fender, trying to figure what to grab and where to place his feet, and made his way over to my side of the turret.
Praying for Slack: A Marine Corps Tank Commander in Viet Nam Page 26